Gone for Good

6

Elizabeth, New Jersey

They were near the cemetery now.

Philip McGuane sat in the back of his handcrafted Mercedes limousine a stretch model equipped with armor-reinforced sides and bulletproof one-way windows at a cost of four hundred thou and stared out at the blur of fast-food restaurants, tacky stores, and aged strip malls. A scotch and soda, freshly mixed in the limo's wet bar, was cupped in his right hand. He looked down at the amber liquor. Steady. That surprised him.

"You okay, Mr. McGuane?"

McGuane turned to his companion. Fred Ta

"I'm fine," McGuane lied.

The limousine exited Route 22 at Parker Avenue. Ta

But this, McGuane knew, was taking it to a whole new level.

"Who is this guy anyway?" Ta

McGuane shook his head. His own suit was a hand-tailored Joseph Abboud. He rented three floors on Manhattan 's lower west side. In another era, McGuane might have been called a consigliore or capo or some such nonsense. But that was then, this is now. Gone (long gone, despite what Hollywood might want you to believe) were the days of backroom hangouts and velour sweats days Ta

But you were no better.

"And why we driving way out here anyway?" Ta

McGuane didn't reply. Ta

If the Ghost wants to meet, you meet.

Didn't matter who you were. To refuse would mean that the Ghost would come to you. McGuane had excellent security. He had good people. But the Ghost was better. He had patience. He would study you. He would wait for an opening. And then he would find you. Alone. You knew that.

No, better to get it over with. Better to go to him.

A block away from the cemetery, the limousine pulled to a stop.

"You understand what I want," McGuane said.

"I got a man in place already. It's taken care of."

"Don't take him out unless you see my signal."

"Right, yeah. We've gone over this."

"Don't underestimate him."

Ta

McGuane was not so sure.

Ta

And most of all, you never back down.

McGuane knew all that knew it as well as anyone but right now, more than anything, he wanted to run away. Just pack what he could and simply disappear.

Like his old friend Ken.

McGuane met the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. He took a deep breath and nodded. The car started moving again. They turned left and slid past the gates of Wellington Cemetery. Tires crunched loose gravel. McGuane told the driver to stop. The driver obeyed. McGuane stepped out and moved to the front of the car.

"I'll call you when I need you."

The driver nodded and pulled out.

McGuane was alone.

He pulled up his collar. His gaze swept over the graveyard. No movement. He wondered where Ta

The sky was clear. The wind whipped him like a reaper's scythe. He hunched his shoulders. The traffic sounds from Route 22. spilled up over sound barriers and serenaded the dead. The smell of something freshly baked wafted in the still air and for a moment McGuane thought of cremation.

No sign of anyone.

McGuane found the path and headed east. As he passed the stones and markers, his eyes unconsciously checked birth and death dates. He calculated ages and wondered about what fate had befallen the young ones. He hesitated when he saw a familiar name. Daniel Ski

Bye, bye, Angel.

McGuane tried to shrug it off.

Had it all started here?

He moved on. Up ahead, he made a left and slowed his pace. Not far now. His eyes sca

McGuane stopped. He read the name and the date. His mind traveled back. He wondered what he felt and realized that the answer was, not much. He didn't bother looking around anymore. The Ghost was here somewhere. He could feel him.

"You should have brought flowers, Philip."

The voice, soft and silky with a hint of a lisp, chilled his blood. McGuane slowly turned to look behind him. John Asselta approached, flowers in his hand. McGuane stepped away. Asselta's eyes met his, and McGuane could feel a steel claw reach into his chest.

"It's been a long time," the Ghost said.

Asselta, the man McGuane knew as the Ghost, moved toward the tombstone. McGuane stayed perfectly still. The temperature seemed to drop thirty degrees when the Ghost walked past.

McGuane held his breath.

The Ghost knelt and gently placed the flowers on the ground. He stayed down there for a moment, his eyes closed. Then he stood, reached out with the tapered fingers of a pianist, and caressed the tombstone with too much intimacy.

McGuane tried not to watch.

The Ghost had skin like cataracts, milky and marsh-like. Blue veins ran down his almost-pretty face like dyed tear tracks. His eyes were shale, almost colorless. His head, too big for his narrow shoulders, was shaped like a lightbulb. The sides of his skull were freshly shaved, a sprout of mud-brown hairs sticking up from the middle and cascading out like a fountain. There was something delicate, even feminine, in his features a nightmare version of a Dresden doll.

McGuane took another step back.

Sometimes you meet a person whose i

"What do you want?" McGuane asked.

The Ghost lowered his head. "Have you heard the expression that there are no atheists in foxholes?"

"Yes."

"It's a lie, you know," the Ghost said. "In fact, just the opposite is true. When you are in a foxhole, when you are face-to-face with death that is when you know for sure that there is no God. It's why you fight to survive, to draw one more breath. It's why you call out to any and every entity because you don't want to die. Because in your heart of hearts, you know that death is the end game No hereafter. No paradise. No God. Just nothingness."