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“The pot sweetener,” Culp said sarcastically. But he was, in fact, deeply intrigued. The blackmailing Italian had a doozy of a scheme to take control of the Catskill Aqueduct—dams, reservoirs, tunnels, and all—that just might work. A second shot at the Ramapo Grab.
“You’ve had the night to think about your opportunity,” said Branco. “What is your answer?”
“The same,” Culp said coldly. “No one dictates terms to me.”
“You can continue your wonderful life,” said Branco. “And I can make it even more wonderful for you. The aqueduct will be only the beginning. I will help you in all your businesses.”
Culp said, “You can count on the fingers of one hand the men in this country richer than I am, and none are as young. I don’t need your help.”
Branco said, “I will eliminate labor problems. I will eliminate your rivals. I will eliminate your enemies. They will disappear as if you wave a fairy’s wand. A coal strike in Colorado? Sabotage in Pittsburgh? Reformers in San Francisco? Radicals in Los Angeles? Anywhere you are plagued in the nation, I will un-plague you.”
“Just out of curiosity, what will all this ‘un-plaguing’ cost me?”
“Half.”
Culp pretended to consider it. “Half of everything you help me make? Not bad.”
“Half of everything.”
“Everything? Listen to me, you greasy little dago. I don’t need you to get things I already own.”
“You need me to continue enjoying the things you own.”
Culp’s face darkened. “You’re offering to be partners and you are blackmailing me.”
“You are correct.”
Culp laughed.
“You laugh at me?” said Branco. “Why? In this arrangement, I take all the risks. The police can’t walk into your mansion with guns blazing. They’ll shoot the ‘greasy dago.’ They will never shoot Mr. John Butler Culp.”
“I’m laughing at your nerve.”
Branco stared at the man lounging behind his desk. Was Culp so insulated, so isolated from the world, that he was ignorant of the danger, the threat, Branco posed? A strange thought struck him: Or was Culp a man above ordinary men?
“Wouldn’t you do exactly the same if our positions were turned upside down?”
“I sure as hell would,” said Culp. “Exactly the same.”
“Malvivente.”
“What’s that dago for?”
“Gangster.”
J. B. Culp beamed. He suddenly felt as free as a hoodlum stepping out on Saturday night, with brilliantined hair, a dime cigar, and a pistol in his pocket. Anything could happen. He thrust out his hand.
“O.K., partner. Shake on it.”
Branco said, “I would very much like to shake your hand. But I can’t.”
“Why not? I thought you wanted a partner.”
“You put us at risk.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your prizefighters know too much.”
