The Gangster by Clive Cussler (e reading malayalam books .txt) 📗

Champagne, girls, the whole deck of cards. I went to confession. Next thing you know, the guy is dead. Before he died, he told me he won this huge city contract to provision the aqueduct. Guess who got the contract after he died?”

“Branco.”

“You got it, Isaac.”

“What was the last job you did for him?”

“Archie.”

“Were you supposed to kill him?”

Francesca Kennedy looked across the table at Bell and cocked an eyebrow. “Is Archie dead?”

Bell gave her the laugh she expected and said, “O.K. So what did Branco tell you to do with Archie?”

“Listen.”

“For anything in particular?”

“Anything to do with your Black Hand Squad.”

“What did you hear?”

“Not one damned thing.”

“But you learned about the raid?”

“Nothing until then. That was the first thing Archie spilled. And the last, I guess,” she added, glancing about the windowless room.

Bell asked her how she had informed Branco, now that he wasn’t a priest anymore, and she explained a system of mailboxes and public telephones.

“How about before Archie?”

“I did a double. A couple of cousins. You know what the Wallopers are?”

“Hunt and McBean?”

“Oh, of course you know. This was a strange one. Wait ’til you hear this, Isaac . . . Could I have a little more wine?”

“Take mine.” Bell tipped his glass into hers, and cleared the plates and flatware and stacked them in the corner. “How was it strange?”

“I picked up Ed Hunt at a party the Boss sent me to and took him to the hotel where the Boss had booked me a room. What I didn’t know was the Boss hid in the closet. All of a sudden, when Hunt fell asleep, he stepped out of the closet. I almost jumped out of my skin.”

“You saw his face?”

“No. It was dark. I never saw his face until this afternoon. Anyhow, he shooed me out—sent me to the next job—and next I hear, Hunt had a heart attack. Well, I have to tell you, Isaac, if he was going to have a heart attack, it would have been while I was still there.”

Bell said, “As I understand it, a stiletto played a role in the heart attack.”

“Big surprise,” said Francesca.

“You said you went on to the next job. What was that?”

“Hunt’s cousin, McBean. The Boss gave me strict orders. Don’t hurt him. Just put him to sleep and go home. Which I did. Just like with Hunt. Then I learned at confession that McBean’s alive and kicking, not like Hunt. So I’m thinking they made a deal. You hear anything about that?”

“I heard heroin changed hands,” said Bell.

“Which reminds me of a job I don’t think I told you about yet . . .”

Bell listened. One story blended into another, which reminded her of another. Suddenly, he asked, “What did you say?”

“I was telling you how he confessed to me.”

“Would you repeat that, please. What do you mean ‘confessed’? Branco confessed to you?”

“I mean, one night he confessed to me. In the church. I was trying to figure out how to do this guy he wanted dead. All of a sudden, it was like I was the priest, and he started telling me about the first man he ever killed—when he was eight years old, if you think I’m bad. You know what he said? It was ‘satisfying.’ Isn’t that a strange word to talk about murder. Satisfying? And when he was only eight?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Bell. “What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t call it satisfying. I’d call it, like, finishing. Completing. Like, ‘That’s over,’ if you know what I mean. Anyway, then he told me how he killed a padrone who robbed him.”

“How does he kill?”

“He plans and he hides.”

“What do you mean?”

“He gets close to kill. To get close, you have to plan. Study the situation. Learn it cold. Then make a plan.”

“He told you that?”

“He taught me: Plan what to pretend. Pretend you’re reading a newspaper. Pretend you’re busy working. Or pretend you need help. To throw ’em off. You know what I mean, Isaac? He makes an art of it.”

“Of killing.”

“Yes, if you want to call it that.”

“So Branco was your teacher?”

“He taught me how to do it and not get killed. I owe him a lot, you could say. But what’s the difference now?”

“What else did he tell you?”

“You’re not listening, Isaac. He didn’t tell me that; he taught me.”

“Get so close that they can’t be afraid?”

“Plan to get so close that they let their guard down.”

“Thanks for the advice,” said Bell.

“What advice?”

Bell whipped the automatic from his shoulder holster and pressed the muzzle to her forehead.

“What are doing?”

“Francesca, reach into your blouse with two fingers.”

“What are you talking about, Isaac?”

“Lift out of your corset the steak knife you palmed at dinner.”

“What if I don’t?”

“I will blow your brains out,” said Bell.

“You’d be doing me a favor. Quicker than hanging. And a lot quicker than being locked in the bug house.”

Bell slid the muzzle down her nose and chin and neck and touched it to her shoulder. “This won’t kill you, but wherever you end up—bug house, prison, even escape—you’ll never use this arm again.”

The knife rang on the concrete.

“You look like a wreck,” said Archie Abbott when Isaac Bell finally stumbled into the Van Dorn field office.

Bell shook sleet off his coat and hat and warmed his hands over a radiator. “I feel like I’ve been up a week with that woman. She would not shut up.”

“Did she tell you anything useful?”

“How Branco will attempt to kill TR.”

“How does she know?”

“She was his apprentice. She knows how he operates. It won’t be a sniper or a bomb. It will be up close.”

38

They reported to the White House early in the morning. The President was exercising on a rowing machine. Van Dorn did the talking. When he had laid out the threat in succinct detail, he concluded, “For your own safety, Mr. President, and the good of the nation, I recommend curtailing your public appearances. And avoid al together any in the