Tom Piccirilli - Headstone City

“Almost nothing,” the warden said, wagging his unwieldy head, looking out both windows, hoping they were on their way back to his house. “You must know that their business operations are almost completely legitimate at this point.”

“More or less. But our problems aren't business, they're personal. And they still had some reach into your prison. They put a hit on me this morning while a couple of your boys looked the other way.”

It rattled Howards and got him refocused. “The incident with Mako and Kremitz? In the showers?”

“Yeah.”

“They said they'd attacked each other because of pilfered cigarettes.”

“They're trying to save their skins. The Monticellis still have enough muscle to cause trouble. I'm just not sure why they'd bother going about it like that.”

“Give me the names of the offending officers and I'll look into the matter.”

Dane told him, just to nettle the bulls a little. The charges would never stick, but maybe it would shake them up. Word would get back to the family.

“If what you say is true, Mr. Danetello, then I'll make sure these men are properly dealt with.”

“Okay. Anything else you know that might help me?”

“The FBI did inquire about you. There was some discussion on whether you'd be willing to wear a wire for them.”

“What? If the family is so legit now, then why would the feds care enough to wire somebody? What are they after?”

“Almost completely legitimate, I said. I assumed they wanted information about past activities, unsolved murders, that sort of thing.”

“When was this?”

“After the fire in your cell.”

“So why didn't they approach me?”

“I only dealt with a single agent. A man by the name of Cogan. He read through your case file and seemed to feel that contacting you was either unnecessary or could wait indefinitely.”

That sounded like a fed all right. Plays it close to his vest, even in front of Howards. Makes some kind of a show about getting Dane to wire up, then just lets it drop. Something was stirring in the Monti camp.

Dane drew up in front of the warden's mansion again. He checked the rearview and nodded to Howards. “Thanks for your help.”

“Am I going to remember any of this? On a conscious level?”

“No, you'll pass most of it off as a dream.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“We'll see.”

The warden began to make his way back up the walkway, outside of the car without opening the door, gait unnatural and his ass cheeks clenched. Scared that his neighbors might be watching.

Dane let out a chuckle and Howards's shoulders tensed. Like he might turn around and say something else, but he vanished before hitting the pool of light surrounding front door.

Mostly a wasted trip, but he had nothing better to do. Dane started to pull away from the curb when a blur of motion caught his eye.

Coming straight for him, running across the lawn, was Aaron Fielding, the dead grocer.

The old man appeared as despondent as when he'd shown up in Dane's cell. Holding his arms out and waving them, his mouth moving but no sound coming out.

“Ah, shit.”

Like Dane didn't have enough troubles already. Now he had to get into the middle of this, whatever it was.

Fielding had almost reached him when the guy started to dissipate, becoming dim and ashen, evaporating step by step until, only a few feet away, he dissolved into the fog.

“Okay,” Dane said. “I get it. There's something important you want help with. I'm sorry I didn't listen before. Come back and tell me.”

Dane waited there another five minutes, hoping Angie or Fielding would return. Or anybody else who wanted to come and talk with him. But no one did.

All this, and some prick named Cogan skirting around in the shadows too.

Staring down at his grandmother's list, written in her crimped script, Dane walked into the La Famiglia Bakery and asked the girl behind the counter for ten anisette-almond biscotti, a half pound of pignoli cookies, three sfogliatelle, and six cannoli. The girl let out a small chirp of anguish, turned pale as pork belly, and stared at him, her bottom lip trembling so badly it looked like it might flap away.

He didn't want to do it, but he did it anyway. He spun and checked out the scene behind him. It was bad. He rubbed at his forehead, and went, “Uyh.”

A three-man crew had made a move against JoJo Tormino. Two were dead, and the third held his quivering hands over his shredded belly, spurting blood and other colorful fluids between his fingers. The hitter whimpered, “Jesus Christ, get me to a doctor… I'll pay you anything, give you whatever you want. Please. ”

Dane turned away. JoJo had troubles of his own. He'd been shot four times: the left elbow, the left thigh, a graze along his jaw, and the one that really counted taking him high in his upper chest. Small caliber, maybe.22s, so the gunfire didn't bother anybody out on the street. Anything bigger than that and he'd already be dead.

Still, JoJo was dying fast although he appeared to be calm, sitting at a little table with a folded newspaper in front of him, holding tightly to an empty cup of coffee with one hand, his.32 in the other.

“I know you?” JoJo asked.

Dane nodded. “I'm from the neighborhood. My father was a cop. Sergeant Johnny Danetello.”

“Lucia's grandson.”

That stopped him. You didn't expect your grandma's first name to fall out of the mouth of a dying mobster. “You know my family? My grandmother?”

“You're the one who had all the troubles over Angelina.”

“Yeah.”

“Johnny. Used to pal with Vinny Monticelli when you were teenagers, right? You're the soldier boy, uh?” Blood seeped around the edges of JoJo's mouth. “Been in the army?”

Dane was starting to get interested. “That's right.”

“And in the joint.”

“I just got out.”

“Sit with me for a while.”

In twenty-five years, Dane might've said five words in passing to JoJo, who was a low-level lieutenant in the Ventimiglia family. They looked into each other's eyes and it seemed to hit them both at the same time. Their lives had meant nothing to each other so far, but this moment took the structure of a great and fateful sharing.

You couldn't get away from it. Sometimes people entered your sphere only by the force of their own deaths.

The sucking wound in JoJo's chest gurgled faintly, but didn't affect his voice much. Strings of blood trailed down his chin and dribbled over the fresh carnation in his lapel. Fat beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and clung to his brow, his skin now a sickly, bright yellow. The bullet graze along his jaw had cauterized the flesh in a fiery, jagged pattern.

“Please-God, please-”

The bakery girl remained frozen in place, so completely still that Dane wondered if she'd fainted on her feet and just hadn't fallen down yet. Apparently no one had called 911. Dozens of people strolled past the store window, everybody so wrapped in their own worries they didn't even glance to one side or the other. Fifty bullets flying around and not one crack in the plate glass.

“You need help,” Dane said.

“Too late for that. Were you over there in the Middle East?”

“No, I spent most of my time in the stockade.”

“For what? Brawling? You look like a brawler.”

“Apathy, mostly,” Dane admitted.

He thought, Hell, if only Grandma hadn't gotten a sudden jones for sugar, I wouldn't have stepped into this mess. She's probably climbing the walls by now, waiting for her biscotti. The thought alarmed him nearly as much as all this shit.

The hitter squirmed on the floor, his dripping hand stretching for Dane's ankle. Touching him lightly there the way Mako had done in the showers.