“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.
JoJo Tormino sat in the backseat with her, staring at the side of her face like he didn't recognize her anymore. Or thought she was someone else.
Angelina leaned forward and said in Dane's ear, “Thank you.”
“Sure.”
“But you should have killed him.”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Will they really take his fingers?”
“I don't know. It might be a point of pride now, since I put the idea in their heads.”
“I hope they do.”
She climbed forward into the passenger seat, curling against him without touching. That familiar heat flooded into his guts and got him sweating, worse than usual because his heart was still hammering.
Could any woman alive ever do for him the things the dead could do? He started breathing heavily, nervous in the way that guns could never make him. Her bangs wafted again, brushing against his throat.
“You told me that my mother wanted to say something to me.”
“She does.”
“What is it?”
“How should I know?”
JoJo Tormino stared out the window. Unwilling or unable to speak. Funny how some of them had so much to say, and others so little. JoJo turned his gaze forward and caught Dane's eye in the rearview. He was going to start that whole prodding in the side thing again, Dane could tell. It was time to go give her the ring.
“Where's Maria now, Angie? In Hollywood?”
“Hell no, she's never been west of Jersey.”
“But I thought Vinny was setting up her career?”
“He hasn't done a thing for her yet.”
“So where is she?”
Angie smiled, like she knew what was coming next. “At our sister Carmella's house out on Begoyan Street. She's married to a podiatrist.”
Dane didn't know Carmella all that well. She was older, the daughter of the Don's longtime goomar, a girlfriend he started hanging around with back in the late fifties. She didn't have much to do with the family, and Dane had only met her a couple of times at Monticelli functions a long time ago.
“Why's she there?”
“Berto is keeping watch over her.”
“For what?”
“He thinks the Ventimiglia family might be taking a run at her.”
Dane tried to track it but couldn't. With a touch of frustration he realized he still didn't see things the way the goombas did. After all these years it should be second nature, understanding their impractical moves, but he just couldn't ever get it into focus. “Why would they do that?”
“Because of JoJo Tormino.”
“The Ventis think he died because of her?”
“Well, he did, pretty much.”
“But she had nothing to do with it. The Ventimiglias work like that? Send a crew against a family member in payback? They've got to know JoJo loved her, right? So now they're gonna whack her?”
“They're the only rough family left,” Angie said, her lips just under his ear. The Caddy veered a little over the double yellow and Dane had to yank it back. “I always hated those guys. Vito Grimaldi was constantly trying to paw me whenever there was some kind of get-together. Barbecues. Baptisms. Even at funerals.”
“He a capo?”
“Yeah.”
JoJo still had his bullet holes: the left elbow, left thigh, jagged melted graze along his jaw, and high in the chest. The sucking wound above his heart hissed and gurgled. How long could a dead man bleed? It got worrisome, having JoJo back there just watching, waiting, his spiritual peace all hinged on Dane facing a woman he'd wanted his entire life.
If only you could throw a corpse out of the car. It would make life so much easier.
“By the way,” Angie said. “What did Mr. Fielding want with you? He no longer cries in his grave.”
Dane told her, “He had a confession to make.”
“Oh,” she said. So beautiful, so much like Maria, that Dane had to rub his palms along his pant legs to dry them. “Oh, I know what that's like.”