Vinny coughed and panted, pressed a hand to Dane's clammy cheek, and told him, “Don't do that again. Right?”
THIRTY
Death is nothing.”
“It's something,” Dane told him.
“We beat it a long time ago, when we went through the windshield,” Vinny said. “You telling me you didn't know that?”
“No, I don't think I did.”
“Do you now?”
“I'm not sure.”
“You're the pazzo fuck.”
Dane thought that maybe he understood what it had been like for Vinny all along. He felt the draw, the separation of himself heading down toward another life. He stood on one path and looked around, then saw there might be another slightly better chance for happiness if only he made a choice that took him there. There. There.
“Don't do it, Vinny.”
“Look, there's nobody in the middle anymore. Here, watch.”
On the radio, Dad mumbling about the rules of the road, always wearing your seat belt, being courteous to your fellow driver. The girl in the backseat lay down with eleven knife wounds in her kidneys, stared at the roof of the Caddy, and let out a cry fashioned from the incomprehensible loss inside her.
Vinny yanked the.38 up in a beautiful move, showing just how incredibly fast he was. No one could have ever had a chance against him. He pressed the barrel under his chin and gave a grin that made Dane whimper, thinking, How will I explain this to Maria?
Vinny pulled the trigger and took off the back of his skull, fucking up the beautiful interior of the '59 Caddy. He managed to heave a sigh of satisfaction as he flopped into Dane's arms.
They stayed like that for a while.
THIRTY-ONE
Despite it all, having crossed so many of these lines you never thought you'd step over, tears still clinging at your beard stubble, it felt proper to finally have a clear and unswerving purpose. This is what you've always wanted.
On his way out to the Monti mansion, with Vinny's body in the trunk, most of the inside of the Caddy cleaned up, Dane passed St. Mary's and spotted a bright blue hot-air balloon hovering about three feet above the lawn. Vinny had mentioned it back in Chooch's. But what did something like this mean, what symbolism could you find, when a piece of the sky was hanging down in back of your church?
About forty people clotted the front doors of the rectory, trying to keep warm. A handful of the elderly, a group of teens, a few six-year-olds, and even a couple of the modern nuns who didn't completely cover up in black head to toe.
A priest he didn't recognize stood looking at the basket, scared to let the kids get too close, with the rising wind, and the increasingly heavy rain coming down. Dane had the feeling God was presenting him with one last chance to get out of this-hop in the balloon, cut the ropes, and just drift away.
The priest caught his eye and immediately understood something was wrong. His gaze filled with alert apprehension and meaningless concern as he walked over to the car. “Is there some problem?”
“What is this?” Dane called. “The Jesus Jamboree?”
“Don't you read your Papist Gazette?”
Goddamn, did they really print such a thing? Dane smiled blandly, the growing agitation working inside him trying to get out. He checked the rearview to see who might be in the backseat. Without humor he said, “The neighbor's dog got it off our stoop this week.”
“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.