Antonio Branco strolled among them wearing a blue suit, a red scarf, and a derby hat. A commotion drew his eye: Charlie Salata, arm in a sling, swaggering behind a gorilla pushing through the crowd. If Salata was expecting a reward for scoring the Wallopers’ dope, he would learn at his next confession that the Boss held him fully at fault for the death of his counterfeiter.
Exchanging pleasantries with the many who recognized him, Branco worked his way toward the puppets. Nearly life-size, with brightly painted faces and colorful costumes, they were visible at a distance, though one had to get close enough to hear the narrator. On the other hand, everyone in the street had known the stories since they were children. He bumped into Giuseppe Vella, who exclaimed, “What a fine night.”
“You look recovered from your troubles.”
Vella shrugged good-humoredly. “A ‘court cost’ here, a ‘contribution’ there, my licenses are returned.”
Branco nodded at the marionettes, arrayed in knights’ costumes. “What is the show tonight?”
“Un’avventura di Orlando Furioso.”
“Roland?” Branco laughed. “Like you and me, my friend. We hold them off while we retreat.”
Vella’s mood darkened. “Look at those gorillas, lording over everyone.”
Rizzo had joined Salata. He had a bandage covering an ear, and his eyes were still blackened from the broken nose the Van Dorns had dealt him. They were shoving through the crowds, knocking people out of the way.
“They act like they own the street,” said Vella.
“Well, in some ways they do, I suppose,” said Branco.
“It shouldn’t be this way.”
“It won’t be always. Buona sera, my friend. I see someone I must say hello to.”
Isaac Bell relied on his height to search the crowd for Charlie Salata. He was still wearing the cap, watch coat, and loading hook he bought on Eleventh Avenue in hopes of blending in. Harry Warren watched fire escapes for signs of a Black Hand ambush. He also kept a close eye on Bell; he had never seen the tall detective so angry, and he knew him well enough to know that he was blaming himself for the loss of the counterfeiter Leone. Ahead stood an impromptu marionette theater, blocking the street. Brightly costumed knights flailed at each other with swords and shields manipulated by rods and strings controlled from a curtained bridge above the stage.
“What are they fighting about?” asked Bell.
“Honor, justice, faith, and women.”
“Like private detectives.”
“Better dressed,” said Warren.
“I hope they’re doing better than we are at the moment.”
Then it struck him. Staring at the puppets, he said, “I believe Ernesto Leone was telling me the truth.”
“About what?”
“He really didn’t know who his boss was.”
“Maybe he didn’t have one.”
“He had one, all right. That’s why Salata killed him.”
“Sicilians don’t talk.”
“I have a feeling Leone wanted to. He’d have told me if he knew.”
“Maybe.”
“Leone wasn’t a killer. A counterfeiter, just a crook. He was grateful I saved his life. But he didn’t know. If I’m right about there being a boss—an overall mastermind—he’s a secret puppet master who knows which strings to pull.”
“How you figure that?”
“Look at those puppets.”
“Yeah?” Harry Warren said dubiously. “What about ’em?”
“Puppets can’t see who’s tugging the strings . . . Harry! There they are.”
Thirty feet away, Charlie Salata, arm in a sling; Rizzo, too, ear bandaged. They spotted Bell the same instant Bell saw them and jerked pistols from their coats.
A hundred men, women, and children milled between them and the detectives. The crowd was so dense that the only people who could see the weapons were standing beside the gangsters. To pull their own guns would set off a bloodbath.
Charlie Salata knew that. He waved a mocking good-bye. He and Rizzo disappeared behind the puppet stage. Bell went after them. Harry Warren grabbed his arm. “Forget it. They’ll shoot. They couldn’t care less who gets hurt.”
Bell stopped. Warren was right. “O.K. We’ll call it a night.”
Warren turned away. Bell grabbed his shoulder. “Careful, in case you run into them.”
Harry Warren, née Salvatore Guaragna, said, “I know the neighborhood,” and vanished into the crowd.
Bell pretended to watch the puppets, flailing with their swords, while he continued to scan for faces, hoping to recognize Salata’s underlings. Suddenly, behind him, he heard, “Good evening, Detective.”
Bell turned to face Antonio Branco, who asked with a mocking smile dancing across his mobile face, “What brings you to Little Italy in longshoreman’s attire?”
“A Black Hand gangster named Charlie Salata.”
“You just missed him,” said Branco. “Heavyset man with his arm in a sling, shoving people like he owns the street.”
“I know what he looks like.”
“He went behind the puppets.”
“I saw,” said Bell. “There are too many people. Too many could get hurt.”
“Your innocent Italians,” said Branco. “I’m beginning to believe that you really mean that.”
“Mean what?”
“That you can turn cafon and contadino into Americans.”
“What are cafon and contadino?”
“Barefoot peasants.”
“We’ve done it before, we’ll do it again. Meantime, what are you going to do for them?”
“I find them work. And I feed them.”
“That’s only a start,” said Isaac Bell. “You’re a man of substance, a prominente. What will you do when criminals prey on them?”
“I am not a cop. I am not even a detective.”
“Why don’t you get behind your White Hand Society?”
“That did not work out so well, did it?”
Bell said, “Do it in a bigger way. Put in more money, put in more effort, use your talents. You’re a big business man; you know how to organize. You might even make it a national society.”
“National?”
“Why not? Every city has its Italian colony.”
“What an interesting idea,” said Antonio Branco. “Good night, Detective Bell.”
“Do you remember the knife you pulled on me in Farmington?”
“I remember the knife I opened to defend myself.”
“Was it a switchblade? Or a flick-knife?”
Branco laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You have the manner of a man born to privilege. Am I correct?”
“Assume you are,” Bell said.
“I laugh because you think an
