THREE

Taking public transportation back to the city and into Queens wasn’t the smartest idea, but he had a hunch it might be a while before he got a chance to get back. He compromised and walked from the train instead of taking a bus or taxi. No one offered to shoot him during the trip, and by the time he passed through the gates at Calvary Cemetery in Woodside, he figured he was safe.

Lolita Lamontagne had got in just under the wire, before burials were banned in favor of cremation. Her second husband, Mike, hadn’t been so timely, but Brooklyn had dug the hole for his urn – right next to her stone – himself.

It was a big cemetery, and it took him a while to find the site. He amused himself by trying to guess where Giuseppe “the Clutch Hand” Morello had been planted. Ol’ Giuseppe had been the boss of bosses back in early century, the inventor of the protection racket. He liked to dismember his enemies and ship their bodies to other cities in wooden barrels. There were a lot of gangsters buried in Calvary, but the Clutch Hand’s grave was unmarked.

Ma was buried in so-called New Calvary. A nice spot with a bench, next to Brooklyn’s old man, and not too far from his pal, David.

“Hey, Ma.” He knelt to pull some weeds and brush some mulch off the stone. Sixty-seven years old. She’d made it through a lot of shit only to catch cancer. Mike had died of the sads about a year later. Seeing them together over the last decades of her life had made Brooklyn less forgiving of his father. The old man, in retrospect, had been kind of a dick. “Saw on the signs comin’ in that they’ll be pulling the stones out soon. Be a real pain in the ass ta find you after that.”

The headstones and monuments would be crushed to gravel and spread over the ground to prepare for a new layer of topsoil in a couple of years. City officials and the Designed had gone back and forth on the plan, arguing whether leaving the bodies in place or digging them up and burning them would have less impact on the environment. Eventually, they’d change the name to Calvary Meadow. Or not. Whole new ballgame, maybe. “You and Mike held out a couple more years, well… things mighta been different.”

The majority of graves in New Calvary were from 1978, and most of the stones from that year weighted down empty boxes. All the stiffs had been tossed into mass graves or flung on bonfires during the bad time. Splitsville or not, the First had a river of blood on their hands.

Brooklyn poked around until he found David’s monument. Cold, gray stone, level with the ground to make it easier to mow the grass. October 16, 1975. His hand floated to his mouth. If the Jellies hadn’t been stealing military secrets in advance of their invasion. If Galvano hadn’t agreed to act as the middleman. If Brooklyn hadn’t been working for Duke Carlotta. If he hadn’t agreed to hang onto the tapes. If Prick hadn’t ratted him out. If David hadn’t tried to play hero.

The stream of ifs had worn away the guilt some. Brooklyn had made some bad moves, certainly he’d contributed to the events of that night, but he didn’t own the whole thing. Not off the hook, but he had come to see he had plenty of company there. Most of what he felt now was a twenty-four-year-old sadness that a pal had died young. He took another look at the Calvary Cemetery class of ’78. Lot o’ that goin’ ’round.

Ma. Mike. David… the First hadn’t had anything to do with those deaths, but only karma would hold them to the rest.