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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?”
