The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  “After Dad passed, Buddy researched CCC camp information on the Internet. Supposedly the camp was in Utah, but the closest town of any size was in Wyoming. He found a camp pamphlet listing Dad’s name along with the rest of the guys. Buddy copied the pamphlet. I gave a copy to Buddy’s son Cory. You want one?”

  “Yes. I assume Cory’s solo motorcycle trip has to do with this.”

  George stood to fetch the copy. “Cory’s trip will probably end up in Utah. The reason I’m giving you this is because maybe you’ll find Cory and send his ass home.”

  “Before something happens?”

  “Yeah. If there’s anything to this, you’ll not tip Cory’s hand.”

  “I had a brother who died unfairly. And the sister of a good friend was recently murdered because of what she knew. You can trust me.”

  The Toyota Camry was smooth, quiet, and being a popular car, blended in. Unless anticipating back roads, Guzzo rented a Camry. Although the drive from Chicago to Detroit was not far, he never used his own car on jobs. He rented the Camry under an assumed name from an agency near the airport. His own car was in the airport long-term lot.

  With the traffic snarl through Northwest Indiana behind him, he put the Camry in cruise and tuned to a new wave music station. At a construction area along Interstate 94, the pavement was potholed enough to wonder if this could be considered a back road. Perhaps a heavier vehicle with good ground clearance would have been in order. During his visit to the fish market, Pescatore mentioned potholes in infrastructure-starved Detroit.

  The mark’s name was Angela “Niki” Gianakos, daughter of Nick Gianakos, the tough old bird from last winter. He was surprised how soon he was returning to Detroit. He wondered if he’d left a loose end there or farther north in Michigan when he staged the son’s death. Pescatore said no, simply a nosey strong-willed daughter.

  Nick Gianakos had “fallen” from the rooftop of the building housing his Greektown restaurant. Before going to the apartment to bring him up to the rooftop, Guzzo arranged tools and spread tar at the base of a roof vent. It was typical of maintenance Guzzo overheard the old man being warned against doing. After retrieving the Greek—a difficult job, the guy wiry and tough—Guzzo threw him off the roof. In the alley he made sure the old guy was dead, put his fingerprints on a putty knife, smeared tar on hands and knees, went up to the roof to leave the tools behind, and paused for a moment to look at the nearby Greektown Casino Hotel to make sure no one had watched. That night, rather than drive out of town, he stayed in the hotel. He’d checked in the day before and, though he wasn’t a gambler, took time to lose some money.

  Pragmatism instilled by experience gave Guzzo a sense of operating from a carefully-crafted script. The unfolding assignment like a movie being filmed with him the director. He’s also the editor, using common sense to cut unwanted segments, leaving nothing to chance. As for other operatives, certainly there were those doing research, filtering it down the line. Eventually the mark would be assigned to Pescatore. Sometimes, alone on his way to an assignment, Guzzo caught himself wondering if having a wife and two girls would go on forever, or if his lone wolf status would someday need enhancement.

  Guzzo adjusted the cruise so his speed on the GPS matched the posted limit. In the construction zone he tucked in behind trucks, giving drivers who didn’t exercise common sense the fast lane. Guzzo leaned toward the rearview mirror and smiled. He’d rented a nondescript Camry for his last drive to Detroit. A woman this time. Sometimes, in his business, anticipation was common sense.

  Chapter 16

  In 1937, Manila, Utah, CCC crews built the fire lookout tower on Ute Mountain overlooking canyons studded with forested thrust faults and the Flaming Gorge in the distance. In 1939, forest service vehicles had been damaged and the Ute Mountain approach road needed fixing. The final climb was a tan backdrop against blue sky after winding back and forth through wooded mountainside and cathedral-like spires. Weather was perfect, the superintendent said. Sure, always cool in the morning. Easy for him to say.

  With limestone dust on faded denim, the young men moving rock blended into the backdrop. Higher on the road around a bend, hidden behind scrubby trees, a tan 1939 Buick Century Sport Coupe also blended in. The two men in the Buick had removed jackets earlier and thrown them into the back seat. The Buick was big enough they could leave hats on, but every so often one of them removed his hat to handkerchief his head. The tall driver had wide shoulders. The passenger, watching the CCC men through binoculars, was stocky and short with sloped shoulders. Both had loosened their ties. The stocky man with the binoculars wore suspenders.

  “Back east a tree would give shade.”

  “Could be worse,” said the driver. “This thing isn’t black,”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Black absorbs heat. The boss gave us a black coupe last summer. Like an oven.” The driver removed his hat, wiped his head before putting it back on. “What’s going on down there?”

  “That local man. LEMs they call’em. What’s that stand for again?”

  “Local Experienced Men. Why you watching him?”

  “He’s giving Little Sal a hard time.”

  The driver removed his hat again and fanned air from outside into the open window. “If we don’t do something Little Sal’ll run to papa.”

  “Long way to run,” said the stocky man.

  “He’d figure a way to phone the old man.”

  “Maybe he’ll get himself into one of them grudge matches. District officer the boss paid off says a grudge match with boxing gloves might do him good. I’d say he’s on his way.” The stocky man handed the binoculars to the driver.

  Down at the job site, one young man shoved another, the other shoved back, and soon they were rolling in the dust. The LEM, instead of breaking it up, yelled at other men in the crew. They seemed reluctant but finally a few moved in, pulled the scrappers apart, and stood them up. The yelling was barely audible in the Buick because of the distance.

  The driver adjusted the binoculars. “Little Sal’s in trouble again.”

  “He’ll give us the shit tonight. Careful you don’t let him hear you call him Little Sal.”

  “Yeah, like never letting the old man hear us call him Sally Big Shoes.”

  “Or letting the old man know about the pep pills.”

  “How else we supposed to stay awake?”

  “I mean the ones Little Sal takes.”

  Having given up the binoculars, the stocky man in the passenger held a newspaper.

  “Any good news?” asked the driver.

  “Mostly war in Europe. Says here the new Pope is concerned.”

  “He should be. What’s his name?”

  “Pius, same as the dead guy. Hey, they’re using the Yankee Clipper to take mail back and forth over the Atlantic. And another piece about poor old Lou Gehrig. Ain’t that the shits?”

  The scuffle down at the work site seemed to have calmed. Some men sat in the shade of the two trucks, others sat in the shade of a boulder.

  “What’s going on now?” asked the passenger with the newspaper.

  “Lunch,” said the driver.

  “What we got?”

  “Baloney sandwiches from the café, coffee left in the thermos, water in the jug.”

  “A beer would hit the spot.”

  “Later, after we meet with—What do we call him?”

  “Sal, until he says different.” The stocky man folded his newspaper into a fan and used it. “Hope they cleared those big rocks we straddled coming up. I thought we’d punch a hole in the gas tank. You haven’t smelled anything?”

  “I was careful. I don’t need calling Lonzo about gas leaks. You got the new phone number written down?”

  “In my wallet. I hate calling Lonzo. Whoever heard of the driver talking for the boss?”

  “Cavallo�
�s Uncle Rosario’s calling the shots.”

  With Brooklyn hot Cavallo enjoyed his back porch. Since sending Little Sal to the CCCs he was alone most evenings. And what the hell kind of companion was Lonzo with nothing but yeah boss this and yeah boss that? Even at the office or a warehouse with the boys he felt alone. Uncle Rosario’s grooming of Little Sal putting a curse on him. Sure, it was 1939 and times were changing, but why so fast?

  Because the covered porch was on the second floor, Cavallo could see over the backyard wall and bushes. Between houses across the alley he had a view of the baseball diamond next block over. Boys, all arms and legs, playing batter-work-up. Little Sal used to be one of those boys. An argument had broken out and soon fists would be flying. If only kids didn’t grow up.

  Little Sal had turned into a repeat of so many boys in the family, needing to show how tough he was. Like the time Cavallo saw Little Sal use his baseball bat on a baby rabbit out of its nest behind the backstop. Not to show off; he’d been alone, the other boys gone home for supper. He remembered turning away as Sal slugged the rabbit again and again. Goddamn kids. Probably good he’s growing up in FDR’s CCC.

  Behind him Cavallo heard the maid rattling pots and pans in the kitchen. Cleaning up his mess because Francesca was already in bed. After returning from taking Little Sal to training camp in Ohio, he and Francesca not only ate alone, now they slept in separate bedrooms. And where had she gone today? Shopping, or Canasta with her Daughters of Isabela cronies.

  When the doorbell rang inside the house, Cavallo knew Uncle Rosario and his bodyguard would be waiting within the enclosed front porch. After the maid let Uncle Rosario in, the bodyguard would head back to the car and the car would show up in the alley where the driver and bodyguard would wait for the signal to leave. Cavallo stood to look over the back wall. Sure enough, there was the Lincoln, the bodyguard and driver visible through the windshield. The bodyguard had been with his uncle a long time. The driver was a kid Little Sal’s age, his cousin Joey’s boy, cigarette hanging out his mouth. The timing was perfect, the Lincoln pulling up in the alley just as Cavallo hears his uncle wheezing at the second floor landing.

  After a hug, and the request for Corvo, after the maid was gone, Cavallo and Uncle Rosario sat across from one another in their usual places on padded wicker chairs.

  Uncle Rosario made a motion like swinging a bat. “I see baseball boys.”

  “Yeah, made me think of when Little Sal used to play.

  “You still calling him that?”

  “Hard not to, since we both got the same name.”

  Uncle Rosario nodded. “I wouldn’t know, the Lord chose girls for me and your aunt.”

  “I’ve seen girls play baseball in the park a couple times.”

  “Not my girls.” His uncle took a sip of Corvo, returning the glass to the side table. The sign for business. Next would come a statement. Always a statement rather than a question.

  “I’m here because of news from Utah. One of our men looking after things called my office. Salvatore picking fights doesn’t accomplish goals. The world is changing. We must change with it. I told them to put your son on the phone next time they call. Instead of calling me, they’ll call you. Timing is critical because of European turmoil. Italy’s signed a so-called Pact of Steel with Germany, boots are marching, and soon Roosevelt will be unable to resist adding ours. If your son doesn’t succeed in the CCC and go on to the post prepared for him in the Army, we lose our opportunity.”

  Uncle Rosario must have seen the reaction on Cavallo’s face.

  “Why do you shake your head?”

  “Forgive me. I was thinking of Sal’s boyhood. I’ll not simply speak with him. I’ll put the fear of God in him. Francesca disagreed with this. Yet I made her understand. I’ll not allow him to shame his father!”

  Uncle Rosario smiled and nodded. “Good, I needed to hear this.”

  Camp Manila had five barracks buildings, along with a latrine building, mess hall building, education and recreation hall building, administration building, and motor pool garage. The camp was originally designed for 200 men, 40 per barracks. The buildings were angled; from surrounding cliffs they formed a pine tree shape on the valley floor. Being it was 1939, and it looked like war was coming, the CCC was cutting its ranks and Barracks Five was empty.

  After evening meal, during free time, Barracks Building Three on the other side of the latrine was usually quiet, most men at the recreation hall. But this evening the barracks was noisy with excitement because of the upcoming grudge match. The commotion started at the work site. Henry Gustafson, assistant barracks leader, complained about Salvatore Cavallo sitting in the shade instead of working.

  “I’ll sit anywhere I want, Henrietta.”

  “Why not climb on top of the rock and get a suntan while you’re at it?”

  “I’ll climb a bigger rock, maybe Castle Rock up in Green River.”

  “You’d have trouble there,” said Henry, trying to walk away.

  Sal went after Henry, grabbed his shirt and spun him around. “I’ll climb it! Not that glass of milk replica you’re carving. The real thing! Why you so interested in rocks anyhow?”

  Henry straightened his shirt. “It’s educational.”

  Sal sneered and looked around at the others. “Educational.”

  “Like that rock shading you. You’ll be long gone and it’ll still be here.”

  Sal held up his fists. “You’re all wet! I’ll never be gone!”

  One of the older LEMs at the work site heard the commotion and came over, pulling Sal away. “All right that’s enough.”

  “He started it!” shouted Sal.”

  “You guys looking for a grudge match, I’m sure the superintendent can oblige.”

  That’s how it started. And now before sunset Henry Gustafson was due to meet Sal Cavallo in the boxing ring behind the recreation building. A couple men sided with Cavallo, but most sided with Gustafson, the assistant barracks leader. Including Jimmy, the Big Apple, Phillips, the barracks leader, and George Minkus, seated on the bunk of their friend, Bela Voronko, who was stooped down arranging the inside of his footlocker.

  Bela had a photograph of the China Clipper flying boat taking off from San Francisco Bay taped to the inside lid of his footlocker. It was identical to the photograph he’d clipped from an Uzhgorod newspaper and hung in the barn. News from Carpatho-Ukraine was grim in newspapers and letters from his mother didn’t help.

  Beyond the open footlocker, Jimmy and George shared a bottle of Coca Cola, alternately pouring some into their tin cups. George held the bottle up. “Bela?”

  “No thank you.”

  Sal Cavallo, in tee shirt and shorts at the far end of the barracks, pounded one boxing glove into another, showing off footwork, bragging he was going to, “Pulverize Henry.” Henry wasn’t in the barracks and several men with nothing better to do stood watching Sal.

  “Glad I’m not fighting him,” said George.

  “He ain’t so tough,” said Jimmy. “Henry and I were here before you guys. Henry’s quiet, but when someone throws a punch, he’s got a little Joe Louis in him.”

  “He’s got colored blood?” asked George, smiling.

  “Nah,” said Jimmy. “Not that.”

  “We all contain red blood,” said Bela. “No matter where we’re from.”

  At the far end of the barracks, Sal yelled the Brooklyn Dodgers were the best team. Apparently someone mentioned another team and sent Sal into a rage.

  Bela asked, “Do you think Sal’s anger is real?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jimmy. “I’ve seen this before, a guy looking for a fight. Like I said, Henry can take care of himself. Except I wouldn’t want to be in Henry’s shoes.” Jimmy took a swig of Coke. “Guys like Sal, the fight’s never over. You see him showing off his stiletto the other night? Sal the Stiletto we s
hould call him.”

  “He’s like brown shirts in old country,” said Bela. “Something haunts me. I feel I’ve been here before, or I’ll be here in future. Rather than brown shirts, last night I dreamt of a man dressed in black, one who carries knives and guns. As you Americans say, Sal is one who fails to keep his shirt on.”

  When Jimmy and George laughed, Bela laughed with them.

  Jethro, the Georgia baritone, was walking past and heard some of their conversation. He stopped and did one of his Clark Gable impressions. “A normal human being couldn’t live under the same roof with him without going nutty.”

  Jimmy said, “Hey, that’s from It Happened One Night.”

  Earlier that day, 50 miles north in front of the Green River post office, a rancher sorting mail couldn’t help glancing up the street at two girls leaning against a red Dodge pickup truck. Pretty girls, damn pretty in their homemade flowery dresses. Even as the rancher drove away in his old black Ford pickup, the image of the girls leaning against the Dodge followed along, down the dusty road, up into the hills toward Castle Rock. The image would pester him tonight, that’s for sure. The way they laughed, the girls were probably discussing boys, maybe CCC boys from the Manila camp, city CCC boys like wild horses.

  Back at the post office another rancher passed by the girls leaning against the Dodge. He caught the front word of the conversation. “Rose…” and was gone.

  “Rose, are you saying you’ve already dated guys from the Manila camp?”

  “You bet. Gal from Rock Springs has a car and knows the camp brass. She’s dated guys from the Green River camp and the Manila camp. Says I’m a pip. We’ve gone to dances and the Arrowhead Bar a couple times.”

  “They let you in Arrowhead?”

  “No reason not to. My girlfriend with the car is 21.”

  “But if your girlfriend doesn’t pick you up, how are you going on a date with this camp boy? What’s his name again?”

  “Salvatore.”

  “What kind of name is that?”