“You could teach a wife to make coffee,” said Vella.
“I don’t have a wife.”
“I know that. However, my wife’s younger sister—ten years younger—is already a splendid cook . . . and very beautiful, wouldn’t you agree, David?”
“Very, very beautiful,” said LaCava. “A girl to take the breath away.”
“Convent-schooled in the old country.”
“She sounds like a man’s dream,” Branco replied respectfully. “But not yet for me. I have things to finish before I am ready for family life.”
He curled wisps of cream onto the steaming cups and handed them over. “O.K.! Enough pussyfoot. I hear you have troubles uptown.”
“They took my license. The city is suing me. But that’s not why I’ve come. The Black Hand is after LaCava now. Show him the letter, David.”
Branco read it. “Pigs!”
“This is the fourth letter. I fear—”
“I would,” Branco said gravely. “They could be dangerous.”
“What would you do?”
“If it were me?” He sipped his coffee while he considered. “I would pay.”
“You would?” asked LaCava.
Vella was astonished. He had assumed that Branco’s city contracts made him untouchable.
“What else could I do? A small grocery I supply suffered attack last year. Have you ever seen what a stick of dynamite does to a store?”
Vella said, “I hate the idea of knuckling under.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Besides, what’s to guarantee they won’t come back for more?”
“What would you do instead?”
“I have an idea how to stop them,” said Vella.
Branco cast a dubious glance at LaCava. LaCava said, “Listen to him. He has a good idea.”
“I am listening. What will you do, Giuseppe Vella?”
“I will make a ‘White Hand’ to fight a ‘Black Hand.’”
Branco switched to Italian. “A game of words? I don’t understand.”
Vella stuck to English. “We’ll form a society. A protective society. Remember the old burial societies? We’ll band together. Like-minded business men who might well be threatened next.”
Branco stuck with Italian. “Give them knives and guns?”
“Of course not. We’re not soldiers. We’re not policemen. We will pool our money and hire protection.”
“And who will protect you from the protectors?” Branco asked softly. “Guards have a way of turning on their masters. Guards are first to see that might triumphs.”
“We will hire professionals. Private detectives. Men of integrity.”
Antonio Branco looked Vella in the face. “Is the story true that it was detectives who got your daughter back from kidnappers?”
“From the Van Dorn Agency.”
“But weren’t those same Van Dorns guarding your excavation in Harlem?”
“I waited too long to go to them. The Black Hand struck before the detectives were ready to fight. Would you join us, Antonio?”
Branco took another deliberate sip from his cup, stared into it, then looked up at Giuseppe Vella. “It will be less trouble to pay.”
“We are American,” Vella insisted. “We have a right to make business in peace.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Vella stood up. “Then I thank you for your coffee, and I thank you for listening. If you change your mind, I will welcome you.” He looked at LaCava. The banker hesitated, then stood reluctantly.
They were just rounding the corner onto Elizabeth Street when Branco caught up and took their arms. “O.K. I help.” He pressed a wad of bills into Vella’s hand. “Here’s one thousand dollars for my dues. Get the others to pony up and your White Hand Society will be on its way.”
“Thank you, my friend. Thank you very much. What changed your mind?”
“If you’re right and I’m wrong—if your Mano Blanca defeats Mano Nera—I will benefit. But if I have not sided with you against our enemy, then I would benefit from your victory without helping. That would not be honorable.”
Giuseppe Vella grinned with relief. Even LaCava looked happy. They were on their way. With Branco on board with such a big contribution, the others would be quick to join. “I hope I’m right. But if I’m wrong and you’re right, at least we’ll both explode.”
“You make terrible joke,” said Branco. His expression turned so bleak that Vella wished he had not said it.
In a surprise, Branco smiled as if abandoning forever every thought of any unhappiness. “We’ll be blown to bits, everything except our honor.” He shrugged, and, still smiling, added, “We are invisible men in this country. We are poor. We have nothing but honor.”
“Italians won’t be poor forever,” said Giuseppe Vella. “Already I am not poor. David is not poor. You are not poor.”
“But at the Central Federated Union meeting last night, when they debated whether to support excavators striking the subway jobs, the Electrical Workers unionist shouted that Italian pick and shovel men were unskilled scum of the earth.”
“I was there, too,” said Vella. “A typesetter shouted back that his ancestors started here with a pick and shovel, and if the electrician was looking down on his ancestors, he better put up his fists.”
Branco smiled. “But we are still invisible . . . On the other hand”—an even bigger smile lit his mobile face—“invisible men aren’t noticed, until it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Too late to stop them.”
5
Van Dorn detective Harry Warren, dressed like the workmen drinking in the Kips Bay Saloon in shabby coats and flat caps, planted a worn boot on the brass rail, ordered a beer, and muttered to the tall guy next to him, “How’d you talk the Boss into a Black Hand Squad?”
“I didn’t,” said Isaac Bell without shifting his gaze from the mirror behind the bar, which reflected the view through the saloon’s window of the Banco LaCava storefront across the street. He had tricked out his workman’s costume with an electrician’s cylindrical leather tool case slung over his shoulder. In it were extra manacles for bomb planters who surrendered and a sawed-off shotgun for those who didn’t.
“A bunch of Italian business men did it for me. Marched in with a bag of money to hire the agency for protection, and Mr. Van Dorn decided it was about time.”
Warren asked, “Would they happen to call themselves the White Hand Society?”
No one knew the streets of New York better
