He started to climb back down when he suddenly realized he was looking in the wrong direction. The lighter was nearby, almost at his feet, tied to a cattle boat that was moored alongside the railroad pier. Apparently, it had steamed out of the slip, turned around in the river, and steamed back into the next. Just as he spotted it, a dozen men with bulging sacks slung over their shoulders squeezed through the slats of the cattle boat and jumped onto the lighter. Ernesto Leone was the last aboard. The lighter cast off and steamed into the river, leaving Bell in the same position he had been moments ago, stuck on the gantry while the counterfeiter escaped.
Not quite, he thought to himself. He could see in the distance a New York Police Harbor Squad launch churning up the river at twelve knots. Roundsman O’Riordan, full speed ahead! The Italians spotted the water cops. They turned the lighter on a nickel and raced back into the slip. By the time the Harbor Squad churned into the mouth of the slip, the last of the gangsters were stumbling ashore.
Hunt and McBean’s van driver rapped on the roof with the butt of his carter’s whip.
McBean put down the Black Hand letter and peered through a spy hole. “Here come the cows.”
Hunt watched from an adjacent spy hole. Their laughter died.
“Where’s their horns?” asked McBean.
Of the beef cattle shambling down the gangway to the livestock pens, many had no horns. Some had only one.
“Somebody stole our horns.”
The Irishmen jumped out of the van, faces reddening, fists clenched, and ran to the pens. Hunt vaulted the fence and threw a headlock on the nearest one-horned steer. It tried to buck him off. McBean piled on, too. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Where its horn should have stuck out of its head was a neatly sawn base with a threaded hole in the middle.
“Sons of bitches unscrewed them.”
Their wagon driver ran up.
“Guy says a bunch of Italians just jumped off a lighter.”
“Yeah? So?”
“One of ’em dropped his sack. It was full of cow horns.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Across 36th Street.”
Charlie Salata and his top gorillas found their escape blocked by a long, slow New York Central freight train creeping up Eleventh Avenue at the pace of the city-mandated railroad cop escorting it on a horse. Salata was beside himself. Anything that could go wrong had gone wrong: Harbor Squad cops where they weren’t expected, one of his men gored by a cow, and the boat trapped. At least they had the dope, including the sack that the worthless Ernesto Leone had managed to drop in plain sight of half the waterfront. But they were stuck on foot in Walloper territory, and it was a long way home to Little Italy.
All of a sudden, pounding up 36th Street, came the Wallopers.
15
Isaac Bell stuck close to the Italians he had spotted scrambling off the lighter. Only twenty yards behind when the freight train stopped them, he pressed into a shallow doorway.
There were nine men carrying sacks. Leone had dropped his while jumping ashore, spilling what looked like the horns of cows, before the rest of the gang scooped them up. The counterfeiter was a hapless sight, shooting frightened glances over his shoulder, bumping into the other gangsters, and generally getting in the way. The rest were cool customers, spoiling for a fight.
Bell recognized their leader, Charlie Salata, who had failed to ferret out the disguised detectives on Elizabeth, then sicced a stiletto man on apprentice Richie Cirillo. Running with him was the thug himself, Vito Rizzo, sporting the flattened nose Wish Clarke had smashed on the steps of the Kips Bay Saloon.
Whatever the Italians had stolen or smuggled had caught the attention of the local Irish—West Side Wallopers, Bell surmised by their gaudy costumes, a poisonous outgrowth of the Gopher Gang. A glimpse of their leaders’ scarred faces revealed that Tammany Hall had sprung Ed Hunt and Tommy McBean from prison again.
More Wallopers were joining the pursuit, streaming out of saloons and ten-cent lodging houses. The gang stopped several doorways behind where Bell had taken cover. A sharp, two-finger whistle split the air.
Elaborately coiffed and behatted women ran to them. Shapely as Lillian Russell, hard-eyed as statues, they stood still when the men groped into their bustles and bodices for the revolvers that would get the men arrested when cops patted them down.
The Italians pulled their own guns, all but counterfeiter Leone.
It seemed to Bell that the first shots were fired simultaneously from both sides. Whichever gang shot first, it triggered a fusillade, and the tall detective found himself in the middle of a shooting war. Bullets splintered the wooden jamb, shattered windows, and ricocheted off cobblestones.
Bell drew his pistol in the event a charging Walloper or a counterattacking Salata gangster ran for his doorway. He was reasonably sure he was better armed with his heavy automatic, but there were at least twenty of them, jerking triggers as fast they could, spraying lead like dueling Maxim machine guns. Best to let them get it out of their systems, or at least run out of ammunition. A quick glance down the street confirmed that the Irish were banging away like the Fourth of July, and would be for a while, as their women were tossing change purses filled with fresh bullets.
The tall detective threw another quick glance at the Italians. They were pawing through their sacks for boxes of ammunition and reloading with the speed of men who had been in gunfights before. Bell pressed into his doorway, which was beginning to feel very shallow.
When he heard a lull, he looked again. A glimpse of the Italians offered a sudden opportunity to get his hands on Ernesto Leone. The terrified counterfeiter was attempting to slither away on his belly, hugging the cobblestones and shielding his head with his hands while trying to pull himself along on his elbows. If ever a man was out of place, thought Bell, it was Leone. And if ever a man could shed light on the alliance of extortionists, bombers, kidnappers, smugglers, and counterfeiters, it was Leone.
Bell pivoted out of the doorway. Bullets plucked his sleeve. One burned close to his shoulder. Hugging the buildings, jumping stoops and ash cans, he ran toward Leone, covered the twenty yards in six long bounds, seized the counterfeiter by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him into the closest doorway.
“You’re under arrest.”
“No gun, no gun,” cried Ernesto Leone.
The madman who had rescued him was pointing a pistol in his face and frisking his clothing for weapons. “False money. No gun. No gun.”
For days, Leone had had awful forebodings that someone was following him. He had spotted the shadows. Assuming they were Secret Service agents, he would not make counterfeiting charges even worse by getting pinched with a gun.
“Start talking.”
“What?” Leone could barely hear him over the roar of the battle.
“You owe me your life.”
Leone hung his head. “I know.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“I don’t know.”
Charlie Salata charged into the doorway, gun in hand.
Isaac Bell shot first. Salata jerked his trigger as he fell. The gangster’s bullet tore into Leone’s throat, ripping an artery that fountained blood. Bell dove on him, ripped Leone’s shirttails from his trousers and clamped the cloth around his throat in a stranglehold to try to staunch the bleeding. It was hopeless.
Shotguns boomed. Bell recognized the rapid thunder of humpback 12-gauge Browning Auto-5s and wondered where the gangsters had found such fine weapons. Shouts of fear and men stampeding in every direction meant a third party had joined the battle with a vengeance.
He felt Leone die in his hands.
“Isaac!”
The freight train blocking Eleventh Avenue had rolled away. Italians were running east, Irish and their women running west, and a gang of New York Central Railroad cops were charging up the street, pumpi
ng fire from the autoload scatterguns. Leading the cinder dicks was the source of the Brownings, white-haired Van Dorn rail yard specialist Eddie Edwards.
“Heard the gunplay. Figured you’d be in the middle of it.”
“Where’s Salata?” The gangster who had shot Leone was nowhere to be seen.
“Halfway to Little Italy by now.”
“I winged him,” said Bell. “Come on! Let’s get him.”
Elizabeth Street was packed like a festival. The evening was dry and cool, and thousands had streamed from their airless tenements to enjoy the last of autumn out of doors before winter turned nights bitter. A puppet show blocked most of the street with its tall stage. People gathered under its garland of colored lights and spilled off the sidewalks into the street. Traffic was at a standstill. Peddlers were hard-pressed to sell to customers crammed shoulder to shoulder.
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 immigrant laborer would dare carry an illegal weapon. Your government called us aliens—still does. A switchblade or a flick-knife would get
us beaten up by the police and thrown in jail. It was a pocket knife.”
“I never saw a pocket knife open that fast.”
“It only seemed fast,” said Branco. “You were young and afraid . . . So was I.”
16
A voice in the dark shocked Tommy McBean out of his sleep.
“What?”
“Listen.”
“Who the hell are you?” McBean reached for the gun under the pillow. It wasn’t there. That’s what he got for going to bed drunk in a strange hotel with a woman he never met before. She was gone like his gun. Big surprise. She had played him like a rube.
Boiling mad, ready to kill with his bare hands, if he could only see the guy, he sat up in bed and shouted, “What do you want?”
“We have cow horns.”
“Oh yeah?” Tommy shot back. “You have my dope? Who the hell are you going to sell it to?”
“We have buyer who pay-a top doll-a.”
The guy talked like an Eye-talian. Another damned guinea. More every day. “Who?”
“Top doll-a.”
“Who, damn you?”
“You.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
“We no steal your heroin.”
“You just said you did.”
“We no steal it. We kidnap it.”
McBean swung his feet to the floor. Cold steel pressed to his forehead. He ignored it and made to stand up. Then he felt a needle prick between his ribs, and the voice in the dark said, “I’m-a four inches from inside your heart.”
McBean sagged back on the bed. “Ransom? You’re holding our dope for ransom?”
“You make-a distributor system. You sell it.”
The Gangster Page 11