Blood Alone: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystey

by James R Benn

  "Stand up," Vito said, and I noticed for the first time that he was holding my .45. Howard had Renzo's carbine, and then I saw how it was going to happen. A renegade Sicilian shoots me, then Howard plugs him. But what about those first shots? Nobody was mentioning Elliott. I didn't get it.

  Vito rapped on the door to the print shop. It opened, and Legs appeared, dressed in army khakis like Vito's, holding an automatic. I could see a small vertical printing press, not one with rollers like the big one Mauldin and his crew had been using. It had a big plate. A lever press, I think they called it. Next to it was an ornate iron paper cutter, its sharp blade a yard long. Stacks of neatly tied occupation lire filled the space along the wall.

  "You've been busy," I said.

  "Shut up," Howard replied and shoved me into the room.

  Kaz stood in the corner, his hands on his head and his holster empty. Legs had the Webley stuck in his belt.

  "I'm sorry, Billy," Kaz said. "We tried to warn you with the gun-shots--"

  "You shut up," Legs said, pulling his gun hand back as if to smack him. Kaz flinched, and Legs laughed. "Fucking four-eyed Polack."

  "All right, let's get this over with," Vito said, waving with his pistol for Legs to bring Kaz closer. Legs stuck his gun in Kaz's back and prodded him forward. "I know you want to play by the rules and not tell us anything. But perhaps the rules won't mean as much when we cut your pal's hand off. For starters."

  "No!" Kaz shrieked as Howard grabbed his left hand and shoved it under the blade. He held it there while Legs walked around the cutter and grabbed his wrist from the other side. Kaz yelled and writhed in Howard's grasp.

  "OK, I'll talk," I said, blurting out the words in the hope of stemming Kaz's panic.

  "What would be the fun in that?" Legs asked. The paper cutter had a large wheel on top, about five feet up. He had one hand on that, the other clasped around Kaz's wrist. Below the wheel was a curved arch above the long blade. He looked through it at Kaz, still squirming in fear.

  "Take it easy, Four-Eyes, it'll be worse if you don't stay still," Legs taunted. It was obvious he relished Kaz's fear.

  "Don't! Please, don't," I said to Vito.

  "It's too late. You need to learn who is in charge here."

  "Hold onto him, Box Hook," Legs said. "I'm gonna enjoy this."

  Kaz kicked out and Howard's grip loosened. I saw a small pistol appear in Kaz's right hand and fly up. A flash and a loud blast and Legs's left eye disappeared in a blur of red. Kaz twisted as Howard tried to keep his grasp on him. Kaz jammed the pistol to Howard's chest, fired twice, then a third time.

  I lifted my bound hands and slammed them into Vito, sending him sprawling against the stacked piles of lire. His .45--mine, actually--slid across the floor.

  Howard dropped, finally releasing Kaz from his embrace. Legs, whose bloody head had been resting against the cutter's iron plate, rolled off and thumped to the floor.

  Kaz pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "I do not appreciate ethnic slurs," he said, turning the pistol on Vito. "Do you, Mr. Genovese?"

  "You can't touch me, Don Calo's orders!"

  "Billy, would you say Don Calo meant we could not arrest or kill this man?"

  "Exactly, Kaz," I said, trying to get my rapid heartbeat back to normal. I picked up my .45 and held it with bound hands, trained on Genovese. "That leaves us with a lot of latitude."

  "You can have it all, don't shoot me. Please!"

  "Is it too late?" I asked Kaz. "Does Vito need to learn who's in charge here?"

  "No," the mobster said, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. My finger closed around the trigger. It felt good. My Irish was up, and I would have no regrets about shooting this bum, who moments ago had given the go-ahead to a sadist to take Kaz's hand off. But I had made a promise, and it was a promise worth keeping. Not the one to Don Calo. The one to myself. I wasn't going to kill an unarmed man.

  "Get out," I said to Vito. Kaz nodded.

  Vito got up stiffly, his eyes darting between the dead thugs and the two guns leveled at him. He made a show of brushing himself off, deciding, with the shrewdness that had kept him alive this long, that neither of our bullets had his name on it. He walked to the door, picking up two bundles of thousand-lira scrip as he did so. He looked at the corpses again and shrugged, whatever emotion he felt contained in that small gesture. He left us, a tiny fraction of the fortune he had planned on reaping tucked under his arm.

  I really didn't care.

  CHAPTER * THIRTY-EIGHT

  "YOU HAD THE BERETTA," I said, when I had recovered enough to notice the automatic in Kaz's hand.

  "Yes, my backup gat, Billy. I had it inside my shirt, under my belt. It was uncomfortable, but it proved its value when I finally got my arm free."

  "Are you OK, Kaz?"

  "Yes. Now I am."

  I clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. I seemed to be more concerned about what had almost happened to him than he did. But nonchalance was an art form with Kaz, and he was becoming tougher to read. A hard shell had formed over his soul, and I wondered if I'd ever see it revealed again.

  "What were those first shots I heard?"

  "Harry was trying to signal you. When I looked down at the jeep in which Lieutenant Howard had arrived--you must explain his nickname to me later--I saw a rifle partially hidden under a blanket. I thought we would have a better chance at shooting out Elliott's tires with a rifle, so I went down to look. It was a sniper rifle, with a telescopic sight. I knew he must have been the shooter. But Legs was waiting, and captured me as I ran between the buildings."

  "I'm glad he was the type to underestimate guys who wear glasses. Let's get out of here." The flies were already gathering on the corpses. Kaz retrieved his Webley and as we left, I glanced at the stacks of bound notes. How much dough was this anyway? They were farther along than I had expected, not as far as I had feared. If we had been much later, Vito and his crew would have been busy laundering this small fortune, probably starting a major black market operation.

  We walked across the space between the two buildings, and heard the distant sound of a jeep driving off. So long, Vito.

  "We ought to find you an ankle holster for that Beretta," I said.

  "That would be quite excellent--"

  Two shots interrupted us. Harry's carbine from the roof again.

  "Elliott," I said, and we broke into a run. Return fire echoed against the buildings, the sound of braking jeeps and squealing tires mixing with shouts and orders. It sounded like Harry had taken on an entire company.

  "Up here!"

  I looked up to see Harry in a second-story window. He tossed down his carbine, and I caught it, looking around for a target. Harry dangled from the windowsill and dropped, hitting the ground hard. The impact must have jarred the healing wound in his leg.

  "There's half a dozen jeeps out there," he said, limping along with us. "Some MPs. I figured it had to be Elliott and fired above their heads to slow them down. We have to get out."

  "Come on," I said, helping Harry along as he half ran and half hopped.

  "What happened in there? Where's Howard?"

  "I'll tell you when we get clear," I said.

  "Box Hook. His name was Box Hook," Kaz said, still excited over a new bit of gangster jargon.

  We ran along the edge of the building, away from the road. At the corner, we squatted low and scanned the terrain. Flat ground all around. A line of trees about fifty yards out, then an olive grove. If we could make it that far, we could vanish. I checked the clip in the carbine. Three shells left. I handed it to Harry.

  "Any more ammo?"

  He shook his head.

  "OK. Don't shoot unless it's absolutely necessary. Three of these will only make them angry."

  "Whatever you say, Billy. Shall we run for it?"

  Kaz tapped me on the shoulder. The sound of racing engines rattled against the walls, and I heard gravel spitting and gears grinding as jeeps came around both si
des of the building. Clouds of dust filled the air and within seconds four jeeps had blocked our escape, while two others drove around the other buildings, checking for more of our accomplices. I wondered what Elliott would say when he found Howard and Legs stiffening up in the print shop.

  "Lieutenant William Boyle?" I instantly recognized the voice. It was Elliott. I shielded my eyes against the dust settling around us where the jeeps had slammed on their brakes. I could make out several Thompsons and one jeep-mounted .30 caliber machine gun pointed at us. Harry let the carbine drop to the ground.

  "That's me," I said, standing with my arms raised high. I didn't want to give him a chance to shoot first and ask no questions later. "These two aren't with me, I just met them here."

  Elliott vaulted from his jeep and walked straight up to me, holstering his automatic as he did so.

  "Lieutenant Boyle, you are one dumb son-of-a-bitch flatfoot, I'll tell you that right now." His mustache twitched in what was almost a smile. I didn't like being caught much, and I liked being caught and insulted even less.

  "Listen, Elliott, I'm sick of you and your Mafia pals. Do what you have to do and be glad you didn't end up like your flunkies in there."

  "Who are you talking about?"

  "Legs and Box Hook.

  Elliott stood there, looking at me, Harry, and Kaz for a long time, shaking his head sadly.

  "Major," he yelled, not taking his eyes off me. "Major Harding! Come over here and take charge of these three."

  All the guns moved off us. An MP came running from the print shop and reported to Elliott, who listened and did that mustache twitch again. I saw a figure in the far jeep remove his helmet.

  "Gentleman," Harding said, "I'm glad to see you are all right, but not happy at being shot at by you."

  "We thought . . . who . . . ?" That was about all I could get out.

  "This is Major John Elliott, Criminal Investigation Division. He's been working undercover as an AMGOT officer to track down a series of supply thefts and rumors of a counterfeit ring."

  "You're not one of them?" Kaz said, pointing to the print shop.

  "Hell no, and I'm glad of it, from what I just learned. I've been on their trail since North Africa."

  "Rocko and Andrews," I said, remembering what Howard had said about Rocko suckering Andrews in. I figured that part was true enough.

  "Right. First radios, then more equipment went missing. We had some good leads, but when Rocko turned up dead and I lost Hutton, the trail ran out."

  "Lost Hutton? What do you mean?"

  "Hutton was CID too. He worked in our communications center. We needed someone in the Signals outfit, and he volunteered."

  "That's why he had the number of the headquarters in Algiers written down. He was reporting to you."

  "Yep. He had several numbers in Algiers and at Forward Headquarters in Tunisia."

  "But how did you glom onto me?"

  "I tracked down a couple of boys from the Eighty-second, Joe and Clancy. They told me about Hutton buying it up there, and once I convinced them I wasn't on a chickenshit detail, they told me that you'd given them his name as yours."

  "And that's when you started looking for me."

  "Right. Turned out Major Harding and I were both looking for you. CID had no idea about the operation you were involved with. The major filled me in."

  "Well, at the time, Major, neither did I. When I tried to put the pieces together, your name kept coming up. Then when I heard you had the MPs at the Signals Company looking for me--"

  "You figured I was gunning for you. I was trying to help you, but you are one slippery customer."

  "I can vouch for that," Harding said. "Do you need us for anything now, Major?"

  "Not unless you want to watch a fortune in scrip go up in smoke."

  "I'll be happy never to see another lira again," I said.

  "Come on, boys," Harding said, leading us over to his jeep. In the passenger seat sat Sciafani, dressed in GI fatigues with a medic's bag in his lap.

  "Enrico! What are you doing here?"

  "I told Major Harding you would probably have been hit in the head again. Was I right?"

  "And the arm," Kaz added helpfully.

  "I think I reinjured my leg," Harry said, like a kid who didn't want to be left out.

  "Patch 'em up," Harding said. Sciafani grinned and dug into his medical kit. "How about you, Lieutenant Kazimierz, any wounds?"

  "I almost had my hand cut off, but I am quite fine, thank you."

  I hadn't often seen Harding at a loss for words, but he looked at Kaz with a stunned expression, then regrouped.

  "Glad to hear it. Boyle, any loose ends here?"

  "We let Vito Genovese go," Kaz said flatly, as if he already regretted it.

  "It's for the best, in the long run," Harding said, in a hesitant whisper. He didn't like it much himself.

  "As long as these MPs don't stick too many thousand-lira notes up their sleeves, that should do it. Frank Howard, otherwise known as Box Hook back in the New York dockyards, must have been the primary contact with Vito. He could run everything out of the Signals Company."

  "Who killed Rocko?" Harding asked.

  "Don't know for sure. Probably not Vito, although he came to see Rocko that night. For that sort of dirty work, I'd bet it was Legs. Anyway, the whole song and dance about stealing the division payroll was a red herring. This was the real thing all along. Running off thousand-lira notes that no one knew about and laundering them through Mafia operations."

  "Smart. Made us focus on the payroll and all the time they were planning on printing their own money," Harding said.

  "Who is Charlotte?" Harry said, rubbing his chin.

  "Had Howard been at the military government school at Charlottesville?" I asked.

  "He had," Elliott said. "He took a course on civilian communications-- maybe that was where he got the idea to link into the civilian phone lines. Since he didn't actually work for AMGOT, using Charlotte as a code name worked. Besides hinting at a female, if anyone overheard they might draw the conclusion it was someone from AMGOT, like me."

  "It had us wondering, all right. Ow!"

  I winced as Sciafani checked the lump on my head and cleaned the dried blood from my hair. Harding passed a canteen around and we all took thirsty gulps. I felt the water wash away the grit in my throat and ran my tongue over my teeth. Everything was so hot and dry here that the air was always filled with the fine dust kicked up from the ground. The simple act of walking stirred up the ground and sent tiny bits of Sicily into your body, coating your lungs, staying with you, no matter how hard you tried to wash it away.

  A sharp pain pulled at my arm, and Sciafani smiled apologetically as he drew another stitch across the wound. The pain reminded me how lucky I was to be alive.

  "There are a couple of loose ends, Major," I said. "There's a third body in that building, a Sicilian carabiniere. Renzo Giannini. He was with us, and Howard shot him. I don't want anybody thinking he was part of the Mob. He volunteered to help us out."

  "I'll tell the local authorities," Harding said.

  "And I probably got an MP in a lot of hot water. He was detailed to hold me back at the Signals Company. Corporal Mike Miecznikowski. Turned out he was a cop too, and we got to talking, and pretty soon he looked the other way. We didn't know about Elliott being with CID. Anything you can do?"

  "Jesus Christ on a crutch, Boyle! Did you enlist your own police force today? MPs, Sicilian cops. What 's next?"

  "Sorry, Major. But I do owe the guy."

  "Well, I already let Nick go back to ONI without telling them about the blackmail attempt. Springing one more pal of yours who doesn't follow orders shouldn't set back the war effort too much."

  The heat must have gotten to Sam Harding. Bending the rules twice in one day?

  "There, you should be fine," Sciafani said. "Stitches out in a week, keep it clean. You are lucky you did not get hit on the head in the same spot as before."
r />   "If I was really lucky, I wouldn't have gotten hit at all. My kind of luck seems to be limited to getting hit on the head in two different locations."

  "Do you remember everything now?"

  "Yes. I am no longer the most fortunate of men. I won't be discovering myself all over again."

  "Good," Sciafani said as he unlaced Harry's boot. "As long as you are satisfied with what you found the first time."

  I thought about that. Was I? Sciafani taped up Harry's ankle while Kaz watched. He held his left arm cradled in his right, the arm that had been under the blade. I saw that it trembled. His face was a mask of indifference, the scar down his cheek hiding the sadness in his eyes. I stood by him, casually draping my arm around his shoulder.

  "Yes. I am."

  CHAPTER * THIRTY-NINE

  THE NEXT MORNING, I watched a Sicilian dust cloud churned up by the twin engines of a C-47 transport as it took off from the Comiso airfield. The ground fell away and beneath me I saw the great buildup of Allied forces, the vision of the New World's might I had conjured for Don Calo made real. Acres of supplies. Aircraft lined up on the runway, bombers and fighters waiting for their next mission. Convoys snaking along the narrow roadways. Ships docked and disgorging men and machines. Destroyers cruising close to shore, cruisers off in the distance.

  I wondered if the gold silk handkerchief was in Don Calo's pocket right now, and how many lives it might have saved, and for how long. As the plane banked to head for North Africa, I could see a thin line of land on the horizon, across the Strait of Messina. Mainland Italy. We still had a long, long way to go.

  "Never been in a plane before," Big Mike said. He sat stiffly in the seat, as if moving his big body around might jar the aircraft off course.

  "Neither have I," said Sciafani, watching his homeland slip away as the C-47 rose and flew through white, fluffy cumulus clouds.

  Harding had sprung Big Mike and gotten him his corporal's stripes back. Officially, Harding had him assigned to his command to transport an Italian ex-POW to Tunisia. The best Harding could do for Sciafani was to get him a job with AMGOT as a doctor in an Italian POW camp there. It was the only way to get him out of Sicily and away from Don Calo, who could be counted on to keep his promise if their paths crossed. Sciafani wasn't happy about the POW camp, where he'd be only a step above a prisoner. But it beat a knife across his gullet, so he packed a medical kit and made the best of it.