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.”