“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.
“Or the telegraph. Or Standard Oil and U.S. Steel. But since most criminals have trouble organizing a clean shirt in the morning,” Isaac Bell added with a smile, “it would require powerful adjustments of attitude.”
Bell walked away.
Antonio Branco enjoyed a private moment of satisfaction. Despite the detective’s flattering compliments about his English, to lull him into letting down his guard, he still formed thoughts in Italian. When, and if, you do catch them, Mr. Bell, who will you have caught? Peasants. Contadini. Of which Italy has an endless supply.
Most criminals have trouble organizing a clean shirt?
Mr. Bell, you and your Van Dorn Detective Agency will be amazed when a criminal organization spans your nation.
Suddenly, Bell was back, striding at Branco like a panther, his eyes aglow.
“Mr. Branco.”
“Did you forget something, Mr. Bell?”
“Do you recall when we met before?”
“I doubt we’ve run in the same circles.”
“Eleven years ago. I was a student.”
“Eleven years ago, I was a laborer.”
“In New Haven, Connecticut.”
“Wherever there was work.”
“I was at college in New Haven.”
“As I said, we did not run in the same circles.”
“We were running, all right. Both of us. Running from New Haven Railroad cinder dicks.”
Branco smiled. He looked intrigued. “Not in New Haven. I ran from no railroad police in New Haven.”
“North of New Haven. In the Farmington yard.”
Antonio Branco stared at Isaac Bell. He moved near and inspected him very closely. Then he stepped back and looked him up and down, hat to boots. “Incredibile!” he breathed at last. “Incredibile!”
“You remember?”
“It is incredible. Yes, I do remember. I did not get much of a look at you in the dark, but your stance is the same.”
“So is yours,” said Bell. “And your limp. Do you still carry your knife?”
“What knife?”
“The one you pulled on me.”
Branco smiled. “I recall no need to pull a knife on a college boy.”
“You did,” said Bell. “And you also pulled one on a rail cop in New Haven earlier that night.”
“No.”
“Right before you rode my train to Farmington.”
“No, Mr. Bell. I did not pull a knife on a rail cop. I did steal a ride on your train . . . I didn’t realize it was your train. I thought it belonged to the railroad.”
Bell could not help but smile back. “I borrowed it. College high jinks.”
“I guessed as much,” said Branco.
“The rail cop was attacked that same night. Did you happen to witness it?”
Branco hesitated. Then he shrugged. “It was long ago.”
“So you did see it.”
“A tramp cut the rail cop and ran away. It did allow me to escape, but I am not the man who cut him. Was the cop badly injured?”
“He survived,” said Bell.
“Then all is well that ends well.”
“He was horribly scarred.”
“Good. I am glad to hear that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He ‘scarred’ me, too. Nearly broke my leg. You yourself see, I limp to this day. It aches when storms are coming. Which is not supposed to happen to young men like me and you.”
“Who was the man with the knife?”
“The tramp? I never saw him before.”
“The cop said he was Italian.”
“Many hobos were Italian in those days. Still are. I didn’t know him. But I owe him. Thanks to him, I escaped the railroad cop. You owe him, too.”
“How do you reckon that?”
“Thanks to him, you weren’t caught when you ‘borrowed’ your train, which you would have been if he hadn’t slashed the cop. So we have that tramp in common. He saved us both for better things.”
“What better things?”
“The laborer became a business man. The train thief became a detective.”
Isaac Bell laughed. “Only in America.”
The tall detective and the wealthy grocer exchanged a powerful handshake.
Branco returned to his business, and Bell caught the train uptown.
Harry Warren was waiting in the detective bull pen. “Black Hand?”
“I can’t read him yet. But whatever Antonio Branco wants, he’s capable of getting. A formidable man. Angry man, too, though he covers it. Mostly”—Bell considered Branco’s tale of the tramp and the railroad cop and added—“he’s also a first class
