by James R Benn
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 hilari
ous. 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?
Why had Howard killed Renzo? Or had he? Was he was waiting for Elliott to show up?
Sounds worked their way into my awareness, along with the feel of rope tight around my wrists, the cold cement floor, and that increasingly familiar feeling of blood in my hair and a throbbing headache. I opened my eyes and saw the ugly face of Vito Genovese staring down at me. He wore nicely pressed U. S. Army khakis, and an officer's garrison cap with no rank insignia. I couldn't help noticing that the braid was gray and gold, the colors of the Paymaster Department. I had to laugh, even though it hurt.
"It's good to keep your sense of humor," Vito said. "What's so funny?"
"Do you know the braid on your cap is in paymaster colors?"
"No, I didn't. That is pretty funny, I gotta admit." He kneeled down to look me in the eyes. "But what's gonna happen to you if you don't talk, now that ain't funny. How much do you know, and who else knows it?"
"I know that you're going to kill me either way. And everybody else knows you're a lying crook too."
"You're a real comedian, Boyle. Ain't he a riot, Box Hook?"
"I'm not laughing yet," Howard said. Box Hook? I didn't have to think hard about how he got that nickname on the docks. A longshoreman's hook was an ugly weapon.
"OK, OK," Vito said, waggling his hand back and forth. "Listen, Boyle, I know I'm safe here. You got a deal with Don Calo and I'm it. I can hide Box Hook out so the army'll never find him. So we don't gotta kill you. But we do need to know who else knows what you know. Tell us, and we leave you here, tied up but alive. Someone'll come along."
Vito hadn't risen in ranks of the Mob by leaving witnesses alive, so I knew he was spinning one for me. It seemed like a good idea to buy time and wait. For what, I wasn't sure.
"Hey, Box Hook, any idea where Vito will hide you? Now that he doesn't need you? I'd say six feet under but the ground is pretty hard around here. I'd bet two feet, maximum."
"Nice try, Boyle, but Vito and me go way back. I got no worries on that account."
"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 s
mall 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.