Rage of Angels

‘I think you have that backwards.’

‘Thank you, Ken. I can always count on you. Let’s have ’nother bottle of wine.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’

‘Whales get thirsty.’ Jennifer giggled. ‘Tha’s me. The big old white whale. Did I tell you I love Abraham Wilson? He’s the most beautiful man I ever met. I looked in his eyes, Ken, my frien’, ’n’ he’s beautiful! Y’ever look in Di Sivla’s eyes? O-o-oh! They’re cold! I mean, he’s ’n iceberg. But he’s not a bad man. Did I tell you ’bout Ahab ’n’ the big white whale?’

‘Yes.’

‘I love old Ahab. I love everybody. ’N’ you know why, Ken? ’Cause Abraham Wilson is alive tonight. He’s alive. Le’s have ’nother bottle a wine to celebrate …’

It was two A.M. when Ken Bailey took Jennifer home. He helped her up the four flights of stairs and into her little apartment. He was breathing hard from the climb.

‘You know,’ Ken said, ‘I can feel the effects of all that wine.’

Jennifer looked at him pityingly. ‘People who can’t handle it shoudn’ drink.’

And she passed out cold.

She was awakened by the shrill screaming of the telephone. She carefully reached for the instrument, and the slight movement sent rockets of pain through every nerve ending in her body.

‘’Lo …’

‘Jennifer? This is Ken.’

‘’Lo, Ken.’

‘You sound terrible. Are you all right?’

She thought about it. ‘I don’t think so. What time is it?’

‘It’s almost noon. You’d better get down here. All hell is breaking loose.’

‘Ken – I think I’m dying.’

‘Listen to me. Get out of bed – slowly – take two aspirin and a cold shower, drink a cup of hot black coffee, and you’ll probably live.’

When Jennifer arrived at the office one hour later, she was feeling better. Not good, Jennifer thought, but better.

Both telephones were ringing when she walked into the office.

‘They’re for you.’ Ken grinned. ‘They haven’t stopped! You need a switchboard.’

There were calls from newspapers and national magazines and television and radio stations wanting to do in-depth stories on Jennifer. Overnight, she had become big news. There were other calls, the kind of which she had dreamed. Law firms that had snubbed her before were telephoning to ask when it would be convenient for her to meet with them.

In his office downtown, Robert Di Silva was screaming at his first assistant. ‘I want you to start a confidential file on Jennifer Parker. I want to be informed of every client she takes on. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Move!’

Chapter Nine (#ulink_d2ccff62-6ad2-578b-b8ee-955c9db4b4c2)

‘He ain’t no button guy anymore’n I’m a fuckin’ virgin. He’s been workin’ on the arm all his life.’

‘The asshole came suckin’ up to me askin’ me to put in the word with Mike. I said, “Hey, paesano, I’m only a soldier, ya know?” If Mike needs another shooter he don’t have to go lookin’ in shit alley.’

‘He was tryin’ to run a game on you, Sal.’

‘Well, I clocked him pretty good. He ain’t connected and in this business, if you ain’t connected, you’re nothin’.’

They were talking in the kitchen of a three-hundred-year-old Dutch farmhouse in upstate New Jersey.

There were three of them in the room: Nick Vito, Joseph Colella and Salvatore ‘Little Flower’ Fiore.

Nick Vito was a cadaverous-looking man with thin lips that were almost invisible, and deep green eyes that were dead. He wore two hundred dollar shoes and white socks.

Joseph ‘Big Joe’ Colella was a huge slab of a man, a granite monolith, and when he walked he looked like a building moving. Someone had once called him a vegetable garden. ‘Colella’s got a potato nose, cauliflower ears and a pea brain.’

Colella had a soft, high-pitched voice and a deceptively gentle manner. He owned a race-horse and had an uncanny knack for picking winners. He was a family man with a wife and six children. His specialties were guns, acid and chains. Joe’s wife, Carmelina, was a strict Catholic, and on Sundays when Colella was not working, he always took his family to church.

The third man, Salvatore Fiore, was almost a midget. He stood five feet three inches and weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds. He had the innocent face of a choirboy and was equally adept with a gun or a knife. Women were greatly attracted to the little man, and he boasted a wife, half a dozen girlfriends, and a beautiful mistress. Fiore had once been a jockey, working the tracks from Pimlico to Tijuana. When the racing commissioner at Hollywood Park banned Fiore for doping a horse, the commissioner’s body was found floating in Lake Tahoe a week later.

The three men were soldati in Antonio Granelli’s Family, but it was Michael Moretti who had brought them in, and they belonged to him, body and soul.

In the dining room, a Family meeting was taking place. Seated at the head of the table was Antonio Granelli, capo of the most powerful Mafia Family on the east coast. Seventy-two years old, he was still a powerful-looking man with the shoulders and broad chest of a laborer, and a shock of white hair. Born in Palermo, Sicily, Antonio Granelli came to America when he was fifteen and went to work on the waterfront on the west side of lower Manhattan. By the time he was twenty-one, he was lieutenant to the dock boss. The two men had an argument, and when the boss mysteriously disappeared, Antonio Granelli had taken over. Anyone who wanted to work on the docks had to pay him. He had used the money to begin his climb to power, and had expanded rapidly, branching out into loan-sharking and the numbers racket, prostitution and gambling and drugs and murder. Over the years he had been indicted thirty-two times and had only been convicted once, on a minor assault charge. Granelli was a ruthless man with the down-to-earth cunning of a peasant, and a total amorality.