Headstone City

purpose.

Delmare said, “You're a very foolish man, Mr. Danetello.”

“Quit trying to sweet-talk me.”

Stepping back, Delmare gestured for the thugs to frisk Dane. They did a sloppy job of it, these mooks always afraid to touch a guy's groin or ass. You could smuggle a little palm-sized mini-Glock in your crotch and wipe six guys out without trying.

“If you won't listen to reason, Danetello, then enter. The Don is a very ill man. If he wishes to speak to you, he will. If not, you'll leave without any trouble. If there is trouble, I'll take matters into my own hands and abolish you as a problem for this family. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

“Sure. Thanks, Georgie.”

The consigliere led Dane through the foyer, the thugs strutting behind. They walked past glass cases and shelves containing Renaissance artwork, statuary, and shrines of Catholic significance. Family photos took up most of the remaining space on the shelves. Plenty of dour-faced people standing around frowning at the camera. Italians loved to show off the faces of their family.

“They always wore a lot of black,” Dane said.

“Many of them have died violent deaths,” Delmare told him. “Additionally, Catholics like to mourn.”

“Don't I know it.”

He was escorted into a broad living room that was dark with cherry paneling and burgundy carpeting, waves of rain slashing at the bay windows. More photographs abounded. A deep sense of anguished expectation spun in the air.

Don Pietro Monticelli still generated an overwhelming sense of power and confidence, even crippled in his chair, the years wearing into him like sandstorms cutting into rock. He had been one of the roughest, most intimidating bastards back in his prime. He sat smoking a thin European cigarette, fringed by Joey Fresco and Big Tommy Bartone, who were assembled on an uncomfortable-looking settee. Dane was a little shaken to see they were all drinking coffee and being chatty as the nuns of Our Lady of Blessed Mercy during a bake sale.

Delmare leaned down and whispered in the Don's ear. The old man waved his consigliere away and gestured for Dane to enter.

“John,” the Don said.

“Hello, Don Pietro.”

“You show great confidence inviting yourself into my home. Perhaps too much.”

“I didn't invite myself in. I just rang the bell.”

Dane stepped closer to the huge windows at the back of the room, watching as the streaming water battered the glass.

They all remained like that until Joey Fresco decided to tighten the tension and flex his attitude.

In the army, Dane had never learned to do as he was told and just make it easy on himself. He always spoke his mind and traveled in a straight line, and he didn't let an asshole officer's stripes keep him from saying his piece.

He felt acutely inadequate in the imagination department, and he knew what he was going to do now even though it was bound to cause a lot of problems all around.

Skinny Joey Fresco gave a grin. He put down his cup of coffee and a half-eaten anisette cookie and drew a pipsqueak.22. Dane almost burst out laughing. Joey used to go in for a.357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel, but it was a heavy piece of hardware and he hadn't needed that much firepower in a long time. So he'd gotten a touch soft and carried the much lighter snub-nosed Sentinel.22. It wouldn't stop a pissed off Sicilian with a couple of amarettos in him unless Joey walked right up and made a head shot.

“Joseph-” the Don said, waving Joey down.

“Please, Pietro, it's time.”

That's right, beg to do Dane in, for the good of the world.

But it was all about being cool. That's why Joey carried the butterfly knife to clean his fingernails.

Now he put on the show and the two thugs followed suit, pulling their weapons. Each of them carried.44s. The Don appeared curious to see how things would play out, and Dane couldn't blame him for that.

Joey Fresco marched over, cocked the pistol, and pointed it at Dane's face. “So, how about this? How about if I give you a chance. Give me a reason not to blow you away right now.”

“Here's one,” Dane told him, and chopped the edge of his hand across Joey's throat.

The army had been all right for some things.

Joey flailed and Dane lightly plucked the.22 from his hand and put it in his belt. Delmare whispered, “Oh dio mio,” and Big Tommy let out a barking guffaw then finished his coffee.

The mood was warming up some. There was still a chance. The goombas liked to have their day broken up with a little activity like this from time to time. Joey was on his knees squeaking and choking, trying to suck in air.

“Put your weapon on the floor,” one of the muscle boys said, both of them aiming their guns at Dane's chest.

“No.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Now, or you're dead.”

“Oh, you in charge?” Dane asked, hoping it would get under the Don's skin. You never really got away from the lessons you learned on the playground. The same petty insults worked now just like they did when you were seven.

Easing out a stream of smoke, Don Monti lifted his chin. He had the old-world slickness, the kind of unshakable aplomb that never revealed what was going on in his head.

Midsixties, slicked-back hair that drew up cruelly from a widow's peak, with sharply angular, craggy features showing great command and control. A widower for about ten years now, but he still wore his wedding ring. He had those nearly worthless legs crossed, hands cupped over his knee except when he raised the cigarette to take a slow drag. Smoke wreathed him like the offshore mists of Sicily.

Joey finally made it to his knees and Big Tommy and the others were helping him up, getting him into a chair. Delmare's lips were so flat and bloodless that his mouth looked like a paper cut.

The Don didn't appear to notice anyone but Dane. He asked, “How is Lucia?”

“She has bad dreams.”

“We all do, and they grow worse as we age. Are you here to speak with me or my son?”

“I'm here to talk to the Don.”

That left it in the air. Let the old man decide if he was the boss or not.

“I'm listening,” Don Pietro Monticelli said. “Come sit with me over here. We won't be disturbed.” As he spoke he gave the eye to his boys, who all backed off to the other side of the room, dragging Joey with them.

Dane sat in a Queen Anne wing chair without cushions, thinking about how sitting on furniture like this most of his life probably helped to cripple the Don. Dane shifted back and forth, sort of sliding around. Somebody had been at the cherrywood with an abundance of polish.

He couldn't keep himself from scanning the place, looking for Maria. His side still hurt from JoJo's prodding.

“Your house isn't in order,” Dane said.

“You take too much for granted, John.”

“No, I don't think I do.”

“I once treated you like one of my own sons, here in this very home you affront. Even though you were a cafone.”

The Don putting Dane in his place, calling him a peasant. “You taught me how to play poker.”

“Yes, I remember that. You had a natural talent for bluffing.”

Dane said, “And for calling bluffs as well.”

The Don tried to sit up straighter, but it didn't really work. Some of the old fire seemed to be trying to catch inside him. “Make no mistake. Despite the foolish bluster of too many of my men recently, what deeds need doing shall be done. Without hesitation, or remorse. This has always been my way.”