Tom Piccirilli: Headstone City

“Vinny told my husband,” Glory Bishop said, sounding embarrassed. “He always talked about you while they were doing business, while you were in prison. How you were the one his sister should be with. How you were the only one who really cared about his sister.”

“He did?”

Cogan said, “I told you I had a feeling about you. That you were going to be his right-hand man. You're his best friend. All the other problems you've been having with the family, that's all the work of Roberto.” Saying it right this time, not Robert-oh.

“So, you think because I love Maria, I'll talk to Vinny and get him to do more drug trafficking with the Hollywood bigwigs, in which case more money and weapons will filter down to some South American shithole where a revolution is going on and the US government wants control?”

“Central America. Exactly.”

“Okay,” Dane said easily. “I'll do it.”

“Now, that there's the way to talk, son!”

“Don't!” Glory shouted. “Johnny, are you nuts? After hearing this bastard's lies and seeing how he works?”

“Now, don't be like that, darlin'.”

Dane and Glory stared at each other from across the glass table. A chasm had opened between them in only a few minutes and he knew there would never be any way for him to get back to the other side. Not that either of them would want to cross it anyway. Her eyes met his and there was a flicker of sorrow there, but not all that much, considering. They'd both had some fun and learned a few more things about the world worth knowing. All in all, it hadn't been a waste of time.

Cogan moved to embrace Glory, and she stood there allowing his hands on her. Angry, even disgusted with him, but they were still comfortable together. Her husband had gone away, what, nearly six months ago. Long enough for Cogan and Glory Bishop to forge one of those unhealthy bonds that could never be broken, no matter what happened. Just like the one between Dane and Vinny.

Dane said, “But I want you to do something for me.”

Cogan tipped his jaw to the side, giving a wary smile. Like he'd known this was coming, the price he had to pay, and just hoped it wouldn't be too much. “And what's that?”

“I need a name.”

“What name?”

Dane told him and Cogan spent less than fifteen minutes on Glory's cell phone getting the information.

Dane went to the window. He parted the curtains and saw two guys beating a police officer in an alley with his own nightstick. The cop scrambled on all fours trying to fight back, but they started kicking him until he rolled himself into a ball, face to the brick. Dane turned back to Glory Bishop and Cogan and saw they were holding on to each other again. He left them there for good.

At dawn, Dane stopped by Phil Guerra's house and stole the Cadillac again.

He stopped over at his grandmother's house to check on her. She was up watching infomercials, sitting in her cotton nightgown with two crocheted blankets over her knees. Her lips were smeared black from eating licorice out of the candy dish. She said, “You think you can stop over at La Famiglia and pick me up some sfogliatelle and cannoli ?”

“Sure, but they won't be open for another hour. What are you doing up this early? Trying to form a strategy to combat Mabel Guerra's psychological bingo attacks?”

“I had to pee and couldn't get back to sleep. That one, she sneaks gin and tonic in a coffee Thermos. They're going to ban her soon.”

She glanced up at him with an expression like she wanted to say something else, but she held it back. All this holding back, it was driving them all pazzo. He knew she was having bad dreams again.

“So what happens to me?” he asked. “In your nightmares. Do I get chased out of the village?”

“No, you take it over.”

It made him tuck his chin in. “What's that mean?”

“I don't know, but it worries me.”

“Why?”

“Don't ask such questions. We do our best to understand these things even the priests won't help us with. We feel our way through the dark.”

“Okay.”

“Whatever you start today you need to finish.”

Dane wanted to sit beside his grandma and hug her, but she shifted on the couch and pulled the blankets higher. He said, “I will.”

“Go, then. You be careful.”

He drove over to Williamsburg, down Bedford Avenue past the new ultrahip cafés, vintage clothing stores, and restaurants, heading to the projects. The neighborhood quickly gave way to abandoned buildings and burned-out blocks. He remembered his parents bringing him here to celebrate La Festa del Giglio, the Feast of the Lily, and Dane would watch the people carrying a fifty-foot-high obelisk covered in flowers topped with a statue of St. Paulinus down the streets. It seemed weird even by Catholic standards.

He found the address he was looking for and pulled over about a block away, behind a pile of garbage and rubble three feet high.

It took Dane about four hours to see how the setup worked. There were the lookouts, the dealers, the muscle, and the boss and his crew. The lookouts were perched on the corners and rooftops, keeping their eyes to the street, watching for police and potential buyers. Dane had been made immediately; but they knew he wasn't a cop, so they waited while he sat behind the Caddy's wheel.

The street action moved with well-oiled efficiency, honed by repetition. The crew used walkie-talkies, not cell phones where anybody could be listening. The scouts corralled addicts and sold to them within the safety of their secured alleys, the muscle protecting the exchange of money and making sure nobody hit the dealers. Every two hours a bag man would be sent up the block into an apartment with the take so far, retrieve more drugs, and get right back to selling. So far as Dane could tell, there were at least six dealers in this general area. Bag men farther out from the home base probably only made two drops a day.

Fredric Wilson appeared to be an all-around wing man. He sold some crack, dropped off a wad of cash, and spent a lot of time gabbing on the walkie-talkies. So far as Dane could tell, Fredric didn't fit easily into any particular slot of the crew. That was good, it would make things easier.

Dane took off his jacket, left his.38 in the Caddy's glove box, and strutted up the street, all the scouts watching him. Three approached him at once and didn't bother to hawk their wares since they knew he wasn't a buyer. They couldn't figure him out, which was also good. They remained silent until one of the thugs moved from a doorway and stepped up.

“I want to talk to Fredric Wilson,” Dane said.

“Why?”

“We have business.”

“Wait here.”

It got more activity going, cars pulling out of alleys, doors opening and slamming. A few more faces peered at him through windows and from the fire escapes. The walkie-talkies squawked all over the fucking place.

Dane stood there on the corner with three kids not even in their twenties yet staring him down. They were nothing compared to his drill sergeant, and he let his face go placid. At the curb up ahead sat a silver Lexus, buffed out and the hubcaps shining so bright you couldn't stare at them for long. The toughs moved to the driver's door. It opened and Fredric popped out. He strutted up with a long-legged swagger.

He had on a fashionable silk-and-wool suit, posh, with a wide lapel and a lime-green tie knotted tightly. Dane wondered what Glory would've thought of that. There were diamond rings on six of his fingers, and a bump under his jacket that looked about the size of a SIG Mauser. He was one of those cats who liked to dare people to make a grab for what he had, hoping he'd appear so ready for it that nobody would make the move.