Blood alone bbwim-3

by James R Benn

  "I still don't get it about the payroll," Harry said. He sounded like I used to in algebra class.

  "OK. Our guy is planning this out. He's going to organize the printing of extra occupation scrip. Maybe by extra runs on an AMGOT press, maybe a secret print run with his own printing press and stolen plates, I don't know exactly. He still has to involve people. Hutton and Rocko, not to mention Andrews. At some point, he gets nervous. Maybe he thinks someone's gotten wind of his plans."

  "So he creates a diversion!" Harry said. "He distracts us by focusing our attention on the payroll. Bloody hell."

  "Yeah. And he blackmails Nick into going along, agreeing to crack the safes. But think about it. Between an ONI agent and the Mafia, it wasn't going to stay quiet for long."

  "So if there is an investigation, the first thing they'll find out about is the plot to steal the payroll," Kaz said, rubbing his fingers on his chin. "But then the payroll never made it to shore and you ended up poking your nose where it does not belong, as usual."

  "Exactly," I said, as I pulled out and passed two deuce-and-a-half trucks. "Which worked out well for them, since it kept their cover story alive."

  "And all the while, Genovese and Elliott were planning to quietly print up all the occupation scrip they wanted which no one would suspect. Vito is the perfect choice to launder money on this island. It's genius," Kaz said.

  "Why were Rocko and the Italian chap, Roberto, killed?" Harry asked. In the rearview mirror I could see his face scrunched up with the effort of working it out, and imagined what I'd looked like to my poor sainted algebra teacher.

  "Maybe greed, maybe caution. Rocko had served his purpose, procured all the supplies they wanted, so they didn't need him anymore. They may have worried he'd panic and talk. Or both. Maybe Rocko found out the payroll heist was a blind, and asked for a bigger payoff. As for Roberto, he had seen Rocko take me away, and could identify him. That would be a connection Vito wouldn't want to come up later. Rocko nearly killed Roberto on the spot, but a patrol came along before he could finish the job."

  "Who shot at you then?" Harry asked. This time he wasn't confused. "It wasn't Elliott-he was on that damned tractor. Vito or Legs? Why try to kill you? As far as they know, you were there to celebrate your victory in saving the payroll. Andrews is dead, Rocko is dead, and Nick, even if he is more involved than we know, is in Major Harding's custody. Who 's left?"

  Kaz looked at me, one eyebrow raised in question. Now Kaz is a really smart guy, the kind of guy who reads philosophy and poetry in a bunch of different languages. If he didn't have an answer, I sure as hell didn't.

  "Somebody we don't know about," I said.

  I hated not having an answer. I drove with my lips clenched, tired of talking and swallowing road dust. I had thought I'd hit a home run with this one. Or had all the bases covered. Why was I thinking so much about baseball anyway?

  "Is there anything to eat in this jalopy?" I asked. I hadn't had any food since early that morning. Nothing but coffee and the thought of a chocolate bar. I could hear Harry rummaging around in the backseat.

  "Dear me, British rations," he said. "Sorry to do this to you, Billy. They must have been trading. For what, I have no idea. Ah! Here's some chocolate. Rollos, not too bad."

  He passed me the chocolate and some packages of crackers. They were labeled WELFARE BISCUITS, which didn't do much for my appetite.

  "Tins of Bully Beef, made from select meat parts," Harry said, reading from another label. "Approved by the ministry of food for front-line troops. Nothing too good for the chaps doing the fighting, although I'd love to see this stuff approved for General Staff consumption."

  I ate dry crackers washed down with warm water. What had I missed? One thing you could count on with criminals was a willingness to do whatever it took to get what they wanted. Beatings, killings, threats, bribes-they were as natural to crooks as punching a clock or taking the trolley to work every day. Knocking me off had to make sense to them in a way that a working stiff could never figure out. That's why a little streak of backroom larceny could make for a really sharp cop. It made you think like a gangster every now and then, which was helpful if it didn't become your regular line of thought.

  Maybe Vito had gotten it into his head that I had to be killed, and even when it didn't make sense anymore, he and Legs couldn't let go of that idea. They were men of honor, after all.

  "Harry, get Harding on that thing and let him know where we're headed, willya?"

  "Aye aye," said Harry, and began fiddling with the dials.

  "Billy, there's something else that bothers me," Kaz said.

  "What?"

  "We met Colonel Routh, the paymaster for the 45th Division. He showed us the orders that came through from II Corps Headquarters, ordering him to take the payroll ashore with the first wave of the invasion. He said such an order was completely unexpected."

  "And?"

  "No one at II Corps HQ had any idea about that order. He checked afterward. There was no name attached. It did say 'By order of Lieutenant General Omar N. Bradley,' but all Corps orders say that."

  "Maybe AMGOT wanted to get the occupation scrip into circulation as soon as possible?"

  "Yes, but no other unit had their payroll go ashore that early. It does not all add up, does it?"

  "I don't know, Kaz. I hope we find some answers in Vittoria."

  I took a right at another road sign pointing to Vittoria. Brooklyn was to the left. Same joker probably painted all the signs on this road. Forty-four hundred miles from home. Maybe it would be an even five thousand before the war was over.

  "Harding left for Vittoria an hour ago." Harry spoke up from the rear. "He sent us a message to find you and bring you there."

  "Anything else?"

  "No, there's too much static."

  "Message delivered," I said. "Harding's a day late and a dollar short. By the time he gets here we should have this all wrapped up."

  "Piece of pie," Kaz said.

  "Piece of cake, not pie."

  "Thank you, Billy. American colloquialisms are so difficult to remember. They make little sense to begin with."

  "Yes, why cake and not pie?" Harry asked.

  "I would say cakes are harder to bake than pies," Kaz said.

  "Right. One mistake with a cake and you've got a lopsided mess," Harry concurred. "With a pie you can simply cover it up with crust."

  "How many cakes have you baked?" I asked them both.

  "I've tasted quite a few," said Harry.

  "I prefer pies. Tortes, actually," said Kaz.

  I was still hungry, and this talk of food made me think of my favorites, all currently off the menu. I should have thought of my mom's cooking, which was great, but the picture I saw in my mind was a good old American hot dog, slathered in mustard, served up at Fenway Park with a cold beer. I hadn't thought about baseball since the last Stars and Stripes I'd read in Tunisia, and today it kept popping up. I hoped the Red Sox had climbed up in the standings and were ahead of the Yankees by now. It had been a long time since 1918.

  We drove into the city proper. It was mostly intact with some shops open for business. The local Banco di Sicilia was open too, and I wondered if any phony money was already deposited in secret accounts there. Not actually phony, though, so there was no way to tell which was legit and which wasn't. GIs strolled down the street and a group of officers sat at an outdoor cafe, sipping glasses of red wine. I passed them by, a bit nervous about ranking officers right now. One of them could be an AMGOT pal of Elliott's.

  The road got narrower, and after a few twists and turns it dumped us out into the central piazza. The usual church was at one end with a fountain in the center. A statue of a woman and a bunch of fish stood ready to spout water, but the basin was bone-dry. A group of GIs sat on the church steps, reading newspapers, their field packs and rifles scattered around them. As I got closer, I could see it was the 45th Division News. A clue, or at least a lead to a clue.

  "Hey,
fellas," I said as I stopped the car next to the fountain. "Do they print that paper around here?"

  "Yeah, but they're gettin' ready to pull out," a corporal said, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "We're waitin' for transport ourselves."

  "Where to?"

  "Dunno," he said. "North, I guess. Followin' the division. The front's so far up this ain't even the rear of the rear no more. AMGOT took over the town yesterday."

  "Where can we find them?" I asked.

  "AMGOT?"

  "No, the newspaper staff, the print shop."

  "If they ain't moved out yet, head down the street to the left of that church. 'Bout a quarter mile or so there's some tin-roofed buildings. One of them has printing presses and that's where they been workin' outta."

  "Do you chaps have an extra copy?" Harry asked.

  "Sure," the corporal answered, signaling one of his squad to hand over a newspaper. He eyed me, with my undershirt and bandage for a uniform, then Kaz in his British field blouse with "Poland" stitched on the shoulder, and finally Harry, his bleached-out naval cap at a rakish angle, his blond hair flowing out from underneath. "What kinda outfit you boys with, anyway?"

  "Would you believe General Eisenhower's staff?" I asked.

  "You better git movin' before somebody comes along what ain't got a sense of humor," he said, flicking the ash off his butt and field-stripping it.

  It was good advice. Taking the turn past the church, I drove slowly down a residential street, flowers and drying laundry decorating the small balconies three and four stories above us. People were going about their business-leaning out windows, laughing, arguing-much like you'd find in any neighborhood back home on any normal day.

  But normal didn't mean good. Normal meant you let your guard down. I looked at the rooftops and balconies ahead. I took the first side road I could.

  "Where are you going, Billy?" Kaz asked.

  "I'm going to find the back way in, and then we walk."

  "Why?"

  "Because our sniper could be waiting, and I don't want to give him a second chance. We might even crawl."

  "There's no Willie and Joe in this!" Harry said from the backseat, more upset at the absence of Mauldin's cartoon than the idea of a sniper.

  "There's a war on," I said helpfully as I parked the car behind a roofless building.

  This street had a dilapidated look, as if times had left it behind. A rusted motorcycle with two flat tires and no engine lay in the alley, probably right where it had fallen over a couple of years ago. A few small shops with iron bars on the windows were doorless, broken furniture and other debris marking the trail of looters. From the looks of things, they hadn't had heavy burdens. Down the road was an empty stretch, then the tin-roofed buildings the corporal had mentioned. It was as if people had simply used up all their luck here and moved on down the road to try again.

  "What do we do now?" Kaz asked.

  "Well, since we can't sit and read the funny papers, let's take a walk."

  I got out and checked my. 45, worked the slide, and flicked the safety off. Harry had found a carbine in the back of the car, and Kaz had his Webley revolver. Not exactly heavy weapons, but they'd do the trick. All we had to do was get close.

  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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  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!"