City of Dreams, page 22
Now he’s not so sure.
“Me and the guys have been talking,” he says one day at a fish-and-chips place Danny found in Burbank that’s passable.
“You and the guys?” Danny asks. “What about?”
“You know.”
“Yeah, I think I do,” Danny says. “But why don’t you spell it out for me.”
“Okay,” Jimmy says, “we think maybe it’s time to move on.”
“From . . .”
“All this,” Jimmy says. “This Hollywood stuff.”
“Hey, you want to go, go.”
“You have to go, too,” Jimmy says. He pours more vinegar on his fries and contemplates them.
“Why is that?”
Jimmy’s had it. “Because you’re the problem, Danny. This thing with Diane, you have us all over the papers, even TV. It has to stop. You’re going to get us all killed. You’re supposed to be the boss of this family, and you’re letting us down.”
Fuck you, Danny thinks. I put the money in your pockets, the food in your mouths. I’m the boss here, not you, not “the guys.” I say when and where we go, what we do. You don’t like it, there’s no lock on the door.
Then he thinks better of it.
Jimmy’s your oldest friend, he’s always had your back.
You owe him. Honesty, anyway.
So he says, “I love her.”
“You know the last guy I heard say that?”
Yeah, Danny thinks.
Liam.
Fucking Liam.
I’m him now.
“Ask me anything,” Danny says. “Ask me for money, ask me to do a job, but don’t ask me that.”
“What did you tell Liam,” Jimmy says, “about Pam?”
“I told him to leave her.”
Jimmy shrugs.
There you go.
Danny’s phone rings. “Yeah.”
“Danny Ryan,” the guy says, “you don’t know me, but our mutual friend in Pompano Beach asked me to come talk with you.”
Pasco, Danny thinks. “Okay.”
“Is there a time and place we could meet?” the guy asks.
“Do you know L.A.?”
“I know the airport,” he says. “I just got in.”
“Santa Monica Pier,” Danny says. “Two o’clock. How will I know you?”
“I’ll know you.”
He does.
Danny has just stepped onto the pier when a short, slim guy, maybe in his early fifties, in a trim charcoal-gray linen suit walks right up to him. “Thank you for coming, Danny. I’m Johnny Marks.”
They walk past the big Ferris wheel out onto the pier.
“What’s this about?” Danny asks.
“Our friend wants you to know he thinks you’re doing the wrong thing here,” Marks says. “He thinks it’s time for you to move on.”
“I don’t.”
“Let me put it another way,” Marks says. “You know speed limit signs?”
“Yeah.” What the hell, Danny thinks.
“We think of them more as suggestions, don’t we,” Mark says. “This isn’t a speed limit sign, this is a stop sign. And at a stop sign, you stop.”
“Please tell Pasco, with all love and respect,” Danny says, “that I appreciate his concern, but this is none of his business.”
“It is, though,” Marks says. “He went to bat with the big families for you. Don’t put him in a difficult spot.”
“I have business here.”
“The film business,” Marks says. “It’s not for you. Look, you know Pasco, he wouldn’t reach out with empty hands. Friends of ours are moving back into Vegas. I know you have strong connections there. Pasco’s offering you a piece of that.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You have a son,” Marks says. “You need to think about Ian, his future. This Vegas thing, you’re talking generational wealth.”
“I’m going legit.”
“Hollywood?” Marks asks. “Please. You think wiseguys are crooks? When we skim, we have limits—these movie ladri eat with both hands. You want to be with strangers instead of people who love you?”
Yeah, Danny thinks, the Italians love me.
“This was a friendly conversation,” Marks says. “If you see me again, it won’t be a conversation. And if you see me again, you won’t see me. Don’t take too long on this. Have a good day.”
Danny watches him walk down the pier.
Sean will pick him up there, follow him to wherever he’s going.
So, Danny thinks, I’m in a freakin’ jam.
Three people have threatened to kill me—Petrelli, Harris, and now Marks, in that order of danger.
Petrelli will be your basic mob hit, he’ll farm it out to an underling, probably Faella, who’ll go out and get another wiseguy to do it.
Standard stuff.
Harris is a different thing. Government, CIA shit. They have their own killers, military types, but they’re not above working with OC.
Then there’s Marks, who speaks for Pasco, who speaks for the big bosses. If they want me dead, I’m dead. Even if I take out Marks, they’ll send someone else, then someone else, and it won’t ever stop.
But you can stop it, he thinks as he walks to his car.
You can stop it today.
Leave Diane.
Leave L.A.
Which is what you should do. Save yourself, save your guys, because even if you tell Jimmy Mac and Ned and the rest to walk away, they won’t do it. They’ll go down with you because they’re New England guys and that’s what they do.
So you’ll get them killed, too.
Just like Liam got guys killed over a woman.
And you hated him for it.
So end this now.
Then he thinks, No, fuck that.
I love her.
We belong together.
Danny makes the car following him before they hit the PCH. Doesn’t care, they know where he lives anyway, and besides, Jimmy Mac is just a few cars behind the guy, with Kevin riding shotgun.
These guys, Danny thinks. Do they think they’re playing with children? Did they think I was going to show up without cover?
He decides to take the guy for a drive, all the way through Malibu Canyon, then back on the 101 to the Oakwood.
The guy drives past him, like he’s looking for a place to park.
Danny goes straight to the pool, where he knows he’ll find Ian with Holly. He pays her, then plays with Ian in the pool for an hour or so.
Pulling Ian across the water, Danny looks across to a man-made berm with a fence and a bunch of trees and sees a guy trimming bushes. A white guy, which would be the first guy he’s seen in California doing yard work who wasn’t Mexican.
He isn’t trimming bushes, Danny thinks.
He’s lining up his shot, doing his research.
They go upstairs and Danny makes fish sticks and instant mashed potatoes, which Ian loves, the little mick.
He gets a call from Sean. “Marks left you and went and met someone else. You wanna guess who?”
“Why don’t you just tell me, Sean?”
“Harris.”
Danny takes that in.
It makes sense that Pasco and Harris would find each other, work together on this, he thinks. They have a common interest—me. And if Harris is going to have me whacked, he has to make it look like he wasn’t involved or he has to deal with Madeleine. If it’s a mob hit, he doesn’t.
And Pasco, he works with the government, he gets protection on it. And for God knows what else.
It’s good news and bad news. Bad because they’re a powerful combination with limitless resources, good because it reduces the threats he has to deal with from three down to two.
“Okay,” Danny says. “Where did he go?”
“The Biltmore,” Sean says. “Downtown.”
“Stay on him.”
“You got it.”
Danny calls Jimmy.
“The guy who was tailing you checked into a Best Western on Santa Monica,” Jimmy says. “Kevin has eyes on it. The car’s a rental.”
“So he flew in.”
“My guess.”
“You think he’s with Petrelli or this guy Marks I met with?” Danny asks.
“Hard to say. We got photos, though.”
“Run them through Bernie,” Danny says. “See if any of our connections can ID him.”
“He’s already on it.”
If Danny has to bet—and he does—he goes with Petrelli. Marks wouldn’t have had the conversation and then instantly put a tail on him.
Jimmy says, “If you want, me and Kevin can just go take care of it.”
“No,” Danny says. “I want you to come over here, pick Ian up, drive him to Madeleine’s.”
He knows that Pasco’s people wouldn’t hurt Ian, and he doubts that Petrelli’s would, either. The Italians aren’t Domingo Abbarca, they don’t hurt families. But you never know—a missed shot, a ricochet.
Danny’s not taking the chance.
He hangs up and says, “Ian, how would you like to go see Grandma?”
Ian’s face lights up. “Gramma!”
“Uncle Jimmy’s going to drive you,” Danny says. He sees the boy frown, tears well up. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there in a couple of days.”
“Two sleeps?”
“Two sleeps,” Danny says.
He packs a few of Ian’s clothes and some toys and then reads him a story until Jimmy gets there.
A few minutes later, Bernie calls. “Your man’s name is Ken Clark, out of Phoenix. He has connections to the L.A. family, but all the major players use him. Army sniper, Vietnam; he’s good, Danny.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Half an hour later, Danny sits with Harris in the agent’s car in the Oakwood parking lot.
“What’s so urgent, Danny?” Harris asks.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have something you want to tell me?” Danny asks.
“These latest stories,” Harris says, “linking you to Jardine. They’re bad, Danny, what do you want me to tell you?”
How about the truth? Danny thinks. How about that you and the big families are in bed together and the pillow talk is about taking me out? How about that? But he doesn’t tell Harris what he knows. Let him think I’m living in blissful ignorance.
“You ever see On the Waterfront?” Harris asks.
“I dunno. Maybe. Why?”
“There’s this famous scene,” Harris says. “Brando and Rod Steiger are in a car, and Steiger says to Brando, ‘Take the money, kid, before we get to . . .’ And Brando asks, ‘Before we get to where? Before we get to where?’ Because he knows that when they get there, Steiger, his own brother, is going to have him killed.”
“So?”
“So take the money, kid, before we get there.”
Danny gets out of the car.
Ken Clark goes out to get some chicken.
Popeyes.
Extra spicy.
Which is a mistake, because when he gets back to his room, Kevin Coombs hits him on the back of the head with a sap, and when Clark wakes up on the floor, Danny Ryan is sitting in a chair looking down at him.
Danny asks, “Who hired you, Ken?”
“They’d kill me.”
“Least of your worries right now,” Kevin says.
Then Danny gives him a shut up look and Kevin shuts up and goes back to eating Clark’s chicken. Ned Egan doesn’t say anything, but he rarely does. He just holds his .38 on Clark’s head.
“It’s simple,” Danny says. “Tell us who hired you or we’ll kill you.”
“You’ll kill me anyway.”
“No,” Danny says.
“How do I know?”
“You don’t,” Danny says. “But if you tell us, you have a chance of living. If you don’t, you don’t. Do the math.”
“Ronnie Faella.”
“Okay,” Danny says. “Get up. Go in the bathroom.”
“No, you said—”
“Do what I say.”
Kevin lifts Clark off the floor and half drags him to the bathroom. The guy still doesn’t have his legs under him.
Danny turns the volume on the television up and then rummages through Clark’s suitcase. “Hey, Ken, you have any clean socks? Never mind, here we go.”
Clark has a pair of white gym socks, neatly rolled together. Danny walks into the bathroom. “Open your mouth.”
“Come on, please. I told you what—”
Danny jams the socks into Clark’s mouth.
“You want me to do him?” Kevin asks.
“Ken, here’s the thing,” Danny says. “If I let you live, you might come after me again.”
Clark shakes his head, tries to say, “No.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Danny says. “Stick your hand in the door.”
Clark shakes his head again.
“It’s either that or a bullet in the head,” Danny says.
Clark lays his hand against the doorjamb.
Danny kicks the door shut.
Clark screams under the socks. His fingers are shattered. Two of the bones poke through the skin. He drops to his knees, holds his wrist and whimpers.
“The other one,” Danny says.
Kevin grabs Clark’s other wrist and holds his hand against the doorjamb. Danny kicks it again. It’ll be a long time before Clark aims a gun.
Danny waits until the screams stop and then takes the socks out of Clark’s mouth. “These guys will drop you off in front of the E-room. Tell Faella and Petrelli that if I didn’t want peace, you’d be dead and so would they.”
He takes Clark’s car keys and looks inside, opens the trunk.
No rifle.
So one down.
Still one to go.
Danny goes to the beach house. Diane walks into his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“The whole world wants us to split up,” she said.
“Fuck the world,” he said. “I’m more thinking about going the other way with it.”
“What other way?”
“After you finish the movie,” he said, “we go to Vegas, one of those wedding chapels . . .”
“Is that a proposal?”
“I don’t have a ring on me,” Danny said. “But I’ll get one. Do this right.”
Later, lying in bed, facing each other side by side, holding each other tight, her face in his chest, he feels every inch of her skin against him.
Then she goes tight.
Stiff.
Says softly, “You know my brother, Jarrod, killed my first husband.”
“I know.”
“Do you know why?”
“Your brother was on drugs or something,” Danny said.
“No,” she says, “that wasn’t why.”
For the next half hour, Danny listens to her tell him, her voice like a slow-running stream, soft but steady, flowing.
He hears her say that they were always close, Diane and Jarrod, always a team, a unit allied against the fighting and yelling that went on downstairs, their detached father, hypercritical mother. They used to lie in bed at night and tell each other stories, make each other laugh, but it started when she was about twelve, her brother sixteen, and as sort of a joke, her and Jarrod practicing kissing, getting ready for the boyfriends and girlfriends they were going to have, and it was funny and they giggled but it felt good to her and that’s what you have to know, Danny, I have to have you know that I was never raped, that would be the easy lie, it felt good, it always did even when I knew it was wrong and he knew it was wrong and the first time he touched my breast it was thrilling, I was thrilled I was wet and when he touched me down there for the first time I came for the first time and I loved it and I loved him and the first time he went into me it was from behind so I could pretend it was someone else and he called me “sweetheart” but I didn’t pretend, I knew who it was I knew it was him and I whispered his name and it went on for years, it went on for years not all the time not every night and sometimes we would stop, for months sometimes but never longer than that because we loved each other and even if we had other people sometimes we loved each other and always came back to our bed and if you don’t want to touch me anymore, Danny, I understand if you don’t want me anymore I understand I do it’s disgusting it’s horrible it’s sick what we did but I don’t want to lie because I’ve stopped lying to myself I lied myself into booze and pills I liked it I let it happen because I liked it and I loved him.
Danny lies perfectly still, afraid that if he moves she’ll fall apart, and he listens as she tells him that she left home, she left home and got married and when she got married she told Jarrod it had to stop and he said of course it did, of course, but he was angry he was hurt she never realized never knew how sick he was and when the family got together he would laugh and make ugly jokes and when he got her alone he’d tell her that he missed her that he missed it that Scott never had to know nobody ever had to know but she said that she wouldn’t, she couldn’t anymore and he got angrier and angrier and one night she came home and Scott was lying on the floor dead there was blood everywhere and Jarrod was sitting in the easy chair with the knife in his hand and he looked up at her and said, This is your fault, sweetheart.
At the sentencing hearing Jarrod made up a story that he asked Scott for a loan and he wouldn’t lend him the money and he lost his temper and just went berserk but from the stand he would look at Diane as if they had a funny secret and Danny, I understand if you don’t want me anymore I understand.
Her tears are wet against his skin, her body stiff and tight, and as they lie there pressed together they each understand that they are two damaged people who found each other.
“It’s all going to come out now,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“He phoned the other day.”
Hello, sweetheart. I’ve been reading about you. You’re having a pretty great life, aren’t you? You found another guy. While I’m here in this hole. In this hell. Well, it’s going to stop, sweetheart. I’m going to tell the world about us. I’m going to tell them how you fucked me, year after year. Your own brother. Then we’ll see what kind of life you have. Bye, sweetheart.
