by James R Benn
"Harry, there's something else I need to tell you. Banville didn't make it. He and Kaz found me, and we were on our way here when the Germans showed up. Kaz and I escaped, but he didn't."
"Was he captured?" I saw the faintest hope in Harry's eyes and felt like a heel for not saying it straight out.
"No. He's dead."
"Bloody hell. There's going to be a score settled, the sooner the better. Get us out of here, Billy, first thing tomorrow."
I knew what he meant. I felt it myself, the urge for swift violence to right a wrong done to me. Sciafani had held on to his hate for too long, and when he'd finally done something about it, he'd found vengeance was darker and more haunting than he'd ever imagined. As I had in my own struggle with la vendetta. A knife in the ribs eliminated one problem, but another appeared in its place, one that all the violence I could ever summon up would never touch. I felt an overwhelming desire to sit on the front porch stoop with Dad and shoot the breeze for a while, the way we did when he had something important to say. He'd talk around it for a while, circling, easing into it. Maybe he could tell me something more about revenge than having to dig two graves. Or maybe he'd end up saying there simply wasn't any way around it. If that was true, it would be nice at least to hear it from him. But I wasn't anywhere near that front stoop in Southie, and I had to get the job done here and now. I had to convince Don Calo to support the Allies, I had to figure out how to get Nick out of this mess, and I had to find the greedy bastard who'd taken three lives. Graves were going to be dug.
"I'll do my best, Harry. Nick, how far is Cammarata from here?"
CHAPTER * TWENTY-FIVE
DON CALO WAS WAITING for me in the small courtyard, drinking espresso in the early morning sun. I wondered if I was supposed to bow, kiss his ring, or give the secret Mafia handshake. I decided to use one of my few Italian phrases and then get to the point.
"Buon giorno, Don Calo. I have something for you."
"That is refreshing. People usually want something from me."
I drew out the handkerchief by an edge, and held it up so he could see the L. "From Salvatore Lucania."
Don Calo took it, rubbing the silk between his fingers. "He was born less than thirty kilometers from here, and he has never forgotten his home. Salvatore Lucania is a good man. Sit, please, have some caffe while we talk."
He snapped his fingers and a moment later a woman brought out a small silver pot and poured hot, thick coffee into a tiny cup. As I took my first sip, I watched Don Calo run the fabric through his hands. His fingernails were manicured. Once his hands had probably been rough and callused, when he was on his way up, hunting men in the hills. Now he had others around him with rough, hard hands, and he sat in the sun, pressing silk against his palms. I figured a guy like that would want to stay on top, and that he'd go along with whoever could keep him there.
"We call him Lucky Luciano in the states, Don Calo, and I have a message from him for you but first I should tell you about the message I do not have."
"There are many messages you do not have, my American friend. Why should I care about those?"
"Because there are men who wish to use you, to put you in danger, with plans to steal from the American army. Lucky Luciano has no part in that."
"What do you mean?" He spoke with the calm, innocent assurance of a master liar.
"Money. Three million dollars in occupation scrip."
That made him flinch. He was ready to deny anything, but by adding the extra million to the haul I caught him off guard and made him wonder if Vito was holding out on him.
"Three million dollars? That is a lot of money. How could someone steal that much from your army?"
"Actually, I doubt if anyone could. But if someone happened to pull off such a thing, they would only come to ruin."
"How?" His tone was belligerent now, and I knew I had to convince him or this might be my last cup of joe.
"Don Calo," I said, leaning over the table, closer to him so I could speak in a whisper. "What do you think would happen to three million dollars' worth of stolen lire on an island, in the middle of a war? When thousands of armed men are moving through villages and towns? They would search for it. We're not just talking about the official search by the army, but every GI and probably every tedesco ripping this island to pieces to find three million in cash. There'd be no place to run. Every village would be torn apart. The simple people you protect would be the ones to suffer. They would lose far more than my army would. Anyone under even a hint of suspicion would be tracked down. And, it goes without saying, no one under suspicion could ever be trusted, after the fighting is over, in any position of authority."
I sat back, drained the last bit of strong brew from my cup, and watched Don Calo. He drummed his fingers on the table, as if they were calculating the odds. The drumming stopped, and his lower lip thrust out as he slowly nodded his head. He'd decided something, maybe which of his henchmen should take me out and shoot me or maybe that I wasn't as dumb as I looked.
"A true mafiusu would not weigh money against his people's welfare. And a man would be a fool to take such a chance, don't you think?"
"Well, it is three million," I said, giving my best shot at that all-purpose Sicilian shrug. "A man would have to think about it, even if he was only promised a half share. It is still a lot of money. But no, it wouldn't be worth it."
"You are sure about the amount?" Don Calo asked.
"I saw it loaded into the field safes myself, nine of them," I lied.
"You know all about this then. And you are certain the plan to take this money did not come from Salvatore?"
I had to tone things down a bit. I didn't want Don Calo thinking Luciano was trying to put one over on him, or else he might not believe anything else I told him.
"Don Calo, I was entrusted with this handkerchief as a symbol of Lucky Luciano's good wishes. There is only one message. Someone else is trying to use you for their own purposes, to manipulate you, to fool you into carrying out their plot. They threatened Nicholas Cammarata with the death of his relatives if he didn't bring that false message to you."
"Who did this?" I knew I had him. He was angry, and now his anger was directed at someone else, for a breach of honor.
"I will find out. Please don't blame Nick, he was in agony at the thought of his family being held hostage. They have threatened to kill all the men."
"You must know the names of these others. Who made this threat?" "No names were given. I don't yet know who the guy at the top is. But here, I believe Vito Genovese, Joey Laspada, and a local man, a big fellow named Muschetto, are part of the scheme."
"Ah, Vito. That disappoints me. About Laspada, I am not surprised. This Muschetto, he is a fuorilegge, a bandit, not even a member of our society. He is nothing. The one in charge, the unnamed one, must answer to me. Are you sure you can find out who he is?"
"Don Calo, please don't hold this against me, but before the war, I was a police officer, a detective. I will find the person responsible and he will be brought to justice."
"Hold it against you? Lieutenant Boyle, I own some of the finest carabinieri in all of Sicily! I have nothing against the profession of policemen. As long as they take my money and then leave me alone."
"I do have a favor to ask," I said, ignoring the crack about owning cops.
"You have done me a favor by alerting me to this foolish venture. What can I do for you?"
"Give me a few men and transport. I want to pay a visit to Nick's relatives in Cammarata. Tonight."
He drummed his fingers again, more slowly this time. The odds weren't as great, so he finished sooner than before.
"Done. You will leave in the afternoon, to arrive well after dark. Now it is time we spoke of the message you do have."
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my jitters. I'm not the kind of guy who gets the big picture. When Major Harding and the ONI guys had explained it all to me back in Algiers, I hadn't taken the idea of palling around with
the Mafia all that seriously. The mobsters I knew, like Legs and his gang, wouldn't give two hoots for anyone or anything that didn't benefit them. So I thought this was a joke, or maybe one of Uncle Ike's deception plans. Maybe there was something wrong with me, but I had to have a thing right in front of my nose before I got it. I had to see those narrow mountain roads covered by machine guns set up outside packed ramshackle villages. Nothing Harding could have said in a briefing would have gotten to me the way those antitank guns covering that bridge had. I could still smell the burning Shermans. So that's what I told Don Calo about--the odor of burning flesh and fuel spiraling out of blasted turrets. About Sicilian troops digging in at every crossroad, before every small village that straddled a pitifully narrow road, the soldiers working cheerfully in the sunlight, mopping their brows as if they were sowing crops for harvest. About our heavy artillery and fighter-bombers with their rockets and machine guns, and about bullets in the air so thick they trimmed blossoms from the wildflowers in the meadows like a scythe.
I told him about Signora Patane dying in her bed, her kitchen left stocked and neat. I told him about the bombardment from the cruisers obliterating the militia emplacement outside Agrigento, leaving severed legs and puddles of gore spread over the hilltop. I told him about our forward observer teams--air corps and naval officers who went up front with the infantry and could instantly radio for air strikes or naval fire. I told him we would rain down fire and steel by the ton on any resistance, that we would not throw away our soldiers' lives to spare the enemy the suffering they would bring on themselves. I told him that once a town was taken, there would be food, medical care, and kindness, but that we would have no mercy beforehand. I told him the world had never seen a war with warriors so rich with the means of death and destruction, and never had so many factories labored so hard to produce so much to kill so many. I made us out to be vengeful prodigal sons, storming the Old World, ready to obliterate anyone who held up a hand to stop us. I felt righteous by the time I was done, and a little ashamed, but this was a mafiusu I was talking to, not some schmo from a street corner, so I had to lay it on heavy. Power. I wanted him to feel the power coming his way. The power to destroy and the power to elevate. They were one and the same.
I sat back in my chair and watched his face. He looked older by a decade. Maybe he was thinking about life before the war and how it would never be the same. Maybe he was thinking about his own mother, dying a peaceful death. I don't know. I did know that there was no need to go on, to hold out promises of position and wealth. He'd see to that himself. He looked at me with expressionless eyes, granting me nothing. I had brought a terrible message--the truth.
"A man does not live to rise to my position without being a good judge of other men," Don Calo said, after a minute of silence filled the space between us. "I am not surprised by the actions of Vito and his underlings. That is in character, all of it. It is an offense to me, but not a grave one."
He sighed as he looked around the peaceful courtyard. His violent anger was gone, replaced by disappointment and a wistfulness that seemed to weigh on him.
"And I think you have told me the truth about what will happen, to my island and to my children. We are a powerful society, my young policeman, you know that. We have strong hearts. But you, you bring a storm of steel, you and the tedeschi. I cannot let you sweep away the lives of my children and all that I have struggled for. The sooner you have your victory, the sooner you will leave us."
He nodded and stood. I did too, pushing back my chair, the metal scraping harshly against stone. Don Calo grimaced. I thought he might shake my hand, but instead he steadied himself against the table, as if against the terrible forces standing ready to overcome him. He pulled out a pocket watch on a long chain, the end looped around his suspenders.
"There is not much time," he said, and left me standing alone.
CHAPTER * TWENTY-SIX
THE DAYS OF ROUGH travel had caught up with me. My legs felt like jelly, each step up the stairs winding me as I pulled myself along by the banister. I washed, cleaning the crusty lump on my head as best I could. I got rid of the bandage. I slept some more in my room behind barred windows. Later, I told Nick and Harry about what had happened, but I didn't feel like hashing it over. I wanted to get it done, and sleep some more. They asked me if Don Calo had decided to tell the Sicilian soldiers to desert, and I replied that I thought so. We ate, and I went into the courtyard and sat in the late afternoon sun, waiting. Nick and Harry followed, and Sciafani joined us.
Cars and a truck pulled up outside the gate, the sound of slamming doors and creaking rusty iron signaling the arrival of our convoy to Cammarata. Half a dozen men in white shirts with sleeves rolled up, black vests, and lupare slung over their shoulders, sauntered in. They were young and smooth skinned, thick dark hair curling from underneath their cloth caps. They watched us out of the corners of their eyes, two of them slowly walking around to where we sat, shotguns cradled in their arms. They stood behind Sciafani. Another guy, this one in a suit, about a decade older than the sawed-off gang, came through the gate. He didn't look at us as he hustled into the house, buttoning his jacket against his thick waist and pushing his slick hair back with his hands.
"Che c'e?" Nick asked, the Italian equivalent of asking what's up.
No reply. I threw Sciafani a look. It seemed like bad news had strolled in, and the worst news I could think of would come from Agrigento. He gave a nervous shrug, and grimaced. Not very Sicilian. More like Scollay Square after midnight, when a guy stops and asks you in a gruff voice for a light.
Footsteps pounded toward us from the house as we were each prodded to our feet by the hard end of a double-barrel. No one argued. Don Calo advanced on us, followed by the guy in the suit, whose lips were pinched tight into a thin line of anger. Don Calo clutched something in his hands, and the bottom fell out when I saw what it was. A burlap bag. The bag I'd left stuck under the seat of the car that brought us here.
Most people slow down as they get close to another person. Don Calo didn't. His rapid pace brought him right up to Sciafani as he drew the sacristan's big revolver from the bag and slammed it into the side of Sciafani's face, sending him crashing to the ground. Don Calo's momentum carried him right over Sciafani, so that he stood astride him as he lay on his side, holding both hands to his face. Blood leaked from between Sciafani's fingers.
"Why did you do it?" Don Calo demanded, his voice booming with violence. "Why?"
Sciafani, pulling one hand away, stared at his blood.
Don Calo kicked him, a vicious blow to the ribs. "Tell me!"
Sciafani opened his mouth, unable to take in enough air to breathe, much less speak. Don Calo brought his foot back again, but Sciafani rolled over, holding up one hand.
"I did it to hurt you, to take something away from you," he said between gasps. "I was going to kill you too, for my father. After all the death I have seen, I thought I could do it. But killing that man sickened me. I am a coward." Tears flowed from his eyes, mixing with his blood.
"My caporegime is dead, all because you wanted to try your hand at killing?"
Don Calo clenched his fists, fury knitting his brow. Sciafani's admission enraged him, and I could see him performing a cold, hard calculation, finding no solution that would make sense of his man's death. It was alien to him, and perhaps he saw Tommy the C's death as a waste, having come at the hands of a novice who found he didn't have the calling.
Don Calo raised the revolver and cocked the hammer. He aimed directly at Sciafani's head. Sciafani covered his eyes with blood-streaked hands, turning away from the sight of the barrel pointing at him. He offered no resistance. Don Calo's face was grim, and I saw the muscles tense in his forearm. He pulled the trigger.
The explosion in the enclosed courtyard rang from the walls. Birds rose up in flight from the roof. Don Calo stepped back, the revolver hanging limply from his hand. Sciafani looked up in shock and surprise. One of the lupara boys laughed and D
on Calo silenced him with a look that could have cut glass. Sciafani got up, staring at the wisp of smoke curling up from a hole in the hard ground, next to where his head had been.
The guy in the suit snapped his fingers, and the others followed him out, casting backward glances at the man Don Calo hadn't killed.
"Come, sit, Enrico," Don Calo said, his voice calm and gentle.
Setting the pistol on the table, he guided Sciafani to a seat, taking out a handkerchief and pressing it to Sciafani's cheek, guiding his hand to hold it there. Don Calo sat down heavily, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, a streak of Sciafani's blood leaving a thin trail over his eyes.
"They said I should have killed you years ago,"Don Calo said. "But that was one death I could not cause either."
"Perche?" Sciafani said, one palm outstretched. Why? Why not then, why not now?
"I have done things that the law, and your American friend Billy, would call wrong. I call them natural to a man of our honored society. I have no regrets. But I do regret leaving you, a child, without parents. And some days, I regret the absence of men like your father, men who did not fear me. I am not a monster, and I could not solve the problem you presented by killing you, then or now. But, as of today, we are even. I regret the death of Tommaso, but it allows me to give you your life. I had to strike you, for the sake of appearances, you understand?"
"Si."
"Good," Don Calo said, standing and holding Sciafani by the shoulders. "Now go with these men tonight, and never return. If you do, I will kill you."
Sciafani stood, and I'll be damned if he didn't give the bastard who killed his father a double-cheek kiss, and if that Sicilian crime boss who promised to kill him if he ever saw him again didn't clasp him by the shoulders as he did.
Don Calo hollered into the house, and two old ladies came out to lead Sciafani away, dabbing at his cut cheek like cleaning up blood was a regular afternoon chore. I was speechless, and for me to admit that is saying something.
