Blackhawk .357: A Novel of Trust and Disloyalty in the Five Boroughs

A Jewish son. An Italian father. Both vying for control of the Manhattan rackets. It is a story of contention and betrayal that has travelled through time immemorial. Frank Castrillo had left his wife after being sent to prison for several years. Left a devoted Jewish wife who had no concept of how to deal with the vagaries of life without her sole provider. And Jakey, who later assumed his mother's maiden name of 'Moss' was caught in the middle. He only knew one thing at that point. That he would be bigger than his father, make his mother whole again, and ultimately, ruin his own father in the process. Jakey just turned forty. At the height of his success. Despite owning real estate, nightclubs, restaurants, unions and bookmaking throughout Queens, Brooklyn and Manhattan, things were suddenly going terribly wrong. Within a matter of weeks there were several attempts on his life. Barely surviving each one. The only person he could turn to was his childhood friend, now a decorated Sergeant in NYPD homicide. He would have to find the killer, or killers, who were trying to put an early end to Jakey's ironically illustrious career. But even though, or because of it, they took markedly different paths to success. Who could count on who. It was a question that needed to be brutally answered. Paul Danko stood pacing his small office in the precinct station. There were NO SMOKING signs posted everywhere but he lit up anyway. At one time, several years ago, Paul was a college basketball star and Joey was in the stands booking every game. They were each twenty years old. Paul smiled. When they were each six years old they lived next door to each other. Paul's father was a fundamentalist cop whose only mantra was to put his neighbor, Frank Castrillo, away for good. Jakey's father never gave it a second thought. Which irritated Paul's father even more. He made his young son promise that if he died before he could put Frank Castrillo in prison, he would take up the torch. Young Paul was silent but he understood the implications of a life long quest. There was a gun. A Blackhawk .357. Very rare. Yet it was used on every attempt on Jakey Moss's life. And they were all different guns. Who owned these rare collector items? It would not take evidence to find out who was gunning for Jakey. It would take intuition. But who had it? Someone had to step up before Jakey was a quarter page obituary in the New York Times.