Free The Gangster by Clive Cussler and Justin Scott

noticeable,” said Bell, “while you turn a fine phrase. When did you arrive?”
    “I first came as a harp slave when I was eight years old and I have lived here on and off ever since . . . You look puzzled. A ‘harp slave’ is a boy made to play music in the streets and bring his padrone the coins that kind people toss to him.”
    “A slave implies a cruel master.”
    Branco shrugged. “I learned my English, I learned to read.”
    “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