Rage of Angels by Sidney Sheldon

She had no answer.

 

 

The afternoon newspapers reported the story of a fire in a Queens motel. The remains of an unidentified man were found in the ruins. Arson was suspected.

 

 

After Joshua’s return, Jennifer had tried to make everything as normal for him as possible, fearful of the trauma the preceding night might have inflicted upon him. When Joshua woke up, Jennifer prepared a meal and brought it to him in bed. It was a ridiculous meal, consisting of all the junk foods he loved: a hot dog and a peanut butter sandwich and Fritos and Hostess Twinkies and root beer.

“You should have seen him, Mom,” Joshua said between bites. “He was crazy!” He held up his bandaged hand. “Do you think he really thought I was Jesus Christ?”

Jennifer repressed a shudder. “I—I don’t know, darling.”

“Why do people want to kill other people?”

“Well—” and Jennifer’s thoughts suddenly went back to Michael Moretti. Did she have the right to judge him? She did not know the terrible forces that had shaped his life, that had turned him into what he had become. She had to learn more about him, to get to know and understand him.

Joshua was saying, “Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

Jennifer put her arms around him. “No, darling. We’re both going to stay home and play hooky all week. We—”

The telephone rang.

It was Michael. “How’s Joshua?”

“He’s wonderful—thank you.”

“And how are you feeling?”

Jennifer felt her throat thickening with embarrassment. “I’m—I—I feel fine.”

He chuckled. “Good. I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow. Donato’s on Mulberry Street. Twelve-thirty.”

“All right, Michael. Twelve-thirty.”

Jennifer spoke those words and there was no turning back.

 

 

The captain at Donato’s knew Michael, and the best table in the restaurant had been reserved for him. People kept stopping by to say hello, and Jennifer was again amazed at the way everyone kowtowed to him. It was strange how much Michael Moretti reminded her of Adam Warner, for each, in his own way, was a man of power.

Jennifer started to question Michael about his background, wanting to learn how and why he had gotten trapped into the life he led.

He interrupted her. “You think I’m in this because of my family or because someone put pressure on me?”

“Well—yes, Michael. Of course.”

He laughed. “I worked my butt off to get where I am. I love it. I love the money. I love the power. I’m a king, baby, and I love being king.”

Jennifer looked at him, trying to understand. “But you can’t enjoy—”

“Listen!” His silence had suddenly turned into words and sentences and confidences, pouring out as though they had been stored inside him for years, waiting for someone to come along to share them with. “My old man was a Coca-Cola bottle.”

“A Coca-Cola bottle?”

“Right. There are billions of them in the world and you can’t tell one from another. He was a shoemaker. He worked his fingers to the bone, trying to put food on the table. We had nothing. Being poor is only romantic in books. In real life, it’s smelly rooms with rats and cockroaches and bad food that you can never get enough of. When I was a young punk, I did anything I could to make a buck. I ran errands for the big shots, I brought them coffee and cigars, I found them girls—anything to stay alive. Well, one summer I went down to Mexico City. I had no money, nothing. My ass was hanging out. One night a girl I met invited me to a large dinner party at a fancy restaurant. For dessert they served a special Mexican cake with a little clay doll baked inside it. Someone at the table explained that the custom was that whoever got the clay doll had to pay for the dinner. I got the clay doll.” He paused. “I swallowed it.”

Jennifer put her hand over his. “Michael, other people have grown up poor and—”

“Don’t confuse me with other people.” His tone was hard and uncompromising. “I’m me. I know who I am, baby. I wonder if you know who you are.”