“There was that indication. Were there any reprisals being considered against the Sicilians in particular?”
“As a matter of fact, there was. Bledsoe was going to ban them from the docks entirely. He said the labor issues began when the Sicilians arrived. He thought them natural-born troublemakers and said as far as he was concerned, we could do without them altogether.”
“Do you know if he said so in front of them, or if he kept his opinions to himself?”
“Bledsoe was a very forthright man, Mr. Barker. It was his way to throw it back in their court, so to speak. ‘You shape up and quit causing trouble, or you can work elsewhere,’ he told them.”
Barker tented his fingers in front of him in thought. “Did he receive any threatening notes? They are generally stamped with a black hand.”
“I believe he did,” Green said. “He said the Italians were trying to frighten him, but that he ‘wunt be druv,’ as the Sussex folk say.”
“Might the note still be among his effects?”
“No. I watched him crumple it up in anger and throw it to the floor. I’m sure it was thrown away days ago.”
“Was there anything in his death,” Barker asked casually, “that might make you think it was not an accident?”
Green sat up. “Here now, what’s all this about? You’re the second chap to ask me that. The first was the coroner at the inquest. Is this something to do with Sir Alan’s assurance claim? Do they plan to contest it? His heart failed, and there’s an end to it. What does this have to do with a client getting coshed by a gang of dagos?”
Barker put up his hands. “I don’t work for an assurance company, sir. I’m merely trying to determine the size of the Italian presence on the docks and in particular the Sicilians among them.”
Green pulled back his chair and crossed to the open window. The rum-scented wind was pushing in the curtains on either side, and from where he stood he could survey the unloading of the ship. “I wish they were lazy workers, these Sicilians. Then I could sack them; but they are hard workers, even if they give themselves airs. Sometimes I wish we had all good, honest Englishmen on these docks like in the old days, but we can’t afford them anymore. The Poles, the Jews, the Chinese, the dagos-they get the work done faster and at less cost. They bring in profit, and when it comes to it, the numbers on the ledger sheet are what really matters. Are we done here?”
“Just one more question, sir. Is it possible I could speak to your foreman who works day to day with the Sicilians?”
“I suppose so. His name’s Ben Tillett. He’s a good man, though I don’t care for his politics. He should be around the docks somewhere.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Green. Come, Thomas.”
Outside, Barker passed through the gates and then stopped. He put his hands on top of the ball of his stick and inhaled slowly. I’d seen him do it before in our garden, while he was beginning his exercises. He was shaking off whatever he had been doing and preparing to take new impressions.
We watched the unloading of vessels in hope of seeing the Sicilians who had been causing so much trouble. They were not difficult to spot, for they all sported black cloth caps with short peaks. I also noticed that when compared with the Italians, the Sicilians looked thinner and harder, as if they’d seen more trials on that Mediterranean island than their brethren on the mainland. They seemed to have a preference for putting things in their mouths when not actually working, whether cigars, cigarettes, short pipes, or toothpicks. Somehow it made them look foreign and insolent. The Italians were trying to fit in with the other dockworkers, while the Sicilians stood out.
Most of the Sicilians were young, I had noticed, about my age. They could not work without making chafing remarks to their companions, even to ones across the dock. They had not come here to join a criminal organization, I thought, which they could have done in Sicily. No, they’d come because the opportunity to work and the living conditions were better in London than in Palermo. Working as casual labor was hardly ideal, however, if one was forced to wait all day and the work never arrived at the docks. In order to survive, some may have reluctantly stepped under the umbrella the Mafia offered. It was that or starve. For all of their bravado, none of the Sicilians looked well nourished, and I doubted anyone on our little island ever gave them a warm greeting or a full belly. Gallenga had said once one took the blood oath, one was bound for life, which meant forty or fifty more years of being indentured. That is, if they lived that long. To men like Faldo, I thought, these were the yeomen guard, the least trained, the most expendable, the first to be mown down in battle.
11
We stood on the West India dock, out of the way of the watermen unloading a ship full of cotton from America. The sun was hot, beating down unmercifully, melting tar and bringing a sheen to every man’s face, but Barker did not remove his hat or coat. I assumed we were watching only the Sicilians, but when an English worker passed by, Barker plucked his sleeve and murmured a name.
“Mr. Tillett?”
The man Green had recommended was a young fellow with a fawn-colored mustache. He seemed too young to be a foreman, but as usual the Guv was correct.
“Who are you?” he asked guardedly.
“Cyrus Barker. I’m a private enquiry agent. Might we have a few moments of your time?”
“I’m busy at the moment, as you can see. What is this in regard to?”
“I’d prefer to speak privately,” Barker insisted. “I believe there is a public house nearby called the Drake.”
“I am temperate,” Tillett replied. “And, anyway, I cannot simply leave. I still have two more vessels to unload.”
“Where, then, and when?” Barker pressed, as if to say You cannot avoid me. Tillett sighed and stood, arms akimbo for a moment.
“Oh, very well. There’s a tearoom called the Brown Betty in the next street. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
“Done.”
Tillett moved off, and it was as if neither of them had spoken. I looked at the Sicilians bringing large bundles of cotton wrapped in burlap down the gangplank. No one openly looked our way, but then they would no more draw attention to their actions than we. I thought we would be forced to wait another hour in the heat, when at the far end of the docks there was a commotion.
A group of men parted, and Victor Gigliotti stalked across the dock. He shouted in Italian, and I could tell by the inflection that he was cursing. He buttonholed a young Sicilian and started yelling at him. I thought it a dangerous thing to do, knowing how they carry knives, but the young man merely shrugged as if to say whatever had upset the Italian wasn’t his affair. Gigliotti argued with a second man, who pointed to a third, who shrugged in exactly the same way as the first. No one took responsibility for whatever had enraged Gigliotti. He turned to the first man again, the closest to him, and gave him a strong shove, knocking him off his feet. The young fellow hissed a curse of his own around the now broken cigarette in his mouth and pulled a dagger. The phalanx of men Gigliotti had brought with him would not stand for that; to a man, they ripped pistols from their pockets. Faced with a half dozen armed bodyguards, the young Sicilian dropped his blade and went back to shrugging, all innocence. This incident, I realized, had become a powder keg that could blow up very quickly.
“What is the trouble?” Barker called out. He has no qualms about inserting himself-or me, for that matter-into a dangerous situation.
“Barker!” Gigliotti cried, and suddenly all six pistol barrels pointed at us simultaneously. He waved impatiently at his men and they stood down, returning their weapons to pockets, waistbands, or hidden holsters. “Come look at this! You won’t believe what they have done!” He led us across to the warehouses. The dock here was wet; and in front of one of the warehouses, large blocks of ice were melting.