Branco looked up from the grinder with a conspiratorial grin. “I make better coffee than my servants. Besides, I am not rich.”
LaCava’s eyebrows rose in disbelief, and Vella greeted such modesty with the knowing smile of a fellow business man. “It is said that you turn your hand to many things.”
“I don’t count in one basket.”
Vella watched him putter about the makeshift kitchen, warming cups with boiling water, grinding the beans fine as dust. Antonio Branco had been the biggest Italian grocery wholesaler in New York City even before he landed the aqueduct job. Now he had thousands of captive customers shopping in labor camp company stores. He was also a padrone who recruited the laborers and stone masons directly from Italy.
In theory, city law banned padrones from the job, as did the unions, which fought the padrone system tooth and nail. In practice, the contractors and subcontractors of the Contractors’ Protective Association needed sewer, subway, street paving, and tunnel laborers precisely where and when events demanded. Branco worked both sides, hiring surrogate padrones to supply newly arrived immigrants for some sections of the aqueduct, while he ingratiated himself with the Rockmen and Excavators’ Union by operating as a business agent to furnish union laborers for others.
“You could teach a wife to make coffee,” said Vella.
“I don’t have a wife.”
“I know that. However, my wife’s younger sister—ten years younger—is already a splendid cook . . . and very beautiful, wouldn’t you agree, David?”
“Very, very beautiful,” said LaCava. “A girl to take the breath away.”
“Convent-schooled in the old country.”
“She sounds like a man’s dream,” Branco replied respectfully. “But not yet for me. I have things to finish before I am ready for family life.”
He curled wisps of cream onto the steaming cups and handed them over. “O.K.! Enough pussyfoot. I hear you have troubles uptown.”
“They took my license. The city is suing me. But that’s not why I’ve come. The Black Hand is after LaCava now. Show him the letter, David.”
Branco read it. “Pigs!”
“This is the fourth letter. I fear—”
“I would,” Branco said gravely. “They could be dangerous.”
“What would you do?”
“If it were me?” He sipped his coffee while he considered. “I would pay.”
“You would?” asked LaCava.
Vella was astonished. He had assumed that Branco’s city contracts made him untouchable.
“What else could I do? A small grocery I supply suffered attack last year. Have you ever seen what a stick of dynamite does to a store?”
Vella said, “I hate the idea of knuckling under.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Besides, what’s to guarantee they won’t come back for more?”
“What would you do instead?”
“I have an idea how to stop them,” said Vella.
Branco cast a dubious glance at LaCava. LaCava said, “Listen to him. He has a good idea.”
“I am listening. What will you do, Giuseppe Vella?”
“I will make a ‘White Hand’ to fight a ‘Black Hand.’”
Branco switched to Italian. “A game of words? I don’t understand.”
Vella stuck to English. “We’ll form a society. A protective society. Remember the old burial societies? We’ll band together. Like-minded business men who might well be threatened next.”
Branco stuck with Italian. “Give them knives and guns?”
“Of course not. We’re not soldiers. We’re not policemen. We will pool our money and hire protection.”
“And who will protect you from the protectors?” Branco asked softly. “Guards have a way of turning on their masters. Guards are first to see that might triumphs.”
“We will hire professionals. Private detectives. Men of integrity.”
Antonio Branco looked Vella in the face. “Is the story true that it was detectives who got your daughter back from kidnappers?”
“From the Van Dorn Agency.”
“But weren’t those same Van Dorns guarding your excavation in Harlem?”
“I waited too long to go to them. The Black Hand struck before the detectives were ready to fight. Would you join us, Antonio?”
Branco took another deliberate sip from his cup, stared into it, then looked up at Giuseppe Vella. “It will be less trouble to pay.”
“We are American,” Vella insisted. “We have a right to make business in peace.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Vella stood up. “Then I thank you for your coffee, and I thank you for listening. If you change your mind, I will welcome you.” He looked at LaCava. The banker hesitated, then stood reluctantly.
They were just rounding the corner onto Elizabeth Street when Branco caught up and took their arms. “O.K. I help.” He pressed a wad of bills into Vella’s hand. “Here’s one thousand dollars for my dues. Get the others to pony up and your White Hand Society will be on its way.”
“Thank you, my friend. Thank you very much. What changed your mind?”