November Mourns
Page 23
“We got no choice.”
Kremitz started to steel himself. Jaws clenched, leaning forward on his toes, he was jazzing himself up to attack.
Dane had been a pretty poor soldier on the overall, but he’d liked the hand-to-hand combat training. His drill instructor would use him all the time as a practice dummy, flipping Dane over his hip and throwing him in the dirt. Kicking his feet out from under him over and over. The D.I. would show how to drive the knife in, how to keep the blade from getting stuck in bone.
Without fully realizing it, Dane had absorbed a lot, and would pull the moves when he got drunk, beating on the loud-mouthed Irish officers who called him a greasy guinea. He never got used to the stockade the way he did the slam, and couldn’t figure out why.
They weren’t going to be too tough so long as he didn’t slip on the wet tile. Mako and Kremitz didn’t know how to work as a team, standing too far away from each other. They swept out clumsily with their shanks and both of them tightened up, lurching, wanting to end it fast. Faces growing more grim, but with a hint of pleading in their eyes.
The drill instructor would call Dane and another guy over, tell them to charge at him. He had this one maneuver where he’d slip past Dane, grab hold of him by the elbows, and use his body like a shield to block the other soldier’s attack. Dane would be standing there like a bag of potatoes getting the crap beat out of him while the D.I. let out a brash chuckle.
Dane had never tried it and decided this might be a good time. He dodged past Kremitz, hooked him by the elbows, and swung him around into Mako’s face. Mako let out a grunt of surprise and jumped backward under the steaming force of the shower. Dane kneed Kremitz in the thigh from behind, brought him low and shoved. The soundtrack from a Stooges short couldn’t have made it any more perfect. Kremitz and Mako clunked heads and dropped their shivs, went to all fours sliding in the soapy water.
Dane couldn’t help himself and let out a brash chuckle. He hated the sound of it, but there it was. You were nothing but an amalgam of your influences. He grabbed one of the shivs and stabbed both men in their upper legs, in the thick meat of the muscle where it wouldn’t do a lot of damage. He twisted the blades just enough to make the wounds look especially ugly. Mako and Kremitz both started to scream and Dane said, “I’m doing you a favor so shut the hell up.”
While they writhed on the shower floor Dane ducked back under the showerhead and got the rest of the soap off of him. Blood swirled near his feet and he had to sidestep away. When he was finished he toweled off and got dressed, listening to them groan through their teeth trying to swallow down the pain. They rolled and squirmed across the tiles.
“Sheezus shheee–it!” Kremitz hissed. “Y–you crippled us!”
Moaning, Mako stuck his face in the drain, blowing bubbles as he gripped his leg to hold in the spurting blood.
“You’re both going to be fine. Say that you got into a fight with each other.”
“Jeezus!”
“You’ll be in the infirmary for three or four weeks. You’re not hurt bad but they’ll want to keep an eye on you for infection. After that, the bulls will toss you into solitary for at least another month. By the end of your run, I’ll either be dead or this shit with the Monticelli family will be cleared up.”
“You sure . . . about that, Johnny?” Mako whimpered.
“Even if I’m not, you’re better off than I would’ve been, right?” Dane let out a slow smile. A part of him wanted him to end it now, do it the way it should be done. Cut their throats, finish it the right way. You don’t injure the enemy, you eradicate him. His fingers twitched. A small, sharp fury nearly broke free from the center of his chest, but as he felt himself about to take a step forward, it receded. He almost wished it hadn’t gone. “Don’t fuckin’ complain.”
Mako grabbed him by the ankle and squeezed once, as a sign of thanks. Dane combed his hair back, checked himself in the mirror to make certain his grandmother wouldn’t give him a rough time.
He walked out past the guard on the Monti payroll, gave him a grin and a little salute. He felt good, stronger than earlier in the day, much more settled. He’d been half wondering if he’d had a death wish, and now the answer seemed to be no. Still, it was the kind of thing you couldn’t be a hundred percent about.
When he got back to his cell, the girl he’d sort of killed, Angelina Monticelli, was sitting on his cot.
“Oh Christ,” he said, his scars suddenly burning.
She wavered for a second, fading and reappearing, then vanishing until an old man sat where she’d been. It was Aaron Fielding, a neighborhood grocer and fish seller buried a couple of rows from her in Wisewood cemetery. The guy always smiling and letting the kids steal cheap candy bars from the wire racks at the front of the store. He’d let out this heavy, booming laugh whenever something hit him just right.
But now, old man Fielding had a wild and desperate look to him, colorless eyes flitting all over the place, hinges of his jaws pulsing. He raised a hand to Dane in a gesture of pleading. “Johnny, I need—”
“I can’t talk to you right now, Mr. Fielding. Later.”
His dimly gray face filled with terror. There was none of the joy and peace the nuns taught you about when you were a kid, what you were hoping for when you hit the other side. “Please!”
“No.”
“Just for a little while.”
“No, Mr. Fielding.”
“A minute. Only one moment more!”
“No!”
Angie snapped back into focus. She let out a soft laugh, like it was funny the shit she had to go through to talk to Dane. Or what he had to do to bring her in.
She told him, “’Berto says they’re going to let you go home and visit your grandmother first and then they’ll clip you on your second or third week out.”
“I guess he’s not as eager as I thought he was.”
“He wants to build up tension, make it spectacular.”
“He doesn’t have the imagination or style for that.”
“I know, but it’s what he tells his crew.”
“Does the Don agree with all this?”
“No, but Daddy doesn’t really stand up to Roberto anymore. He’s old and in a lot of pain.”
“What about Vinny?”
“He’s waiting for you.”
Fifteen years old when she’d bought it two years ago, but still appearing so full of life, with that overwhelming hipness of youth. She was dressed the way she was the day she OD’ed: oversized black sweater and blue jeans, no make-up, with her dark hair falling straight back over her ears, showing the slightest curl of bangs up front.
The old heat flooded his stomach and got his skin dancing. He started breathing heavily, and when his breath reached her she closed her eyes and lifted her face to meet it. Her bangs stirred and wafted as if in a strong breeze. She smiled and he swallowed thickly, again and again.
Jesus. He realized he still wanted her. What the hell did that say about you, when you were aroused by the dead? Or was it only because she looked so much like her older sister, Maria?
“Angie—”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed with me, Johnny.”
“I’m not.”
“There’s no shame in it. You keep me sane in hell.”
It made him chew his lips, hearing that. He sat on the floor across from his bunk, staring at her. If only he’d driven faster, or hadn’t run over the cop.
But why stop there? If you’re going to go back, go further. If he hadn’t given in to her and taken her to Bed-Stuy in the first place. She’d talked circles around him until he’d cracked, and it hadn’t been difficult. If only he’d cared a little more and been a lot smarter. He shouldn’t have been so listless, but that’s what the familiar streets had done to him. What he’d allowed them to do. What they were still doing, even in here.
“Will you visit me in Headstone City?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. It’s best if I’m not
seen there.”
“You live there.”
“I mean at your grave.”
“Nobody visits. They act like they miss me so much, but nobody takes the time to say a prayer or bring a shitty plastic flower.”
“I’m sorry, Angie.”
“Johnny, I need you.”
Something began to soften in his belly then, and he felt himself going with it. A weakness that had always been there but was now broadening, intensifying. Maybe he was about to cut loose with a sob. Twenty minutes ago he was almost ready to cut throats, and now this fragility and brittleness. He wanted to ask her if she held him responsible the way her family did. It was a question he’d never asked her before. She didn’t appear to want to make him feel guilty, didn’t try to get her claws into him, the way she had in life.
Dane heard the bull coming for him, turned to watch as the guard stepped up to the cell door. “Danetello. Let’s go.”
He got up and was escorted down the tier, through the gen pop, across the courtyard and back into the visitation quad, where all the new cons first set foot in the can. The warden was nowhere to be seen. They handed him a ream of paperwork, but nothing for him to sign. The clothes he came in with were pressed and folded in a pile laid on the counter. He reached for them and another guard said, “Hold it.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You’ve got a phone call, if you want it.”
“Why wouldn’t I want it?”
“Most cons who get this close to the outside on the day of their release don’t turn around and go answer the phone.”
Dane figured it was his Grandma Lucia, jonesing for sugar. He went back and took the call. His grandmother said, “Stop off at the bakery and get some cannoli and biscotti, will you, Johnny? And don’t let the girl put you off. She’s dead, that one. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
NOVEMBER MOURNS
A Bantam Spectra Book / June 2005
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Tom Piccirilli
Title page photograph by Karin Batten
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN 0-553-90154-0
www.bantamdell.com
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