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“Chissà means ‘who knows’ if I live or die? Or should I say we.”
Culp cocked the .45. “You’re dead anyhow, no ‘kiss-a’ about it.”
“If you shoot me, you will die, too.”
“No greasy immigrant is dictating to me.”
Antonio Branco looked calmly down the gun barrel. “I am impressed, Mr. Culp. I was told that you are more interesting than a coddled child of the rich. Strong as stone.”
“Who told you that?”
“Brewster Claypool.”
“What? When?”
“When he died.”
Culp turned red with rage. He stood up and extended the pistol with a hand that shook convulsively. “You’re the one who killed Claypool.”
“No, I did not kill him. I tried to save him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A fool I brought to help me acted like a fool.”
“You were there. You killed him.”
“No, I wanted him alive as much as you. I needed Claypool. He would be my go-between. Now I have no choice but to entreat you face-to-face. I’ve lost everything. My business ruined. My reputation. The Van Dorns are after me. And now, without Claypool to represent me, I stand alone with your pistol in my face.”
“You killed Claypool.”
“No, I did not kill him,” Branco repeated. “He was my only hope.”
“I don’t understand . . . Lower your hands!”
Branco lowered his hands but stepped forward so the cord stayed taut. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I don’t care who you are.”
“The gas explosion.”
“What gas explosion?”
“On Prince Street. It destroyed tenements. You must have read it in the paper.”
“Why would I read about explosions in Italian colony tenements?”
“To know what happened to Isaac Bell.”
The man had caught him flat-footed.
J. B. Culp could not hide his surprise. “Bell? Is that what put Bell in the hospital? What is Bell’s condition?”
“Tu sogni accarezzévole.”
“What’s that dago for?”
“Sweet dreams.”
