The Gangster

He crossed the frozen water in a flash and commenced the first of many cold, cold passes by Culp’s dock. Some Van Dorn had to freeze half to death keeping vigil and Abbott was the one, atoning for his stupidity and staying out of sight of the Boss on the slim chance that Antonio Branco may suddenly embark by ice yacht. At least Isaac hadn’t condemned him to be one of the operatives on hogshead duty — watching from inside the barrel left at the service entrance and spelling each other only in the dark — though he would have if Archie wasn’t too tall to fit.

Other boats started skittering down the river, flying Poughkeepsie and Hudson River Ice Yacht Club burgees and speeding, like his, on the edge of a smashup. Archie joined in impromptu races with them and the sail skaters. Bell had issued strict orders not to draw attention by winning races, for word of a new fast boat would get back to J. B. Culp in a flash. But it was still a welcome change of pace and a natural cover for the Van Dorn watch.

* * *

The visiting room in the women’s section of the Tombs was divided by a wall broken with a small mesh-covered window. Francesca Kennedy looked so gaunt that Isaac Bell suspected their steak dinner had been the last she had eaten. Her face was pale, her expression sullen.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came for what you didn’t tell me,” Bell said bluntly.

“Didn’t I give you enough to send me to the gallows? Oh, what am I talking about? I keep forgetting.”

“Forgetting what?”

“It’s not the hangman anymore. It’s the electric chair.”

“I came—”

“Go away, Isaac. Anything I didn’t tell you I didn’t want to tell you.”

She was seated on a stool. Bell indicated the stool on his side. “May I sit down?”

She ignored him.

Bell pulled up the stool and sat face-to-face with her, inches from the mesh. “I came to change your mind.”

“Forget it.”

“I’ve spoken with some men in the prosecutor’s office. It is possible that I can persuade the District Attorney to offer you some kind of a break.”

“You want to give me a break? Get me out of here.”

“I can’t.”

“Let me go home.”

“I can’t.”

“So I can’t remember what I didn’t tell you.”

“I can’t get you out of jail, Francesca. No one can. But maybe I can make it better.”

She glanced about her. “Better than this wouldn’t be hard.”

“I’m thinking of much better. If we can convince a judge that you should be in an asylum.”

“I don’t think the bug house is better.”

“There are still some excellent private sanitariums.”

“Really? How excellent?”

“For wealthy patients. Very wealthy patients.”

“I’m not wealthy, Isaac. And I’m sure as heck not very wealthy.”

“I can arrange it,” said Bell.

“Pay out of your own pocket?”

“The agency will pay at first. At some point after we seize Branco’s assets, we can tap into them.”

“Won’t the government keep them?”

“Not if the Van Dorn Agency deserves a bounty. And certainly not if we, in essence, pay you for your testimony against Branco with Branco’s money.”

“That would be ironic.”

“How so?”

“Is this on the square?” she asked, and for the first time she let Bell see that she was scared.

“Yes.”

“You’ll really do it?”

“You have my word you will get a square deal.”

Francesca Kennedy nodded. “I’ll take your word… Shake on it.” She slipped her fingers through the mesh. Bell squeezed them before the matron interrupted with a sharp “No hands!”

Francesca flashed her a pleasant smile and said, “Sorry.” To Bell she whispered, “It’s ironic, because Branco used to be a regular customer.”

“You knew Branco? You said you didn’t.”

“Not as the Boss… I didn’t lie to you, Isaac. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

“When was this?” asked Bell, thinking to himself, Bless Joseph Van Dorn for steering him back to her. The “old man” had invented the best tricks in the detective book.

Francesca took a deep breath. “Back when I was streetwalking. He set me up in an apartment. All I knew was, he was a rich grocer. Gave me this little apartment and a few bucks a week if I’d stay off the streets. I said to him, ‘What are you, jealous of my other customers?’ and he said, ‘You’ll get killed on the street and you’re too valuable to get killed.’ Fine with me. Nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Besides, he was right. You die on the street; it’s just a matter of time. Anyhow, ’til he showed up at the Waldorf, I hadn’t seen him in ages — not since I started ‘confessions’ with the Boss. But he had kept sending the dough and paying the rent.”

“Didn’t you recognize his voice?”

“Not through the grille. And he talked different, too. Different words. I feel kind of dumb, but I never thought for a second he was the same man.”

“Where was the apartment?” asked Bell.

“I still have it. Or did ’til now.”

“Would he hide there?”

Francesca shrugged. “He never came to my place. When he wanted me, we’d meet at an apartment he kept on Prince Street.”

“His home that blew up?”

“No, he didn’t live there. I never saw his home. Our place was over near Broadway. He just kept it for me. And whoever else I guess he had.”

“What was the address?”

* * *