“I need to talk to Sam!” Opal screeched.
He knew she’d been harassing poor Sam constantly even after she’d gone back to Gatesville. “Too bad. He’s not here.”
“You have to get him! Last night?—”
“I don’t give a damn,” he said, and hung up on her.
The phone starting ringing again almost immediately, but he ignored it. Sam might feel like he had to jump every time his sister wanted him to, but Alistair sure as hell didn’t. The miserable woman could spend all day trying to call an empty house if she wanted.
Shutting the door firmly on the sound of the telephone, he walked to the garage near The Pride where Wanda stored her car. She’d given him permission to use it today, considering the cemetery where they were planting Bellinowski was halfway to Cicero.
Traffic was backed up long before he got anywhere near the Black Madonna Cemetery and Mausoleum. He briefly tried to remember the name of the pope in Kraków, and which of the other popes he might be feuding with at the moment, and failed. At any rate, Bellinowski was getting a good send-off, and the streets were jammed with the cars of mourners. About half a mile out, Alistair gave up on getting any closer and found a place to park.
He wove through the crowds, slipping between groups dressed in black, some of them carrying flowers to add to the enormous pile outside the cemetery gates. It took time and patience, but he managed to work his way to within sight of the grave by the time the priest started his spiel.
More flower arrangements formed a backdrop to the ceremony, in a myriad of shapes: an American flag, a dove with a cross in its beak, a robed figure that might have been meant to represent the Black Madonna herself, as well as the typical wreaths and bouquets. The priest stood before them, reading from his Bible. “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last He will stand upon the earth; and after my skin has been thus destroyed, then in my flesh I shall see God…”
If he believed God existed, Alistair would have sincerely doubted Bellinowski would be seeing Him. More likely the other guy. But maybe that was what faith was about—hoping a man who lived and died by the gun might still find forgiveness.
Or maybe it was just a bunch of nice words to make the family feel better. To the priest’s right stood an old woman all in black, wailing and sobbing loud enough to wake the dead. Two women clasped her arms to keep her from collapsing, their own faces streaked with tears.
Bellinowski’s mother, or maybe grandmother? Flanked by sisters, cousins?
A wall of men and women in black suits stood behind them, heads bowed respectfully as the woman howled and the priest droned. Directly before the priest was the casket, ready to be lowered into the raw rectangle of earth below. It was nice, if you were into such things, the black surface offset by hardware that Alistair would bet was real gold, not just gilding. No doubt Sullivan had paid for the whole shindig.
The man himself stood across the grave from the stricken old lady, dressed in a black suit with a black fur coat to keep out the weather. His head was bowed, hands clasped in front of him, and he seemed to be praying.
A front just to look good? Or did Sullivan truly believe? Plenty of gangsters did, as nonsensical as it seemed to Alistair. Though he supposed they weren’t the only ones who went to church, mouthed words about forgiveness and loving thy neighbor, then went out and did terrible things, seemingly seeing no contradiction. Maybe some people just thought anything they did would be automatically blessed by God, so long as they put something in the collection plate every week.
Turner stood by Sullivan, cane in hand though he wasn’t leaning on it at the moment. It had been a while since Alistair saw him—he didn’t remember quite so many worry-lines on the man’s forehead. Maybe the gang war had him anxious, or maybe it was something else Alistair wasn’t privy to.
Like so many other things. But that was why he was here. If Sam wouldn’t tell him what was going on, maybe he could sweet-talk Sullivan into doing so.
Alistair bowed his head and fixed a sorrowful expression on his face. It wasn’t hard; he had only to think back to his parents’ funeral, after the ferry they’d been on sank. Their final send-off had been much more sparsely attended, only a handful of friends, a priest, and the woman from the orphanage ready to take him away right after. He couldn’t recall her name, only that she’d rested her hand on his shoulder while he struggled not to cry.
He hadn’t been invited to Forrest’s funeral, though an aunt had sent him a newspaper clipping of the obituary.
All of them had been better people than Bellinowski. Better people than him.
The distant sound of gunfire shattered the air.
Alistair spun, eyes searching. It hadn’t been close—maybe a hold-up at a nearby bank or something. Because no gangster would ever try to pull off a hit at a funeral.
Bellinowski’s mother/grandmother didn’t seem to notice and the priest kept talking, but all of the dark-suited gangsters went on alert. Then there came a rush of wings from above, and a peregrine falcon dropped from the sky, shifting at just the right moment so her boots hit the ground in front of Sullivan.
“Boss—it’s Fabiano’s gang, what’s left of them,” she said.
Sullivan’s nostrils flared and rage ignited in the depths of his eyes. “At a funeral? While Eddie’s own grandmother is paying her last respects? I’ll kill her myself.”
The priest had fallen silent, looking worried. “Padre, get the family to safety,” Sullivan ordered. “Liam, Gabriela, make sure nobody bothers them. Angie, you know what to do.”
The falcon familiar nodded and took back to the sky. Screams sounded from the crowd, and the chatter of Tommy guns grew closer.
Fabiano was killing civilians to get to Sullivan.
Alistair turned to the gangster. “How can I help?”
Sullivan reached into his coat and pulled out a .45 Colt semi-automatic, its barrel inscribed with hexes and its wooden grip well-worn. “Get ready to fight.”
