We walked single file, keeping close to the empty buildings. The sound of our footsteps in the rubble was loud, rock and debris slipping and scraping beneath our boots. The same sound, softer, echoed from around the corner. I stopped at the last building, leaning against the crumbling brick, and listened to the footsteps headed our way. Pressing my back against the wall I motioned Kaz and Harry to halt. Two sets of heavy feet, no voices. I held up the .45, the grip resting in the palm of my left hand. A curse sounded as one of them slipped, the tone and words familiar to me from North End neighborhoods.
“Porca l’oca!”
Two Italian soldiers, rifles slung from their shoulders, came into view. One was hopping on one leg, rubbing his ankle. The other was square in my sights, his mouth twisted open in shock, as if he wanted to scream but was lockjawed. The .45 was cocked and locked, my finger against the trigger, only the slightest muscle tension needed for two quick head shots. My vision flickered across them, registering something odd about their uniforms, but I kept my eyeballs on those slung rifles. One move and they’d both be dead.
The guy with the hurt ankle looked up. He knew it. Slowly, while his pal stood rooted to the pavement, he raised his hands, palms out.
He had bent over to tend to his ankle so he looked like he was rising from prayer, the fear of God written across his face.
“
Non sparare, non sparare
,” he said quietly, soothingly. “
Carabinieri.
Siamo carabinieri
.”
He turned, showing the large white armband that had caught my eye. In bold English letters, it read:
CIVIL POLICE
PERMIT PASSAGE
AMGOT
“He says not to shoot, Billy,” Kaz said, walking up to them, his Webley still in his hand.
“That much Italian I’ve learned,” I said, lowering the .45. “Ask them where they got those armbands.” Kaz spoke to them, gesturing with the business end of his revolver at the white armbands.
“He says they are from a
carabiniere
unit, the national military police. They have been put to work by AMGOT, patrolling the town and preventing looting.”
“Ask him what there is to loot out here.”
While the man closest to me finally managed to shut his mouth and stop attracting flies, the other pointed to the buildings, where we were headed. He was taller, and his uniform wasn’t as dirty as his buddy’s. He spoke emphatically, gesturing to the buildings, to everything around us.
“He says there is machinery in those buildings. A tool-and-die firm, and a printing company. The Americans are employing many locals there. They publish a newspaper and print important proclamations. He and his companion are to guard against looting, so they patrol this entire area. AMGOT is located in the city hall, back in the town center.”
“Tell them to beat it, and to keep their mouths shut.”
Kaz rattled off some Italian and pointed back the way we’d come with his revolver. The tall fellow drew himself up and replied without moving, pointing to Kaz, Harry, and me. The other guy’s mouth opened again.
“He asks what we are doing here, interfering with their duties, and why we have weapons drawn in this rear area,” Kaz said. “And he threatens us with arrest.”
Great. An honest Sicilian cop and a brave one, to boot. Kaz was smiling. It was just like him to enjoy this predicament.
“OK,” I said, holstering my automatic. “Tell him I’m a cop too. Tell him we are on the trail of an American who’s involved with the Mafia. Ask him if he wants to help us apprehend him.”
That will separate the men from the boys, I thought, as Kaz translated. When he was through, the tall man put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, and spoke to him quietly, nodding in the direction of the town center. Looking relieved, the little one shut his mouth and darted off, away from us and the Mafia.
“Sergente Renzo Giannini
, al suo servizio
,” the tall one said, snapping a crisp salute my way.
“Ask him why he’s willing to help us,” I said to Kaz as I returned the salute and studied Renzo. His face was long and his nose was watched over by thick eyebrows that met in the middle. He had an intense look about him as his eyes searched each of us. He looked at me as he answered Kaz.
“Because if you are lying and we are thieves, he will arrest us. The people of Vittoria need this work, they have suffered enough. And if you tell the truth, then he wants his revenge. The Mafia killed his father, who was also a
carabiniere.
”
I looked at Kaz and Harry. A shrug and a nod, and Renzo was in. Now all we needed was a bar to walk into.
THE FIRST BUILDING WAS long and narrow. Stalks of dried dead grass stuck out from sagging drainpipes. Open windows revealed machinery sitting idle in the darkness. Lathes, maybe, I don’t know. I never liked getting close to factory work. Long hours doing the same thing while worrying about losing fingers never held any attraction for me.
Peering around the corner, I saw a single deuce-and-half truck parked near the open door at the front of the building. GIs wearing the 45th Division shoulder patch were loading up boxes and gear, pulling out, like the corporal had said. Watching the windows as I walked toward them, I tried to sense any movement inside, any furtive shuffling or shadowy figures. There was nothing, only the beat of my heart and the thuds of heavy cartons being dropped on the truck bed.
I smiled, my best friend-of-the-enlisted man smile. “Hey, fellas, anyone else around here?”
“Who you looking for? Hey, Renzo,
come sta?”
The private, who looked like he was ready for his sixteenth birthday, exchanged some halting Italian and sign language with Renzo, grinning. He gave him a pack of Luckies and they shook hands warmly.
“Renzo’s a great guy,” he said. “What are you all looking for? Kind of an odd bunch, aren’t you?”
He didn’t even try to salute Kaz or Harry. Me, I could’ve been their driver in my OD undershirt and bandaged right arm. I liked his attitude right away.
“We’re looking for an AMGOT print shop. We’re supposed to meet a guy there,” I said.
“You came to the right place. They’re taking over our joint now that we’re moving out.”
“You’re the chap who draws
Willie and Joe,
” Harry said. “I saw your picture in the newspaper back in Tunisia. How come no drawings in the paper here?”
“That’s me, Bill Mauldin’s the name. We ’re heading up to Caltanis-setta now, and if we can find a photoengraver and zinc plates,
Willie
and Joe
will be back in business. Wasn’t enough here to work with. Gotta go,” he said, as the engine started and the other GI newspapermen climbed aboard.
“Wait,” I said. “Where’s the AMGOT print shop? Is anybody there?”
“Next building over, down at the far end. They’re using a small press they found there, but they’re going to move into this place as soon as they get reliable electricity. Turning presses by hand is a bear of a job!”
The truck pulled away, Mauldin waving and calling out to Renzo, “
Arrivederci!”
Everyone was cheery, but my arm was throbbing and I didn’t like standing out in the open.
“Let’s get inside,” I said, glancing up at the roofline of the building across from us.
We went through the double doors. Tables held tin cans full of cigarette butts, empty wine bottles, and scattered pages of the
45th
Division News
. It was dark and cooler inside, the concrete walls damp and musty. Behind the tables was a printing press, the huge rollers idle but still glistening with ink from the last run. The room smelled of ink, oil, and tobacco, with the yeasty smell of old wine and sweat thrown in. Any newspaperman I’d known in Boston would have felt right at home.
“Lieutenant Boyle.”
I jumped at the sound of my name, startled that someone had come up behind us without our hearing him. The voice came from a figure in the doorway, but my eyes weren’t adjusted to the darkness yet and with bright sunlight behind him, I couldn’t make him out right away. I could only see his outline and the position of his hands. None of it was threatening. Then his face became clear.
“Howard?” It was the Signals Company lieutenant. Kaz looked at me, one eyebrow raised and the Webley pointed in the general direction of the doorway.
“Yes. Lieutenant Frank Howard, 45th Division Signals,” he said, extending his hand to Kaz and Harry, who introduced themselves. I was trying to think why he might be here or how he’d known we were. Perhaps Harding had told him, but before I could ask, he and Renzo were shaking hands.
“
Sono contento di conoscerla, Sergente,
”Howard said, returning Renzo’s salute.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“I have a message for you.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I wasn’t certain you would be. Can we talk privately?”
“If it’s about the matter we discussed earlier, Kaz and Harry work with me. They know everything I do.” Or don’t. But I didn’t bother saying that.
“OK,” Howard said, leaning against a table and pulling out a crumpled pack of Luckies. He lit one with a shiny Zippo, took a deep drag on it, and spoke as the smoke wafted from his mouth. “There was an uproar after Corporal Miecznikowski let you get away. Or I should say Private, since Stanton busted him and threatened to have him court-martialed for leaving his post. What happened to you anyway?” He seemed finally to notice that I wasn’t in the same shape as when he’d last seen me.
“Little run-in with the Luftwaffe. That’s too bad about Big Mike.”
“Yeah, well, no good deed goes unpunished. Mike’s a stand-up guy, and if he thought you were on the level, then you’re OK in my book. So when a message came through for Major Elliott from AMGOT in Gela, I took a look.”
“What did it say?”
“That you were headed here, to the AMGOT printing facility in Vittoria, and that Elliott should follow to make certain you arrived. There are two Mafia gunmen waiting and a thousand-dollar contract out on you. In real greenbacks, not occupation currency.”
“They said that in an open radio message?” Harry asked.
“No, it was in code, to be delivered to Elliott. He’s on the road but he’s got a communications jeep. I had to let it through, but I thought I should warn you.”
“How were you able to decode it?” Harry asked.
“We have all the low-level codebooks. It only took a few minutes, then I passed the message down the line to be transmitted to Elliott.”
“Thanks, Howard,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“I’ve got my own beef with these guys. Hutton was one of my best men, and he’d still be alive today if it wasn’t for them. I’ll stay with you here until things get straightened out.” He patted his .45.
“Someone has already taken a shot at Billy,” Kaz said. “It may have been the Mafia.”
“If there is a contract out on me, I can’t believe it comes from Don Calo,” I said. “More likely Legs or Vito, working their own deal.”
“You don’t mean Vito Genovese? And Don Calo, the Mafia boss? You guys travel in strange circles,” Howard said.
I walked back and forth in front of the printing press, thinking. Elliott was probably on his way here, with official or unofficial muscle. The shooter who had ambushed us in Scoglitti could be waiting in the next building for another try, or near enough to get off a clean shot as we headed into the AMGOT print shop. They were closing in from two sides; it was time to push back.
They were too damn close to pulling it off, using this big press to run off sheets of scrip with whatever high-denomination plate they had managed to steal or copy. I knew they couldn’t have done it yet, not with Bill Mauldin and his crew hanging around. But now that they’d left all that stood in their way was a Sicilian cop and four junior officers with sidearms and one carbine. Well , if they wanted a fight, this was the time to oblige. With Howard’s tip-off, we finally had an edge. A small one, but an edge.
“OK, here’s what we do,” I said, turning to face the others. “Kaz and Harry, get up on the roof and keep a lookout, one on each end. Watch for Elliott on the road, and the local shooter and his pals in one of the other three buildings.”
“What are you going to do?” Frank asked me.
I wasn’t sure. There were three long, narrow concrete buildings on our side of the road. We were in the front of the first one. The AMGOT print shop was at the other end of the middle building, which was the largest of the three. It stood two stories tall, wider than the buildings on either side, and was a grimy unpainted gray.
“I’m going to go in quietly, through the other end of the big building. They’ll be expecting me to walk in through the print-shop entrance.”
“What do you want us to do if Elliott shows up?” Harry asked.
“Shoot over his head or disable the jeep if you can hit it with that thing,” I said, pointing to his carbine. “But keep your head down. Depending on who he has with him, you might be outgunned.”
“And he is a superior officer,” Harry said. “His Majesty frowns on his subjects shooting their allies.”
“This could all turn out badly,” I said. “No reason not to bow out now, if anyone wants to. Probably would be the smart move.”
Kaz and Howard both spoke with Renzo, quick bursts of Italian and hand gestures.
“
Sono con lei,
” Renzo said. He unshouldered his Italian carbine and worked the bolt. I didn’t need a translation.
“We’ll go with you,” Howard said, pointing to Renzo. “You’ll need somebody to watch your back once you’re inside.”
A stairwell at the end of the building led up to the roof. We shook hands all around, and then Kaz and Harry clambered up the steps, out through a small shed and onto the open tin roof. Four air vents stuck up at intervals, the blades of their fans idly turning in the rising heat. The roofline had a slight slant, and I hoped it was enough to keep both of them hidden while they stood watch.
I couldn’t worry about Kaz and Harry for long. I had other things to think about, like whether Renzo and Howard were going to be more help or hindrance. And whether someone was waiting around the next corner to put a bullet in my head.
We went out through the double doors we’d entered by. I put my finger to my lips to signal for silence, and they nodded. Good so far. Then I pointed across the road, to a small cinder-block building. Then motioned forward for them to follow. I took off running low, listening to the sounds of their boots scuffing across the hard-packed dirt. We circled to the back of the cinder-block building, skirting piles of rotting garbage. Coming around to the front, we faced the big gray building with the AMGOT print shop at the other end. I motioned them to get down, and they obeyed, out of breath and looking puzzled.
I never liked frontal assaults. Not as a soldier in the army or as a cop. What sense was there in crossing open ground or banging down a front door? That was always where the firepower was focused. Me, I liked the oblique approach. That’s what Dad called it. By the time they shut the door, we’ll be coming through the window, he used to say. And then Uncle Dan would chime in, When they shut the window, we’ll be coming through the door. It’s some old kids’ song, and ended with them coming through the floor. They always thought it was hilarious. I wasn’t so sure about that, but I got the point. “Hit ’em where they ain’t.” Even though that one came from New York Yankee Wee Willie Keeler, I still liked it. I liked Willie too, a little guy who played smart. He made it sound simple.
So that’s what I was doing. Going through the window while they were watching the door. I motioned forward and we ran, crouching, hoping the bad guys didn’t have anybody up on the other roof.
They didn’t. We leaned against the wall next to the door, waiting for our breathing to slow down. It was hot in the late afternoon sun, and sweat dripped into my eyes. I wiped it away, grimacing as I raised my arm. I ignored the pain and put my hand on the iron door handle, which was already starting to rust. I pushed it down, feeling its grittiness against my sweaty palm. The door opened with a creak, and I stepped aside, ready for a hail of bullets. None came. I pushed the door with my shoulder, opening it wider. Signaling for Howard and Renzo to follow me, low and to the right, I moved in, keeping my back to the wall and sidestepping right. I kneeled and they followed suit.
It was dark inside. There were only two small windows. One was broken, taped over with newsprint. The other was filthy, barely letting in any light. I pointed to my eyes: Wait here and get adjusted to the darkness. It was cool; the concrete at my back felt damp and refreshing after the hot sun. Things came into focus: a workbench, wooden boxes of tools stacked on the floor, machine parts on the tables. Some sort of workshop. The room took up the width of the building. Another door faced us at the far end. When I thought we could see clearly enough not to stumble over a pile of wrenches and pliers or knock over a table, I got up and walked to that door.
Another creak and it opened. The second room was huge, and I guessed that the third one would contain the printing presses; there wasn’t that much more building left. Large double doors on tracks faced each other from opposite walls. This was a garage of sorts. A broken-down truck, tires gone and engine removed, stood next to us, doors hanging open. Chains and pulleys hung from the ceiling, and there was a pit in the middle, so the mechanics could work underneath the vehicles. It wasn’t the neatest shop I’d ever seen. Oil drums leaked dark fluids, and bolts and other discarded parts littered the floor. It was dark in here too, but the coolness was marred by the rancid odor of spoiled food. A table held plates of unrecognizable shapes, buzzing with flies and decorated with mouse droppings. I wondered why people weren’t back at work by now, or at least cleaning up. Then I realized the present tenants probably didn’t encourage visitors.
We eased our way around the hanging chains, stepping over anything that might make a sound. I thought I heard a noise, a shout from outside. I signaled Howard and Renzo to stop. Then three shots rang out in quick succession, the
pop pop pop
sounding like Harry’s carbine, and before I could even think, two explosions sounded in the darkened room—
boom boom—
amid flashes that burst white against my eyeballs. Renzo fell backward, his white armband spattered with blood, before Howard turned from him in a single swift motion, bringing the butt of his automatic up to the side of my head.
My brain came to before my body. Not that it had been all that much help to me that day. But I had to give it credit—it had been sending me messages. Baseball messages. The New York Yankees. New York. Lieutenant Frank Howard, from New York City. Who worked on the docks, where Lucky Luciano and Vito Genovese controlled the unions. At the center of the II Corps communications network, in charge of the Message Section. Not the Code Section, where Captain Stanton held sway. So there had been no coded message. That was only an excuse, a pretext for Howard to tag along and take me by surprise. Why was I still breathing?