Tom Piccirilli - Headstone City

Big Tommy had been inching his left hand under his jacket, where he kept his knife upside down in a holster. You had to give it to a few of these crews, they had some style left.

Dane put the barrel of his.38 in the wiseguy's ear and said, “How about if we just remain respected adversaries, eh, Big?”

Tommy's hand strayed another half inch under his arm. Dane sighed, still not too bothered by it, but wishing he and Vinny could just go and slug this out someplace alone.

“You listening, Big?”

“Sure, Johnny.”

Vinny wiped his lips with the cloth napkin and finally glanced straight into Dane's face. You always got the feeling the fake eye knew a little more about you than it should.

He nodded to the crew, the slightest tilt of his chin. They moved off from the table, settling in close by, Joey with his gun out, the barrel angled toward Dane's belly. If it was going to happen, they wanted to keep him alive and make it last for a good long while.

Dane reached across the table, took Vinny's glass of wine, and drank the remainder of it. He asked, “Hollywood, huh? You want to produce, direct, or star?”

“You had to come back. You had to show up here. I understand. We'll get through it all eventually. Enjoy your happiness, don't feel embarrassed by it.”

“What?”

“Really, you need to stop hurting yourself.” The words coming out of him as if rehearsed for months. “What is it that pushes you down onto the blade, eh? All this inner conflict? You even got an answer?”

Dane stared at him, trying to find something to say.

“Don't worry about it.”

It was good to know that Vinny, for all the rest of their troubles, could still read Dane well. When you needed a friend, you went back to the guy who knew you best, even if he wanted to kill you.

“You know what happened to Angie wasn't my fault.”

Vinny's voice took on a different tone, like he had fallen into a deep well and couldn't climb out. “She was fifteen. You take her to Bed-Stuy and sit outside with your thumb up your ass, and you're surprised by my reaction?”

“Not really,” Dane admitted.

“Then we know where we stand. I know if you ever gave a shit about anybody or anything, maybe even yourself, she wouldn't have died in the back of your cab. You couldn't have saved her, but it wouldn't be on your shoulders.”

“You're as complacent as I am,” Dane said. “Or you would've done it by now. You send half-assed cons after me for two years, then you let me walk around for weeks after I get out of the stir?”

“I told you, don't worry. I've got something special planned for you.”

“You've had plenty of time to make it happen if that's what you wanted.”

It seemed they were both discouraged about what was going to happen. Dane felt a sudden and intense sorrow, missing his friend desperately for an instant. Then it was gone, replaced by his own anger.

One of them was going to die because Dane had been a lousy taxi driver, too lazy to go out and hunt fares, too weak to say no to a teenager with a fast rap.

It made him sigh. “Which trail do you see now, Vinny? You see me thrashing around and pissing myself? You got robbed by fate, seeing only three possibilities. Let me guess what they are. One where I pop you, one where you pop me, and one where we just walk away from each other.”

“Something like that,” Vinny told him, letting his grin out, like this had all simply been part of the warm-up act. “But not quite. At least we'll go through them together.”

“Okay.”

The kid from the front door had managed to get to his feet and stumbled through the bar, his arm extended, gripping a Baretta. His hand was wavering because he couldn't see straight. If he missed, he'd take out Vinny on the other side of the table. The crew perked up over there, shaking their heads.

Might be fun to see what happened, but he didn't want the kid to get killed over nothing. Joey Fresco had already raised his pistol above the table, getting ready to fire.

“You bastard, you broke my nose!”

Dane shot the kid through the upper leg, same spot where he'd stabbed Mako and Kremitz, where it would hurt like hell but hardly do any damage.

“Settle down, junior.”

“You bastard, I'll get you for this!”

“You have no idea who you work for.” Maybe he'd saved the asshole's life, or maybe they'd already decided to bury him for being so stupid.

Dane turned to go. But he knew Vinny would have to yell something after him before he left. He waited for it.

“Hey,” Vinny called. “That swing I saw in her place. It looks like it'd crack your nuts wide open. You get into that freaky thing last night or what?”

Back at La Famiglia Bakery, with another list written out by his grandmother. It felt like he was always at a bakery, grabbing almond biscotti, cannoli, tiramisu, and napoleons. Jesus, how the hell did a seventy-eight-year-old lady eat sugar like this and not wind up with diabetes? He'd known crack addicts who didn't need a fix as bad as Grandma Lucia needed her dessert.

It had only taken two days to clean away the blood and bodies, for the crime-scene tape to go up and come down again, and then business was back to normal. There was a different girl behind the counter and she was fulfilling orders with swift efficiency. Dane glanced across the shop, hoping he wouldn't see JoJo Tormino sitting in the chair where he'd died.

JoJo wasn't there but somebody else hung back in the seat, staring at Dane. Straw-yellow hair chopped at the sides and a little too long in front. A hee-haw smile full of thick square teeth. Wearing a jacket with specially made creases so that the hardware underneath wouldn't show. Sunglasses carefully folded and lying on the little table.

Immediately Dane figured this had to be the fed who'd been nosing around. Cogan. Keeping Dane under surveillance until he'd determined his routine. Then jumping ahead and just sitting back to wait for Dane to stroll in with his grandmother's list.

It was pretty sad when the feds didn't even have to chase you around the block because you were in such a rut they knew where you'd be all the time. Buying Grandma some fuckin' cookies. It made him want to sulk.

Somebody's leftover paper stood open on the table, and Cogan sipped a cup of coffee. It wasn't his paper, no newsprint ink on his fingers. It was just a prop he used. Dane stepped over. The smile got wider.

“You got some real brass, John, stepping into an outfit-owned place like Chooch's when there's a hit on you.” He pronounced it Choochie's with a slightly Southern twang. Sounded like Tennessee or Kentucky.

“I grew up with just about everybody in there,” Dane said. “It doesn't take much backbone to go see them again.”

“It does if they want you dead, don't you think?” Talking in a normal voice, not whispering or worried about anybody overhearing. No one at the counter even looked over.

Dane took the chair across from Cogan and slipped the list into his pocket. This was embarrassing enough. “The contract's more symbolic than anything. Only one of them really wants me dead.”

“Two, including his brother Roberto.” Saying it like Robert-oh.

“Okay, you got me there. Two.”

“Maybe even one more, depending on where the old Don stands, right? Yep, and the sons do run the rest of that there crew now, am I right? They control all the button pushers and muscle?”

That cheerful smile was starting to get Dane down. “You already know that.”

“Tha's right.”

Cogan thought he was doing pretty good, right in there with the hip guy chatter. On the inside track to getting Dane cracked open and talking.