Carefully, he snapped the radio off, hoping to avoid sparks. He settled back into the seat and waited, feeling Cogan up there coming closer.
Step by step, nearly here.
Dane looked over through the passenger window and saw Special Agent Daniel Ezekiel Cogan standing naked on the sidewalk.
SEVENTEEN
The straw-yellow hair was a wild mess. It looked like Cogan was one of those types who didn't sleep well, thrashing around for a while before he got into REM. Dane clicked on the interior light. That hee-haw smile broke out on Cogan's face when he spotted Dane in the car. He fumbled his way to the curb, arms and legs moving clumsily. He sat in the backseat and said, “Well, ain't this somethin' special.”
“You said I should come by some night.”
“Tha's right, I surely did.”
“This is what happens when I come by at night,” Dane told him.
“My word, son. Some folks do have themselves special consideration under the Lord!”
“That what you call it?”
“My blessed granny would say so,” Cogan said.
“Mine calls it a burden. In Sicily they burned her with sulfur for having visions.”
“Even those graced by the angels got their hardships and trials.”
Dane took off, enjoying the ease of the empty streets, the rhythm of the traffic lights allowing him complete access. He was a touch surprised that Cogan was taking the situation so well. He looked happy back there, at perfect ease with the situation. Just enjoying the night ride.
“You spend a lot of time doing this thing right here? Moseying on along with all kinds of passengers in the dark? You can do this to anyone?”
“No. Hardly anyone at all.”
“Then how is it you know who all to pick up?”
“I simply know.” It sounded stupid, but just about everything did when you were driving around with somebody's soul in your backseat. “No real way to explain it, except that I feel a nudge inside my head.”
“The angels tapping at your brain. So what exactly is the purpose of all this, son?”
“I have some questions and I think you can help me,” Dane said. “You said Vinny was investing money. Did you mean movies?”
“Yes, that's a new orbit for the family.”
“Any idea why?”
“It's good for laundering. A lot of these wiseguys, they like the idea of being entertainment stars. Puzo, Coppola, Tarantino, HBO, they all make it look like it's downright fun to be in the mob.”
“My grandmother says the same thing.”
“And except for James Caan, almost all the real interesting folks live, at least to the end of the movie. The ones who turn up in the bay, well, those there are the squealers, the ones who ain't clever enough to make it with the rest of them. You got yer little kids growing up thinking, ‘Hey, I can be witty and fire me off a few one-liners while I'm beanin' some old boy on the head.'”
“I think it's because his sister, Maria, wants to be in the movies. Vinny was losing money on drugs so Maria could be in film.”
“That girl's pretty enough to be a box office bombshell without the mob backin' her up.”
“You're right.”
“You sound sorta sweet on her, and I can't say I blame you 'bout that right there. Maybe you can help her out some.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Cogan grinned. “I'm just sayin'.”
Look at this. You're trying to get information from the astral self of the Kentucky cornpone fed who's messing around in your life, and now you've got to switch the subject.
“You staking out Glory Bishop?” Dane asked. “She says she's got cops and feds all over her.”
“Naw, nothin' like that,” Cogan said, sort of bouncing around on the seat like a kid on a family trip. “My boss at the Bureau wants me to keep an eye on her, see if she's connected to everything her husband and his buddies was into, but it hasn't happened yet.”
“What do you mean ‘yet'?”
“She hasn't made the move so far, but I think she will. That's why she's using you.”
Dane glared into the rearview. “What was that?”
“Hellfire, son, you really think you're lucky enough to land a beautiful sex kitten like her on your own? Without even working for it?”
Dane scowled, feeling vaguely insulted. “She likes me. Who the hell are you to comment on it anyway?”
“She don't like anybody too much, that there girl. I think she's only using you to get an upper hand on the Monticelli family.”
“I haven't even talked to her about Vinny and the crew, not even once, so what could she use me for?”
“I reckon she has her reasons. Maybe to take over where her husband left off. Wait for it. She'll hit you up eventually, when she's got them hooks in deep enough. She ain't been askin' a lot of questions?”
“Yeah, she has lately.”
“There it is, son.”
Dane didn't like how this was going, everything being thrown back at him. It felt as if Cogan was somehow still able to deceive. But that was impossible on the night ride. What was the point of stealing someone's soul if it could still lie to you? Dane studied Cogan's smirk in the rearview and couldn't really be sure what was going on with the guy. Maybe he'd gone through a windshield too. Or was more capable at carrying his burden.
“You said you weren't staking out Glory's apartment,” Dane asked. “Now I get the feeling you have her place wired.”
“Naw, that ain't it. I've followed you lovebirds around here and there, but so far you ain't done much to whet my interest. Weird coincidence though, ain't it? You hooking up with her, and her under surveillance because of some things leading back to the Monticelli crew? And you and Vincenzo with all the history?”
“Yeah,” Dane said.
“My blessed granny, she'd call that a curious happenstance of fate.”
“Mine would say somebody's thrown the malocchio whammy on me.”
“Maybe so.”
Dane glanced into the rearview and saw Cogan back there with an expression of knowing amusement. “Did you check on the JoJo Tormino hit?”
“That there Roberto Monticelli, he covers his tracks pretty good. Like you said, the boys that did the deed were brand-new to the crew, so there's not much connecting them to the family. And he got hisself an alibi.”
“Playing poker with five other guys?”
“Exactly right. And none of them Brooklyn folks had anything at all to say about the matter. Not even the girl working the counter at the time.” Cogan sat up straight and started hopping around on the seat. “Hey, hey, there's that bakery again. Pull over. I want me some more of them napoleons.”
They were already in Headstone City. He'd been driving without thinking, cruising with a fluidity of force and motion, and his instinct had brought him right home. “The place is closed right now.”
“Goddamn.”
“Besides, you're not in any position to eat anything at the moment.”
“Oh, tha's right, 'cause I'm not really here in the flesh. This is my soul, and you've gathered me up like an angel of death, in your fiery chariot. My mama used to have walkin' dreams like this, she told us, 'fore they locked her away.”
“Why'd they do that?”
“The good churchgoing folks of Hazardsville don't put up with craziness like this. The Right Reverend Matthew Colepepper had my father commit her when I was just a boy.”
“You ever have words with the reverend about that later on?”
“No, he died a long time ago. But I did kick the hell out of my daddy when I turned seventeen, the drunken, deceitful bastard. And I ain't been back to Hazardsville since.”
So much for Cogan's daddy skinning his back for poor manners.
“We anywhere near Coney Island?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Hellfire, I was hoping to see that, I heard so much about it. The roller coaster, and that dang hot dog place. And the freak shows, though I suspect
some folks in Hazardsville might give those fellas a run for their money. I seen my share of pumpkin-heads and flipper babies. Where are we?”
Dane had never taken a night ride with someone who enjoyed it so much, and he didn't know what to think of it. “The Heights.”
This was the neighborhood of choice, glowing across the East River from lower Manhattan. The most famous view of the Brooklyn Bridge came from these aristocratic brownstones.
Cogan had his hands splayed on the window, staring at the ironwork patterns on heavy wooden doors. You could look inside the arched windows and make out the ceiling molding and chandeliers in those homes.
“What's that right there?” Cogan asked, pointing at a massive building. “I've never seen the like.”
“The Bossert. You've got to be a Jehovah's Witness to live there. They have their headquarters in the area, and own about a third of the Heights.”
“Lordy. You think they go door to door and hand out them Watchtowers around these parts? Or do they figure, hell, all our neighbors, they're already saved, we won't bother. I mean, where's the line of demarcation?”
“They use midnight-blue vans to transport their members all around, including to the printing plants where they print up their pamphlets.”
“That must be a sight.”
“Yeah.”
“You don't do much besides drive, do you?” Cogan asked.
“No,” Dane admitted.
“I had a cousin like you, name'a Cooter. He used to run moonshine across three counties. But then the shine makers, they decided to call it quits on account'a the law, and he had no one to haul for anymore. So ole Cooter just drove around the back hills every night, without a reason, never stopping.”
“It relaxes me.”
“Sounds like you've spent too much of your time bein' relaxed. Man like you is nice and calm until the day he snaps. I seen some like you go to pieces more than once. Everybody says, ‘My, he was so nice, that considerate child, we never expected something like this of him. Rampage through the Thanksgiving Day parade, shooting old ladies in the head. It sure is a damn shame.' You might want to apply yourself to something more socially redeeming.”
“Thanks,” Dane said. “I'll take it under consideration.”
They headed across the Brooklyn Bridge and the moonlight laid across the car hood like a woman in white linen. He took the FDR up the east side of Manhattan and waited to see if these events were merely a curious happenstance of fate or if he was just being set up.
“Hey, who are these old boys?” Cogan asked.
Dane looked and saw the slumped figures of Mako and Kremitz surrounding Cogan in the backseat. It threw him for a second and he veered into the wrong lane. The swerving of the car threw Mako's and Kremitz's comatose forms against Cogan.
“It's the two who were force-fed poisoned coke in the infirmary,” Dane said.
“They finally dead?”
“No.”
“Then what in the hell they doin' here?”
“I'm not sure. I suppose they came along for the ride.”
Cogan clucked. “You got yourself some hefty weight to carry on your shoulders, son.”
“Don't I know it. What do you know about a dirty ex-cop named Phil Guerra?”
“That your father's partner?”
“Yeah.”
“He's dirty?”
“He killed my old man.”
Cogan leaned forward and spoke with some real sadness in his voice. “Your daddy killed hisself. Don't go off on no crazy tangents now.”
They were quiet the rest of the way back. Dane pulled up to the hotel around the corner from Glory Bishop's apartment and Cogan sat there smiling with all those thick, square teeth.
Dane stared at him and said, “You won't remember any of this.”
“The hell you say, son! I'm not likely to forget a night like this, that's for damn sure. I'll see you again real soon.”
Special Agent Daniel Ezekiel Cogan stepped onto the sidewalk and up to the front door of the hotel. His movements were less awkward now, maybe even graceful, as if he was comfortable being parted from his sleeping body.
Dane gritted his back teeth, wondering what it meant. Grinning, Cogan turned and gave a little wave before evaporating away. Mako and Kremitz hung in there for a while longer as Dane sat smoking. Their heads lolled, mouths hanging open as if they might begin speaking ancient, majestic secrets at any moment, but never did.
EIGHTEEN
Dane was in the limo driving aimlessly, stuck at a red light on MacDonough Street in Bed-Stuy, when Big Tommy Bartone pulled up beside him and started shooting.
You had to laugh. All these men, all this firepower, and the Monti family sends its top guy to come after Dane like a carjacker. No style anymore, no finesse, and no need for real balls.
It was a good thing that Tommy hadn't popped anybody personally in about ten years. And when he did do it he'd go for the sweet spot behind the ear. Or use his knife. Him and Joey Fresco, these guys had a thing about knives like they were black ops or Green Berets.
Tommy had chosen a .32 and he didn't know how to aim from any distance. The limo passenger window had been enough to deflect the bullet, giving Dane time to duck low beneath the dashboard. Tommy didn't get out of his car. He sat there and fired three more times, hitting the top of the driver's seat and sending wads of foam flying.
Dane stomped the gas pedal and drilled through the red light. He rear-ended a tan Datsun making a left turn ahead of him, spun the wheel hard, and floored it. Tommy followed along behind.
Dane had just finished dropping off four teenagers who'd rented a suite at the Montauk Manor for off-season rates. Two nervous, young couples who spoke in whispers broken by excited giggling. He envied them their first foray into an adult world. On their own for a few days playing house together.
The girls kept blushing. The boys did their best to look unimpressed with themselves but couldn't quite pull it off. They overtipped Dane without looking him in the eye, and the kids headed up the stone walkway of the resort hotel like they were strutting out of frame at the end of a black-and-white movie.
It got him thinking about what life might've been like without the Monticelli family in his past. Vinny and his violin, the Don and Berto always staring everybody down. Maria in her silk skirts and perfumes imported from Sicily. Angie talking circles around him while he sat there being lazy and dense.
No matter how he imagined it, he figured he would've been just as full of shit madness no matter where or how he'd lived. You're drawn to the things you need, no matter how lethal they might be.
Tommy was driving a '69 cherry-red Boss 429 Mustang, with 375 horsepower and 450 lb-ft. Sounded like it needed a tune-up and a muffler job. He hadn't spent much time waxing the body either. The paint was dull with a couple of rust spots on the hood. Dane's father would've bitten his knuckles thinking of a classic like the '69 'Stang going to waste on a capo who didn't give a damn about the car.
Traffic grew heavier and Dane drifted a little higher on the adrenaline than he wanted to go. A hazy white light invaded the borders of his peripheral vision, cutting left and right while Tommy came on behind him. He let loose a slightly crazed chuckle. He eased in and out of lanes with perfect efficiency, the limo cutting a big enough swath for Tommy to easily follow. This was going to get bad.
So what the hell. Dane cut left and gunned it, shimmying the steering wheel a touch so the limo zagged. It was enough to make Tommy overreact and pull too far to the right, raking against a parked car and tearing off the side mirror. The brutal scrape of metal on metal made Dane grin.
He couldn't figure it out. Why the hell would Big Tommy Bartone keep coming at him, playing out a car chase, of all things? You didn't send a button man after a driver.
They roared through intersections together, and Tommy began to batter at the limo's rear bumper. He was an amateur behind a wheel but aggressive. The jolting crashes made Dane's back teeth hurt and he must've b
itten his tongue because his mouth was full of blood. He let his intuitions guide him through the streets, knowing what was going on around him, where he was heading, but distanced from the moment.
So far, they'd been lucky, catching only green lights. Dane maneuvered easily from lane to lane. Making fast but careful turns as Tommy moved in tight behind him, sticking close and following Dane's lead. Even driving the limo, Dane knew he could shake Big Tommy if he really gave it a go; but he held back, sensing some clarifying appointment up ahead.
No cops yet. He still felt relatively safe. Believing he could get away without the added trouble of trying to explain the situation to the police.
Horns blared and a few shouts went up as they gunned past blocks of dilapidated buildings; Tommy chipping away at the limo's rear. It was stupid. The 'Stang's front end would buckle long before it did any real damage to the limo, but Tommy seemed a little crazed. He held the gun in his left hand and fired a couple times out the driver's window, but both shots went wild. A group of gangbangers selling drugs on the corner scattered, drawing their own weapons. Dane saw two Tec-9 submachine guns pointed his way and he stomped the gas.
Brooklyn wasn't always home after all.
Doing sixty down a side street, they passed a four-story apartment building with a red awning over the door. The flower boxes hanging from the bars of the windows on the first floor were empty. The abandoned car in the corner of the lot next door was gone.
Your conscience knew where to take you. Dane sped through the intersection where he'd run over the traffic cop.
Big Tommy hung in with him pretty good until Dane made a wide swinging right that was nearly a U-turn. Tommy's front end locked with the rear bumper of the limo for a second, and when they detached Tommy skidded into an empty bus stop bench. He dropped back and two hubcaps rolled out ahead of the 'Stang.
Dane slowed, drew into the parking lot of the hospital where Angelina Monticelli had died, and pulled up to the emergency room.
He reached into the glove compartment and grabbed his .38 from beside the envelope with the ten grand JoJo had given him. He got out, stuck the pistol in his belt, buttoned his suit jacket over it, and calmly walked in through the automatic sliding glass doors.
Headstone City Page 14