by Jim Fusilli
“I assume you’d be amenable to representing the OSS overseas.”
“I would, sir, yes. More than amenable.”
Later, Bell would think it strange that a corporal had been asked to approve his assignment. But for now, whether it was the sense of pride he felt in knowing that Landis wanted to secure his services or that the U.S. Army considered him valuable or the rush of elation at the thought that his life might change, Bell was thrilled.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Tyler said as he slipped a straw into his bottle of orange soda. “For now, keep this between us. Frankly, I think we need to test your mettle.”
“Sir?”
“Your commitment,” Tyler said taking a sip of soda.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want this opportunity to slip away, Bell.”
“No, sir.”
Tyler watched the herky-jerky traffic on Sixth.
“Corporal, you tell me everything you hear, everything you know.”
Bell said yes without reservation.
Tyler continued to stare toward the avenue. “Tell me something I don’t know, Corporal.”
The next moment would remain inked in the mind of Leo Bell, also known as Leonardo Campanello, also known as Józef Herlitz, for the rest of his life. And he never could decide whether his question had resulted in his biggest break or his greatest mistake.
“What’s Operation Husky, sir?”
Gigenti made bail, posting a sizable bond and surrendering his passport. “Better stay away from Mulberry Street,” the lawyer Colla warned him as they left the courthouse in Foley Square. “Don’t fraternize.”
Gigenti stepped into the street and flagged a taxi, leaving Colla at the curb.
When he arrived at his home, a squat, redbrick mother-daughter surrounded by a white fence that was identical to every other house along the one-way street, he found Frankie Fortune sitting in his living room. Gigenti’s petite wife had served him coffee and figs, then retired to the kitchen. Fortune’s good looks made her uncomfortable. She feared he’d recognize a long-dormant spark of lust in her hazel eyes.
Fortune stood. “Please excuse me for coming to your home, Bruno,” he said in Sicilian.
Out of instinct, Gigenti reached into his pocket for his gun, but it was in the lawyer’s briefcase, as it had been through the hearing. “What do you want?” he snapped.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He tossed his suit jacket on the sofa and left the room. Soon Fortune heard running water. Gigenti retrieved a pistol he kept behind the silverware. Then he shut the tap and returned to the living room, a wash towel in his hands, pistol in his pocket.
He put on his jacket and, this time in English, said, “What do you want?”
“I have a message to you from Don Carlo.”
“You. The Jersey boy.”
Fortune nodded.
The two men stood on opposite sides of a coffee table, the figs and the espresso cup near Fortune’s knees, his back to an open window, the curtains waving in a mild breeze.
“Why doesn’t he call me?”
“Your phone is tapped. Here and the club.” With a measure of discretion, he added, “All your phones.”
Gigenti nodded dismissively.
“Also, the terms of his agreement prohibit—”
“What’s the message?” Gigenti turned his body slightly and dipped his fingertips into his pocket.
Fortune had a stiletto in his shirtsleeve. Staring at Gigenti’s right arm, he said, “You have to leave the country.”
“I’m not leaving the country.”
“Until we locate Fredo Pellizzari—”
“Simple enough.”
“—and address the issue in the right way at the right time.”
Gigenti was confused. “What’s the right time? The right time is now. Today.”
Fortune said, “Don Carlo believes Verkerk was a mistake, Bruno.”
Gigenti sneered.
“We can’t afford any problems now. Not with the feds.”
We, Gigenti thought. Like Geller, when Fortune uses this word, it doesn’t include me.
“Bruno, everything is falling into place.”
Slowly, Fortune reached with his left hand to the front of his jacket. He opened it, revealing a thick envelope in his inner pocket.
“This is enough money to get you to where you are going. Also, there’s a passport for you. If you want, we will arrange for your wife and daughters to join you.”
Gigenti understood the decision had been made. To refuse would be to defy Farcolini.
“Bruno?”
“I haven’t been to Sicily since I was a child,” Gigenti said. Immediately, he recoiled at the display of sentiment.
“You can’t go to Sicily,” Fortune said as he removed the envelope from his pocket. “You’re going to Argentina.”
Gigenti stared at him.
Fortune slid the envelope next to the plate of figs. “Rosario, Argentina. It has a large Sicilian community. A port, railroads. You’ll have a car, of course, and men at your disposal. They understand your authority.”
Gigenti lifted the gun from his pocket but kept its muzzle pointed at the floor.
“I say no and what happens?”
“Bruno, please.” Fortune was certain he could flip the blade into his throat before Gigenti could squeeze off a shot.
They looked at each other, their eyes shifting from the other’s right hand to his face.
Gigenti calculated quickly. He could kill Fortune now, dump his body on Corini’s doorstep, have Zamarella locate and kill Pellizzari, and then he would go to Florida to confront Geller. He could do this in two or three days. Then he would be on top of the world. Farcolini achieved his authority by killing his rivals. Gigenti could do the same. For the sake of the business, Farcolini would understand.
“Bruno…”
But if not, he would cut off the flow of heroin from Sicily into New York. Without the drug money to spread around, the waterfront would to fall into chaos. The take from gambling, prostitution, loan-sharking and the other old-time businesses was no longer enough to keep everybody in line. Gigenti would be hurt and Corini would prosper behind his so-called legitimate activities.
“What’ll it be, Bruno?”
Gigenti put the gun on the coffee table. “When?”
“We have to move fast,” Fortune said, concealing his relief. “Dewey is going to revoke your bail.”
“I’ve got to talk to my wife.”
“I’ll be outside.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bell was summoned to Tyler’s office, the lieutenant back from a trip to Washington. Almost two weeks had passed since their conversation in Bryant Park, and Bell was still at his old routine, running uptown, downtown, crosstown with a diplomatic pouch or a box loaded with documents. He knew the bus drivers by name. The only change: Imogene, the girl he met at the dance at St. Claire’s, joined him for coffee at the Automat. She put him at ease and the conversation flowed. She was even prettier than he remembered.
He trotted up the marble steps hoping the lieutenant would have news of a transfer, a new assignment within the OSS with training in Washington first, no doubt. But the moment he entered the gray room, he felt a tension so thick it seemed aggressive.
“Shut the door,” Tyler said. “Take a seat.”
Bell did as ordered.
“Tell me what you know about Operation Husky.”
“I don’t know anything, sir. Just the name.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who told you?”
Bell hesitated.
“Corporal…”
“It’s common knowledge in Narrows Gate.”
Tyler groped for a cigarette. “Common knowledge?”
“Not common knowledge. Sorry, sir. People associated with Carlo Farcolini know.”
“Do you know these people?” Tyler tossed his lighter on the blotter.
<
br /> “I used to see them in the neighborhood.”
“They know you?”
“As well as I know them, sir.”
“I see.”
Bell waited as Tyler brought a yellow pad out of his desk drawer.
“Names, please.”
“Of Farcolini’s crew?”
Tyler nodded, then blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling fan.
“In Narrows Gate, you have Dominic Mistretta, who they call Mimmo. He reports to Frankie Fortune. Fortune reports to Farcolini, but now that he’s left the country, he could wind up with Anthony Corini. Or maybe he gets Gigenti’s seat until he returns.”
Tyler wrote quickly, the tip of his ballpoint scratching the paper.
“Who else is there in Narrows Gate?”
Bell told him about Boo Chiasso, who ran the streets for Mimmo, and Fat Tutti, Chiasso’s sidekick. “After that, sir, they’ve got guys on the piers, in shipping, gambling, prostitution and in City Hall, but they come and go. I don’t know them very well.”
“Nor do they know you,” Tyler observed.
“I hope not,” Bell replied.
Tyler looked at him. “Why is that, Corporal?”
“I’ve done everything I can to steer clear of all that, sir.”
“Yet you know this,” Tyler said, tapping his notes.
“There’s a candy store where we used to hang out,” Bell said. “Mimmo owns it. You couldn’t help but know.”
Tyler nodded thoughtfully. In the logic of the Army and the still-evolving OSS, he was somehow to blame for the leak of top-secret information to one of his men.
“Sir, may I ask a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Operation Husky. Is it real?”
“Oh yes, Corporal. Quite real.”
“Is it the invasion of Sicily?”
Tyler didn’t know how to reply. It was assumed, by anyone who had glanced at a globe and read newspaper reports of the hard-fought victory over Rommel in North Africa, that the Allies would invade Sicily. But British Intelligence had prepared a plan, carefully constructed and entirely false, of an invasion of Italy via Greece. They let the plan fall into the hands of the Axis.
“What do you think it is?” Tyler asked.
“The invasion of Sicily,” Bell replied. He nodded toward the legal pad. “Otherwise, those guys wouldn’t be interested.”
Operation Husky was in fact the top-secret code name for the invasion of Sicily. But Tyler knew nothing more of the plan. To manage Bell as he intended, he would have to query him without revealing how little he’d been told.
“What makes you think it has anything to do with them?” he asked.
“Carlo Farcolini is in Sicily. He was let out of prison for a reason, no?”
Tyler underlined Farcolini’s name on his notepad. “Go on.”
“He can deliver his counterparts over there. You’d get their cooperation.”
“Corporal, why would the Allies need the cooperation of criminals to invade Sicily?”
“Well, I suppose it would be like the waterfront, sir. Maybe you don’t need it, but it’s easier if you have it.”
“Is that what they’re saying in Narrows Gate?”
Bell shrugged.
“What do you mean by that?” Tyler said sharply.
“They like to make themselves sound like they run the world, sir. And we know they don’t.”
Tyler crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, picked up a pad and began pacing behind Bell.
“If this were true, Corporal, if Farcolini had involved himself in some secret plan to invade Sicily, how would the information come back to the U.S.?”
Bell wasn’t sure whether he should turn to face the officer. Instead, he addressed the empty desk. “Two ways, sir. One is that Don Carlo could—”
“Don Carlo?”
“That’s what they call the boss, sir.”
“Continue.”
“Maybe Farcolini told Corini, who told Fortune, who told Mimmo. Or, two, somebody’s cousin is in the plan in Sicily and he told somebody over here.”
“I don’t understand. Somebody told somebody?”
“Sir, there are more Sicilians in this area than in any city in Sicily. I assume they talk to each other.”
“Good grief.” Tyler returned to his seat, the wheels squealing as he settled behind the desk. As Bell watched, he squared the legal pad in the center of the blotter, then placed the pen on the pad, lining it up parallel to the top line.
“Corporal, until further notice, you will be assigned to Fort Jay.”
Bell was stunned. On Governors Island, Fort Jay was the site of an Army disciplinary barracks.
“Calm down, soldier. You’re not going to DB. You’ll help the First with administrative duties.”
“Sir, what about our conversation? I thought I could be of assistance.”
“You’re not to communicate with anyone about your new assignment, Corporal, nor are you to discuss what you think you know about Operation Husky. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Bell said softly.
Tyler lifted the receiver and dialed a phone number. “He’s ready,” he said.
“I’m going now, sir?”
“That’s right, Corporal.”
“Can I tell my father?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Ninety minutes later, Leo Bell was on Governors Island. A corporal greeted him, took his papers and brought him to an office where his desk sat next to one that belonged to a supply sergeant, a wiseass who informed him that all he had to do was count, type and shut up.
So long Berlin, thought Bell with a sinking feeling. Good-bye Paris. So much for a triumphant return to Poland.
Operation Husky began on the night of July 9, 1943. Six weeks later, when it ended, the American, British and Canadian infantry and airborne troops had routed the Germans and Italians, seizing control of Sicily’s airstrips, ports and highways as well as the shipping lanes in the Mediterranean and the Tyrrhenian. The triumph, which also resulted in the collapse of Mussolini’s government in Rome, cleared the way for the Allied invasion of Italy in early September, another decisive victory that made possible the Normandy landings and the liberation of Paris less than a year later.
Via the Gulf of Gela, the U.S. Seventh Army’s Third Infantry and Second Armored Division landed near Licata and pressed north and west, following paths cleared by paratroopers who had disrupted the counterattacks. Quickly, airfields at Ponte Olivo, Biscari and Comiso were captured and troops cut off the enemy as it withdrew from the Allied charge from the east. Other units from the Seventh moved north toward the island’s center.
On the morning of July 14, a small American plane bearing a bright yellow flag circled Villalba, a small town near Caltanissetta, and dropped a package containing a similar flag, on the center of which was the letter F. The flag was delivered to Maurizio Marra, “Don Mauro,” the head of the Mafia in Sicily. The next day, the event was repeated, a signal that the U.S. Army would be arriving in Caltanissetta within days. Don Mauro gathered his sotto capi from surrounding towns; in turn, they sent their men into the hills to negotiate with soldiers who were fighting under Mussolini’s colors. In exchange for food, clothes and a promise of free transport back to their families, the men laid down their arms. American tanks arrived in Villalba flying a yellow flag with the letter F just beneath the Stars and Stripes. One tank rumbled to the Marra home. The American soldier driving it spoke Sicilian. After coffee and cakes, Don Mauro climbed in the tank to accompany the unit north to Cerda in the Palermo province. The tank flew the Farcolini flag.
Much like the so-called Battle of Caltanissetta, which ended without a shot fired, the engagements on the road to Cerda were civil discussions rather than bloody skirmishes. Don Mauro held a meeting with the local capo, informing him of the value of the Allies’ inevitable victory. At each stop, Don Mauro asked the simple question Geller had suggested to Don Carlo: Has fascism been good for your bus
iness and your family?
On July 22, the Seventh Army, under the command of Gen. George S. Patton, entered Palermo, a critical port on Sicily’s north coast. The citizens welcomed the Americans as liberators.
Under a raging midday sun, Bell, in uniform, passed Fat Tutti and entered the candy store. Mimmo was cheating at solitaire while a couple of high-school kids smacked the pinball machine. Another boy was reading a comic, also killing time until an assignment came along. On the comic’s cover, Superman was banging Hitler and Hirohito’s heads together. Behind the fountain, old man Russo had a cool rag tied around his neck.
“Ding,” said Mimmo, without looking up from his array of cards, “kill any Nazis lately?”
The same number as you, Mimmo, Bell thought. But he did nothing but smile. Boo Chiasso was sitting over there, too, flexing a handgrip as if his steely wrists and arms could get any stronger.
“How’ve you been, Mimmo?” Bell said finally.
“War is hell,” he replied, as he adjusted his sunglasses.
Bell ordered a lime rickey and sipped it through a straw. The thing was so sour it puckered his tonsils, but he couldn’t think of another reason to come to the store by himself. As a kid, he’d order a lime rickey now and then. Maybe Mimmo remembered.
Bell ran through his mind the subjects for small talk, but nothing added up to a gateway to a conversation about Farcolini’s activities. He could ask about Bebe and Rosa, maybe, though maybe not, given the nasty gossip in the newspapers. Corini’s nightclubs—no, Mimmo might still be bitter over how he got knocked out of the entertainment business, forgetting he fucked up the Saint Tropez and now was running the Blue Onyx into the ground, paying his whores out of the till, the men gone so couples weren’t dining and dancing, the old-timers uncomfortable with the young thugs who hung around.
Bell thought he’d ask Mimmo about that Chinese laundry opening on Second and Monroe. As he slid down from the stool, the front door swung back. “Hey,” shouted Sal Benno, bursting in. “You come to see Mimmo before you come see me?”
The idea, Sally, Bell thought, was to keep you out of this. He held up the glass. “Lime rickey.”
Benno made this face that told Bell he knew he was full of shit and, in an instant, that he figured out why.
