Headstone City

“It's our St. Mary's Redemption and Atonement Gala.”

No wonder you only had a handful of people wandering around wearing puzzled expressions. “You might consider spiffing up the name next year.”

“I'll think about that. Why don't you join us?”

“Sorry, I'm on an errand.”

“We've got grape juice and biscotti.”

Dane let out a chuckle that grew a little too wild, reminding him of Joey's mongoose sounds. He swallowed back the rest of it. “Bread and wine? You bless them so the WASPs are taking communion without knowing it?”

“There's been a lot of police prowling the area today. A good deal of talk.”

“There's gonna be a little more.” Dane reached into the glove compartment and grabbed the envelope with ten grand in it that JoJo Tormino had given him. “Here. To help you hire a couple of horses for next year, and a merry-go-round. A cotton candy maker, maybe pay somebody who tells pope jokes. Bobo the Catholic Clown, that'll get a crowd in. Instead of a funny pope hat going up and down, his goes side to side. You'll make a killing.”

“I think I know who you are. Perhaps you should come in.”

“Another time.”

As he pulled away from the curb, the storm kicked up another notch and the wind tore at the surrounding woodlands of Outlook Park.

He swung up the hill toward the Monticelli estate and the gushing rainwater washed down the cobblestone driveway in a thick, pulsing torrent. He picked up his.38 off the seat and held it in his left hand, thinking he might have to reach out the window, plink a few guys, and crash through the private gates. You couldn't get away from the movie rolling in your head, your name leading the credits. The pressure pushed at the metal plates in your skull, trying to cut loose.

The guardhouse appeared empty, the gates already open. There were occasional shouts and the squealing of tires as their Jeeps buzzed around the various paths on the grounds. Everybody in a panic over Berto and Joey, looking for Vinny, but nobody watching the door.

Dane drove up and still didn't get the reception he'd been expecting. Nobody stopped him. There were no police cars asking questions at the Monticelli residence. His sense of farce was beginning to overwhelm him.

Dane grabbed the shotgun off the backseat and walked up to the front door. It was unlocked and he let himself inside.

His entire life had brought him right here, to this moment.

Everyone, in his own way, had to be in on it, a part of the continuing process. Georgie Delmare, the consigliere, tucked away someplace in the house, thinking about how the business would have to be transferred into other names, already working on the new tax reports. Big Tommy Bartone, probably sitting in the next room, feeling old and waiting for a war. Any war. Dane turned the corner and looked up the staircase, seeing no one on the landing. He moved down the hallway, and there, sitting alone in the living room, anticipating this meeting, sat the dying Don.

The debility and pain in his rough features had almost given away to placidity. He saw Dane and immediately lit a joint, rushing his first drag. He took it in deep and let it out in a thin stream so his eyes clouded.

“Hello, John.”

“Hello, Don Pietro.”

“You've been working very hard lately.”

Dane nodded. “I'm showing an interest in life.”

“I'm glad. You're going to put my house in order?” Saying it with just the barest lilt of a question, putting a little dare into it.

“If I can.”

Would the Don be surprised to learn Grandma had blown Joey's ass to hell? Or would he have expected that? Knowing how powerful Lucia could be. Dane figured they'd probably fooled around some back in the forties or fifties, listening to Sinatra, Jerry Vale, and Mel Torme.

“I knew if you were strong and patient, you would find the truth. The truth meant for you to find. That you would discover your nature.”

“I just wanted to talk to Maria.”

“That would be pointless now, don't you think?”

“No. It's my only objective.”

The Don held on with great resolve against his own cancer, still the boss of the family even with his rickety legs and shivery hands, stoned out of his gourd. They both looked around the room at the old photographs of brutal men who'd died violent deaths, their blood soaking down through the ages into the flesh and the concrete of Headstone City. Dane was as much a product of any of them as he was his own parents.

Voices moved through the halls, coming closer. Dane snapped up, holding the shotgun, the.38 within easy reach, stuffed in his belt.

The smart move was to take out the muscle first, the guys with the guns, but Dane just didn't see it happening that way. The Don was the only one left who wanted to end it with some honor, meeting the void with his head up.

Dane had always held a fierce respect for him, but now he just wanted to hug the man, draw him close, and perhaps say a few of the things he'd never been able to say to his own father. Maybe because he owned the neighborhood, or because he'd been instrumental in providing Dane's small world with at least one beautiful thing.

But he also felt a mild but crude hatred. For having given up so easily on centuries-old traditions of order and command. For degenerating what should've been a class act. For letting down his guard. For keeping Maria from true love.

“Thank you, John.”

Dane stepped up, drew his.38, and put a bullet into the center of Don Monticelli's peaceful face.

It only took ten seconds for a couple of interchangeable thugs to appear. They let out hisses of fear and confusion but didn't yank any weapons. They glared with open mouths, unsure of what the hell else to do.

These fuckin' kids, they all needed a lesson.

Georgie Delmare walked in, his bland eyes showing only a little more emotion than usual, but not enough to shake his perfect composure. Big Tommy moved down the corridor to stand beside him. Big's perpetual sneer had vanished, his lips welded together like scraps of tin. They both stared at him, disregarding the Don slumped in his seat.

“What about Vinny?” Tommy asked, and his voice damn near broke.

“He wanted to prove to me he wasn't afraid of dying.”

“So?”

“So he wasn't.”

Sgt. John Danetello's son was taking over the Monti crime organization because he was bored and needed something to do. Because already there were plenty of scores to settle.

“I'm going to need your help,” Dane told them. “First thing we do is dry up the drug trade into Hollywood through the company once run by Glory Bishop's husband.”

“What's his name?” the consigliere asked. He'd seen his masters dead in their chairs and beds before, and he'd survived them all. He served whoever was at the top of the heap at any given hour.

“I still don't goddamn know. But the feds are all over it. We're going to sell plenty, just not through Hollywood. There's a crew in Williamsburg we can put to use.”

Fuck Cogan and his little wars in Central America. Dane was going to start his payback with that son of a bitch.

“You bringing in the mulignan?” Big asked.

“They're already in. We're just going to take some of their pie. Hollywood is wide-open for other things. I think we'll front a few independent film makers.”

Georgie Delmare grinned with interest, his thoughts moving fast. “Who?”