Headstone City Part 29

Vinny yanked the .38 up in a beautiful move, showing just how incredibly fast he was, no one could ever have a chance against him. He pressed the barrel under his chin and gave a grin that made Dane start to groan.

Dane leaped forward and grabbed Vinny's hand, twisting it backwards so he'd drop the gun. But he wouldn't let go. Somebody pounded on the doors of Dane's skull, wanting to be let in, or out. There was hardly any room to move. Dane chopped at Vinny's collarbone, once, twice, hearing it snap. It just made Vinny yelp and tug harder until the .38 was pointed at Dane's gut.

The bullet took Dane low in the stomach and punched him backwards against the driver's door. He hit hard, the window cracking beneath his head. He felt everything rip inside him and slosh to the left. He opened his mouth and red foam bubbled over his chin. He was going to die with no style at all, but at least he was still behind a steering wheel.

"You stupid, lousy p.r.i.c.k," Vinny said, still smiling, shaking his head, with his busted collarbone poking up a half inch through his raincoat. "You got s.h.i.t and black blood coming out your belly now. That means you're finished."

Vinny coughed and panted, pressed a hand to Dane's clammy cheek, and told him, "Don't do that again. Right?"

THIRTY.

Death is nothing."

"It's something," Dane told him.

"We beat it a long time ago, when we went through the windshield," Vinny said. "You telling me you didn't know that?"

"No, I don't think I did."

"Do you now?"

"I'm not sure."

"You're the pazzo f.u.c.k."

Dane thought that maybe he understood what it had been like for Vinny all along. He felt the draw, the separation of himself heading down toward another life. He stood on one path and looked around, then saw there might be another slightly better chance for happiness if only he made a choice that took him there. There. There.

"Don't do it, Vinny."

"Look, there's n.o.body in the middle anymore. Here, watch."

On the radio, Dad mumbling about the rules of the road, always wearing your seat belt, being courteous to your fellow driver. The girl in the backseat lay down with eleven knife wounds in her kidneys, stared at the roof of the Caddy, and let out a cry fashioned from the incomprehensible loss inside her.

Vinny yanked the .38 up in a beautiful move, showing just how incredibly fast he was. No one could have ever had a chance against him. He pressed the barrel under his chin and gave a grin that made Dane whimper, thinking, How will I explain this to Maria?

Vinny pulled the trigger and took off the back of his skull, f.u.c.king up the beautiful interior of the '59 Caddy. He managed to heave a sigh of satisfaction as he flopped into Dane's arms.

They stayed like that for a while.

THIRTY-ONE.

Despite it all, having crossed so many of these lines you never thought you'd step over, tears still clinging at your beard stubble, it felt proper to finally have a clear and unswerving purpose. This is what you've always wanted.

On his way out to the Monti mansion, with Vinny's body in the trunk, most of the inside of the Caddy cleaned up, Dane pa.s.sed St. Mary's and spotted a bright blue hot-air balloon hovering about three feet above the lawn. Vinny had mentioned it back in Chooch's. But what did something like this mean, what symbolism could you find, when a piece of the sky was hanging down in back of your church?

About forty people clotted the front doors of the rectory, trying to keep warm. A handful of the elderly, a group of teens, a few six-year-olds, and even a couple of the modern nuns who didn't completely cover up in black head to toe.

A priest he didn't recognize stood looking at the basket, scared to let the kids get too close, with the rising wind, and the increasingly heavy rain coming down. Dane had the feeling G.o.d was presenting him with one last chance to get out of this-hop in the balloon, cut the ropes, and just drift away.

The priest caught his eye and immediately understood something was wrong. His gaze filled with alert apprehension and meaningless concern as he walked over to the car. "Is there some problem?"

"What is this?" Dane called. "The Jesus Jamboree?"

"Don't you read your Papist Gazette?"

G.o.dd.a.m.n, did they really print such a thing? Dane smiled blandly, the growing agitation working inside him trying to get out. He checked the rearview to see who might be in the backseat. Without humor he said, "The neighbor's dog got it off our stoop this week."

"It's our St. Mary's Redemption and Atonement Gala."

No wonder you only had a handful of people wandering around wearing puzzled expressions. "You might consider spiffing up the name next year."

"I'll think about that. Why don't you join us?"

"Sorry, I'm on an errand."

"We've got grape juice and biscotti."

Dane let out a chuckle that grew a little too wild, reminding him of Joey's mongoose sounds. He swallowed back the rest of it. "Bread and wine? You bless them so the WASPs are taking communion without knowing it?"

"There's been a lot of police prowling the area today. A good deal of talk."

"There's gonna be a little more." Dane reached into the glove compartment and grabbed the envelope with ten grand in it that JoJo Tormino had given him. "Here. To help you hire a couple of horses for next year, and a merry-go-round. A cotton candy maker, maybe pay somebody who tells pope jokes. Bobo the Catholic Clown, that'll get a crowd in. Instead of a funny pope hat going up and down, his goes side to side. You'll make a killing."

"I think I know who you are. Perhaps you should come in."

"Another time."

As he pulled away from the curb, the storm kicked up another notch and the wind tore at the surrounding woodlands of Outlook Park.

He swung up the hill toward the Monticelli estate and the gushing rainwater washed down the cobblestone driveway in a thick, pulsing torrent. He picked up his .38 off the seat and held it in his left hand, thinking he might have to reach out the window, plink a few guys, and crash through the private gates. You couldn't get away from the movie rolling in your head, your name leading the credits. The pressure pushed at the metal plates in your skull, trying to cut loose.

The guardhouse appeared empty, the gates already open. There were occasional shouts and the squealing of tires as their Jeeps buzzed around the various paths on the grounds. Everybody in a panic over Berto and Joey, looking for Vinny, but n.o.body watching the door.

Dane drove up and still didn't get the reception he'd been expecting. n.o.body stopped him. There were no police cars asking questions at the Monticelli residence. His sense of farce was beginning to overwhelm him.

Dane grabbed the shotgun off the backseat and walked up to the front door. It was unlocked and he let himself inside.

His entire life had brought him right here, to this moment.

Everyone, in his own way, had to be in on it, a part of the continuing process. Georgie Delmare, the consigliere, tucked away someplace in the house, thinking about how the business would have to be transferred into other names, already working on the new tax reports. Big Tommy Bartone, probably sitting in the next room, feeling old and waiting for a war. Any war. Dane turned the corner and looked up the staircase, seeing no one on the landing. He moved down the hallway, and there, sitting alone in the living room, antic.i.p.ating this meeting, sat the dying Don.

The debility and pain in his rough features had almost given away to placidity. He saw Dane and immediately lit a joint, rushing his first drag. He took it in deep and let it out in a thin stream so his eyes clouded.

"h.e.l.lo, John."

"h.e.l.lo, Don Pietro."

"You've been working very hard lately."

Dane nodded. "I'm showing an interest in life."

"I'm glad. You're going to put my house in order?" Saying it with just the barest lilt of a question, putting a little dare into it.

"If I can."

Would the Don be surprised to learn Grandma had blown Joey's a.s.s to h.e.l.l? Or would he have expected that? Knowing how powerful Lucia could be. Dane figured they'd probably fooled around some back in the forties or fifties, listening to Sinatra, Jerry Vale, and Mel Torme.

"I knew if you were strong and patient, you would find the truth. The truth meant for you to find. That you would discover your nature."

"I just wanted to talk to Maria."

"That would be pointless now, don't you think?"

"No. It's my only objective."

The Don held on with great resolve against his own cancer, still the boss of the family even with his rickety legs and shivery hands, stoned out of his gourd. They both looked around the room at the old photographs of brutal men who'd died violent deaths, their blood soaking down through the ages into the flesh and the concrete of Headstone City. Dane was as much a product of any of them as he was his own parents.

Voices moved through the halls, coming closer. Dane snapped up, holding the shotgun, the .38 within easy reach, stuffed in his belt.

The smart move was to take out the muscle first, the guys with the guns, but Dane just didn't see it happening that way. The Don was the only one left who wanted to end it with some honor, meeting the void with his head up.

Dane had always held a fierce respect for him, but now he just wanted to hug the man, draw him close, and perhaps say a few of the things he'd never been able to say to his own father. Maybe because he owned the neighborhood, or because he'd been instrumental in providing Dane's small world with at least one beautiful thing.

But he also felt a mild but crude hatred. For having given up so easily on centuries-old traditions of order and command. For degenerating what should've been a cla.s.s act. For letting down his guard. For keeping Maria from true love.

"Thank you, John."

Dane stepped up, drew his .38, and put a bullet into the center of Don Monticelli's peaceful face.

It only took ten seconds for a couple of interchangeable thugs to appear. They let out hisses of fear and confusion but didn't yank any weapons. They glared with open mouths, unsure of what the h.e.l.l else to do.

These f.u.c.kin' kids, they all needed a lesson.

Georgie Delmare walked in, his bland eyes showing only a little more emotion than usual, but not enough to shake his perfect composure. Big Tommy moved down the corridor to stand beside him. Big's perpetual sneer had vanished, his lips welded together like sc.r.a.ps of tin. They both stared at him, disregarding the Don slumped in his seat.

"What about Vinny?" Tommy asked, and his voice d.a.m.n near broke.

"He wanted to prove to me he wasn't afraid of dying."

"So?"

"So he wasn't."

Sgt. John Danetello's son was taking over the Monti crime organization because he was bored and needed something to do. Because already there were plenty of scores to settle.

"I'm going to need your help," Dane told them. "First thing we do is dry up the drug trade into Hollywood through the company once run by Glory Bishop's husband."

"What's his name?" the consigliere asked. He'd seen his masters dead in their chairs and beds before, and he'd survived them all. He served whoever was at the top of the heap at any given hour.

"I still don't G.o.dd.a.m.n know. But the feds are all over it. We're going to sell plenty, just not through Hollywood. There's a crew in Williamsburg we can put to use."

f.u.c.k Cogan and his little wars in Central America. Dane was going to start his payback with that son of a b.i.t.c.h.

"You bringing in the mulignan?" Big asked.

"They're already in. We're just going to take some of their pie. Hollywood is wide-open for other things. I think we'll front a few independent film makers."

Georgie Delmare grinned with interest, his thoughts moving fast. "Who?"

Dane remembered all the stacks of s.h.i.tty scripts on the floor beside Glory Bishop's bed. The one where the serial killer runs across the river and doesn't get wet. Lots of topless broads capering around. "I don't know yet, give me some time. But start setting money aside. And get a list of the best-looking wh.o.r.es and strippers on the payroll."

"There aren't many."

"Yeah, yeah, because you're so legit now, I know."

Big Tommy glanced over at the Don, looking contented there in his seat. "You really taking over, Johnny?"

You could only do what's given you to do. Dane thought about his grandmother's dream. About how Dane didn't get chased out of the village, but wound up running it.

Here we are, doing what we're meant to do. "Yeah."

"You're not even a made guy."

"That doesn't carry the weight it used to. You people held true for about a thousand years, but the last fifty have gone all to h.e.l.l. I killed four people today. I think that qualifies me."

"Not even close," Big told him, hitching up his shoulders and getting some bravura back. "You did Berto?"

"It was sort of an accident."

"The other families won't accept you, Johnny. Even this crew here."

"That doesn't matter." He glanced at the toughs, who he'd never be able to distinguish apart. "If they want to make a run at me, let them. You're welcome to try too."