Tom Piccirilli - Headstone City

“Oh, tha's right, 'cause I'm not really here in the flesh. This is my soul, and you've gathered me up like an angel of death, in your fiery chariot. My mama used to have walkin' dreams like this, she told us, 'fore they locked her away.”

“Why'd they do that?”

“The good churchgoing folks of Hazardsville don't put up with craziness like this. The Right Reverend Matthew Colepepper had my father commit her when I was just a boy.”

“You ever have words with the reverend about that later on?”

“No, he died a long time ago. But I did kick the hell out of my daddy when I turned seventeen, the drunken, deceitful bastard. And I ain't been back to Hazardsville since.”

So much for Cogan's daddy skinning his back for poor manners.

“We anywhere near Coney Island?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Hellfire, I was hoping to see that, I heard so much about it. The roller coaster, and that dang hot dog place. And the freak shows, though I suspect some folks in Hazardsville might give those fellas a run for their money. I seen my share of pumpkin-heads and flipper babies. Where are we?”

Dane had never taken a night ride with someone who enjoyed it so much, and he didn't know what to think of it. “The Heights.”

This was the neighborhood of choice, glowing across the East River from lower Manhattan. The most famous view of the Brooklyn Bridge came from these aristocratic brownstones.

Cogan had his hands splayed on the window, staring at the ironwork patterns on heavy wooden doors. You could look inside the arched windows and make out the ceiling molding and chandeliers in those homes.

“What's that right there?” Cogan asked, pointing at a massive building. “I've never seen the like.”

“The Bossert. You've got to be a Jehovah's Witness to live there. They have their headquarters in the area, and own about a third of the Heights.”

“Lordy. You think they go door to door and hand out them Watchtowers around these parts? Or do they figure, hell, all our neighbors, they're already saved, we won't bother. I mean, where's the line of demarcation?”

“They use midnight-blue vans to transport their members all around, including to the printing plants where they print up their pamphlets.”

“That must be a sight.”

“Yeah.”

“You don't do much besides drive, do you?” Cogan asked.

“No,” Dane admitted.

“I had a cousin like you, name'a Cooter. He used to run moonshine across three counties. But then the shine makers, they decided to call it quits on account'a the law, and he had no one to haul for anymore. So ole Cooter just drove around the back hills every night, without a reason, never stopping.”

“It relaxes me.”

“Sounds like you've spent too much of your time bein' relaxed. Man like you is nice and calm until the day he snaps. I seen some like you go to pieces more than once. Everybody says, ‘My, he was so nice, that considerate child, we never expected something like this of him. Rampage through the Thanksgiving Day parade, shooting old ladies in the head. It sure is a damn shame.' You might want to apply yourself to something more socially redeeming.”

“Thanks,” Dane said. “I'll take it under consideration.”

They headed across the Brooklyn Bridge and the moonlight laid across the car hood like a woman in white linen. He took the FDR up the east side of Manhattan and waited to see if these events were merely a curious happenstance of fate or if he was just being set up.

“Hey, who are these old boys?” Cogan asked.

Dane looked and saw the slumped figures of Mako and Kremitz surrounding Cogan in the backseat. It threw him for a second and he veered into the wrong lane. The swerving of the car threw Mako's and Kremitz's comatose forms against Cogan.

“It's the two who were force-fed poisoned coke in the infirmary,” Dane said.

“They finally dead?”

“No.”

“Then what in the hell they doin' here?”

“I'm not sure. I suppose they came along for the ride.”

Cogan clucked. “You got yourself some hefty weight to carry on your shoulders, son.”

“Don't I know it. What do you know about a dirty ex-cop named Phil Guerra?”

“That your father's partner?”

“Yeah.”

“He's dirty?”

“He killed my old man.”

Cogan leaned forward and spoke with some real sadness in his voice. “Your daddy killed hisself. Don't go off on no crazy tangents now.”

They were quiet the rest of the way back. Dane pulled up to the hotel around the corner from Glory Bishop's apartment and Cogan sat there smiling with all those thick, square teeth.

Dane stared at him and said, “You won't remember any of this.”

“The hell you say, son! I'm not likely to forget a night like this, that's for damn sure. I'll see you again real soon.”

Special Agent Daniel Ezekiel Cogan stepped onto the sidewalk and up to the front door of the hotel. His movements were less awkward now, maybe even graceful, as if he was comfortable being parted from his sleeping body.

Dane gritted his back teeth, wondering what it meant. Grinning, Cogan turned and gave a little wave before evaporating away. Mako and Kremitz hung in there for a while longer as Dane sat smoking. Their heads lolled, mouths hanging open as if they might begin speaking ancient, majestic secrets at any moment, but never did.

Dane was in the limo driving aimlessly, stuck at a red light on MacDonough Street in Bed-Stuy, when Big Tommy Bartone pulled up beside him and started shooting.

You had to laugh. All these men, all this firepower, and the Monti family sends its top guy to come after Dane like a carjacker. No style anymore, no finesse, and no need for real balls.

It was a good thing that Tommy hadn't popped anybody personally in about ten years. And when he did do it he'd go for the sweet spot behind the ear. Or use his knife. Him and Joey Fresco, these guys had a thing about knives like they were black ops or Green Berets.

Tommy had chosen a.32 and he didn't know how to aim from any distance. The limo passenger window had been enough to deflect the bullet, giving Dane time to duck low beneath the dashboard. Tommy didn't get out of his car. He sat there and fired three more times, hitting the top of the driver's seat and sending wads of foam flying.

Dane stomped the gas pedal and drilled through the red light. He rear-ended a tan Datsun making a left turn ahead of him, spun the wheel hard, and floored it. Tommy followed along behind.

Dane had just finished dropping off four teenagers who'd rented a suite at the Montauk Manor for off-season rates. Two nervous, young couples who spoke in whispers broken by excited giggling. He envied them their first foray into an adult world. On their own for a few days playing house together.

The girls kept blushing. The boys did their best to look unimpressed with themselves but couldn't quite pull it off. They overtipped Dane without looking him in the eye, and the kids headed up the stone walkway of the resort hotel like they were strutting out of frame at the end of a black-and-white movie.

It got him thinking about what life might've been like without the Monticelli family in his past. Vinny and his violin, the Don and Berto always staring everybody down. Maria in her silk skirts and perfumes imported from Sicily. Angie talking circles around him while he sat there being lazy and dense.

No matter how he imagined it, he figured he would've been just as full of shit madness no matter where or how he'd lived. You're drawn to the things you need, no matter how lethal they might be.

Tommy was driving a '69 cherry-red Boss 429 Mustang, with 375 horsepower and 450 lb-ft. Sounded like it needed a tune-up and a muffler job. He hadn't spent much time waxing the body either. The paint was dull with a couple of rust spots on the hood. Dane's father would've bitten his knuckles thinking of a classic like the '69 'Stang going to waste on a capo who didn't give a damn about the car.