Rage of Angels

“Don’t! Yes! Frank Jackson’s my brother.”

“Where can we find him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see him. I swear to God I don’t know! I—”

His hand tightened on the trigger.

She screamed, “Clara! Clara would know! Ask Clara!”

Joseph Colella said, “Who’s Clara?”

“She’s—she’s a waitress Frank knows.”

“Where can we find her?”

This time there was no hesitation. The words spilled out. “She works at a bar called The Shakers in Queens.” Her body began to tremble.

Salvatore Fiore looked at the two of them and said politely, “You can go back to your fuckin’ now. Have a nice day.”

And the two men departed.

5:30 A.M.

Clara Thomas (nee Thomachevsky) was about to fulfill her lifelong dream. She hummed happily to herself as she packed her cardboard suitcase with the clothes she would need in Canada. She had taken trips with gentlemen friends before, but this was different. This was going to be her honeymoon trip. Frank Jackson was like no other man she had known. The men who came into the bar, pawing her and pinching her buttocks, were nothing but animals. Frank Jackson was different. He was a real gentleman. Clara paused in her packing to think about that word: gentle man. She had never thought of it that way before, but that was Frank Jackson. She had seen him only four times in her life, but she knew she was in love with him. She could tell he had been attracted to her from the very beginning, because he always sat at her booth. And after the second time he had walked her home when the bar had closed.

I must still have it, Clara thought smugly, if I can get a handsome young guy like that. She stopped her packing to walk over to the closet mirror to study herself. Maybe she was a little too heavy and her hair was a couple of shades too red, but dieting would take care of the extra pounds and she would be more careful the next time she dyed her hair. All in all, she wasn’t too dissatisfied with what she saw. The old broad’s still pretty good-lookin’, she told herself. She knew that Frank Jackson wanted to take her to bed, even though he had never touched her. He was really special. There was an almost—Clara furrowed her forehead, trying to think of the word—spiritual quality about him. Clara had been brought up a good Catholic and she knew it was sacrilegious to even think such a thought, but Frank Jackson reminded her a little bit of Jesus. She wondered what Frank would be like in bed. Well, if he was shy, she would show him a trick or two. He had talked about their getting married as soon as they got to Canada. Her dream come true. Clara looked at her watch and decided she had better hurry. She had promised to pick Frank up at his motel at seven-thirty.

She saw them in the mirror as they walked into her bedroom. They had come out of nowhere. A giant and a little fellow. Clara watched as the two of them moved toward her.

The small man looked at the suitcase. “Where you goin’, Clara?”

“None of your business. Just take what you want and get out of here. If there’s anything in this joint worth more than ten bucks, I’ll eat it.”

“I got something you can eat,” the big man Colella said.

“Up yours, buster,” Clara snapped. “If this is gonna be a rape job, I want you to know the doctor’s treatin’ me for gonorrhea.”

Salvatore Fiore said, “We ain’t gonna hurt you. We just wanna know where Frank Jackson is.”

They could see the change that came over her. Her body suddenly stiffened and her face became a mask.

“Frank Jackson?” There was a note of deep puzzlement in her voice. “I don’t know any Frank Jackson.”

Salvatore Fiore pulled a lead pipe out of his pocket and took a step toward her.

“You don’t scare me,” Clara said, “I—”

His arm lashed out across her face, and in the midst of the blinding pain she could feel her teeth crumbling inside her mouth like tiny pieces of grit. She opened her mouth to speak and blood began pouring out. The big man raised his pipe again.

“No, please don’t!” She gagged.

Joseph Colella said politely, “Where can we find this Frank Jackson?”

“Frank is—is—”

Clara thought of her sweet, gentle man in the hands of these two monsters. They were going to hurt him and, instinctively, she knew that Frank would not be able to stand the pain. He was too sensitive. If she could only find a way to save him, he would be grateful to her forever.

“I don’t know.”

Salvatore Fiore moved forward and Clara heard the sound of her leg breaking at the same instant she felt the excruciating pain. She fell to the floor, unable to scream because of all the blood in her mouth.

Joseph Colella stood over her and said pleasantly, “Maybe you don’t unnerstand. We ain’t gonna kill you. We’re just gonna keep breakin’ things. When we’re through with you, you’ll look like a piece of garbage the cat threw away. Do you believe me?”

Clara believed him. Frank Jackson would never want to look at her again. She had lost him to these two bastards. No dream come true, no marriage. The little man was moving forward with the lead pipe again.

Clara moaned, “Don’t. Please don’t. Frank’s at the—the Brookside Motel on Prospect Avenue. He—”

She fainted.

Joseph Colella walked over to the telephone and dialed a number.

Michael Moretti answered. “Yes?”

“Brookside Motel on Prospect Avenue. Want us to take him?”

“No. I’ll meet you there. Make sure he doesn’t leave.”