again but Dane fought them back, trying hard to hold on to his good mood.
He caught on quickly. He wasn't really allowed to talk. Just grin noncommitally at people, wave like he knew them. Every time he asked Glory Bishop a question, she nodded and let out a little laugh. No matter what it was, he got the nod and the laugh for the benefit of the cameras. So he shut the hell up.
She kept finagling him to walk in front of her. He realized he was supposed to look like a bodyguard more than anything else. He decided to pose as much as possible. He imagined one of the Monti mooks handing Vinny a supermarket tabloid with Dane's face on the cover. At a premiere with a movie star only a week after getting out of the can, and with a Monticelli death warrant hanging over his head. Not too shabby.
None of the celebrities talked to each other. They went out of their way to ignore everyone but the paparazzi and entertainment reporters. Glory answered a few questions and Dane stood in the background, glancing left and right, playing his part. When she peeled from the press, Dane kept a step in front of her and walked into the well- lit theater.
“How'd I do?” he asked.
“You smiled too much. All bright-eyed and happy. Fame and wealth are supposed to make you sullen.”
“I'll start mauling photographers next time.”
The director of the film jumped up onto the stage and gave an introduction to his movie. It was an artistic vision he'd had since he was in high school. It had cost 1.2 million to make and was already up for a Spirit Award. Dane didn't know what a Spirit Award was, but the crowd was impressed, so he applauded with them. He asked Glory how the flick could already be up for awards when this was the premiere and she explained that it had already done the festival circuit. This was just the general release. It would be shown on about twenty screens in three cities and then go straight to DVD and do well on cable.
“That'll get them their one point two back?”
“Hell yes.”
“All that cash in movies and your husband went in for trafficking? What'd he do wrong?”
“He's a dumb, greedy shit. The risk was part of his juice. And the coke habit made it that much worse.”
The film opened with a panning shot of the East Side IRT City Hall subway station. There were no gorgeous chicks in a hot tub. After a half hour he realized there were hardly any women in the movie at all. As near as Dane could tell, the film was about three homeless guys who lived in the subway riding trains all day and night long. Shaving in their seats, eating whatever the other passengers left behind, reading lost books. For a while Dane thought it was a comedy. He laughed out loud a couple of times and got shushed by a woman in back. Glory Bishop giggled beside him.
Afterward, the director and some of the actors stood in front of the screen and answered questions from the audience. The director said the film was a metaphor for limbo. The way station between heaven and hell as represented by Manhattan social strata. Folks applauded politely.
Dane leaned over and asked, “Is it going to be the same on the way out? You might have to give me a crash course in how the wealthy look sullen. I've been told poor people like me appear too bright-eyed.”
“Don't worry about it, we've done our part.”
“You mean you don't want to hang around and schmooze with your buddies?”
“They're not my friends. The guy I'm doing the favor for isn't even here.”
He figured she'd want to eat at one of the fancy seafood restaurants in town. He drove slowly, checking out the establishments that might meet her criteria, but Glory Bishop asked him, “You afraid of speeding tickets?”
“No,” he said.
“Shouldn't you be?”
“Yes,” he told her. “Why? You in a hurry?”
“I thought we could have dinner at my place.”
“You should probably let your driver know about an invitation like that, he'll definitely get you home faster.”
“Kick it, Jeeves.”
It got his mind turning. Maybe he was charming, smirky eyes and all. He kept a lookout for cops and made it back to the Long Island Expressway in ten minutes. Traffic moved along well and he managed to keep it between seventy and seventy-five most of the way back. He felt proud of the work he'd done on the engine.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“Headstone City.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“In Brooklyn.”
“Well, yeah, I figured, since that's where the limo company is, but where? A nice part?”
“Do you know Brooklyn?”
“No.”
He wanted to ask her what the difference was, then, but he held back. “Used to be called Meadow Slope. A lot of silent era movie stars lived in the area near Outlook Park.”
“Tell me about it.”
“About silent movies?”
“Don't be an asshole. Tell me about the place. The longer I'm in New York the more I want to learn about it. You could live in LA for ten years and never figure out all the satellite towns and the suburbs and the lines of demarcation. Here, you've got your five boroughs, no confusion. So tell me.”
“I'm not sure I can. And even five boroughs can get pretty messy.”
He made the effort, a little annoyed by the sound of his own voice.
Living in Headstone City meant walking out of the house past two bakeries, three meat markets, four bars, the candy store, the ice cream shop, two bridal shops, a couple of jewelers, and the hardware store. The mob guys acting slick on the corner, but dressed like shit. The firehouse and the police precinct right around the corner from each other, their back parking lots touching. When Dane was a kid he spent a lot of time with the firemen and the cops. He'd sometimes bring his father his lunch in a big Tupperware bowl,
Afterward, his dad would send him home with the empty Tupperware and Thermos, and Dane would cut through the parking lot and wander into the firehouse. On slow days the fire chief would take him around and show him the gear and equipment. Occasionally he saw the ladder crews covered in soot and sweat after fighting a four-alarmer. It gave Dane another kind of pride, thinking there were men who risked their lives every day to protect the neighborhoods.
He checked the rearview and noticed she had a faraway look in her eyes. “You all right back there?”
“You make it sound kind of sweet.”
“Jesus, do I?”
“You're surprised?”
“Well, yeah.”
Even though he could separate the stories, he couldn't discern his feelings. He couldn't talk about his parents' lives without thinking of their deaths. You talk about Tupperware but you still see the ladder company weeping for one of their own dead. You still see your dad's head opened up like a shucked oyster shell.
“What'd you do time for?” she asked.
“I ran over a cop.”
That got her. Wide-eyed but still smiling, thinking that even if it wasn't a joke, it was still sort of funny, she said, “Come on, you can't be serious. Wouldn't something like that get you life? Hey, you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Were you just not paying attention or what?”
He told her the basic facts about Angie overdosing in the backseat of his cab. “But I already had a record for stealing cars. That put the kibosh on me.”
“I'm so sorry. You speak of her like she was your little sister.”
He said nothing, and though the miles passed quickly as they cruised into Manhattan, the mood stiffened.
Glory Bishop leaned forward again, her hand on the partition like she wanted to reach through and touch him. “I know that name. Monticelli.”
