The Gangster

housewives to sew piecework in their kitchens.
“Why don’t we just bomb the bank?” an underling asked.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” It was obvious to anyone but a cafon two hours off the boat. Blowing the windows out of Banco LaCava was the easy part. Pawing through the wreckage to get the money out of the safe would take time. They’d have a few minutes before the cops and firemen arrived, but no time at all if Van Dorns were close enough to mob them. Plus—a big plus not to be ignored—the Boss had given orders to make an example of the Van Dorn apprentice.
“There! Richie Cirillo.”
The kid was trotting past Banco LaCava with a clothes sack almost bigger than he was. Salata grabbed the cafon. “Stick that skinny little rat.”
Richie Cirillo saw the killer coming after him, running in a low half crouch like a barrel-chested dog. Fiery eyes bored into his as the man shoved through the dense crowds.
The boy panicked. He dropped his clothing sack and ran across the street toward the Kips Bay Saloon, forgetting that Mr. Bell was no longer watching from the bar. His vision contracted. All he could see through a path of moving obstacles, rushing people, carts, and wagons was safety inside the saloon. All he had to do was reach the front stoop, leap over the drunk sprawled on it, and get inside.
People saw the fear on his face, and the path opened wide. They scrambled out of his way. He burst past them—they couldn’t help if they tried—skidded on the greasy cobblestones, and fell on his face. Before he was back on his feet, the killer had halved his lead. A stiletto gleamed in his fist.
Isaac Bell bolted from a tenement in black Hebrew garb and ran after the thug chasing the apprentice. The block was packed with innocents, too many people for gunplay. An empty delivery wagon blocked his path. As he vaulted over it, he saw Archie Abbott, his hair dyed dark like Bell’s, drop the reins of a horse cart heaped with rags and jump from the driver’s seat. Harry Warren leaped from a second-story fire escape, slid down a canvas shop awning, and hit the sidewalk running.
The killer caught up six feet from the front stoop of the Kips Bay Saloon.
Richie’s senses were heightened by fear. For a second, he could see and feel and hear everything at once—the drunk blinking awake at his feet, the shadow of the man behind him, the stiletto hissing as it parted the air. He twisted frantically from its path. Aimed at the back of his neck, the blade slipped past and tore through his ear. The pain stopped him cold, and, in that instant, the killer thrust again.
Richie heard a startled grunt.
The stiletto fell on the sidewalk, ringing like a chime. The killer doubled over, clutching his groin. A fist rose from the sidewalk like a pile driver in reverse and smashed the killer’s face. Richie heard bones snap. Blood spattered the drunk, who sagged back down on the stoop and closed his eyes.
The man who had tried to stab him reached to pick up his knife. Bell stepped on his hand, and Abbott clamped manacles on his wrists.
Isaac Bell seized Richie’s shoulder and clapped a handkerchief over his ear. “O.K., boy?”
“I think so. Thanks to this guy.”
Bell knelt beside the drunk. “Wish, where did you come from?”
“Philadelphia,” said Aloysius Clarke. “Sorry I fell asleep.”
“Heck of a disguise.”
“I’ve been practicing my whole life.”
A loud explosion showered them with glass.

7
“Mano Nera! Mano Nera!”
Gold coins, ten-dollar bills, and broken glass flew from Banco LaCava’s show window and cascaded into Elizabeth Street. Dust and smoke gushed from the shattered bank and the front of the tenement in which it was housed.
“Mano Nera! Mano Nera!”
Within moments, hundreds of people crowded onto fire escapes, screaming, “Mano Nera! Mano Nera!” and thousands surged from their tenements. As the mad rush filled the sidewalks and spilled into the street, David LaCava stormed out with a pistol and a wastebasket and began picking up the money. His cheek was cut, and blood reddened his shirtfront.
“You two help him,” Bell ordered Wally Kisley and Mack Fulton, and led Archie and Harry Warren into the building. They searched for trapped and injured. Inside the front hall, broken plaster and splintered lath littered the floor. Through swirling dust, Bell saw that the bomb had blown a hole in a wall between the building and the bank and LaCava’s apartment behind it. Two men hauling sacks of money from LaCava’s safe jumped through the hole.
Isaac Bell and Archie Abbott knocked both to the floor in a flurry of fists and blackjacks. A third thug leaped through the hole, waving a gun. Harry Warren fired his pistol first and dragged the money back through the hole, while Bell and Archie Abbott carried Mrs. LaCava and her two children out of their wrecked parlor.
Cops and plainclothes detectives arrived on the run from their Mulberry Street Station House. White horses galloped through the crowds, dragging fire engines.
“What are you doing here?” asked a detective, taking charge of the prisoner Harry Warren handed over. The others had escaped.
“Guarding the bank.”
“Made a hash of it.”
“No kidding.”
Wally Kisley hurried up to Bell with a rag collector’s sack over his shoulder. Bell asked, “Where’s Richie?”
“Doctor’s sewing his ear. Don’t look now, but the Boss is here.”
“He’s in Washington.”
“Was,” said Harry. “He looks mad enough to bite the heads off nails. Or detectives.”
“I’m afraid I know which one,” said Bell.
Sure enough, Joseph Van Dorn was shouldering a beeline for the Kips Bay Saloon. Bell caught up with him as he knelt beside Wish Clarke, who had fallen back to sleep. Van Dorn seized his shoulder in his massive hand and shook him hard.
“Wake up, Aloysius!”
Wish Clarke opened his eyes, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled. “Hello, Boss.”
“You’re fired.”
Isaac Bell