Hell's Gate by Richard E. Crabbe

Mike’s angry frown. “In the north we look like this,” he said, his hand moving over his face as if he was putting on a mask. “The Italians you see here, they are Siciliano mostly. Things no so good there. No work. All the good land owned by the dons. If you work, you work for the dons and they pay nothing. Very bad.”
    Primo’s hands moved as he spoke, dancing in a sort of sign language, punctuating and embellishing his words. “The Siciliani, they no like the ones from the north like me. They no trust the outsiders, people who speak different.”
    â€œSo how were you able to work against the Black Hand?” Mike asked, putting aside his annoyance at Primo’s taunting. “I hear they’re from the south mostly, particularly Sicily. The Italians are so scared of them they won’t admit they exist, not to most cops.”
    â€œThis is true. The Mano Nera or the Black Hand is spoken of only in the whisper. You see, when I was a boy, for many years I go in summer to Sicily. My papa had family there, so we went. I learn how they speak, how they think, about vendetta, all that is to be Siciliano. I even learn about love in Sicily.” Primo said with a wistful smile. “So even though I look Inglese, and they no trust me at first, when I speak they know who I am. Capisce? ”
    Mike nodded. “And your family, here I mean? I heard you had to move them.”
    Primo tried to hide the worry behind his eyes, but didn’t fully succeed. “They are safe. You understand I can say no more.” The waiter returned with two espressos and a small plate of biscotti.
    â€œI understand completely,” Mike said once he’d left. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
    â€œPry,” Primo said with a curious frown. “I don’t know this word.”
    â€œTo interfere, you know, to be nosey.”
    â€œAh, nosey, an interesting word,” Primo said, putting his hand to his nose and seeming to pull it. “Like Pinocchio, except he told the lie.” Primo looked closely at Mike as he sipped his espresso, making little slurping sounds. “So, what lies do you chase, eh? What dark things are you sticking your nose in?”
    Mike filled Primo in on the details of the last few days, particularly about his encounter with Todt and his accomplice.
    â€œYou did not get this man’s name?” Primo said. There was no judgment in his voice, but the implication was there.
    Mike shrugged. “Things were moving a little fast right then. Been searching the neighborhood two days now. Nothing on him or Todt either. Not sure a name would have helped anyway.”
    â€œNo find them alive, I think,” Primo said. Mike sipped his espresso without comment. “Nice work,” he added.
    â€œWhadya mean? I lost both of them. That ain’t so nice according to my captain.”
    â€œNice work to be alive, I mean. Two men. Surprise. You shoot both. Nice work.”
    Mike raised his cup. “Nice to be here,” he said. “Aside from a bump on the head, I’m none the worse for it.”
    Primo grinned as if confirming something to himself. “So we work together, no? We find this Bottler, a very strange name, Bottler. Lots of strange names in this city.” Primo shook his head. “Anyway we follow the lira, the dollars; see where they go. We put this Bottler in the Tombs maybe, eh? Maybe more?”
    â€œThat’s about it,” Mike agreed, squinting at Primo to be sure he wasn’t being mocked. “You’re up for all that? Could get rough.”
    Primo laughed. “What is rough to you, Michael? You shoot five men in two, three days, an’ say things they might get rough. You joke, eh? So when do we start?”
    *   *   *
    They agreed to start by finding Mickey Todt, rather than try to develop new leads to the Bottler. Todt clearly knew who the Bottler was. With the word out on the street