TWENTY

The forsaken understood the tactics of cruelty.

A pressure at Dane's side grew worse block after block until he thought maybe Phil had gotten a shot off and winged him. It came from the pocket where he carried the diamond ring he was supposed to give to Maria Monticelli. The pain intensified until he looked over and saw JoJo Tormino there beside him, his finger pressed into Dane's pocket.

“Give me a break, JoJo,” Dane said. “I'll get to it. I've got a lot on my mind right now. Go visit my grandmother, I think she's got a thing for you.”

But JoJo didn't buy that and shoved even harder. With love in his eyes and a tormented grimace, and all the regrets that a man with an unfinished mission might have, even under the mud, he stuck it to Dane.

They didn't turn over in their graves. They stood up and came after you, and they prodded you in your softest places.

JoJo opened his mouth as if to say something and suddenly Angelina was there, wearing a wild smile. She said, “Wow, you two really went at it in that swing! You deserve to have some fun, don't be ashamed of it.”

“I'm not.”

“You are, and you shouldn't be.”

It was like living in a sideshow, where they watched your every move. You stared at them and they stared at you, gasping at the things you did.

The old ache revisited itself on him, his chest feeling huge and hollow, like he'd been embalmed, side by side in the morgue trays with all the rest of them. The mansion on the hill loomed above him, the sound of the heavy waves roaring in the bay.

“You still haven't come by to visit me,” she said. “But that's all right, you've been having fun. I'm glad.”

“It hasn't all been fun.”

“No, but you've been doing okay so far. And I can see you're enjoying yourself now.”

You really couldn't ask for more than that. Not from a girl you'd driven to the people who killed her.

“Your mother-” Angie slid closer, trying to curl across his lap.

“That's right. You said she had something to tell me. What is it?”

Now, the dead playing coy, she nibbled her bottom lip and let out a soft purr, the kind of sound he'd never heard her make when she was alive.

“You don't really want to know, Johnny.”

“You're probably right.”

“Are you going to kill my father?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. You're going to murder them all.” A titter eased free, thick with lust, like she wanted it done. “Send them to me.”

Maybe he couldn't keep her sane in hell. Maybe he'd only driven her ghost out of its mind.

“My mother, Angie, quit sidetracking and tell me what she wants.”

“She's finished with you, soldier boy. But I'm not.”

He already knew that. She breathed against his ear, and he heard her mad desire there. The dark hair fell against him, floating in front of his mouth, stifling him with its heady scent, until he was nearly panting. He almost took his hands off the wheel. She moaned against his neck and he was hard and crazy and it didn't really matter a goddamn.

“I need you,” she said.

“To do what?”

“Make things right.”

He swung up the hill toward the Monti estate, gunning it hard, the Caddy's engine humming smoothly, rushing like his blood.

“We love you, Johnny. You're going to find that out.”

It started to rain, and the water washed down the lengthy cobblestone driveway in heavy rivulets. There was a guardhouse at the front of the private gates to the estate, where he used to phone Vinny and ask him to come outside on summer days. Vinny would always say he had to stay in and practice, but every once in a while would sneak away, steal one of the patrol jeeps, and they'd go down to the beach.

Instead of Dane having to talk to someone or yell into a speaker, the gates opened as he approached. He drove right on up. Seemed like Phil Guerra was a welcomed guest.

Angelina drew closer, until he couldn't be sure where she was anymore, on top of him or under him or sinking farther inside. It got tiring trying to figure out which ghosts you carried, and which ones carried you.

He pulled up to the Monticelli mansion. Looked around for any overt action. Guns, goombas who'd read The Valachi Papers too many times, with a bit too much vino in them. Wanting to crack wise and throw down with a machine gun. Or maybe they were all sleeping in front of the television, empty plates in front of them on the coffee table.

Dane cruised up to the door. Just a nice Italian boy coming out for a visit. Maybe they were asking him in.

He parked, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. Why not? Don Monti had manners, at least. Before he did anything else, the man would want to talk. The Monticellis liked to talk.

Georgie Delmare, the consigliere, met him at the door bordered by two younger Monti thugs. He was surprised to see Dane but hid it well. His chin stiffening only the slightest bit. “Mr. Danetello. My, you certainly do come seeking trouble, don't you?”

“Never my intention, Georgie, believe it or not.”

“As Daniel told the lion. What do you want?”

“I think you know. Vinny here?”

“If he were, you'd very probably be dead by now.”

“You popping off one-liners like the wiseguys now? That was pretty good, I gotta admit. You gotta loosen your shoulders a little though, you know? Work your neck. Hey listen, there's this movie called Under Heaven's Canopy. Watch for the scene with the chick with the rocket launcher on the bridge. You can pick up a few pointers.”

One of the thugs glared at Dane, but the other had a thousand-yard gaze going, probably thinking of Glory Bishop and the look on her sweaty face when she pulled the trigger. I'm gonna rock your world, baby! A stupid grin started pushing his lips out of shape, but he caught himself in time and began glowering again.

Delmare stared at the Caddy, glowering, mouth open, then closing, then opening. “Isn't that Phil Guerra's Cadillac?”

“No, it's mine.”

The tiniest change of expression, which in Georgie Delmare was pure shock. “Yours? But, no, I'm quite sure that it's-”

“Yeah, mine. Listen, I love gabbing with you, Georgie, but I want to see Don Pietro.”

“That's quite impossible. Don't be ridiculous. Leave now and you might save your skin for a few days more. I suggest you leave the city immediately.”

“The man taught me to play five-card draw when I was seven. I've had about five hundred meals here and attended every baptism, confirmation, and graduation in the family for the last two decades. Minus the last couple of years anyway. He'll talk to me.”

“I don't think this is in your best interest.”

Dane took a breath, feeling his impatience welling and about to break the surface. He'd always hated being edgy before, but now it felt kind of good. “You want to check out a real show of force?”

It perked up the legbreakers, who both sneered because they thought it was the thing to do. Dane wondered why no one bothered to teach them anything nowadays, content just to have muscle milling around without any purpose.

Delmare said, “You're a very foolish man, Mr. Danetello.”

“Quit trying to sweet-talk me.”

Stepping back, Delmare gestured for the thugs to frisk Dane. They did a sloppy job of it, these mooks always afraid to touch a guy's groin or ass. You could smuggle a little palm-sized mini-Glock in your crotch and wipe six guys out without trying.

“If you won't listen to reason, Danetello, then enter. The Don is a very ill man. If he wishes to speak to you, he will. If not, you'll leave without any trouble. If there is trouble, I'll take matters into my own hands and abolish you as a problem for this family. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

“Sure. Thanks, Georgie.”

The consigliere led Dane through the foyer, the thugs strutting behind. They walked past glass cases and shelves containing Renaissance artwork, statuary, and shrines of Catholic significance. Family photos took up most of the remaining space on the shelves. Plenty of dour-faced people standing around frowning at the camera. Italians loved to show off the faces of their family.

“They always wore a lot of black,” Dane said.

“Many of them have died violent deaths,” Delmare told him. “Additionally, Catholics like to mourn.”

“Don't I know it.”

He was escorted into a broad living room that was dark with cherry paneling and burgundy carpeting, waves of rain slashing at the bay windows. More photographs abounded. A deep sense of anguished expectation spun in the air.

Don Pietro Monticelli still generated an overwhelming sense of power and confidence, even crippled in his chair, the years wearing into him like sandstorms cutting into rock. He had been one of the roughest, most intimidating bastards back in his prime. He sat smoking a thin European cigarette, fringed by Joey Fresco and Big Tommy Bartone, who were assembled on an uncomfortable-looking settee. Dane was a little shaken to see they were all drinking coffee and being chatty as the nuns of Our Lady of Blessed Mercy during a bake sale.

Delmare leaned down and whispered in the Don's ear. The old man waved his consigliere away and gestured for Dane to enter.

“John,” the Don said.

“Hello, Don Pietro.”

“You show great confidence inviting yourself into my home. Perhaps too much.”

“I didn't invite myself in. I just rang the bell.”

Dane stepped closer to the huge windows at the back of the room, watching as the streaming water battered the glass.

They all remained like that until Joey Fresco decided to tighten the tension and flex his attitude.

In the army, Dane had never learned to do as he was told and just make it easy on himself. He always spoke his mind and traveled in a straight line, and he didn't let an asshole officer's stripes keep him from saying his piece.

He felt acutely inadequate in the imagination department, and he knew what he was going to do now even though it was bound to cause a lot of problems all around.

Skinny Joey Fresco gave a grin. He put down his cup of coffee and a half-eaten anisette cookie and drew a pipsqueak.22. Dane almost burst out laughing. Joey used to go in for a.357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel, but it was a heavy piece of hardware and he hadn't needed that much firepower in a long time. So he'd gotten a touch soft and carried the much lighter snub-nosed Sentinel.22. It wouldn't stop a pissed off Sicilian with a couple of amarettos in him unless Joey walked right up and made a head shot.

“Joseph-” the Don said, waving Joey down.

“Please, Pietro, it's time.”

That's right, beg to do Dane in, for the good of the world.

But it was all about being cool. That's why Joey carried the butterfly knife to clean his fingernails.

Now he put on the show and the two thugs followed suit, pulling their weapons. Each of them carried.44s. The Don appeared curious to see how things would play out, and Dane couldn't blame him for that.

Joey Fresco marched over, cocked the pistol, and pointed it at Dane's face. “So, how about this? How about if I give you a chance. Give me a reason not to blow you away right now.”

“Here's one,” Dane told him, and chopped the edge of his hand across Joey's throat.

The army had been all right for some things.

Joey flailed and Dane lightly plucked the.22 from his hand and put it in his belt. Delmare whispered, “Oh dio mio,” and Big Tommy let out a barking guffaw then finished his coffee.

The mood was warming up some. There was still a chance. The goombas liked to have their day broken up with a little activity like this from time to time. Joey was on his knees squeaking and choking, trying to suck in air.

“Put your weapon on the floor,” one of the muscle boys said, both of them aiming their guns at Dane's chest.

“No.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Now, or you're dead.”

“Oh, you in charge?” Dane asked, hoping it would get under the Don's skin. You never really got away from the lessons you learned on the playground. The same petty insults worked now just like they did when you were seven.

Easing out a stream of smoke, Don Monti lifted his chin. He had the old-world slickness, the kind of unshakable aplomb that never revealed what was going on in his head.

Midsixties, slicked-back hair that drew up cruelly from a widow's peak, with sharply angular, craggy features showing great command and control. A widower for about ten years now, but he still wore his wedding ring. He had those nearly worthless legs crossed, hands cupped over his knee except when he raised the cigarette to take a slow drag. Smoke wreathed him like the offshore mists of Sicily.

Joey finally made it to his knees and Big Tommy and the others were helping him up, getting him into a chair. Delmare's lips were so flat and bloodless that his mouth looked like a paper cut.

The Don didn't appear to notice anyone but Dane. He asked, “How is Lucia?”

“She has bad dreams.”

“We all do, and they grow worse as we age. Are you here to speak with me or my son?”

“I'm here to talk to the Don.”

That left it in the air. Let the old man decide if he was the boss or not.

“I'm listening,” Don Pietro Monticelli said. “Come sit with me over here. We won't be disturbed.” As he spoke he gave the eye to his boys, who all backed off to the other side of the room, dragging Joey with them.

Dane sat in a Queen Anne wing chair without cushions, thinking about how sitting on furniture like this most of his life probably helped to cripple the Don. Dane shifted back and forth, sort of sliding around. Somebody had been at the cherrywood with an abundance of polish.

He couldn't keep himself from scanning the place, looking for Maria. His side still hurt from JoJo's prodding.

“Your house isn't in order,” Dane said.

“You take too much for granted, John.”

“No, I don't think I do.”

“I once treated you like one of my own sons, here in this very home you affront. Even though you were a cafone.

The Don putting Dane in his place, calling him a peasant. “You taught me how to play poker.”

“Yes, I remember that. You had a natural talent for bluffing.”

Dane said, “And for calling bluffs as well.”

The Don tried to sit up straighter, but it didn't really work. Some of the old fire seemed to be trying to catch inside him. “Make no mistake. Despite the foolish bluster of too many of my men recently, what deeds need doing shall be done. Without hesitation, or remorse. This has always been my way.”

“You also taught me how to shoot a gun.”

Don Pietro nodded, smiling sadly but without much emotion in his eyes. “I thought you might be a police officer like your father. Or that you would have joined our business here, at some level, perhaps even as a trusted advisor. I never believed you'd… show so little interest in either of these ways of life.”

“That was a very delicate way of telling me I'm a failure.”

“Not so. Simply that you've chosen your own way through the world. One I've never quite expected or understood.”

“You and me both.”

It made the Don chuckle under his breath. A few years back that would've been a sign that things were going to become ugly soon, but Dane just didn't get that feeling.

He wondered if the old man knew about Berto's predilections, and if they mattered to him at all. There was a time that something like that would've brought the ax down no matter who you were. If you were a made guy, if you were the big boss's son, that would only make it worse. You played around under the bridge with a pre-op tranny named Lulu, with 38D hooters and a seven inch pecker, and they'd find you floating in Sheepshead Bay with your nuts up your nose.

“What did you do in the military?”

“Wasted time mostly.”

“And so you didn't learn any skills?”

“I was too busy being pissed off most of the time.”

“Why is that, do you suppose, John?”

Smoke circled the Don, and the acrid, exotic stink hit Dane all at once. The man wasn't smoking a European cigarette after all. He was toking high-quality Colombian Gold.

“I didn't like always being told what to do.”

“All that time in the army and you left with so little.”

“I picked up a few things here and there.”

The disappointment shone in the Don's eyes. He'd been thinking that maybe Dane had been a sniper, had learned how to plant bombs. Something he could put to use. Don Pietro was the type of guy who kept lists around, everything from the bookie accounts to Cayman bank numbers to anybody who'd ever crossed him up. Or maybe that had only been back in the day. The joint seemed to be doing its job. The man looked mellow.

“Your grandmother… Lucia… I see her sometimes, walking to the bingo parlor.”

“Yes.”

“A beautiful woman. She still cooks much?”

“Yes.”

The hell was going on? Like this was a normal reunion where you play catch-up on all the silly trivia. Across the room the shooters were back to drinking coffee and eating their snacks, except for Joey Fresco, who fumed and sat hunched over, rubbing his throat.

It was time.

Dane stared the Don in the eye. “Do you hold me responsible for your daughter Angie's death?”

“Angelina, my Angelina,” Don Monti said, and the grief was a barb that kept catching his tongue. He paused, evaluating his words. “She-she was too impetuous, my Angelina. Full of life but drawn to fire. I could not control her, nor did I make enough of an effort to do so.” He drew another deep lungful. “Even her brothers were ineffective, as were the men assigned to safeguard her. I blame no one but myself for the troubles she endured. For the pain she brought to herself, and to this house.”

Dane looked at the old man, sitting there stoned and in pain, those crooked legs hanging at such odd angles. When Dane was a kid he'd feared the Don the way he'd feared his father, the way he'd feared God. With a mixture of terror and pride.

“No,” Don Pietro said, working the joint like it might be his last. “I do not hold you responsible.”

“Then why don't you call Vinny off?”

“He would never hurt you. No, never. What he does, he does for rispetto.

“I don't understand,” Dane said.

“You will see the truth, I think. One day soon. If you are strong and patient. I only hope you are worthy.”

Maybe the weed had been spiked with some acid. Dane checked his watch. It was almost six. “I've got to go now.”

The Don clasped his hand weakly and said, “Thank you for visiting. I enjoyed our talk.”

The old man might not be senile, but whatever had once made him the big boss was gone. It wasn't a ploy. All the edgy madness and will to violence had drained away until there was somebody sitting in the chair who Dane didn't completely recognize anymore.

As Dane moved across the room, Joey reached out and said, “You listen to me, I want to say somethin' here, no matter what, you and me, if it's the last-” and Dane chopped him in the throat again. Joey gagged and fell to his knees, and Big Tommy barked again.

Out in the rain Dane walked to Phil Guerra's stolen car and stared at how brilliant the shimmering water on the Magi-laquer appeared. As if this was a giant piece of deep blue ice brought up from a thousand feet below the Arctic cap, frozen 10 million years ago.

He got in and started the engine, easing down the drive and back into the streets of Headstone City. He reached for his cigarettes and the nausea rushed through his belly.

Here it comes, he'd been expecting it. Vinny couldn't pass up a meeting like this.

Dane's scars began to heat. He tried to beat the sickness back but that only made it worse, and he rolled down his window fast in case he had to heave. He stuck his face into the wind like a dog.

At the next light he fell back against the seat and suddenly Vinny was in the car, holding his lighter out. In some other reality he'd picked Vinny up and they were riding together, and now Vinny was imposing that track onto this world.

Dane leaned in, puffed, and took a long drag. He grinned and said, “This the rainy day you were talking about?” but by the time the smoke rose to break against the crags of Vinny's disfigured face, he was already gone.

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