City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(69)

Marvin spins and shoots.

It goes in.

“My old man is your basic Irish stereotype,” Danny says, chasing down the ball. “A bitter alcoholic. It was my mother who was the no-show.”

“That’s different.”

Yeah, it was different all right, Danny thinks. He shoots and it actually goes in.

“Black rubbing off on you,” Marvin says.

“You ever hear of Larry Bird?” Danny asks.

Marvin laughs. “Always the example you guys use.”

“That’s because we don’t need another one,” Danny says. He runs in, grabs his own rebound and lays it up.

“Black man would have dunked it,” Marvin says.

“White man don’t have to,” Danny says. He flips Marvin the ball. “Word is Peter Moretti has put a hit out on you.”

“I heard,” Marvin says. “He gave the contract to Sal Antonucci.”

“Sal’s the real thing, Marvin,” Danny says. “Keep your head on a swivel.”

“I’m not afraid of Sal Antonucci.”

But you should be, Danny thinks.



He drives down to Goshen with Marty’s groceries.

It would be a hell of a lot easier if the old man would move to Providence in the winter, but he’s stubborn (go figure) and sticks it out in the little cottage that barely has insulation. So at least once a week Danny has to drive down there with the groceries and to see if he’s still on the right side of the grass.

And it’s a risk, driving down there. Driving anywhere these days, with a war on. But you can’t live in fear, Danny thinks. You take reasonable precautions, you check your rearview mirror, you keep your gun close to hand and your head on a swivel and you live your life.

Dead down at the shore there in April. The vacation trailers are shut up, the hot dog stand, the ice cream shop, even the laundromat, all closed, waiting for summer to come back to life again.

Danny pulls off in the beach parking lot on the way, gets out and steps onto the sand. In the clear air, Block Island looks close, almost like he could swim to it. The water is bottle green with spindrift spraying across the tops of the waves. He watches a fishing boat, rigged for netting, make its way out of the Harbor of Refuge and wishes he was on it, wishes his life were as clean and sharp as the water, that if he jumped in, the cold and the salt and the surf would strip his skin of the film that always seems to be on it these days.

He has an impulse to walk in, duck under a wave and then swim beyond the break.

Freeze to death.

It’s just a flash in the mind, not serious.

You have a wife and a kid to take care of, Danny thinks. You have Dogtown. And your old man. All relying on you.

Boo-hoo, he thinks.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

He turns, walks back to the car and drives the two minutes to Marty’s cottage.

“You bring my Hormels?” Marty asks.

He’s sitting in that chair, with the TV on loud, a steady drone. A glass of whiskey sits on an end table beside the chair.

“No, Dad,” Danny says. “Every other time I come, I bring your Hormels, but this time for some reason I just decided not to.”

“Smart-ass.”

Danny unloads the groceries, puts some stuff in the cabinets, the perishables in the refrigerator. “You want me to make you something?”

“No.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You gotta eat.”

“I hear you’re in bed with the Blacks now,” Marty says.

“Just cuddling,” Danny says. He opens one of the Hormel cans, finds a clean spoon in the drainer, and scoops the hash into a pan. “Why, you got a problem with it?”

Marty surprises him. “No, it’s the smart move.”

Danny takes a plastic spatula from the drawer. The drawer is sticky from the salt air and hard to shut. He clicks on the gas burner, then pushes the hash around the pan. “Thanks.”

The hash heats up quickly. Danny spoons it onto a plate, grabs a fork and hands it to Marty.

Marty’s got this sly, dirty smirk on his face.

“What?” Danny asks.

“I heard something.”

Like, playing it out, making it last, Danny thinks, savoring that he knows something Danny don’t for a change. “What did you hear, Dad?”

“Sal Antonucci is a homo.”

A “homo”? Danny thinks. It takes him a second to remember what the word means. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Ned heard it,” Marty says. “From a guy in a bar. Frankie V caught Sal in a gay joint and Sal punched him.”

“What was Vecchio doing in a gay bar?”

“Collecting his envelope,” Marty says.

“Yeah, I’m not buying it.”

“I’m not selling it,” Marty says. “You asked me to tell you what I heard, I’m telling you.”

“Eat.”

Jesus Christ, Danny thinks as he watches Marty shove food around his plate. Sal, gay? Doesn’t even matter if it’s true—if Ned heard a guy talking about it in a bar, it’s as good as true. If Marty in his chair here knows about it . . .

He can just hear Frankie V spreading it around—“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I think you need to know, this is just between us . . .” Enjoying the hell out of himself. And if it’s true that Sal punched him, Frankie would have gone running to Peter. Expecting what? That Peter would choose Frankie over his best hitter? That Peter would do the right thing? “Jesus God, Dad, would you put a bite of fucking food in your mouth?”