Free Kings of Midnight by Wallace Stroby

stomach, pushed away a little from the desk, chair wheels squeaking. He looked at Benny in silence.
    â€œWhat?” Benny said.
    â€œYou been away a long time.”
    â€œWe’ve been over that.”
    â€œThings have changed. No one who wanted you dead is even around anymore. Joey Dio was the last one, and he’s gone now, too. But there’s no crews anymore, not the way there were.”
    â€œHard to feature that.”
    â€œThere’s still plenty of wiseguys around, sure. But when the bosses kept getting sent away, the whole thing fell apart. It just … What’s the word? ‘Devolved.’ It’s just gangs now. Nickel-and-dime stuff. Gambling, loan sharks, all that, that’ll always be around. But the way it used to be? Organized, a chain of command and all that? That’s all gone. Everyone’s on their own now.”
    â€œI called the Galaxy, tried to reach Leo Bloomgold. Didn’t have any luck.”
    â€œTry a Ouija board.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    â€œHeart attack. Last year, down in Boca. That’s where he was living. It’s a different world here now, Benny. You could walk down Lefferts Boulevard with a sign that said, I RATTED OUT JIMMY THE GENT and no one would give a shit.”
    Benny thought that over. Jimmy, Patsy, Joey, and now Leo. All of them gone.
    â€œI thought you’d be happy to hear all this,” Hersh said. “You know, almost ten years now, I’ve been running this business, haven’t had to pay a dime protection to anyone? And no-show jobs? At one point, when I had the big shop up on Pelham Parkway, half my staff were gonifs I never even met. Someone would come by every week, pick up their checks. You think I miss that?”
    â€œIs there anyone else around I would know?”
    Hersh gave that a moment, shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”
    â€œWhat about over in Jersey?”
    â€œThose were your friends, not mine.”
    â€œJimmy Peaches?”
    â€œJimmy Falcone? Yeah, I think he’s still around. Not doing so well, though, from what I hear. He’s down in some retirement place on the Shore.”
    â€œJimmy Junior?”
    â€œIn Marion, last I heard. Not coming home.”
    Benny nodded, stood. “I’ll be around for a little bit. Couple, three days at least. Is it okay if I call you again?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œSo we can stay in touch.”
    â€œAnd I can tell you if I hear anything? If anyone comes around asking about you? That the idea?”
    â€œThat, too.”
    â€œIf I did tell you,” Hersh said, “it would be because I don’t want those kids to be orphans, that’s all. It wouldn’t be about you.”
    â€œI understand.” Benny put out his hand.
    Hersh looked at it, then at Benny’s eyes. Benny left his hand out. After a moment, Hersh sat forward, reached up, shook it.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Benny said. “For everything.”
    When Benny was at the door, Hersh said, “Do you?”
    Benny turned. “What?”
    â€œKnow where Joey Dio stashed his money?”
    â€œNo. Why would I? He was no friend of mine.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t tell me if you did, would you?”
    â€œForget it, Hersh. Like you said, it was a long time ago.”
    *   *   *
    Marta stayed in the car. He walked along the damp grass, following the directions the caretaker had given, reading the headstones set flush in the ground. They seemed to go on forever.
    To his right, behind a high, ivy-choked iron fence, was the steady drone of traffic on the Long Island Expressway. The air smelled of exhaust.
    It took him ten minutes to find her. It was a simple granite headstone, the grass overgrown around it. RACHEL ROTH, NEE BRONFMAN, LOVING MOTHER 1949–2009. Someone had left two small stones on the marker. Hersh maybe, or the kids, Hersh lying about where they were.
    He knelt, set down