Will Thomas - The Black Hand

“Exactly, sir.”

“A font of information, a regular oracle of Delphi you are, Mac.”

“I endeavor to give satisfaction, sir.”

“Yes, but to whom?”

He ignored the gibe. “Mr. Barker has asked not to be disturbed for the next few hours.”

So that was that. I wouldn’t be getting any more information out of Mac. Grumbling to myself, I turned and went in search of another cab. It took half a mile before my brain, like a cog, engaged and began to turn. Where was Barker sending me? It couldn’t be an interview, for I had no knowledge of what to say. I had no message to deliver. No , I thought with a groan, it could only mean more blasted training .

My employer is of the opinion that everyone-man, woman, or child-should be able to protect themselves, at least to the point that they can break away and run. As his assistant, he expected a good deal more of me than that. So far, I had endured lessons in both English and Chinese boxing, Japanese wrestling in canvas jackets on mats, stick fighting of various sorts, and techniques from a dozen other defensive arts that the Guv found useful. Barker may well have been the most highly trained fighter in Europe, which was why Poole and others were eager for him to teach them. It was difficult enough being trained in all these arts, often by cramming courses, and going to bed with bruises and sore muscles. I wasn’t anxious to add another dangerous art to the list.

The address was a comfortable little semidetached villa, a trifle overgrown with browning wisteria, but pleasant enough in its aspect. It seemed to be drowsing in the late summer sun. I might almost have been standing in front of a villa in Palermo itself.

I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a stark, old Italian woman in a jet-black dress, with unnaturally black hair and an even blacker mood. I explained what little I knew about why I was there, while she frowned at me, debating whether or not to let me in. Finally I heard a man behind her speaking in Italian; and she left with a sigh, like a guard dog that had missed the chance to bite an intruder.

“Come in,” the man said, pulling me inside. I would have called him an old man, but then I was not much more than twenty at the time. He was in his seventies, of that type of hale, masterful men one sometimes meets whose years rest lightly. His hair was iron gray, shot with white at the temples, and he wore a short beard shaven from his lower lip to the point of his chin. I’d never seen whiskers carved in such a fashion, but then I’d never met Antonio Gallenga before.

“So, you’re Mr. Llewelyn, eh?” he asked with no trace of an accent.

I always came up short in these visual evaluations, be they work related or personal. Just once, I would have liked to impress someone.

“Barker vouches for you, anyway. Just what have you studied?”

“Boxing, Japanese wrestling, and stick fighting, sir. Oh, and explosives.”

Gallenga made a sour face and shook his head. I’d failed again. You’d think I’d eventually get used to it.

“Nothing practical, then?”

“Practical?”

“Save perhaps the bomb making, they are all sports. You have had no training in actual combat.”

“No, sir.”

“It’s a wonder you’re still alive then, working with a man like Il Brutto.”

“The ugly one,” I translated, with what smattering of Italian and Latin I have. “Do you really call him that?” Barker was weather-beaten, I’ll admit, but “ugly” was going a bit far.

“Many Italians in London call Barker that. I don’t know who first gave him the name.” The old man shrugged. “So, I am to train you. How do you feel about that?”

“I’d be more assured if I knew what I was actually to be trained in.”

“Good point,” he said, smiling. “Let me enlighten you. For the most part, I shall teach you the use of the Sicilian blade, that is, the Italian dagger. This is no sport. It is to be used solely to kill another human being or to save yourself from being killed, which amounts to the same thing. This is a practical education. You should be very grateful to your employer, for the art is normally passed down from father to son among the Sicilians. To not be an Italian and yet receive this instruction is rare indeed.”

“Why are you willing to teach me, then, if I may ask?”

“I owe your employer a debt of honor. Beyond that I will not say.”

I absorbed that, or tried to, and found I couldn’t, so I set it aside. “Er, what other instruction am I to receive?”

“L’occhio , signor,” he said, drawing down the skin of his lower eyelid. “I am to ‘give you the eye.’ ”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. You know nothing. You are a mere babe in the woods, but you will learn. When I am done with you, Mr. Thomas Llewelyn, you will be a different man. Oh, you may look the same, but you will be changed in here.” To demonstrate, he thumped his chest with a fist. “I will make a man of you.”

“I can hardly wait,” I responded. He didn’t react to sarcasm any more than Barker.

“Come then, sir. Let us take a short walk. Just a simple walk in the street.”

He led me out the back door of his house, which was furnished in an overdecorated European fashion-full of ornate, overstuffed chairs-through a garden in full bloom and down an alleyway into a busy street.

“Stop here, signor. Now tell me, if you were in fear for your life right now, how would you proceed down this street?”

“What do you mean? How should I walk down the street?”

“Would it be safer to walk there-close to the buildings, near the entrances-or out here, near the curb?”

I mulled this over for a moment.

“Near the curb,” I pronounced.

“And why?”

“Because one could be seized from an alleyway or doorway.”

“Very good.”

“But what if I’m going the opposite direction and can’t walk on the outside?”

“Then you cross the street. Do not put yourself in a position where a man can reach out and seize you or, worse, stab you. A practiced rampsman can seize a cuff and pull a man into an alley the way a fisherman draws in his catch before gutting it.”

“But being near the curb is so … open. One might be attacked from a vehicle or shot at from a window.”

“Of course, the curb is not without its dangers. That is why it is important to look for open windows or vehicles slowing near you. One grows accustomed to looking for movement in upper windows. As for vehicles, they are difficult to get out of. It is a true dullard who cannot get away from a man in a cab. Come.”

He led me briskly down the street. Gallenga moved easily for an old man, and he walked without a stick or hat. The sunlight glistened on his pink scalp beneath a thin layer of hair.

“At night,” he continued, “it is necessary to move even farther out. It is best to walk in the street if possible, but avoid standing under gas lamps and making oneself a target for an enemy’s bullet. Now tell me, you are walking down the street. What are you looking at?”

“The windows above?”

“Yes, but I mean the people. Are you looking at the women?”

“Well, yes, actually.”

He gave a low chuckle. “So am I. Unfortunately, at my age, all I can do is look. But you must study the men as well. Any one of them, even a group, could be a grave danger to you. What kind of men would you need to keep an eye out for?”

“Bigger men,” I hazarded.

“Which in your case is most of them. Yes, bigger men, stronger men. What else?”

“Armed men?”

“Very good. Look at their hands or even their pockets, if their hands hover near them. What else?”

“I scarce can say.”