Wish Clarke opened his eyes, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled. “Hello, Boss.”
“You’re fired.”
Isaac Bell said, “He saved Richie Cirillo’s life.”
“I heard all about it. He’s drunk. Dumb luck he woke up in time and dumb luck he didn’t get the rest of you killed. Aloysius, you’re the best detective I know. I’ll welcome you back when you’re stone-cold sober and dry for the rest of your life. Until then, I don’t want to see your face.”
He stood up, turned, and hurried away. Then he turned back, knelt again, and awkwardly patted Wish’s shoulder. “Bejesus, man, I’ve known you almost as long as I’ve known Mack and Wally. I hope you can come back.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
Van Dorn stalked off.
Isaac Bell helped his old friend to his feet.
Wish said, “Sorry I let you down, Isaac.”
“You didn’t let me down. I’d have lost an apprentice without you. I’m only sorry the Boss doesn’t see it that way.”
Wish looked immensely sad and fumbled for his hip flask. “Don’t get on the wrong side of this, old son. The Boss is right.”
“What were you doing in the bank?” a police detective roared at the gangster the Van Dorns had turned over to him.
“Buy steamship ticket.”
“Where to?”
“Italia.”
“You’re lying, Pasquale. Your type don’t go back to Italy, they’d throw you in the hoosegow. What were you doing in the bank?”
“Big-a boom. Head hurts.”
“What is your business?”
“None.”
“Who do you run with? Salata?”
“Salata? Never heard of him.”
“Where do you live?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
The cop shouted, “You think I’m the soft mark, wiseacre? I’ll give you to Detective Petrosino. His boys’ll strip you down to your socks.”
“Won’t do no good,” Harry Warren muttered to Isaac Bell. “Sicilians don’t crack.”
Across the street, the killer whose nose Wish Clarke had broken insisted to the cops that he had been running into the Kips Bay for a beer when a drunk attacked him.
“Was that before or after you dropped your stiletto?”
“Not mine.”
“Pasquale, I got witnesses saw you stabbed a kid with it.”
“Nobody remember in trial.”