moved it toward the boy’s mouth. Joshua gritted his teeth together.
“Don’t make me angry.”
Frank Jackson pressed his thumb and forefinger against Joshua’s cheeks and forced his mouth open. He shoved the handkerchief into Joshua’s mouth and slapped a piece of tape across it to hold the handkerchief in place. Joshua was straining against the wires that bound his wrists and hands, and they began to bleed again. Frank Jackson ran his hands over the fresh cuts.
“The blood of Christ,” he said softly.
He picked up one of the boy’s hands, turned it over and held it down against the floor. Then he picked up a nail. Holding it against Joshua’s palm with one hand, Frank Jackson picked up the hammer with his other. He drove the nail through the boy’s hand into the floor.
7:15 A.M.
Michael Moretti’s black limousine was stalled on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in early morning traffic, held up by a vegetable truck that had overturned and spilled its cargo across the road. Traffic had come to a standstill.
“Pull over to the other side of the road and get past him,” Michael Moretti ordered Nick Vito.
“There’s a police car up ahead, Mike.”
“Go up and tell whoever’s in charge that I want to talk to him.”
“Right, boss.”
Nick Vito got out of the car and hurried toward the squad car. A few moments later he returned with a police sergeant. Michael Moretti opened the window of the car and held out his hand. There were five one hundred dollar bills in it.
“I’m in a hurry, officer.”
Two minutes later the police car, red light flashing, was guiding the limousine past the wreckage on the road. When they were clear of the traffic, the sergeant got out of the police car and walked back to the limousine.
“Can I give you an escort somewhere, Mr. Moretti?”
“No, thank you,” Michael said. “Come and see me Monday.” To Nick Vito: “Move it!”
7:30 A.M.
The neon sign in front read:
BROOKSIDE MOTEL
SINGLES—DOUBLES
DAILY AND WEEKLY RATES
INDIVIDUALES–DOBLES
PRECIOS ESPECIALES
Joseph Colella and Salvatore Fiore sat in their car across from Bungalow 7. A few minutes earlier they had heard a thump from inside, so they knew that Frank Jackson was still there.
We oughta jump in and cool him, Fiore thought. But Michael Moretti had given instructions.
They settled back to wait.
7:45 A.M.
Inside Bungalow 7, Frank Jackson was making his final preparations. The boy was a disappointment. He had fainted. Jackson had wanted to wait until Joshua regained consciousness before the other nails were driven in, but it was getting late. He picked up the can of gasoline and sprinkled it across the boy’s body, careful not to let it touch that beautiful face. He visualized the body under the pajamas and wished that he had time to—but, no, that would be foolish. Clara would be here any moment. He must be ready to leave when she arrived. He reached in his pockets, pulled out a box of matches, and set them neatly beside the can of gasoline, the hammer and the nails. People simply did not appreciate how important neatness was.
Frank Jackson looked at his watch again and wondered what was keeping Clara.
7:50 A.M.
Outside Bungalow 7, the limousine skidded to a stop and Michael Moretti jumped out of the car. The two men in the sedan hurried over to join him.
Joseph Colella pointed to Bungalow 7. “He’s in there.”
“What about the kid?”
The big man shrugged. “Dunno. Jackson’s got the curtains drawn.”
“Should we go in now and take him?” Salvatore Fiore asked.
“Stay here.”
The two men looked at him in surprise. He was a caporegime. He had soldiers to make hits for him while he sat back in safety. And yet he was going in himself. It was not right.
Joseph Colella said, “Boss, Sal and I can—”
But Michael Moretti was already moving to the door of Bungalow 7, a gun fitted with a silencer in his hand. He paused for a second to listen, then stepped back and smashed the door open with one powerful kick.
Moretti took in the scene in a single frozen moment: the bearded man kneeling on the floor beside the small boy; the boy’s hand nailed to the floor, the room reeking of gasoline.
The bearded man had turned toward the door and was staring at Michael. The last sounds he ever uttered were, “You’re not C1—”
Michael’s first bullet took him in the center of his forehead. The second bullet shattered his pharynx, and the third bullet took him in the heart. But by that time he no longer felt anything.
Michael Moretti stepped to