Rage of Angels

Frank Jackson walked over to a battered cardboard suitcase on a luggage rack, opened it and took out a tool kit. From it he removed nails and a hammer. He laid them on the bedside table next to the sleeping boy. Then he went into the bathroom and lifted a two-gallon gasoline can from the bathtub. He carried it into the bedroom and set the can on the floor. Joshua was going to go up in flames. But that would be after the crucifixion.

2:00 A.M.

Throughout New York and around the country, the word was spreading. It started in bars and flophouses. A cautious word here and there, dropped into a willing ear. It began as a trickle and spread to cheap restaurants and noisy discotheques and all-night newsstands. It was picked up by taxi drivers and truckers and girls working the midnight streets. It was like a pebble dropped into a deep, dark lake, with the ripples beginning to widen and spread. Within a couple of hours everyone on the street knew that Michael Moretti wanted some information and wanted it fast. Not many people were given a chance to do a favor for Michael Moretti. This was a golden opportunity for somebody, because Moretti was a man who knew how to show his appreciation. The word was that he was looking for a thin blond guy who looked like Jesus. People began searching their memories.

2:15 A.M.

Joshua Adam Parker stirred in his sleep and Frank Jackson moved to his side. He had not yet removed the boy’s pajamas. Jackson checked to make sure that the hammer and nails were in place and ready. It was important to be meticulous about these things. He was going to nail the boy’s hands and feet to the floor before he set the room on fire. He could have done it while the boy was asleep, but that would have been wrong. It was important that the boy be awake to see what was happening, to know he was being punished for the sins of his mother. Frank Jackson looked at his watch. Clara was coming to the motel to pick him up at seven-thirty. Five hours and fifteen minutes left. Plenty of time.

Frank Jackson sat down and studied Joshua, and once he tenderly fondled an errant lock of the small boy’s hair.

3:00 A.M.

The first of the telephone calls began coming in.

There were two telephones on Michael Moretti’s desk and it seemed that the moment he picked up one, the other started ringing.

“I got a line on the guy, Mike. A couple years ago he was workin’ a scam in Kansas City with Big Joe Ziegler and Mel Cohen.”

“Fuck what he was doing a couple of years ago. Where is he now?”

“Big Joe says he ain’t heard from him in about six months. I’m tryin’ to get hold of Mel Cohen.”

“Do it!”

The next phone call was no more productive.

“I went over to Jackson’s motel room. He checked out. He was carryin’ a brown suitcase and a two-gallon can that coulda had gasoline in it. The clerk has no idea where he went.”

“What about the neighborhood bars?”

“One of the bartenders recognized his description, but he says he wasn’t a regular. He went in two or three times after work.”

“Alone?”

“Accordin’ to the bartender, yeah. He didn’t seem interested in the girls there.”

“Check out the gay bars.”

The telephone rang again almost as soon as Michael had hung up. It was Salvatore Fiore.

“Colfax talked to Captain Notaras. The police property clerk got a record of a pawn ticket in Frank Jackson’s personal effects. I got the number of the ticket and the name of the pawn shop. It’s owned by a Greek, Gus Stavros, who fences hot rocks.”

“Did you check it out?”

“We can’t check it out until mornin’, Mike. The place is closed. I—”

Michael Moretti exploded. “We can’t wait until morning! Get your ass down there!”

There was a telephone call from Joliet. It was hard for Michael to follow the conversation because his caller had had a laryngectomy and his voice sounded as if it was coming from the bottom of a box.

“Jackson’s cellmate was a man named Mickey Nicola. They were pretty tight.”

“Any idea where Nicola is now?”

“Last I heard he was back east somewhere. He’s a friend of Jackson’s sister. We have no address on her.”

“What was Nicola sent up for?”

“They nailed him on a jewelry heist.”

3:30 A.M.

The pawnshop was located in Spanish Harlem at Second Avenue and 124th Street. It was in an unloved two-story building, with the shop downstairs and living quarters upstairs.

Gus Stavros was awakened by a flashlight shining in his face. He instinctively started to reach for the alarm button at the side of his bed.

“I wouldn’t,” a voice said.

The flashlight moved away and Gus Stavros sat up in bed. He looked at the two men standing on either side of him and knew he had been given good advice. A giant and a midget. Stavros could feel an asthma attack coming on.

“Go downstairs and take whatever you want,” he wheezed. “I won’t make a move.”

The giant, Joseph Colella said, “Get up. Slow.”

Gus Stavros rose from his bed, cautious not to make any sudden movements.

The small man, Salvatore Fiore, shoved a piece of paper under his nose. “This is the number of a pawn ticket. We want to see the merchandise.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gus Stavros walked downstairs, followed by the two men. Stavros had installed an elaborate alarm system only six months earlier. There were bells he could have pushed and secret places on the floor he could have stepped on and help would be on its way. He did none of those things because his instincts told him he would be dead before anyone could reach him. He knew that his only chance lay in giving the two men what they wanted. He only prayed he would not die from a goddamned asthma attack before he got rid of them.