City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(51)

“I don’t have my car,” Tony says.

“Take mine.”



Jimmy Mac drives Danny over to the Gloc.

When Danny walks back in, he isn’t using the cane at all. He limps a little, but otherwise you wouldn’t know that Steve Giordo shot the shit out of him. Everyone in the neighborhood knows it, though. Everyone knows that Danny Ryan was the bait in the botched hit on Liam. That the mother had swept in and pulled him out of the shit, that this sent his father on a bender of epic proportions, Marty Ryan hitting the bottle like a speed bag.

“I’ll wait out here,” Jimmy says.

The Gloc is decorated for Christmas. Well, as much as it ever is. A scraggly fake tree with a few bulbs and tinsel that looks like it’s left over from World War II. The sound system squeaks some Irish band doing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” which Danny thinks is a really bad idea.

John and Pat are in the back room.

Pat comes up and wraps his arms around Danny. “I’m sorry I didn’t come up and see you more.”

Danny says, “Pat, we need to talk.”

They go off to a booth, Danny tells him about the potential deal with Sal.

“You did that on your own boot?” Pat asked. “I wish you’d checked with me first.”

“I gotta check with you, Pat?” Danny asks. He knew he should have, and the old him would have. But there’s something about getting shot that makes him want to be his own man.

“With something like that, yeah.”

“It’s a chance to end this thing, put it to bed,” Danny says. “If Sal and his crew come over to us, Peter’s going to ask for peace, especially if Pasco isn’t backing him anymore.”

“He patched up that beef with Pasco.”

“He hasn’t patched it up with Sal,” Danny says. “We can end this war, Pat.”

Stop the bloodshed.

Pat shakes his head. “Italians are Italians. End of the day, they believe in blood. End of the day, they’re always going to side with each other. Anyway, it’s too late—you don’t have to worry about Sal Antonucci anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing you need to know.”

“Nothing I need to know?” Danny asks. Shit, pal, I took a bullet for you. Now I’m Johnny Jerkoff? Because, what, my last name isn’t Murphy?

“I’m just protecting you, Danny,” Pat says. “You can’t testify about what you don’t know, open yourself up to charges.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“I trust you,” Pat says. “You’re my brother. But this thing with Sal, I wish you hadn’t done that. Things are already in motion.”

“I sent a message to the man, Pat.”

“And you shouldn’t have,” Pat says. “You look tired, Danny. You shouldn’t push it. Go home, get some rest.”

Dismissed, Danny thinks.

Out of the back room.

“Come on,” Danny says.

Jimmy sets his beer down. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

They go out on the street.

The car comes at them fast.

Roars up the street and Danny doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t stop to think, or try to see who’s behind the wheel, he just pulls his gun and empties it into the windshield. The car goes out of control and slams into the back of a delivery truck parked along the sidewalk.

Danny and Jimmy get the hell out of there.

Smash Danny’s gun up and leave parts of it in the river, in a dumpster, in a ditch.



Sal looks out the window, watches Tony walk to the car.

He’s a beautiful creature, Sal thinks.

A beautiful fucking creature. Like a noble racehorse, sleek, muscled, and proud of his strength.

Tony opens the door and gets into the front seat. He looks out the window, sees Sal looking, smiles, pleased to be watched, his teeth white as new snow, and turns the key.

The car erupts in flame.

Sal sees Tony open the door and lurch screaming out into the street. He’s on fire, arms in front of him like a blind man. He takes two steps, then twirls, then falls.



The irony is that Tony had always said he wanted to be cremated when his time came, and the joke (although no one repeats it to Sal) is that he sure as shit was. Anyway, they put what’s left of him in an urn and they have a mass and a memorial service and a reception that Sal springs for, but Sal, he’s inconsolable.

Peter, he’s just happy that Pat Murphy accomplished what he couldn’t—bringing Sal back into the Moretti fold.

It doesn’t happen right away.

Sal goes into a deep depression, just closes the door to his den and won’t come out.

Peter Moretti comes over personally with a suitcase of cash—the “tax” from the Manchester job—but Sal won’t even see him. Peter leaves the money with Sal’s wife and takes off.



“Car bombs?!” Danny yells in the back room of the Gloc. “That’s who we are now? Jesus, Pat, what if his wife and kids were in the car?”

“They weren’t,” Pat says, but he knows that he’s taken things to a place they shouldn’t have gone.

Danny’s furious. They had Sal out of the war, maybe even ready to come over to their side, and now it’s a dead solid lock he’ll come back in with the Morettis. Fuckin’ Irish, always looking forward to our next defeat. We can’t get out of our own way.