Will Thomas - The Black Hand

“What of trained men? Would you avoid a man with the cauliflower ears and heavy brow of a fighter? Of course you would. If you did not know him, would you avoid a man like your employer?”

“Yes, sir. Definitely.”

“Good. You are tethered to a hard man. What other kind of man should you avoid?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“A mad one, sir. Watch carefully those who mutter in the street or who look worried and disturbed. Very well, Mr. Llewelyn, now suppose a man seizes you, despite all your carefulness. What do you do?”

“Order him to let go.”

“And if he won’t?”

“Take a swing at him, I suppose.”

Gallenga opened his hand and fluttered it in a very Italian gesture.

“Eh, sometimes that might work. It would get you arrested in London, but that is not a bad thing if you suspect the man has a gun or knife. Better arrested than dead, don’t you think? But the best thing to do is to simply break the hold. I assume your employer has shown you how to do that?”

“Oh, yes. Dozens of ways,” I told him.

“Good. So you break his hold. What then?”

“Run.”

“Yes, run. Or shout your head off. Cry ‘murder’ if you like. Anything. Above all, do not allow yourself to be trapped again. What else should you look for?”

Again, I had to admit I didn’t know.

“Accomplices. Look for the man with a cosh or a life preserver. Yes, a smack behind the ear and down you go, maybe forever. Watch out for the second fellow. They often work in pairs, you know.” He stopped in front of a cafe and looked inside. “Do you like coffee?”

“I love coffee,” I admitted.

“Step in here, then. This is a Sicilian cafe.”

Gallenga led me into the small establishment, tastefully set up with mahogany tables and white linen. I thought it looked new and wondered if its owner might have anything to do with Etienne’s attack. Le Toison d’Or was but a few streets away.

“Where would you suggest we sit?” the old man asked in my ear.

“That’s a fair question,” I replied. “If I’m by the window, I risk being shot at from the street. If I’m in the corner there, I shall be trapped like a rat, but if I’m by the kitchen, I’m at the mercy of someone coming through the back door. My word, it seems as though no place is safe.”

“No place is safe, my friend. In fact, safety is an illusion, and the safest looking place may be the most dangerous. You were acquainted with the late Mr. Serafini? He was not always the large man you knew. Once, he hid inside a small chest through an entire ball and a political meeting afterward. Several hours later, when his target, a general, was seated and going over plans for a political coup, Serafini jumped up like a jack-in-the-box and shot him dead. The man had thought he was safe, and it cost him his life. Eventually Serafini himself let down his guard. As far as this cafe is concerned, I believe I would choose a table near the kitchen. One could always fight one’s way out the back door.”

We sat down at a table and Gallenga ordered two coffees from a waiter who appeared to know him well.

“Excuse me, sir,” I asked after the waiter left, “but how do you know all these things? Are they common knowledge among the Sicilians or do you have some connection to … to any organization involved in this case? How did you learn how to use a dagger?”

“Once, I was a student agitator, when the Bourbons ruled Sicily,” Gallenga said, “then a political prisoner, and then I met the man, Giuseppe Mazzini himself, and became an assassin.”

There was a time when I would have blurted out “assassin!” and attracted attention throughout the cafe. Now I merely said, “Really?”

“Yes, but I was not very good at it, I admit. After a failed attempt, I became a fugitive, eventually coming to England. The Times required someone knowledgeable about Italian affairs and I needed work. I’ve been doing it now for twenty-five years and have written several books.”

“Do you have any connection to the Mafia?”

“I am a member, Mr. Llewelyn. I took a blood oath, one I can never forswear.”

I thought about that as the coffee arrived, small porcelain cups of espresso with rusty cream on top.

“Oh, my word,” I said, after I’d taken a sip. “I believe that’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

“I will not doubt your word, sir.”

“So, Mr. Barker says the Camorran organization is older than the Mafia.”

“Far older. It goes back a century or two when Naples was ruled by Spain and a criminal organization known as the Garduna sent exiles to Italy.”

“So, in order to escape prosecution in Spain, they went to Naples, just as you came to England in order to prevent your arrest in Italy.”

“Yes, and as Victor Gigliotti did. You did not think he came to England to sell tutti-frutti, did you? He is wanted in Naples.”

I put down my empty cup and hesitated. “That’s cracking good coffee. Might I have another cup?”

Gallenga shook his head. “Better not. Sicilian coffee is very strong. Another cup and you won’t sleep tonight.”

“I’m not certain I’ll sleep anyway now, not without checking every closet and chest in the house for assassins.”

“That is the ‘eye’ I was telling you about. From now on, if you enter a room without asking yourself what is the safest way to escape, it shall not be my fault.”

“It looks like some trouble is brewing between these two rival organizations. Mr. Barker seems determined to stop a war from breaking out in London, but, if I may say it, you appear to be in the enemy camp.”

“After twenty-five years, I consider myself a Londoner, and believe me when I say that I do not want to see it turned into another Palermo with a list of assassinations in the Sunday edition of The Times . I am willing to help your employer up to a point. I will teach you to fight with a dagger, for instance. However, I want you to understand I’m doing this to repay a debt.”

Gallenga paid the bill with a few brief words to the owner and went out the door with his hands in his pockets, hunched over as if he’d forgotten I was there. I followed along behind him back to his garden.

“Have you ever seen a dagger?” he asked, turning back to me suddenly. “Do you know the difference between a dagger and a knife?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded. “Mr. Barker owns a few. A dagger has two symmetrical blades and is weighted for throwing.”

“Not always,” the journalist said, holding up a finger, “but most of the time, I’ll grant you. Have you ever held one?”

“Yes, but only to open a letter.”

“Open a letter!” he roared in my face. “You use an Italian dagger to open a common letter? Why do you tell such things to an old man? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Open a letter,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his chest. “Mia madre.”

He opened a garden shed and reached down by the door, pulling a dagger out of a bucket that was full of sawdust. “The old woman will not let me keep my blades in the house,” he explained. “If they are not kept in oiled sawdust, they will rust. It is important to take care of one’s weapons.”

He wiped the dagger and handed it to me hilt first.

“Here is a proper dagger. The point, for thrusting forward, an edge on either side for cutting, a hilt for stopping another weapon, and a ball at the other end for breaking a bone or punching a hole in someone’s skull. In a city such as London, it is the most important defense one can own.”

“What about a walking stick?” I asked, holding up my malacca.

“Pfui. A wand. A stick of wood. A splinter. Try putting that through a man’s intestines. It’s impossible.”