Tom Piccirilli - Headstone City

Like Dane might actually give a damn at this stage. All these mooks trying to polish their dialogue, make it sound natural without being real.

“I've got to tell you, I like Brooklyn,” Cogan said, glancing out the window at the busy street traffic. “I've been in DC most of my career, but this place, with these people… I could really get used to this. There's something special about this city. The atmosphere, I don't know, the mood, it makes me excited, makes my belly tingle. One heck of a sight different from Hazardsville, Kentucky, let me tell you that, son.” The broad, authentic grin reaching his eyes. “Here you can talk about mob hits and nobody even looks twice at you. It's all so natural to them, they're not even interested.”

Sure, you look around and your neighbors are flowing in and out, some catching your eye but most just going about their business. That's how it had to be in Headstone City. The same way Dane had to be when he walked in here the last time and found corpses all over the floor.

He tried to bear up under the weight of his promise to JoJo Tormino, the ring still in his pocket. Struggling not to think of Maria Monticelli right now even though he had no control over it.

Imagining her turning her head with her hair flipping back, revealing the side of her neck as she drew forward.

“Lordy, my pa would skin my back if he saw me acting with such poor manners,” Cogan said, reaching to shake Dane's hand, clasping it firmly. “I'm Special Agent Daniel Ezekiel Cogan.”

“Let me ask you,” Dane said. “I've always wondered about something. The regular agents, do they get jealous of you special types?”

More of Cogan's teeth came out for show, but his eyes hardened the slightest bit. “I think you can help me, Johnny.”

“How so?”

“Don't you want to know what's in it for you first?”

“No,” Dane said.

Cogan gave Dane a long look without altering his expression, deciding what his next move should be. At the end of it he pursed his lips and said, “Hellfire, son, I just want some information.”

“Yeah, I figured that much out. The fact that the ‘I' part in FBI means investigation sort of pointed me in that direction, you know? So what are you after?”

“Anything.”

Dane said, “I've got to ask, does this tactic work for you often? Sitting across from guys saying, ‘Hey, tell me about whatever'? It just doesn't seem too practical to me.”

“I want help with the Monticellis.”

Still playing it close to the vest, not wanting to give away any information. Use Dane, give him as few details as possible, then when it-whatever it was-went down, drop him in a world of shit and let him sink.

Dane tried to focus, but he couldn't stop seeing Maria. Seeing her beauty in his head always gave him a rush of giddy schoolboy joy, and who didn't need more of that in their day? “You sound like you've got a grudge.”

Was that it? Had the feds gone after the Don and somehow missed him? Were careers on the line?

“Naw, nothing like that. Your friend Vincenzo's just been investing money outside his usual orbits. That sort of thing makes us special agents perk up some.” Cogan kept staring over Dane's shoulder at the counter. He finally couldn't take it anymore and said, “I think I got to have me one of them napoleons. They good here?”

“Yes,” Dane said. “My grandmother says they're the very best, and believe me, that woman knows pastry. I'll get us a couple. You want more coffee?”

“I'd appreciate that, son.”

The new girl at the counter took his order without expression. He got Grandma Lucia's desserts in a pink box tied with string, a napoleon and a cup of coffee on a tray. Cogan took one bite of the pastry and groaned with delight.

Dane waited, wondering if this was the type of unbalanced fed they stuck in the field when everything else failed. Hoping he'd get results no matter how he did it, then retire him early.

“Anyway, about Don Pietro,” Cogan said. “The old man's still pretty sharp but he doesn't get his hands dirty anymore. He leaves all that to his sons, and that Roberto, he mainly just wants to shoot craps and get laid.”

“Yeah?”

“All that money and he spends most of his time prowling around down by the river for whores. The real kinky jobs usually. Those there trannies. Latinos mostly. Ugly ones too, the ones that ain't gotten the whole procedure done yet, still got their danglin' willies.”

That got Dane's attention. He tried picturing Berto down by the Brooklyn Bridge, paying fifty bucks for half'n'half from a chick with a dick. “If you're in close enough to see that, what do you need me or anybody else for?”

“Like most of the families, they're smart about business but dumb as a bag'a hammers about almost everything else.”

Dane said, “Still sounds like you've got them in your sights.”

Carefully wiping his fingers with his napkin, now unfolding his sunglasses and putting them back on, Cogan grinned, some sugar clinging to his lips. Getting serious, covering his eyes. “I want you to help me bust it down.”

“It's already busted down. They're legit now.”

“Just 'cause everybody says it don't make it true. There's still plenty of juice in the Monticelli family.”

“Maybe. What new orbits is Vinny laboring in?”

“You already know, don't you?”

Still unwilling to say anything. Hoping Dane would roll over out of fear. Yeah, this Cogan had a grudge all right, and was probably flying without much official say-so. He was off the radar.

“Now, I don't suppose you know who did JoJo Tormino in here?” Cogan asked.

“Three Monti shooters, probably new guys trying to make their bones. JoJo said Roberto Monti was behind it.”

That took Cogan back some. He really hadn't been expecting an answer. “That right? Why you think?”

“He was mad because JoJo was in love with his sister Maria.”

Cogan appeared thoughtful. “You folks with that there Mediterranean blood sure do get your drawers twisted easy.”

“Not like you Hatfields and McCoys, eh?”

That got a laugh out of the fed, who tipped himself back in his chair, turning his face aside while he pondered what he'd toss at Dane next. “Oh, by the way-”

“Yeah?”

“Those two who came after you in the joint? Who told the guards they were really fighting each other?”

“Uh-huh.” Cogan was definitely plugged in if he knew about that. He had some reach. “Kremitz and Mako.”

“Tha's right, those are them. Well, they got themselves into even more of a jam. See, they were recuperating okay from their knife wounds they, ah, allegedly inflicted upon each other-”

Christ, everybody had to work on their sense of subtlety. “Yeah? And what happened to them?”

“Last night they were force-fed poisoned cocaine in the infirmary. Well, we don't really know if they were forced to do it, you see? Maybe they were just tryin' to get high and somebody made sure they got a bad batch.”

Saying nothing more than that, waiting for Dane to ask the question.

“Either of them make it?”

“Both, but they're on life support, in comas. Doctors ain't sure if they'll pull through or be brain-damaged or what all yet.”

When you got right down to it, the Monticelli clan hired some real shitheads to do their dirty work for them. They were sloppy and spent more time cleaning up after their own mistakes than getting the job done.

Cogan finished his coffee, reached into his wallet, and pulled out a business card. Dane was surprised that there wasn't only a phone number but a city address. A ritzy hotel around the corner from Glory Bishop.

“You come by some night and we'll chat. Anytime. I'm easy to get hold of.”