Danny DeMarco, the fourth and final person whose cooperation DeMarco needed, was on the other side of the glass in the visitor’s area, talking into a phone. The son of a bitch hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and was dressed in a jail jumpsuit, and he still looked like a million bucks.
Joe and Danny DeMarco looked alike; no one would be surprised to hear they were cousins. Both had full heads of dark hair, strong noses, good chins, and blue eyes. And Joe DeMarco was a good-looking man, handsome according to most. But next to Danny …? Well, it was all about millimeters. The millimeters of space between the eyes, the millimeters of difference in the length of the nose or the shape of the chin. Perfect symmetry versus near-perfect symmetry—that’s all that separates the truly beautiful from the merely handsome. For example, if you placed a photo of Kirk Douglas next to one of his son Michael, taken when they were both thirty years old, there would be no doubt that the millimeters had favored Kirk. That was Danny and Joe DeMarco—and Joe was Michael, not Kirk.
And it wasn’t just his cousin’s looks that women—like Joe’s ex-wife—found appealing. There was a sparkle in Danny’s eyes that said he’d be fun, that life was his personal bowl of cherries and he’d happily share it with you. Most women, except for Marie DeMarco, it seemed, could tell that Danny was a short-term proposition, a guy who’d be great to spend a week with in Vegas but not someone who was going to be there for you when the doctor told you about that little lump in your breast.
“You understand?” DeMarco said.
“Yeah,” Danny said.
“And you understand this guy’ll kill you if you fuck up?”
“Yeah.”
“And you understand you have to deliver? Giving it your best shot doesn’t count.”
“Yeah. Do I have time to see Marie before I leave?”
An image of his ex-wife and his cousin immediately popped into DeMarco’s brain, an image he tried his best to push aside. “Yeah,” he said, “but only because I have to do a couple things first. But your ass had better be on the first shuttle to D.C. in the morning. We’ll drive over to western Virginia together, but in separate cars.”
“Who’s gonna pay for my flight?” Danny said.
“You’re gonna pay for your own fuckin’ flight!”
“Yeah, okay, fine. Geez, you don’t have to be so—”
“And I want you to bring clothes that make you look like the smalltime guinea hood you are. Stupid gold chains around your neck. Loud ties. Shiny suits. Just the way you dress when you and … and her go out. Got it?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Just do what I tell you,” DeMarco said. “And if you’re not in D.C. tomorrow morning, Danny, I swear to God, I’ll—”
“I’ll be there, Joe. You got my word.”
DeMarco just shook his head. His word. Jesus.
“And Joe, thanks. I mean, I just can’t believe you’re doing this for me.”
“I’m not doing this for you, you asshole. Or for your wife. There’s a whole lot more at stake here than you going to jail, which is where you goddamn well belong.”