City of Dreams

by Don Winslow

If there is a God, he thinks, he’s a cruel, vengeful prick who made my wife and my little boy pay for the things I did. I thought Jesus died for my sins, that’s what the nuns said anyway. Maybe my sins just maxed out Christ’s credit card.

In a world where most of the guys fucked around, had mistresses or gumars, Danny never cheated. He was as faithful as a golden retriever, and Terri even teased him about it, although she expected nothing less.

Ned Egan walks up. Marty’s longtime bodyguard, he’s in his forties now. Built like a fire hydrant but a hell of a lot tougher. You don’t fuck with Ned Egan, you don’t even joke about fucking with him, because Ned Egan has killed more guys than cholesterol.

Collectively, Sean and Kevin are known as the Altar Boys. They like to go around saying that they serve “Last Communion.”

Then Kevin laughs. Throws his head up and howls. “Throwing two mil in the water?! The feds after us?! The Italians?! The whole freakin’ world?! That’s wicked pisser! I love it! I’m with you, man! I’m with the Danny Ryan crew! Cradle to the freakin’ grave!”

The good thing about the Altar Boys is that they’re crazy. The bad thing about the Altar Boys is that they’re crazy.

We’re refugees, Danny thinks as he drives. Freakin’ refugees. Fugitives. Exiles.

Jesus, who knew? How much work a toddler could be. How constant it is.

Danny doesn’t love his life, but it’s life and who said you were ever going to like it anyway? He isn’t in a cell or a grave, he isn’t killing anybody or getting killed, and maybe that’s all you can ask for in this world.

Celia glares at him. The full malocchio. “I hate you.”

A criminal thinks that if you offer him $200K for doing nothing, you must have a lot more money to spend, so he should stick around and tap into the main source. The criminal gets almost insulted that you’re offering him chump change for doing nothing. He truly feels that he deserves a lot more for doing nothing.

“This is Pre, Ian.” Ian giggles as the puppy licks his face. “Pre?” Danny asks. “I named him for Steve Prefontaine, the runner,” Diane says. “I was into running for a while.”

Talk about feeling like a chump. Frankie’s whole world smells like vomit, piss, come, and Lysol.

No one writes a book alone. That’s an illusion.

No one writes a book alone.

Danny left, thinking he had saved her by going. She overdosed, the tragic Hollywood ending.