Tom Piccirilli - Headstone City

Dane permitted himself to feel the wind flowing around his shirt collar. This was gonna be all right.

Grabbing the knot of his tie to make sure it was still straight, Fredric approached Dane, his face clenched into an expression of contempt, but his eyes bright with the idea of easy cash. “What do you want?”

Dane slid into the guy's personal space, three inches away. “To talk to you.”

“You a cop?”

It got Dane smiling like a mental patient. He had to put the brakes on his laughter before it became real. “You act like asking that question is going to keep you safe from the courts. Like a cop never lied on the stand. ‘Your Honor, I told him I was a police officer, but he sold me the cocaine anyway.' Don't you know how lame it sounds when you ask somebody if he's a cop?”

“Who the hell are you, man?”

“I blew my horn at you once.”

“What?”

“Outside your building in Bed-Stuy, the one with the red awning. You were there with your girlfriend Taneesha Welles two years ago.”

“I haven't seen Taneesha in a while. You have business with her?”

“I have business with you, Fredric. Besides, Taneesha's dead.”

That got the prick for about a half second. Fredric had known she was dead, but he'd forgotten. “Well, ain't that sad.”

“It is. She died just like a friend of mine. Because you were selling bad shit.”

Dane liked this crew. About ten guys were ringing him and Fredric now, killers to the core, but hardened and smartened by the life. None of them got in the way. They listened and watched, clever enough to wait and make up their own minds.

“The fuck you say, man?” Squaring himself, leaning in like the posturing would be enough.

“You heard me. You want me to repeat myself in front of your crew? You sold bad flake. You poisoned at least two people. Taneesha and a girl named Angelina Monticelli. I'm here to see you kick up for that.”

Chewing his lips, trying to give the malocchio, the death gaze, but just not staunch enough to do it right. “You talk like we know each other, man, but I ain't never met you.”

“You never budged from the house, that's why. Even when a teenager was dying on your stoop. Maybe you don't remember me jamming on my horn, but you should.”

“You crazy, fuckah.” Fredric dropped out of his high-class attitude and got back to sounding like a gangbanger, with the moves now, arms akimbo, jumping like some giant rooster. “You want me to put one in yo head?”

“Pull that SIG Mauser and I'll have to stuff it in your ear. You and I have had this meeting coming for too long. We need to get past it.”

“You talkin' like a guinea wiseguy now! That what you is!” Leaping back and forth, like a dance, swinging to his own rhythm.

“That's because I pretty much am one.” It was time to put the fear in him. “All those diamond rings flashing. You get put down, how long do you think it'll be before somebody comes out with a bolt cutter and starts taking your fingers?”

“What?”

“You're just daring them to try, aren't you? You think everybody is a punk ass bitch except you. I bet you flash those rocks in everybody's face all day long. You tempt a man long enough and he's going to make a grab. You're gonna look funny trying to pick your nose with a stump.”

There it was. The dark swirl of terror starting in his eyes. “These are my men. This is my crew.”

“And if you get iced, who takes over?”

Fredric quit moving around so much and tried to keep his face impassive. But the only thing that ever really rattled fuckers like this was the fact that there was always somebody else willing to step into their shoes. Fredric wouldn't be missed for a goddamn minute, no more than Taneesha Welles.

“I'm going to take you out of action, Fredric.”

“Stop sayin' my name like that, man.”

“I'm going to weaken you so much that your spot gets filled in a split goddamn second.”

“Fuck you!”

“Nature abhors a vacuum, Fredric. You're going to the curb and no one is going to help you. Look at you. I been pissing on you for five minutes and you haven't made a move yet. You're going to lose those fingers of yours.”

It was finally enough to get him reaching for his gun, proving to the others that he didn't have the guts to go hand to hand with an unarmed guy.

Dane pushed out with the flat of his palm and pressed Fredric Wilson's wrist tightly to his chest so he couldn't finish pulling the pistol. With his other fist he repeatedly cracked Fredric hard across the nose until blood spurted all over. Wanting to make the lesson last, Dane danced out of the way, driven by his frustration the day Angie died, but disconnected from it in a way, so it wouldn't impede him.

But Fredric wasn't a slouch. He was wiry and had good footwork, shaking off his pain and doggedly moving forward. He tried two quick jabs that Dane easily avoided, the silence around them thick and unnatural. In the army, during the training sessions, the squad used to yell and applaud and groan while watching somebody else take a beatdown, but Dane liked this a lot better. Everybody quiet and keeping to himself.

Fredric went for his back pocket, going for a switchblade. His face was filled with murder, the blood flowing from both nostrils and streaming against his teeth as he grinned and snapped the knife open. Dane quit dancing and settled back on the balls of his feet, hands at his sides, staring straight on.

The blade flashed out and Dane stepped in, chopping at Fredric's wrist twice in quick succession, feeling the bone snap on the second blow. Fredric let loose with a girlish squeal that hit a sweet note. Dane stooped and picked up the blade and handed it to the guy closest to him, who took the knife with a muted chuckle.

All right, so Dane could've ended it right then, but he wanted to prolong the moment, draw the scene out for more drama. Usually that would be a sign of weakness, but not now. It was important at this moment to show Fredric Wilson the folly of selling bad drugs to teen girls. Two haunted years needed to be paid for.

Tucking his broken hand behind him, Fredric moved in again, but his eyes were wildly searching for a way out. He wanted to race back to the car, but he realized there was no safety in making a run for it. Showing such fear and weakness was chum in the water. He scanned left and right, looking at the faces of the chicks on the stoops anxiously watching him.

“Her name was Angelina Monticelli, Fredric.” Dane rushed forward, grabbed the prick's good arm at the elbow, and gave it a vicious twist. The snap was loud but not loud enough, so Dane yanked it again and felt the bone splinter up through the flesh. Fredric pulled a scream out from deep down under his balls, but Dane didn't want to hear it. He slapped a hand over Fredric's mouth and said, “Shh. Say her name.”

Crying, Fredric dropped to his knees and vomited on the sidewalk. Dane grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the curb and told him, “Say it. C'mon. Angelina Monticelli. Say it.”

But Fredric Wilson had already passed out facedown in the gutter, blood and bile soaking into his green tie.

Dane turned to the muscle standing beside him. “Who do I contact to do some serious business?”

“My name's Cutter Bunk. You ever want to talk real money, you come to me.”

Dane walked back to the Caddy and got in, pulled out, and swung around the corner heading back toward Bedford Avenue.

Forever fifteen years old and seething with a dark attitude. Smiling but with the annoying glint of superiority in her gray eyes shining through even more clearly now. That was okay, he was getting used to it. Angie's oversized black sweater and midnight-blue jeans made it difficult for him to see the subtle lines of her body. Black hair fell straight back over her ears, showing the slightest curl of bangs up front, moved by her breath although she didn't breathe.