He is standing in the moonlight on the street at the top of the hill. Shadows of trees sway on the sidewalk. The wind brushes his face and arms, chill but refreshing. The dark silhouette of a house lurks behind two great elm trees. Someone inside is crying.

  He stumbles through an open gate in a fence, leaves and branches whipping his face. He climbs up a couple of steps onto a walk. The house looms large ahead of him. The air grows thick, but he leans into it, pushing forward.

  Past the trees, the house, limned in moonlight, becomes clearer—a Victorian home with a broad wraparound porch, a steep gabled roof, a high tower, and a faint light behind three round-topped windows on the second story.

  A thrashing noise rattles the dimly lit windowpanes.

  The cries turn to screams.

  Nick’s eyes opened and he sat up. Everything seemed to be tilting wildly one way, then the other. His head felt stuffed with cotton. His ears rang with echoes of screams. He tried to stand, but fell back onto the bottle of whiskey.

  Damn Jimmy. The dreams were already getting worse.

  CHAPTER 4

  July 10, 1928

  EDWARD BAYNES stepped out of his Falcon-Knight Roadster on Forty-Second Street and double-checked his suit coat pocket for his Colt .25. He told his driver, Sal, to keep the engine running, then slipped through the heavy sidewalk traffic into Goldman and Marchetti’s—the finest tailor shop in the Garment District.

  The punishing Metropolis heat gave way to chilled air courtesy of the new Weathermaker air conditioner. The shop smelled of fresh cotton, wool, and linen. Suits hung from brass bars in cutaway sections of darkwood walls lit by warm spotlights. Three-angle mirrors were set in the far corners, where men stood on platforms while tailors measured inseams and waists and arm lengths. The rear wall was a warren of fedoras in individual compartments. And the dulcet tones of orchestral swing music fell softly from speakers somewhere in the back room.

  A thick-chested tough with an obvious bulge beneath his too-tight suit coat emerged from behind a rack of overcoats and tipped his hat. “Senator Baynes. Bugsy’s waitin’ fer ya.”

  Edward nodded and wove through the clothing racks toward the rear. Another goon intercepted him at the open far door. He didn’t speak, just snarled at Edward like most people did at politicians these days, then waved him in with a tommy gun he didn’t bother to conceal.

  Down a short hall with dressing rooms on either side was a small warehouse. Just inside, seated at a card table, four body men were playing poker. Behind them, standing arms-out in front of an elaborate three-angle mirror, Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel was being measured for a suit.

  Along the warehouse walls, bolts of fabric hung from wood rods behind headless dummies and a master cutting table meticulously laden with fabric scissors, chalk, tape measures, needles, and all the rest. Edward loved being surrounded by the material and tools of the garment trade. He also loved the way the walls of fabric deadened the noise.

  “Eddie, come in,” Bugsy called. “Gino here is putting me in Egyptian cotton. It’s the new thing. He says I won’t sweat so much. You want a new suit? It’s on my dime.”

  “No, thanks,” Edward said. He waited patiently for Bugsy to finish.

  When the measurements were complete, Bugsy stripped down to his skivvies and Gino fetched his original suit from a hanger behind the mirror. Bugsy pulled on his trousers and sauntered over to the poker table. “You guys pack it in. The senator and I have some business to tend to.”

  “Sure, Mr. Siegel,” they said almost in unison. They picked up their cards and adjourned to the tailor’s table.

  “Have a seat, Eddie,” Bugsy told him. “Care for a drink? Gino keeps a Saint-Émilion Bordeaux in stock for me that’ll knock your socks off.”

  Edward shook his head. “You wanted to talk about a potential health matter?”

  Bugsy called Gino to bring him a glass of Bordeaux. “You look fretful, Senator. You better have a seat.”

  Edward looked back at the four body men. They seemed to be keeping their eyes on him while they played. Then he pulled out a chair and sat.

  Gino placed an overfilled glass of Bordeaux in front of Bugsy.

  “You bring the permits like I asked?”

  Edward reached into his inner pocket, pulled out two envelopes, and slid them across the low table. “This one gives you license to raze the shantytowns on Park Row and build residential or commercial, whatever suits your fancy. This one here is a Metropolis freight license. Your shell, Flamingo, can now officially bring goods into city ports by ship or rail. Stamp them ‘City of Metropolis,’ and customs will leave them be.”

  Bugsy smiled. “Well done, Senator. You’re a credit to our state legislature.”

  “It wasn’t the state senate that got you those,” he said. “My father thinks I’m taking an interest in his enterprises, which will go sour for me if he finds out it’s not on the square. More than that, I’ve made promises to the mayor’s office in exchange for those. I’m leveraged up to my eyeballs.”

  “Sounds uncomfortable,” Bugsy said, and took a sip of wine.

  Bugsy was holding something back, and Edward wanted to know what. “Look, Bugsy, what’s this all about, huh? You didn’t ask me here, talking about ‘health matters,’ just for a couple of permits. What shakes?”

  “All business. I like that. It’s why I put you in the capitol to begin with—”

  “And why you’re still backing me for mayor, right?”

  Bugsy rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s the thing, see. There’s been a complication.”

  Edward put his hand in his pocket and gripped the Colt .25. He checked the goon squad behind him. They’d stopped their poker game and stood watching him and Bugs.

  “I’ve been good to the family, Bugsy. Not just you. And when I’m mayor—”

  “Family is precisely the problem, Eddie, but it ain’t mine. It’s that idiot brother of yours. You hear what he’s been up to over at the railyard?”

  Edward relaxed his grip on his Colt. “We don’t talk much.”

  “Yeah, well. We been trying to bring the Teamsters in over there now since the war. Your father has proven a formidable opponent. It’s getting to the point where maybe I need to pay him a visit.”

  “He won’t go for a deal, Bugsy, we’ve talked about this. I can’t—”

  “Your brother is stirring the pot. He’s talking up to the supervisors about unionizing. Wants to put together his own chapter. Which cuts us out, see?”

  Edward chuckled. “Sounds like Julian. All idealism and ethics, but not a shred of smarts.”

  Bugsy frowned and sipped his wine. “I’m afraid I don’t find it quite as funny as you seem to. I about decided to put a button man on him and be done with it. But he’s your brother, and I thought it civil to give you a chance to do right by your own family. Still, you need to understand the situation. If you do the math on all the rail labor that could be paying Teamster dues, we’re talking about real dough. Your father’s iron fist has beat the unions to keep his costs down. I respect that. But if Julian manages to organize the railyard after all, and we get squeezed out, well, he’s going swimming, and you’re going to have to find another backer for your run at mayor. Capiche?”

  “My father may adore his younger son more than he does me, but he won’t ever let a union take hold. He’d sooner hire scabs.”

  “Be that as it may, we don’t take risks. And truth be told, it wouldn’t be a problem if Julian could be made to play ball, but he’s not—shall we say—cut from the same cloth as you.” Bugs finished off his wine and stared at the empty glass. “Word on the street is he’ll do about anything to take the edge off, too—booze, dope, what have you. And he don’t know his limits.”

  “I’m not my brother’s keeper,” Edward said.

  “Maybe not. And frankly, I’ve no interest in sibling rivalries. What I do have an interest in is your election as mayor. I want that for you almost as bad as you want it for yourself. We can do good things together for Metropolis. But if I’m honest, even if your starry-eyed brother fails with his Teamster dreams, he’s going to drag your campaign down. And if you aren’t viable politically, what are we doing here?”

  “So you’re saying I am my brother’s keeper.”

  “I’m saying you don’t have a union problem as much as you have a Julian problem. Your brother’s either got to get respectable or he’s got to get invisible. You follow?”

  Edward heaved a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t his own health matter. “I understand.”

  Down the short hall came the sound of voices entering the front of Goldman and Marchetti’s. A couple of the goons went to check it out.

  “Now,” Bugsy moved on, “what ticket we puttin’ you on. ’Cause the way I see it, the two parties we got now are both filled with crooks. Hell, they make the family look like saints, you know?”

  Edward did. “Yes. And I have a thought. Metropolis had another party thirty or forty years back. Got things done for the good of the people, even if they couldn’t see it for themselves.”

  “You might be onto something there, Senator. Good, let’s—”

  Gunfire erupted from the front of the store. Bugsy reached beneath the table and came up with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun and a 1911 Colt .45—Edward’s father had schooled him about guns since he was big enough to hold one. The two guys at the tailor table rushed to the left wall, fished back behind a bolt of silk, and pulled out tommy guns.

  Someone cried out from the front, and more gunfire echoed down the hallway.

  “Marco,” Bugsy shouted, “get into the blind.” He pointed his shotgun to the front corner of the little warehouse, where Marco wouldn’t be seen. “Danny, get out the back and pull the car into the alley. Go!”

  Edward pulled his Colt .25 from his pocket and shared a look with Bugs.

  “You come to put one in my skull, Senator?” Bugsy said with a laugh.

  “Brought it for my health.”

  A shrill cry echoed down the hall, followed by a wet thump.

  Bugsy handed Edward the shotgun. “Long as you’re gonna break the law, you might as well do it with something louder than a peashooter. Plus, no need to aim. Just point and pull the trigger.”

  Bugsy flipped the table over, and he and Edward ducked in behind it. More shooting and screaming. More wet thumps on the floor.

  Then hurried footsteps pattered down the hall. Marco nearly shot the guy, but it was one of Bugs’s men. The guy stumbled into the little warehouse, bleeding from the neck, fell to his knees, flopped onto his stomach, twitched, and lay still.

  “You coming out, Bugsy?” a deep voice called down the hall. “Or we coming in to get you?”

  “That you, Lonergan?” Bugsy shouted. “Should have suspected the Fist Gang was behind this. Only cowards come at a man when he’s being fitted for a suit.”

  Bullets whistled down the hallway and through the warehouse, pinging against the rear wall. “You’re a dandy, Bugs. At least your crappy Italian friends have the discretion to do business in meat lockers.”

  Bugsy fired a couple of rounds from his .45 aimlessly down the hall. “Maybe so, but you’ll be getting a bill for every suit you put a hole in today. And I’ll come collect in person, since I know you’re one to welch.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your glad rags, Bugs. You’re going to hell no matter what you’re wearing.”

  The hallway lit up with more gunfire. Bugsy returned several rounds, and Edward followed suit, blasting one barrel down the hallway. The air filled with acrid smoke. He coughed, but kept his eyes on the hallway.

  Four men raced into the warehouse, guns raised. Marco opened fire with his tommy gun, dropping two immediately. Bugsy emptied his .45, finishing off one more. The last man crouched with his tommy gun and sprayed bullets wildly in every direction. Bolts of cloth muffled the sound of gunfire but flailed as bullets tore through them. After a moment, the firing stopped.

  Gun smoke filled the warehouse. Men lay dead and bleeding on the floor. Tiny bits of fabric floated down around them. An eerie silence lingered.

  “Nail him!” Bugsy cried at Edward, then wheeled on Lonergan. “Say goodbye, you ugly whoreson!”

  Edward had Lonergan dead to rights. He just had to pull the trigger. He raised the shotgun, his finger trembling. The leader of the Fist Gang braced for it, but didn’t try to run. Edward stared a moment longer, then lowered the gun.

  “Well, I’ll be damned, you miserable fucking coward,” Bugsy spat. He ripped the shotgun from Edward’s hands and blasted Lonergan full of shot from the other barrel. Lonergan crumpled over his dead friends.

  Marco came running up to Bugsy. “We gotta go, boss. Now, before the coppers get here.”

  The rear warehouse door swung open, and Danny hollered, “Let’s go already!”

  Bugsy ambled up to Edward. “Lonergan had balls, but he didn’t have smarts. No way he knew our place. Which means either I got a rat, or someone’s wise to us and knew you was coming here. Maybe followed you.”

  Edward couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bodies.

  “You listening to me, Senator? We gonna have a problem?”

  He finally looked back at Bugs. “I wasn’t followed. And you won’t have to pull the trigger for me next time.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll be in touch.”

  Bugs and Marco jogged to the rear door and disappeared into the alley. A car engine roared, tires screeched, and Edward found himself alone in the back of Goldman and Marchetti’s tailor shop with a lot of dead mobsters.

  He hurried back down the hallway, stepping over the bodies on his way to the front of the store. The windows had been shot out. Police sirens blared down Forty-Second Street. He pulled his suit coat up over his head, left the store, crunched over shattered glass on the sidewalk, and ducked into the back seat of his roadster. “Sal, get us the hell out of here.”

  They sped off into Garment District traffic.

  CHAPTER 5

  July 2, 1999

  NICK QUIETLY opened the door to his daughter’s bedroom. She’d been dead for eight years.

  Morning sun fell in a whirl of dust motes across Emily’s bed. Her bed table lamp, clock, and journal sat where they had the day she died. An old vanity he’d found at a garage sale out in Eastneck stood against the north wall, its chair pushed in, the combs and brushes arranged in tidy rows. Photos of her and her friends were still tucked in around the edges of the mirror. The walls were filled with pictures, as well, but always the silly ones—goofy faces, embarrassing moments, blurred photos she loved to laugh at. Plenty of them had her friends. But she’d been one teenager who wasn’t embarrassed to tack up pictures of her family, too.

  He went in and sat on her bed.

  Her room still smelled of her sage-and-lavender body lotion. She used to tell people it was the perfect blend of hard and soft. Just like her. Then she’d laugh.

  A dozen or more vinyl albums hung from nails everywhere there wasn’t a photo. For better or worse, she’d inherited his love of records—the hiss and crackle, the spin, the sound of the stylus finding the groove. Against his best advice, she’d wanted to be a singer someday. Make records of her own songs. It was the hazard of being an audio guy. People you loved tended to get the bug. But she’d had the gift to play, and play she had, beautifully.

  In the quiet, he heard a hundred old conversations, like they’d somehow gotten into the beige carpet and sheer drapes. He could hear the laughter in the photographs, and the delicate finger-picking she practiced late into the night when she should have been sleeping. He could hear her reading at night—usually biographies of the old jazz hounds and the early rock pioneers—because she liked to read aloud, said hearing the words made the stories more real. He got that.

  God, he missed her.

  He dug his phone out of his pocket and found his voicemail box. He scrolled and scrolled until he found the right message, then he hit Play and listened.

  Like she was here again.

  Hey Dad, I just wanted to call and say thanks. I know it wasn’t easy letting me come to this party. But I love that you trusted me. And I if I haven’t said it enough . . .

  Static filled the line. The hiss of a lost signal.

  . . . but when I get home . . .

  More static. Longer this time.

  . . . it’s pretty far, so . . .

  Static.

  . . . don’t listen to that new Guaraldi Trio album without . . .

  Her voice never came back, and the message dropped thirty seconds later.

  He sat staring at his phone. Above the message were three missed calls. She’d tried to get a hold of him, but he’d been in his studio working and hadn’t heard the ring. It wasn’t until the visitor light flashed that he’d looked up from his mix console.

  Someone opened the outer studio door; the red light flashed. It helped him prevent unwanted audio artifacts if he was recording or transferring signals from physical media to digital. Then the inner studio door opened and Jen came in, followed by two uniformed police officers. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Jen, hon, are you okay?”

  “Nick . . .” After several moments, she shook her head and sat on the studio couch.

  Nick stood up. “Look, someone better tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Mr. Santori, I’m Officer Hicks. This is my partner, Officer Jacobson.

  It might be best if you sit.”

  A sinking feeling opened up inside him. His peripheral vision went dark, and all he could see were the officers’ faces. “Please . . . tell me she’s okay.”

  Hicks, a tall Black man with gentle eyes, let out a long breath. “Mr. Santori, at approximately 10:30 p.m. your daughter and her three friends were struck head on near Highway 5 . . .”

  Time slowed down. Every word seemed to fall from Hicks’s lips like he’d dialed playback down to ten percent. Nick waited on every syllable, willing the man to say that she was in the hospital . . . that she was . . .

 

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