The Gangster

When Bell and Harry Warren were alone, the gang detective said, “His ‘friend’ Branco could be the guy who sent the extortion letter. First they send it. Then they just happen to show up like a friend or fellow business man, advising you to pay.”

* * *

Isaac Bell studied Antonio Branco from the café across Prince Street from Branco’s Grocery. Leaning, half seated, half standing, against a tall stool, he cut a well-to-do figure, in a tailored blue suit of broadcloth fit more for the board of director’s dining room than a bustling grocery. Ditto his custom-made shoes, polished to a mirror shine.

He was significantly taller than the clerks and drivers he was overseeing loading his wagons, an animated presence with flashing eyes, a trim mustache, and thick, curly hair black as anthracite. His face was constantly changing: a robust smile for a quick-moving employee, a harsh scowl for a laggard, a satisfied nod for a full wagon. An orange fell from a broken crate, he snapped it out of the air with a lightning grasp.

Bell crossed the street. Branco tracked him with alert eyes and a curious gaze as if instinctively aware that the tall detective weaving smoothly through the traffic had business with him. He stood up and crossed the sidewalk to intercept him, and Bell saw that he walked with a slight limp, with one foot kicking slightly to the side. It did nothing to diminish the impression of a coiled spring forged of the strongest alloy.

Bell extended his hand. “Isaac Bell, Mr. Branco. Van Dorn Detective Agency. I understand you told David LaCava to pay the Black Hand.”

Branco looked away with a sad smile. “I told David LaCava and Giuseppe Vella. Apparently, they should have listened to me.”

“But if you felt that way, why did you join their White Hand Society?”

“I was skeptical. But it was the right thing to help. Even if not wise.”

“Skeptical? Or afraid?”

When an expression of contempt hardened Branco’s face and steel glittered in his eyes, Bell was struck by an odd feeling that they had met earlier. Before he could pin the memory, Branco smiled, and the steely glitter softened to a good-humored sparkle. “There are forces it sometimes behooves us to accommodate.”

“Were you born in America, Mr. Branco?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You have a native’s command of the language.”

Branco beamed. “Would that were so. My accent ever marks me a newcomer.”

“It is barely noticeable,” said Bell, “while you turn a fine phrase. When did you arrive?”

“I first came as a harp slave when I was eight years old and I have lived here on and off ever since… You look puzzled. A ‘harp slave’ is a boy made to play music in the streets and bring his padrone the coins that kind people toss to him.”

“A slave implies a cruel master.”

Branco shrugged. “I learned my English, I learned to read.”

“All at eight? You’re practically a native.”

“I returned to Italy when my padrone died. In those days, a steerage ticket back was seven dollars. Even a boy could go home.”

“I’ve heard that now you are a padrone.”

“Not for children,” Branco said sharply. “I help padrones find work for grown men.”

“On the aqueduct?”

“I am privileged to help the Excavators’ Union build this important feat. Now, since you’ve come on detective business, do you have any more questions before I continue conducting my business?”

“One more. Will your White Hand Society disband?”

“You mean will the society continue to pay Van Dorn?”

Now Bell’s eyes flashed annoyance. “The Van Dorn Agency will work to put the gang that attacked Banco LaCava behind bars, gratis. I meant precisely what I asked you — will your protective society disband?”

“If you are not worried about being paid, why do you care?”

“Your society will be a source of information. And give strength to the weak.”

“I hope it does not disband,” said Branco. “Good men should stand together. If we did disband, why would you still hunt the Black Hand? To avenge your boy they stabbed? Or because they made you look bad?”

Isaac Bell’s vow to avenge the attack on his apprentice and restore faith in the agency by catching the dynamiters was none of Branco’s business and he answered only the higher truth. “Because they are criminals who prey on the innocent.”

“It is not my experience that Americans care about innocent Italians.”

“It is my experience that the sooner we care about them, the sooner they’ll turn into Americans.”

“How long do you intend to pursue the bombers?”

“Until we catch them. Good day, Mr. Branco. Thank you for your time.”

Branco said, “I, too, have one more question — is Van Dorn a national enterprise?”

“We have field offices across the continent.”

“Do you combat ‘national’ criminals?”

“We pursue criminals across state lines, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I mean are there criminal organizations that span the country?”

“They would have to master modern systems of national organization.”

“Like railroads?” asked Branco.