Headstone City (26 page)

“When?”

“Eight o'clock. Pepe wants to talk to you first.”

Her callous voice came at him in a color now, the edges of his vision lighting up from one red instant to the next. He couldn't figure out what she'd gone through in her life to make her sound like that. He stared at her for another second, speculating what it might have been, and she said, “Stop fucking looking at me like that.”

“Okay.”

“You don't charm me.”

“I realize that.”

“I don't think you do.”

“No, really, Franny, I do.”

She had her hand under the counter again, grabbing hold of the nine iron. He leaned forward, kind of daring her, wishing she'd make a go of it. Maybe all she needed was to give him one good crack across the head, then they could settle into being amiable coworkers. “I'm waiting for the day you're found floating in the surf,” she told him.

“I know; I'm just wondering why you hate me so much.”

“Because you deserve it.”

She believed it so honestly, with such affirmation, that it almost made him believe it too. That he had done something so terrible in his life he should never be forgiven for it.

“What box did you pick in the pool?”

“Tomorrow. Do me a favor and drop dead, will you?” She stuck a toothpick in her mouth and started champing it to shavings. “At noon.”

“Where's Pepe?”

“I don't know, but if you find him, tell him to get his ass back in here. Like I don't have enough to do, I have to cover his job too.”

Dane went around to the garage parking lot and saw Pepe mixing it up with two enormous thugs.

For a guy weighing only about 120, Pepe was handling himself pretty well. He was fast and knew how to throw a punch, duck and weave and work from the outside.

It was a cold day but Pepe wore only a sleeveless T-shirt, his muscles corded and perfectly defined as he backpedaled and rope-a-doped, slugging each of the mooks in the chin with a one-two punch. A couple of quick raps, shoulders loose, then skipping back out of the way as they lunged.

Dane wasn't sure if he should get involved yet, because Pepe was smiling and having such a good time. He skipped around the parking lot like he was back in the ring.

Dane recognized one of the wiseguys from the Don's yesterday and the other from Chooch's when he'd shot the other asshole in the leg. There was a time when all the Monti family members had been made guys, top lieutenants who'd worked their way up the ranks pulling big heists nobody could pin on them. Now all these no-name slabs of meat.

He called out, “Need help?”

“You trying to insult me?” Pepe said, moving like he was listening to a nice salsa beat.

“I was asking them.”

The thugs were trying to prance away without looking like they were running. They each had a bloody nose and a split lip and the beginnings of a shiner. The punk from the Don's looked at Dane and said, “You!”

“Me.”

“I've got orders to pulp your ass!”

“Watch for the hook,” Dane told him just as Pepe's left fist connected with the point of the prick's chin. It really was beautiful to watch, the supple way Pepe moved in and out and around with the quality of ballet. The thug's eyes started to roll and Pepe shifted and caught the other legbreaker with a right cross that threw the punk backwards like he'd been shot. Both Monti boys fell together in a heap, mostly unconscious and breathing shallowly, blood bubbling over their faces.

“They're not even as tough as the guy who came around last time,” Pepe said.

“That one's name is Joey Fresco, and he's not even as tough as he used to be a few years ago.”

“They got legit and they got soft.”

“These two tell you the same spiel? It'd be in your best interest to do a favor for the Monti crew?”

“Yeah, but without the subtlety of that guy Joey shaving with his butterfly knife. These pricks, they just came right out with it, said they wanted me to fire you. If they were going to make a play, I thought they would've pulled it weeks ago, carrying some real firepower.”

“Me too,” Dane said. “I paid the Don a visit yesterday. It must've pushed a few buttons.”

“Not any serious ones. They didn't even draw down on me.” His hands kept working in the air as he talked, like he still wanted to throw punches.

In the corner of the lot sat a maroon LeSabre with the passenger door ajar. “This their car?”

“Yeah, they pulled in while I was catching a smoke and just started staring me down. When that didn't work they called me spic, like I might break down and weep out of shame for my family heritage. They threaten to beat up some of the other drivers, but the guys just ignore them. Then this one here actually shoves me.” Pepe grinned telling the story, his small hands moving in the air. “It was like junior high school all over again. I think they were working their way up to stealing my lunch box or giving me noogies. What the hell happened to the real wiseguys?”

“I don't know,” Dane said. He frisked both the mooks and they weren't even carrying guns.

“Nothing?” Pepe asked.

“No. He had a pistol yesterday. Maybe they're scared of getting pulled over by the cops and found carrying.”

“Does the Don know he's hiring such pathetic examples of
la cosa nostra
?”

“You know, I've got a feeling he does. But he's so sick and crippled that he smokes a lot of weed to help him with the pain.”

“Really? Like any punk on the corner. That's sort of sad, ending up like that.”

“I have to agree.”

They wrestled the two legbreakers back onto their feet and helped them over to the LeSabre. Dane got the driver in and said, “Listen, tell Berto and Vinny to relax, I'm quitting Olympic. Oh no, my life is in tatters, how will I survive? The terror, the horror. Hey, watch your head now,” and carefully closed the door. Pepe tapped the roof and the car pulled out.

“I have mixed feelings about all that,” Pepe told him, still bouncing on his feet like he wanted to go another few rounds. “I kind of miss the old neighborhood, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“A man is defined by the strength of his enemies.”

Dane looked at him. “You quoting
The Art of War
now or what?”

“It's a line from
Under Heaven's Canopy.
One of those terrorists in the caves says it.”

“I fast-forwarded through a lot of that.”

“So did I the first twenty times, but then I finally let it roll.”

Dane glanced over at the limousine in the garage, the back bumper all banged out and polished up again after the fracas with Big Tommy, and he felt a twinge of regret. He'd miss working on it. “I'll quit tomorrow, okay?”

“You don't have to leave on account of those mooks. Stick around if you want. Besides, didn't you want to build a stake?”

“Like you said, what do I need money for? Besides, something's happening.”

Pepe gave him that long once-over. “What do you mean?”

“I'm not sure. Things are just coming into focus a little better.”

Pepe made the same face again, but not nosy enough to ask if Dane had any kind of a plan in mind.

“What time does Glory Bishop want to be picked up?”

“What, you need an invitation from her now? Just go. Drop the limo off tonight or early tomorrow. Maybe I'll send Fran on the Montauk run from now on. She could use a little ocean air.”

“By the way,” Dane said, “I think she's insane.”

“I've had some worries about that, but she's pretty stable most of the time. Like I told you, she's mostly a sweetheart, but she's got a fine-tuned instinct for criminal-type activity, you know? The action boiling behind the scenes.”

“But she didn't know you were out here brawling with two mob dumbasses.”

“I think she knew, she just didn't care much. She figured I could handle it.” A worried expression crossed his face. “She doesn't get rattled most of the time. Except by you. You shake her up worse than anyone.”

“Why?” Dane asked.

“She said you give her nightmares.”

“Me?”

“She told me she dreamed of your eyes before she ever met you.”

Tension tightened the muscles in Dane's back. “Jesus.”

“Hey, I'm just explaining what she said.”

Dane thought about it, wondering if Fran might have a touch of the burden herself. What Special Agent Daniel Ezekiel Cogan's blessed granny would've called special consideration under the Lord.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Dane told him. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble at all, man, I had fun.”

Dane climbed into the limo and went the slow way to Glory Bishop's place, hoping the extra time would help him to put everything into perspective. He cruised from Flatbush Avenue to Parkside, hitting the next roundabout to Ocean Parkway, into the Prospect Expressway, merging onto the BQE, the flow of the cars around him always more consoling than being surrounded by people.

He slid into the Brooklyn Bridge traffic, another component of the burg, no different than any piece of stone or iron. Slowly he hiked from Greenwich Village to the Upper East Side, working his way through rush hour, enjoying the flux and drift.

Here he was doing nothing but killing time, even though it felt as if he didn't have that much time left.

A miserable whisper from the backseat made him look in the rearview. It was Aaron Fielding again, the grocer and fish seller, sitting back there whimpering. Dane wished he could hear the man's booming laugh just one more time, instead of all this sniveling.

Dane met the man's eyes in the mirror, and saw him raise an ashen, quivering hand, trying to clutch at Dane's shoulder. “Johnny, I need to—”

“What, Mr. Fielding? I'm listening.”

“Johnny!”

“Tell me. I'll help if I can. I promise.”

“I . . . I swear that I—”

What kind of confession was so important it would keep someone trapped in jail with you, in the cemetery with you, in the backseat?

“I never burned the fillet!”

The despair finally lifted clear of the old man, and Fielding threw his head back and smiled. A heavy, joyful laughter broke from him, resounding and pure, deepening and echoing beyond the confines of the car until the sound of his own deliverance carried him away.

Did you bring all your petty fears and worries with you right into the grave? Did they keep you awake during the long night of your interment? Were you compelled to confess and apologize and justify throughout the hereafter?

A weak man became a martyr in his own mind. Did you do the same thing when you were underground?

The poor bastard, spinning in his coffin because every Friday afternoon Grandma Lucia would send Dane down to Fielding's market for the same order, memorized word for word. “Gimme two portions of shrimp, two of potatoes, three fillets and don't burn them.” A small joke preying on a corpse's conscience, even way down in the box.

Whatever the answer, Dane knew one thing now. The dead didn't have a sense of humor.

He pulled up to Glory Bishop's building and Special Agent Cogan was standing outside eating a
cannoli,
ricotta cheese on his tie. He grinned and approached.

TWENTY-TWO

O
nce, back when you were still driving a cab, you saw two guys beating a police officer in an alley with his own nightstick.

The cop scrambled on all fours trying to fight back, but they started kicking him until he rolled himself into a ball, his face to the brick.

Dane gunned it to the mouth of the alley, threw the taxi into park, and hopped out with the engine still screaming. He took his civic duty seriously, most of the time. What the fuck. The cop scuttled under the front end of the cab, and the two guys turned to face Dane, the one with the nightstick raised above his head, and the other picking up the vials of crack he'd dropped.

If you stared straight ahead long enough, they'd take it as a sign of fear and attack. The guy with the nightstick charged, bringing the club down, giving a warrior's bellow, and doing this little twirly jump he'd seen some stuntman do in a movie once.