Dane tried to focus, but he couldn't stop seeing Maria. Seeing her beauty in his head always gave him a rush of giddy schoolboy joy, and who didn't need more of that in their day? “You sound like you've got a grudge.”
Was that it? Had the feds gone after the Don and somehow missed him? Were careers on the line?
“Naw, nothing like that. Your friend Vincenzo's just been investing money outside his usual orbits. That sort of thing makes us special agents perk up some.” Cogan kept staring over Dane's shoulder at the counter. He finally couldn't take it anymore and said, “I think I got to have me one of them napoleons. They good here?”
“Yes,” Dane said. “My grandmother says they're the very best, and believe me, that woman knows pastry. I'll get us a couple. You want more coffee?”
“I'd appreciate that, son.”
The new girl at the counter took his order without expression. He got Grandma Lucia's desserts in a pink box tied with string, a napoleon and a cup of coffee on a tray. Cogan took one bite of the pastry and groaned with delight.
Dane waited, wondering if this was the type of unbalanced fed they stuck in the field when everything else failed. Hoping he'd get results no matter how he did it, then retire him early.
“Anyway, about Don Pietro,” Cogan said. “The old man's still pretty sharp but he doesn't get his hands dirty anymore. He leaves all that to his sons, and that Roberto, he mainly just wants to shoot craps and get laid.”
“Yeah?”
“All that money and he spends most of his time prowling around down by the river for whores. The real kinky jobs usually. Those there trannies. Latinos mostly. Ugly ones too, the ones that ain't gotten the whole procedure done yet, still got their danglin' willies.”
That got Dane's attention. He tried picturing Berto down by the Brooklyn Bridge, paying fifty bucks for half'n'half from a chick with a dick. “If you're in close enough to see that, what do you need me or anybody else for?”
“Like most of the families, they're smart about business but dumb as a bag'a hammers about almost everything else.”
Dane said, “Still sounds like you've got them in your sights.”
Carefully wiping his fingers with his napkin, now unfolding his sunglasses and putting them back on, Cogan grinned, some sugar clinging to his lips. Getting serious, covering his eyes. “I want you to help me bust it down.”
“It's already busted down. They're legit now.”
“Just 'cause everybody says it don't make it true. There's still plenty of juice in the Monticelli family.”
“Maybe. What new orbits is Vinny laboring in?”
“You already know, don't you?”
Still unwilling to say anything. Hoping Dane would roll over out of fear. Yeah, this Cogan had a grudge all right, and was probably flying without much official say-so. He was off the radar.
“Now, I don't suppose you know who did JoJo Tormino in here?” Cogan asked.
“Three Monti shooters, probably new guys trying to make their bones. JoJo said Roberto Monti was behind it.”
That took Cogan back some. He really hadn't been expecting an answer. “That right? Why you think?”
“He was mad because JoJo was in love with his sister Maria.”
Cogan appeared thoughtful. “You folks with that there Mediterranean blood sure do get your drawers twisted easy.”
“Not like you Hatfields and McCoys, eh?”
That got a laugh out of the fed, who tipped himself back in his chair, turning his face aside while he pondered what he'd toss at Dane next. “Oh, by the way-”
“Yeah?”
“Those two who came after you in the joint? Who told the guards they were really fighting each other?”
“Uh-huh.” Cogan was definitely plugged in if he knew about that. He had some reach. “Kremitz and Mako.”
“Tha's right, those are them. Well, they got themselves into even more of a jam. See, they were recuperating okay from their knife wounds they, ah, allegedly inflicted upon each other-”
Christ, everybody had to work on their sense of subtlety. “Yeah? And what happened to them?”
“Last night they were force-fed poisoned cocaine in the infirmary. Well, we don't really know if they were forced to do it, you see? Maybe they were just tryin' to get high and somebody made sure they got a bad batch.”
Saying nothing more than that, waiting for Dane to ask the question.
“Either of them make it?”
“Both, but they're on life support, in comas. Doctors ain't sure if they'll pull through or be brain-damaged or what all yet.”
When you got right down to it, the Monticelli clan hired some real shitheads to do their dirty work for them. They were sloppy and spent more time cleaning up after their own mistakes than getting the job done.
Cogan finished his coffee, reached into his wallet, and pulled out a business card. Dane was surprised that there wasn't only a phone number but a city address. A ritzy hotel around the corner from Glory Bishop.
“You come by some night and we'll chat. Anytime. I'm easy to get hold of.”
Dane took the card and said, “I might just do that.”
They stood, shook hands, and walked out of the bakery together, Dane carrying the pink box. Cogan made a left down the block and Dane went right, turned the corner, and watched with mild surprise as the boy with the sick brain stepped up.
He was just suddenly standing there, leering so wide that the corners of his mouth had split and leaked a little blood. He still had on his hospital jammies and slippers.
“If you've got something to say to me,” Dane told him, “let's hear it. In English.”
The kid cocked his head at that, and the smirk eased up enough that his lips managed to cover his teeth.
He took a step forward and his knees nearly buckled. Dane moved to catch the boy and felt a sense of loving, encompassing warmth, but no weight.
The boy followed him home and in through the front door without ever saying a word. Dane lay on the couch and stared at his grandmother eating her dessert while she watched soap operas and got ready for bingo.
She finished her cannoli, got her coat and kerchief on, and stood in the doorway. She looked at Dane with concern. “What's'a matter for you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't tell me that, you've been on pins all evening. What? That dead girl bothering you again? She's got nothing better to do, that one. Always with the sassy mouth, I hear her sometimes.”
“No, Grandma.”
“The mess at Chooch's? With the gun and the shooting the strunzo in the leg? You only did what had to be done. You should be proud, not taking shit off one of those strong arms. They watch a few cable television shows, a couple Scorsese movies, and suddenly they're mobsters?”
“I know. It's not that.”
“Don't mope, it's not healthy,” she said, and shut the door.
Dane sat back and stared into the boy's eyes, looking deeply, hunting for intelligence and answers.
“Is there anything going on in there?” he asked.
“Yes,” the boy with the twisted head answered.
Then he pressed the side of his face against Grandma's afghan and appeared to go to a comforting, but not yet eternal, sleep.
SIXTEEN
Glory Bishop, on her stomach naked in bed, read through a pile of scripts with one leg tapping the air while Dane ran his hand over her thigh.
She'd wanted another go in the funky swing, but he thought maybe he was just too old-fashioned at heart. He couldn't get over the nagging fear that if they got too wild, they might go out the window.
Now he listened to her tinkling the ice cubes of her White Russian, talking about the shitty screenplays that her agent kept sending on.
“This one here,” she said. “I should fire the bastard for even wasting my time with it. Another horror movie. Naked bimbo in the woods running with her tits out while a serial killer stalks her. She's screaming her ass off, swims through an icy river-”