I told him whoever he hired to kill the Dawes family in Montclair had been sloppy. I told him a little girl survived and I wanted him to personally underwrite her medical expenses for a complete facial reconstruction. Further, I wanted him to write a certified cashier’s check to the estate of Greg and Melanie Dawes in the amount of nine million dollars so Addie could try to cope through life with the disability his actions had caused.
DeMeo laughed out loud. “You got some stones,” he said. “I always said that about you.”
“Me and my stones will give you five days to come up with the money.”
DeMeo’s eyes grew hard. “An ultimatum?”
I tried to think about it from his perspective. “Mr. DeMeo, I don’t want to come across as disrespectful. Nine million plus the surgeries, that sounds like a lot of money. But let’s be honest: it’s no more than a bucket of sand off the beach to someone like you. I would consider it a personal favor if you do this thing for this one small girl. In return, I’ll owe you a favor.”
“I can make you stay out my business for all time with a simple hand gesture,” he said.
“And you’ll be dead before I hit the ground.”
“Your giant? We’ve got three people on him.”
“My girl.”
“The blond?”
I nodded.
DeMeo turned to me, made a show of opening his jacket. “I’m just reaching for my phone,” he said. He pressed a key on the touch pad and said, “You have the girl?” Then he said, “Why not?” He turned his attention to me and said, “Nice bluff, but that’s all it is. She’s not here.”
“You believe that, go ahead and give your signal.”
He smiled that Cheshire cat smile again and said, “I don’t think it would have worked out, you working for me.”
Then we parted company.
I took a deep breath. I had faced down Joseph DeMeo and lived. Of course, it didn’t mean much, since Joe had no intention of paying the money.
I made my way to the front of the cemetery and stood a block away from the black sedan and waited for Coop’s signal. Cooper Stewart had been driving limos in the LA area for more than ten years. Before that, he’d been a capable light-heavyweight with a stiff jab. Coop was tall, maybe six five. His rugged face showed extensive scar tissue around the eyes, confirming his status as a journeyman, not a contender. Augustus Quinn knew Coop better than I did, but I’d ridden with him several times and trusted him. Coop gave the signal, and I walked over to the limo and climbed in.
