The Gangster (Isaac Bell 9)

“Counterfeiters passing the queer?”

Her eyes were bright with excitement, which Bell did not want to damp down even as he explained why it was unlikely. “Good job, Helen. If the extortionists are also counterfeiters, we’ll have stumbled upon something rather unusual.”

“Unusual?”

“There are certain kinds of crimes that don’t usually mix. The criminal who would attempt to print money is not usually the sort who would threaten violence.”

“Never?”

“I’m not saying never, which is why I want you to follow up on this very interesting lead. The Secret Service investigates counterfeiting. It takes a lot of doing to get them to talk to private detectives, but they might make an exception for you. Go find Agent Lynch. Chris Lynch. He’s their man in New York. Show him the paper. Tell him what you learned on Printer’s Row.”

To Bell’s surprise, Helen bridled.

“What’s wrong?”

She sounded indignant. “Am I supposed to bat my eyes at Lynch?”

“Bat them if you want to. Feel out the situation and act accordingly.”

“Because I must tell you, Mr. Bell, the printers think being a detective makes me fast. Two asked me to lunch, and one old geezer tried to take me to Atlantic City for the weekend.”

“I’ve not run into that problem,” said Isaac Bell. “But here’s a suggestion. Instead of batting your eyes at Lynch, try dropping your father’s name. The Secret Service might be inclined to talk to the daughter of a brigadier general.”

“Isaa—Mr. Bell, I know I’m only an intern, but I was hoping you’d put me to work in the street on this Banco LaCava job.”

“If you make that stationery nail a Black Hand extortionist, I will personally promote you to full-fledged apprentice.”

“Even before I graduate?”

Bell hesitated, imagining grim-visaged Brigadier G. Tannenbaum Mills turning purple. “I suspect your father will express strong views on the subject of leaving college before you complete your degree.”

Charlie Salata made his boys prowl Elizabeth Street for an hour.

“They’re here,” he kept saying, anxiously scanning the street, sidewalks, wagons, pushcarts, windows, rooftops, and fire escapes. “I can’t see ’em, but I feel ’em. Like I can smell ’em—what’s that kid doing?”

“Pasting playbills.”

The gangsters watched the kid plaster posters to walls, the sides of wagons, and even shopwindows when the owners weren’t looking. They advertised a performance of Aida at the nearby Mincarelli Opera House, which catered to immigrants. The bill poster crossed Houston and plastered his way uptown and out of sight.

An unusually tall Hebrew caught Salata’s eye when he emerged from a tenement dressed head to toe in coat, trousers, shoes, and hat as black as his beard. Salata studied him suspiciously. The Hebrew dodged the organ grinder’s monkey plucking pennies from the pavement, and hurried inside the next tenement. Only one of the many Jewish needlework contractors who recruited Italian housewives to sew piecework in their kitchens.

“Why don’t we just bomb the bank?” an underling asked.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” It was obvious to anyone but a cafon two hours off the boat. Blowing the windows out of Banco LaCava was the easy part. Pawing through the wreckage to get the money out of the safe would take time. They’d have a few minutes before the cops and firemen arrived, but no time at all if Van Dorns were close enough to mob them. Plus—a big plus not to be ignored—the Boss had given orders to make an example of the Van Dorn apprentice.

“There! Richie Cirillo.”

The kid was trotting past Banco LaCava with a clothes sack almost bigger than he was. Salata grabbed the cafon. “Stick that skinny little rat.”

Richie Cirillo saw the killer coming after him, running in a low half crouch like a barrel-chested dog. Fiery eyes bored into his as the man shoved through the dense crowds.

The boy panicked. He dropped his clothing sack and ran across the street toward the Kips Bay Saloon, forgetting that Mr. Bell was no longer watching from the bar. His vision contracted. All he could see through a path of moving obstacles, rushing people, carts, and wagons was safety inside the saloon. All he had to do was reach the front stoop, leap over the drunk sprawled on it, and get inside.

People saw the fear on his face, and the path opened wide. They scrambled out of his way. He burst past them—they couldn’t help if they tried—skidded on the greasy cobblestones, and fell on his face. Before he was back on his feet, the killer had halved his lead. A stiletto gleamed in his fist.

Isaac Bell bolted from a tenement in black Hebrew garb and ran after the thug chasing the apprentice. The block was packed with innocents, too many people for gunplay. An empty delivery wagon blocked his path. As he vaulted over it, he saw Archie Abbott, his hair dyed dark like Bell’s, drop the reins of a horse cart heaped with rags and jump from the driver’s seat. Harry Warren leaped from a second-story fire escape, slid down a canvas shop awning, and hit the sidewalk running.

The killer caught up six feet from the front stoop of the Kips Bay Saloon.