“Most folks around here do.”
“I'm not from New York. I just moved here to get away from the craziness of Los Angeles for a while. That's where I heard the name, out on the West Coast. My husband used to do business with them.”
Dane's pulse started picking up speed. “What kind?”
“Those people, they invested in his movies.”
He remembered what JoJo had said about Vinny getting more like Bugsy Siegel. Was that what he meant? Vinny wanted to make movies? Was that why fate had nudged him off in a new direction?
“You mean they did drug deals together?”
“I don't know.”
This time, he pulled up down the block from her building. Glory didn't wait for him to open her door. She stepped out and came around the limo to meet him. She moved in close, hugged him about the waist, and leaned into his arms, kissing him lightly. He made an effort to shake his tension and go with it, holding her gently but with need. He wondered what the hell was going on but knew well the lesson of the gift horse.
They walked arm in arm toward the building's entrance and the doorman frowned, his upper lip curling to reveal an incisor. Dane stared at him without anger, but making it clear he wasn't going to take shit off this guy pulling faces anymore. He thought he might very much enjoy breaking this prick's neck. The doorman let his lip drop and scampered away.
Glory tugged him into the elevator. He expected her to hit a high number, the thirty-fifth or fortieth floor, where she could look out over the city and see the action of Park Avenue below to the west, and beyond that the great lawn of Central Park. It surprised him when she hit four.
She handed him the key to her apartment. For a second he thought she was telling him to keep it, stop over whenever he liked. Then he realized this was a throwback to more courteous times. When a man escorted a lady to her house, opened the door for her, ushered her inside. Is that how her drug dealer husband had gotten her? Lighting her cigarette for her, handing her a towel after she got done dancing the pole?
The apartment's design was totally retro. Jesus. What they would've called mod thirty years ago, right down to the shag rugs and the sunken living room. Silver shiny furniture and geometric shapes on the walls. Dane started flashing on his childhood, seeing his dad with a big mustache, flared collars.
Glory said, “I bought it furnished, so don't blame me if the place makes you want to put on lemon-striped bell bottoms and grow muttonchops.”
“It certainly takes me back.”
“Whenever I walk in, it's like somebody's got AM radio on. I start humming ‘Billy Don't Be a Hero.' Or ‘Seasons in the Sun.'”
“‘The Night Chicago Died.'”
“Yeah, that one too.”
He said, “No wonder your doorman thinks you only like seventies music. Aren't you a little young to have caught these hits the first time around?”
“I used to play my mother's old forty-fives. With the little plastic thing in the middle so they'd fit on the record player. You want something to drink?”
“A beer if you have it.”
“There's a fridge full of imported stuff, but I don't drink it. Mexican okay?”
“Sure.”
He checked around the place, the record in his brain stuck on the fuckin'
Over in the corner of the living room there was this weird device, sort of like a swing. All these rubber cords and this freaky leather seat. He looked at her and she said, “It's a love swing.”
He tried not to miss a beat but had already paused for too long. Nodding, he just said, “Oh.”
He'd heard of things like this but had never seen one before. Not even in a bedroom, much less right out in somebody's living room. He pushed at it and the love swing jangled and clanked. He wasn't sure who was supposed to sit in it or how the deed was to be done. But it seemed if you used the thing wrong, you could hurt yourself pretty bad.
It would be worth it though, as he imagined her climbing in there and hitting him with her action hero line.
He tried to figure out what the swing there in the open was telling men who came into her place. That she was wild and knew how to please? Or be pleased? Or that she didn't give a damn what anybody thought of her sexual habits? Or was it part of the furnishings left behind? Fuck, gross.
He let himself imagine what Maria Monticelli's living room looked like, and if she'd ever been in one of those devices. Strapped, tied, swaying by chains. After about three seconds his brain started to hurt.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No.”
“You look a little sick.”
“Do I?”
Dane's scars began to heat. He tried to keep his hands at his sides but couldn't. He rubbed at the back of his head. Sweat coursed down the side of his face, and a sudden wave of nausea passed through him.
He looked toward the doorway and saw a flickering image of Vinny standing there with his mouth moving. Staring at Dane but talking to himself. Wearing a gray Armani suit but no bulge beneath the jacket, so he hadn't come packed.
Dane took a step toward him as Vinny faded in and out, solidifying for a second, then dissolving from the scene. Finally, he was gone.
Glory Bishop came over and handed Dane a beer. “Jesus, don't worry, I'm not going to make you get in the swing. Not if you hate it that much.”
“Thanks.”
Dane thought he knew what had happened. This situation was one of the three tracks that Vinny had been able to step into, wander around in for a few minutes before returning to where he started. Vinny had stepped into it for a few seconds-meeting with Dane here in Glory Bishop's apartment-then rejected the reality. The same as he'd done in Chooch's that day. Facing Dane down but then vanishing, moving into some different track.
So, Dane thought, he'd waited long enough to actually make Vinny impatient. Look at that.
Enough with this shadow dancing around each other. Tomorrow he was going to have to visit his old buddy and get the ball rolling.
But right now, as he sipped the Mexican beer and Glory Bishop came into his arms again, licking at his neck, he looked up at the ceiling to see what kind of supports that weird swing had. Maybe he'd try it out after all.
FOURTEEN
There was a new Monticelli crew member Dane didn't know standing at the door of Chooch's. Big kid, maybe twenty-one, with a flinty glare he practiced on everyone who passed him in the street. He probably gave it to his parish priest, trying to get the Jesuit altar boys to tremble during Mass.
He had to start things off right. He stepped inside the place, noting the few goombas who were already drunk at the bar. Three in the afternoon and these guys could barely keep their faces out of the ashtrays.
The mob was a young man's organization. The old dons and their original crews, if they'd survived into their sixties, usually wound up hitting the skids and living worse than folks on social security. They lived large while they could, but over the years they slowly shrank inside their ratty sweaters until they disappeared.
The kid pressed his meaty hand to Dane's chest. There it was again, the hand, like that would be enough to stop anybody who wanted to get past.
This thug barely moved his lips when he spoke, hissing so he'd sound tougher. He said, “Listen, bud, we don't open to the public till eight tonight, so-” and Dane punched him in the gut. Even if a guy had six-pack abs, he'd still fold if he hadn't tightened up. The kid doubled over and Dane brought his elbow around and cracked him in the chin.
