Rizzo was trembling. He looked terrified. He spoke, suddenly, in Italian.
Isaac Bell drew his gun.
But why was the hard-as-nails gangster so scared? Because, Bell realized, Rizzo was new to this. This might be only his second “confession” since his boss Salata was killed. Only his second direct contact with a mysterious boss.
Bell pressed his handkerchief to his lips.
“Talk American,” he muttered.
Through the grille, he saw Rizzo’s eyes widen with surprise. But Bell had guessed right. Rizzo was too scared to question his boss. “O.K. I know good American. Forgive me, Father, I sinned . . . I’m sorry I missed confession last week. The cops were after me. So I didn’t get your orders . . .”
“Go on.”
“All I know is, Salata’s dead. I don’t know who takes over.”
“You,” said Bell.
“Thank you! Thank you, padrone—I mean, Father. Thank you, I’ll do good, I promise . . . Can I ask ya something?”
“What?” said Bell.
“There’s funny talk on the street about the Branco store blowing up. Does this have anything to do with us?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. I hear maybe Branco is Black Hand. Is that so?”
“What if he is?” asked Bell.
“I don’t know.”
Bell let silence build between them. Rizzo started fidgeting, tugging his mangled ear. Bell spoke suddenly.
“Did you do what I told you last?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you did.”
“I did what you said.”
“Tell me exactly what you did.”
“I went to Storm King. I opened a saloon. I got my keys scaring the pick and shovel men. And all that time I waited for the guy to come with the sign.”
“What sign?”
“The sign you said to look for.”
“Which?”
“The one you said. The pay token with the mark.”
“Did he come?”
“Yeah. I did everything he told me.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? I told you to stick close.”
“No you didn’t.”
Bell let a silence build. Rizzo broke it.
“You told me to do what he said. I gave him what he wanted. I ain’t seen him since.”
“What did he want?”
“Clothes, food, stick of dynamite.”
“You must know where he went.”
“I don’t know.”
“When did he come?”
“Four days ago.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No. He left.”
Bell sat silent. He had learned a lot, though hardly enough. But he doubted that Rizzo knew any more. The “guy with the sign” could be Branco or not, but even if he was Branco, Rizzo couldn’t find him. Still, not a bad night’s work, and Bell decided he had to act as if Branco was attempting to make contact with J. B. Culp. For if he was, President Roosevelt was still in danger.
It was time to shift his Black Hand Squad up to Storm King.
“What do you want me to do, Boss?”
“I want you to raise your hands.”
“What?”
“My son, twelve inches from your head is the muzzle of a .45 automatic.”
“What?”
“Raise your hands.”
“What did you say?”
“In your fondest prayers, it won’t be a flesh wound. Elevate!”
“Who are you?”
“Bell. Van Dorn Agency.”
The Black Hand gangster shouted a string of curses.
Bell sprang from his booth, threw open the confessor’s door, and pressed his gun barrel inside Rizzo’s good ear.
“Such language in church!”
33
“I hope you weren’t seeking privacy, Mr. Bell, but there isn’t a restaurant man in New York who would seat such a beautiful woman out of sight.”
Rector’s, the big, bright, loud Broadway lobster palace, was just around the corner from the Knickerbocker Hotel. The proprietor, an old friend of Joseph Van Dorn’s from Chicago, had seated Marion Morgan at a highly visible banquet table ordinarily reserved for Broadway actresses.
Bell said, “Convey my apologies to any patrons whose view I block . . . We’ll start with champagne. Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé.”
“I suspected as much, Mr. Bell. It’s on its way to the table.”
Bell and bottle arrived simultaneously.
“Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé?” said Marion. “What are you celebrating?”
“Dinner with the prettiest girl in New York. And the news that we nailed one of Branco’s top lieutenants.”
“Congratulations.”
He took his seat opposite. “Marion, I’ve never seen you lovelier.”
“Thank you, Isaac.”
Bell heard an uncharacteristic constraint in her voice. “You sound anxious. Shall I have us moved to a less noticeable table?”
“If I didn’t want to be noticed, I would not have bought a dress of cobalt blue.”
“Something is troubling you.”
She returned a tight smile. “You know me so well, don’t you?”
“If you’re worried about me, don’t be. My memory’s tip-top; I’m completely over the stupor, or coma, or whatever the devil the medicos call several solid nights’ sleep.”
Marion passed an envelope across the table. “I thought I should let you open this.”
Bell recognized the stationery even before he read the address.
Signora Marion Morgan
The Fiancée of Isaac Bell
Knickerbocker Hotel
Flushed with fury, Bell plunged his hand into his boot.
“People,” Marion warned with a significant glance at the full restaurant. She passed him an oyster fork, and with a grateful nod Bell used its wide tine to slit the envelope.
The silhouettes of a black hand, a revolver, and a skull pierced by a dagger were drawn with exceptional skill, the work of an artist. The wording of the threat was densely baroque, the threat itself, grotesque.
Dearest Signora Marion Morgan,
You have in your feminine power to persuade Isaac Bell to convince the highest authorities to act in accordance with listening to reason. Only you, beautiful lady, can make Bell entreat the powers that are to act for the goodness of all.
Bombing Catskill Aqueduct must be prevented.
This will require one million dollars to be gathered for necessary payments to prevent attack. Radicals and agitators and criminals are banded together. The City cannot protect the aqueduct. Water Supply Board helpless.
The Black Hand stands beside you. Together we stop tragedy before it befalls. Pay part day after next hundred thousand dollar at Storm King Siphon Shaft.
Fully
