Tom Piccirilli - Headstone City

His father gave a sickly grin and lay back on the bed. It had been the bed he'd slept in as a boy.

“At least try to talk, Dad. Make an effort. Can't you even do that?”

The window frame vibrated in the staccato breeze. It felt like a ploy to get Dane to turn away from his father for an instant, giving the dead enough time to slip away unseen. He wouldn't fall for it. He touched the back of his head and his scars writhed, the metal plates hot to the touch. When he pulled his hand away his fingers were covered with blood.

He stared at his father lying there, the man looking up at the ceiling as if remembering what it had once been like to be alive in this room, not so different from Dane himself.

Sweat dripped through his hair and soaked into his shirt collar. Surrounded by death and connected to the dead, but not quite there yet. Feeling the weight of murder in the dirt and concrete of the neighborhood. Embarrassed by his own excitement, at this moment, of being alive.

“Find Mom, if you can. And next time, try harder to talk to me.”

Dane allowed himself to look away, and when he glanced back, Dad was gone.

There were important words waiting for him. Solutions that his father was unable or unwilling to give to him. Maybe only for the time being or maybe forever.

Dane was certain he would find his father's murderer eventually, in the angry years laid out before him like the rutted paths that threaded through Headstone City. There was time.

Grandma Lucia walked in, her pocketbook chiming, a plastic container full of pennies rattling, and said, “ Madonna mia, what the hell's that smell? You buy a bad salami? Something die in here?”

Glory Bishop didn't tell him the movie was premiering in Bridgehampton, or that she expected him to drive the limo. He walked into Olympic ready to ask for the day off, and there it was on the sheet. Her address.

Fran's voice held a sharpness that he'd never even heard in the can. “She says you can wear that same suit again, but you need a better tie.” Really letting her disdain rule her face, but throwing her whole body into it. Hips thrusting, her chin right in his face. She seemed to have more muscles in her top lip than anybody he'd ever met before. No matter how much a guy hated you, he couldn't let you know about it as well as a woman could. “She picked one out for you. She thinks burgundy is your color.”

You did what you could to hide what you were thinking, but sometimes it still slipped out. “Shit.”

“So, Miss Super Titties has got herself a new pet to play with. If you're lucky, maybe she'll pick you out a nice diamond-studded collar. I guess the stink of prison on you must remind her of her husband.”

“Maybe she just likes my eyes.”

“Yeah? But not enough so she lets you ride in back with her though, eh?”

Dane killed a few hours driving his patterns around Brooklyn, down Rockaway Parkway and around the circle to a broad cobblestone pier sticking into Jamaica Bay. The cold wind came off the water and made him think of Maria Monticelli when they were teenagers, and how he'd come down here with a couple of six-packs and pine for her. She'd talk about how she wanted to act on the New York stage and eventually make it to Hollywood. He'd listen and imagine her on the screen, that face sixty feet high and looming over him, a smile so much larger than himself he could waft away on her lips.

Your thoughts could break off one of your own ribs and jam it into your heart. He went home, changed into his suit, but didn't bother with a tie.

Dane took the 59 thStreet Bridge into Manhattan again, but drove a little faster than usual, like he might actually be on a date. If he thought about it too much, the slow surging anxiety would start tightening his belly, so he let it go.

This time he pulled up in front of her building and parked in front. The doorman mashed his lips but must've sensed the score. Maybe because Dane wasn't wearing a tie. He walked up and the little fireplug of a guy squared his shoulders and said, “Miss Bishop will be right down.” He held his hand up in front of Dane's chest.

Someone else who thought you could stop the world by putting your palm up.

Dane got back in the limo, lit a cigarette, and turned on the radio. A blue spark leaped from his fingers and a sudden squawk of voices started berating him. It snapped him up in his seat because he thought, for a second there, that he could hear his father and JoJo Tormino among them. Upset but not angry. He could feel their frustration. Static rose up and drowned the agitated muttering, then regular music faded in. He switched the radio off and finished his cigarette.

Glory Bishop stepped out the front door and now she looked more like she did in Under Heaven's Canopy. Beautiful and with the sensual aura turned all the way up. Twenty-five feet away and he still felt the pressure of it. Whoo baby.

The doorman held the rear door open for her and she slid in with the supple movement she'd shown on the dance pole. It put a hitch in his breath but he said nothing. He gave her one look over his shoulder and she knew what was on his mind.

“Look,” she said as they pulled away. “We're going together, this is just so the media doesn't blitz us too early on. You get to be the ‘mystery man' when they do their write-ups tonight.”

“Couldn't I be a mystery man in the backseat with some other mook driving?”

“This is more mysterious. Besides, I thought you liked to drive?”

“I do when I'm not getting paid for it.”

“That doesn't make any sense whatsoever.”

He went, “Uyh,” and tried to play it off. Not take it so seriously, but he had a bug up his ass about it. “Listen, if they see me driving the limo, all they have to do is call Olympic and get my name.”

“They're not that smart,” Glory told him. “But they'll follow us around and take plenty of photos, so try not to look too unhappy or punch anybody out, all right?”

“I'll do my best, but you're asking me to go against my grain.”

“I get the feeling that going against the grain is going with your grain.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever,” he said, and let out a chuckle. He felt a nice flush of victory at the rimshot.

“And don't be mad if I'm unresponsive,” she said. “We'll talk when we get inside the theater.”

“I thought that's when we watch the movie.”

“Nobody's really going to watch it. We've all heard it's a piece of shit.”

“Even the lesbian scenes?”

It got her laughing, and the three-hour ride out to the Hamptons went by fast. She talked about how she went from modeling in her teens to bit parts in bad horror films where guys wearing rubber suits with tentacles chased her around sorority houses wearing only her nightie or a towel. She'd had her throat cut in three flicks and been stabbed in three others. She thought screenwriters were mostly mama's boys with a few screws loose who only got their rocks off by chopping women to pieces on paper.

She met the husband during auditions for a movie he produced but didn't direct. She thought he was a real artist, showing up on set like that to keep an eye on everything. A control freak but not heavy-handed about it. “I was the worst kind of stupid,” she said. “Because I thought I'd been through more than everybody else.”

Dane thought, yeah, that was kind of stupid. No matter how slick you thought you were, there was always somebody else on the corner who had you figured out.

The husband still had no name, even while she told his story. Glory leaned forward, funneling her words right into Dane's ear. How they'd dated for a few weeks but it was nothing too serious. He did some coke but not a lot, and she never guessed he was involved with distributing the product. Then he asked her to move in and it still didn't seem very serious. He'd already started preproduction on Under Heaven's Canopy when-