Perhaps not. It's a queer case--they usually set the
bombs off at night when no one is around. There must be more back
of this than merely to scare Gennaro. It looks to me as if they
were after Casare, too, first by poison, then by dynamite."
We shouldered our way out through the crowd and went on until we
came to Mulberry Street, pulsing with life. Down we went past the
little shops, dodging the children, and making way for women with
huge bundles of sweatshop clothing accurately balanced on their
heads or hugged up under their capacious capes. Here was just one
little colony of the hundreds of thousands of Italians--a
population larger than the Italian population of Rome--of whose
life the rest of New York knew and cared nothing.
At last we came to Albano's little wine-shop, a dark, evil,
malodorous place on the street level of a five-story, alleged
"new-law" tenement. Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we
followed, acting the part of a slumming party. There were a few
customers at this early hour, men out of employment and an
inoffensive-looking lot, though of course they eyed us sharply.
Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed fellow who had a
sort of cunning look. I could well imagine such a fellow
spreading terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely pressing
both temples with his thumbs and drawing his long bony
fore-finger under his throat--the so-called Black Hand sign that
has shut up many a witness in the middle of his testimony even in
open court.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305