Mario took the flamethrower, and showed the men how to operate it. As flames shot across the warehouse, they illuminated his face, and even though he was on the other side of the warehouse, Gerry instantly recognized him. It was the man he’d seen in the stairwell of the Atlantic City Medical Center ten days ago.
“That’s Jack Donovan’s killer,” he said under his breath.
“You’re sure?” Vinny asked.
“Yeah, that’s definitely him.”
“This is just getting better and better,” Vinny moaned.
They watched Mario continue his tutorial. Gerry knew that the Mafia liked to use guys right off the boat to do dirty jobs because they were hard for the police to trace. Guys who came into the country illegally were called wops. It meant “without papers.” Mario had an air of ruthlessness about him that was almost palpable, and Gerry imagined him ripping the oxygen tubes out of Jack Donovan’s nose, and then pounding on Jack’s chest with his fists, robbing Jack of his last breaths.
“That guy is a psycho,” Vinny said.
“You think so?” Gerry asked.
“He’s got Anthony Perkins written all over him. Just look at his eyes. There’s no life in them.”
Gerry stared at Mario’s eyes. They looked like the eyes you’d find on a stuffed animal. His father had once told him that professional killers nearly all shared one thing in common. They’d been abused as children, and no one had done anything to stop it. This made them angry at the world, and allowed them to enjoy the work that they did.
Jinky’s men still couldn’t get the hang of operating the flamethrower. Mario got angry with them, and started to direct the action. He had one man get behind Frank’s chair and wrap a steel chain around Frank’s neck. Then Mario turned the flamethrower on, and brought the flame within a few feet of Frank’s face.
“Tell us which one of you shot Russ Watson, or we’ll burn your head off,” the man strangling Frank said.
Frank stared wide-eyed at the flame hovering near his face. He seemed to be debating what to do, as if there was a choice at this point. He stubbornly shook his head. He wasn’t giving in to these guys; not now, not ever.
“Tell me,” the man said.
“Screw you,” Frank said.
Mario brought the flame closer to Frank’s face. Frank pulled his head back, and the guy strangling him jerked his head forward. Frank’s head was turning colors, first purple from the lack of oxygen, then bloodred from the heat of the flame. Smoke poured off his face as his eyebrows began to catch on fire. The man doing the strangling turned his attention toward Gerry and Vinny, who sat bound in their chairs on the other side of the warehouse.
“You boys liking this?” he yelled to them.
“Turn the flamethrower off, and I’ll tell you who did it,” Gerry yelled back.
“Tell me now,” the man replied.
“Turn off the flamethrower,” Gerry yelled.
“Go fuck yourself,” the man yelled.
“I hear you’re the expert,” Gerry yelled back at him.
“You’re next, asshole.”
Gerry had been silently praying for a miracle, and he got one. Frank’s right hand — his hitting hand — had popped free of the ropes. Frank made a fist and brought his hand up in an arch, catching the guy strangling him flush on the side of the face. The chain came loose from around Frank’s neck, and fell jangling to the concrete floor.
Getting hit by a boxer was different from getting hit by an ordinary Joe, and the guy who’d been doing the strangling came staggering around Frank’s chair, his eyes rolling in his head. Frank grabbed him with his free hand, and threw him directly into the path of the flamethrower. The man’s clothing and hair instantly caught fire, and he threw his arms into the air, screamed, and took off at a dead run.
Mario looked surprised at the turn of events, but not terribly upset. He extinguished the flamethrower by flipping off a switch, and stood with the three men and watched their partner do flaming pirouettes in the center of the warehouse. Within a few moments the flaming man fell face-first to the floor, his arms and legs twitching. Mario and the others stood silently and watched him die.
“We need to call Jinky, tell him what happened,” one of the men said.
“I have better idea,” Mario said.
“What’s that?”
“We kill them, then call Jinky.”
They all seemed to think this was a good idea. Mario drew an automatic handgun from behind his belt.
“I do them,” Mario said.
“You want to kill all four of them?” one of the men said.
Mario nodded his head forcefully. “All four,” he replied.
Frank had continued to pull at the ropes holding him to the chair. He was nearly free, his fingers nimbly pulling the knots apart. Nunzie was cheering him on while trying not to look at the men who were about to kill them.
“Come on, Frankie Boy,” Nunzie said.
“Almost there,” Frank said, breathing hard.
Gerry looked sideways at Vinny, and saw his friend’s lips moving.
“You praying?”
“What else is there to do?” Vinny asked.
Gerry looked at the door. Shadows were dancing in the puddle of light streaming through the bottom of the door, indicating there were people standing outside.
“Start yelling,” Gerry said.
“What?”
“You heard me. There’re people outside. Start yelling.”
Vinny started yelling like it was nobody’s business. His voice was drowned out by a battering ram being applied to the door, the sound echoing across the warehouse’s ceiling. The door buckled on its hinges, but did not give way.
“It’s a raid,” one of Jinky’s men shouted.
The man drew a gun holstered beneath his sports jacket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the door and ricocheted dangerously around the warehouse. His partners also drew their weapons and fired at the door, determined to shoot it out with whoever was on the other side. Within seconds bullets were flying, and Gerry was reflexively jerking his head while begging God to spare him from being shot.
“Look at Frank,” Vinny said.
“Why?”
“He’s almost free.”
Gerry stopped jerking his head and stared across the warehouse. Frank had almost wriggled free of his ropes. He was taking his time, just like he had in the casino parking lot. Standing, he walked over to where the flamethrower lay on the floor, picked it up, and clutched it against his chest the way Mario had instructed. Then he got up behind the four killers. The flamethrower’s flame was on low, and he jacked the flame up, then squeezed the trigger, causing a huge flame to leap through the air. It engulfed the men, catching their clothes and hair on fire. Within seconds they were screaming and running wildly in circles around the warehouse.
One by one, the men dropped to the floor, and stopped moving. The battering ram was still hitting the door, the sound like a clock ringing its final toll. Frank solemnly lowered the flamethrower while shaking his head.
“Enough of that shit,” he declared.
50
One winter when Valentine was a detective on the Atlantic City police force, his wife had talked him into taking a few night courses at a local community college. She had thought the classes would help round him out and broaden his horizons.
The two courses that had made an impact were an English course, which had turned him on to reading Raymond Chandler and other crime writers, and a philosophy course, which had gotten him thinking about things he’d never thought about before.