Blood Alone: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystey

by James R Benn

  "Yes, but they use it to mean food. They honor us by asking for meat, since only rich men could give such a gift to a beggar." He shrugged, turning from them slightly, speaking with his body what he thought of them.

  "Carne?" one of the little girls asked. I wondered if she thought we were debating how much meat to give them or what kind. Beefsteak or chicken? We had eaten Italian rations last night and I still had one crumpled packet in my shirt pocket. I pulled it out, the white wrapping dirty and ripped, but the words BISCOTTI DOLCI still stood out. Sweet biscuits.

  "Nessuna carne," I said. "Mi dispiace." I figured I should practice apologizing in Italian, and wondered how many languages I would learn to express sorrow in.

  "Grazie," the boy said, putting his arms around the girls' shoulders and shepherding them away. The little girl who had taken the biscuits held them to her chest and looked at me over her shoulder, her dark eyes locked onto mine as her brother led her down the steps. An antiaircraft gun on the hill behind us began firing, and she flinched at the noise, but held her gaze as she disappeared down the steep steps.

  A pair of fighter planes zoomed overhead, British Spitfires, twisting and turning to avoid antiaircraft fire from the ridge behind the church. Straightening, they went into a shallow dive, racing across the city, their machine guns chattering at some target along the road. We couldn't see anything but the two fighters pulling up and away, arcing in the sky, gleaming in the sunlight over the Mediterranean. A puff of smoke appeared where they had strafed. This far away, it seemed inconsequential, like it must to those pilots, so high in the air. I wondered if they had ever killed a man up close, felt his blood on their hands. Or did they dream of blood at night, safe in comfortable beds?

  I went into the church, glad to leave the ringside view. I didn't like the view up close, and I didn't like it from a distance either. There was too much dead and empty air, too much of everything between the living and the dead. Distance, memories, dreams, desires. Soldiers and civilians were losing their dreams of life down there in those little puffs of smoke, losing everything to the distant rat-tat-tat that almost sounded like a woodpecker at work on the old dead tree near the bird feeder in our backyard. They were dying amid screams and terror and noise so loud the ears of the living would ring for hours after.

  There was so much space between us, so much of nothing, that there was room enough for the memory of my mother feeding birds, and how happy the sound of the woodpecker's beak against dead wood made her. She'd stand at the kitchen window, up on her tiptoes, straining to see that tree. Tat-tat-tat.

  I couldn't look. Instead, I went to find happiness, following Sciafani into the church. He seemed more troubled by the children than the battle. Then again, the kids were right here.

  "Look, a Caravaggio," he said, pointing to a painting. It was of a baby, but the canvas was so dark I couldn't tell anything more. The church door shut behind me, the distant sounds of battle muffled by the ancient wood.

  "Is he famous, like Michelangelo?"

  "Yes, my friend," Sciafani said, laughing. "He is famous. There would be carne for all the beggar children of Agrigento if the church sold that one! But don't worry, priests will feast their eyes on it over the centuries while the bambini starve. They always have."

  "So it's been a while since you've been to services?" I said, trying to joke him out of his foul mood.

  "Not since my parents . . ." He let the sentence drift off. "Not since my parents," he said more firmly.

  We walked to the ornate altar, tiers of rose-colored marble rising to support a statue of Mary holding her baby.

  "See, Billy? We Sicilians worship the Mother of Christ, the mother of us all. But we do not pay so much attention to her son. He should have respected her more and not drawn all that trouble down on the family. As soon as he was born, they had to flee to Egypt!" He shook his head dismissively.

  Sciafani wandered off to look at the other paintings along the main wall. I was glad not to have to listen to him rant and rave about the church and paintings and mothers. Something was eating at him and it was ready to boil over, which would have been fine, except I couldn't afford to have him go off his rocker right here, right now, while I was searching for happiness. Where would Saint Felice be, and what would happen when I found him? I peered down the corridor that led off to each side of the altar. The transept, I thought, remembering my brief career as an altar boy back in Boston. It was an honor, my mom kept telling me, and I guess it was, but one I'd been eager to pass up. Getting up earlier than everyone else to prepare for Sunday services wasn't high on my list at that age. Every once in a while, though, as the organ played and I felt the eyes of the congregation following me as I carried the heavy candle to the altar, I had felt holy, deep inside. There was something about being up on the chancel, dressed in my small black cassock, that set me apart from everyday life, and I'd liked that. I would forget about my alarm clock and the lonely early morning walk to church, and I'd feel sorry for all those poor people in the pews who weren't part of what we were doing, who had to follow along as I alone carried the gifts of bread and wine for the priest to work his magic on. I guess the church knew what Mussolini knew, that blood alone moves the wheels, even if the blood was made miraculously from wine every Sunday.

  I never would have admitted it to Dad, but that experience had a lot to do with my becoming a cop. It gave me a feeling of separateness, a holy isolation from the day-to-day drudgery of life. And it gave me a chance to set things right, the way they should be, which is what I always thought the best part of religion was about. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. But I liked the blue coat better than the cassock, and the police revolver far better than the heavy candlestick.

  I looked at the flickering votive candles along each wall. Some were about to go out, while others looked like they had recently been lit. For the first time it hit me that there was no one in the church. Where were the people who'd lit those candles? Where were the old women who came every day to pray? No priest listening to confession? No one taking refuge from the battle inching toward the city?

  I saw a man at the far end of the transept. He hadn't been there a second ago, but now he stood square in the middle of the tiled floor, hands folded behind his black robe. He didn't move. He looked straight at me. I walked away from the altar in his direction.

  He was gray haired but stood straight, the robe showing only a slight bulge around his middle. His nose was bent, broken once, maybe twice. His eyes stayed on me, tracking me as I came closer, sizing me up. He looked to me like a man whose business was firmly rooted in this world, not the next. Before I could get close enough to speak, he turned sharply on his heel and strode to a narrow wooden door. He opened it and stooped to enter, leaving it ajar. The entrance led to a small landing and a circular staircase made from the same soft stone as the building itself. I grasped the iron rail and walked down the steps, the faint glow of candlelight beckoning me below. I thought about calling to Sciafani, but didn't want to risk him saying something to offend Cristu himself in the bowels of a cathedral.

  At the bottom of the stairs, low arched ceilings ran to the left and right. Stone beams supported the arches, and between them were dusty carved caskets, some of shiny marble, others of dull stone. Crosses and bishops' miters adorned the caskets, the dates on them hundreds of years old. Candles fixed to the arches were the only light in this graveyard of priests and bishops. I followed the echo of clacking heels to a pool of golden light that bathed the cold stone. Inside a small chapel, rows of tall white candles lit the room, casting shadows in every direction and drawing sparkling reflections from the polished gold that decorated an open casket. Inside I could see mummified remains, dressed in chain mail and a faded blue cloak. Next to the casket, as still as the ancient corpse, stood the black-robed man.

  "Buon giorno, Padre," I said, using up a good portion of the Italian I could speak in a church.

  "I'm not a priest, kid." He spoke in low gro
wl, his accent as much Brooklyn as Italian.

  "Who are you?" I said.

  He answered with a little gesture, a tip of the head, eyebrows up and mouth turned down. A very Italian response. Who 's to say, it all depends, who's asking, all rolled up into the twitch of a few facial muscles.

  "Who are you looking for?"

  "I've passed through purgatory twice, and I've come to find happiness," I said, looking at the figure laid out in the open casket.

  "Ah, yes, San Felice. So, you have found him. Is this what you imagined happiness to be?" He raised one hand, palm out, inviting me to step closer. I did.

  The chain mail and cloth rested on bones. The head was bare. Leathery patches of brown dried skin stretched over cheekbones and curled up where it had split and wasted away. The lips were gone entirely, leaving brown teeth grinning at the ceiling. White gloves enclosed the hands crossed on his chest. A sword in a scabbard lay at his side. Traces of leather wrapped around the scabbard were visible, turned almost to dust. Everything around the corpse was worn, frayed, dark, and limp, so heavy with age that it seemed to yearn for the concealment of the grave. Everything except the white gloves.

  "Over a thousand years old, the priests tell me. The gloves are to keep the small bones of the hand from falling apart. We wash them every Easter."

  "The gloves or the bones?" I asked.

  "The gloves, of course. It is best to leave the bones of the dead alone as much as possible, don't you think?"

  "I think somebody ought to have thought of that a thousand years ago," I answered, tearing my eyes away from the skull's hideous grin. Whatever sainted name this guy had been given, it was obvious he'd been a soldier, a soldier who had done something that marked him as a holy man or perhaps a holy warrior. Now he was a relic, a curiosity for the religious to pray to. I felt sorry for him, alone here among the living.

  "Why have you returned?"

  "You've seen me before?" Panic rose from my gut. I didn't remember anything about this church, this man, or this rotting saint.

  "Yes, but you stood back, with the other one. The Englishman. What happened?"

  "I'm sorry," I said, wishing we could get out of this underground chapel. "I don't remember everything that happened. I got separated from my friends, and I'm trying to find them."

  "That is no concern of mine. I don't know you. I knew the man who came here, but all I know of you is that you were with him."

  "I knew about purgatory," I said.

  "It is a common enough expression," he said.

  It was time to clinch the deal. I pulled the handkerchief out, held it by two corners and flapped it once as I unfurled it for him to see. Candle flames danced crazily in the brief breeze it created. He looked at it, reached his hand out to feel it, and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes went to mine, and he nodded. Had I done this before? I couldn't remember.

  "Come," he said. "Put that away and follow me."

  I followed him upstairs, glad to give the chambers of the righteous dead my back. In the transept, Sciafani leaned against the wall, waiting. He and the black-robed man stared at each other.

  "This is Dottore Enrico Sciafani," I said. "He guided me here from Gela. And you are . . . ?"

  "You vouch for him?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Very well. I am Tommaso Corso, sacristan of this cathedral."

  "I'm Billy Boyle, lieutenant, U. S . Army. Now, tell me--"

  "Not here," he said, cutting me off with a wave of his hand. "Come."

  We sat at a rough wood table in a small room off the sacristy, the place where the priest kept his robes and vestments, the chalice, all the special gear for the Mass. In a big church or a cathedral like this one, the sacristan was the guy in charge of all this stuff. Everything in the sacristy from candles to cassocks. Plus all the church property in the rest of the building, which really meant something when art treasures decorated the walls.

  "You're American?" I asked as he poured each of us a glass of red wine.

  "Only for a brief period," he said. Pulling off his robe and hanging it on a peg, he sat down with his glass, spilling a drop of ruby red on his hand. He wore a white collarless shirt and dark vest, like every other Sicilian man. But unlike many, he wore a shoulder holster with the butt of a big revolver sticking out from under his left arm. "I left Sicily as a young man, and went to America as many have done. Mr . Luciano gave me work in New York, with the unions at the docks. There was a disagreement with the authorities, and ultimately I was deported. I had become an American citizen in 1921, but they took that away from me in 1934 when they put me on a boat and sent me back."

  "Are you still loyal to Lucky Luciano?" I asked.

  "Loyalty is a precious thing, my young friend. An honorable thing, not a thing to be questioned."

  "Please excuse Billy," Sciafani said. "He is not Sicilian, and does not understand these things so well. He is Irish."

  "So," Corso said, as if that explained everything. "The answer is of course I am. I am also loyal to Don Calo, and he wants to see you very much. In order to be certain he survives the meeting, I want you to give me that little pistol you have stuck in your pants."With that, he drew his revolver and pointed it at me casually as he took another sip of wine.

  "I always say it's better to give than to receive," I said as I pulled the Beretta out with my thumb and forefinger. I slid it across the table to him.

  "Yes, especially with this monster," he said as he holstered his revolver. "It's an Italian sidearm from the last war, a Bodeo. Fires 10mm ammunition. Would make a hell of a racket in here. And a big hole in your chest."

  "Are you really an official of this cathedral or did you kill him and take his place?" Sciafani asked. Even with his cynical view of religion, he seemed to be having a hard time believing this guy was for real.

  "Yes, indeed, I am the sacristan here. I am also a member of the altar society. Does that surprise you?"

  "Since the war, not much surprises me," Sciafani answered. "Only I have never seen a gun concealed by a church robe before."

  "This is nothing, Dottor, compared to the Teutonic Knights and the Knights Hospitallers who established orders here in Sicily centuries ago. There is nothing strange about protecting holy property when rival armies are fighting across our land."

  "Tommaso, I do want to see Don Calo, that's why we're here," I said, trying to focus on the present. "I have an important message for him, from the Allied Command, and from Lucky Luciano."

  "Then why didn't you deliver it the first time?"

  "Something went wrong in the Valley of the Temples."

  "Maybe you are what went wrong there,"Tommaso said, drumming his fingers on the table.

  "Do you know what happened?"

  "I know everything that happens in this city. It is the reason I am here. I know a platoon of Italian soldati encountered a small group of men shooting at each other on the same night I sent the three of you there for the rendezvous. Several were killed, and a few deserted in the confusion. One of them reported to me."

  "Wait, you mean they ambushed us?"

  "No. Gunfire broke out as they approached the Temple of Con-cordia, but it was not directed at them. Their lieutenant ordered them forward; he was killed in a grenade blast. Then most of them ran."

  "Did they find any bodies?"

  "Only of their own men," Tommaso said.

  "So the two men I was with, they must've gotten away with Don Calo's men?"

  "Yes, they had a car. The meeting place was at Il Tempio di Concordia. Is this what you can't remember?"

  "Yes," I said. "I think that I killed my friend, by accident, during the fight. They must have taken his body away."

  "I would advise you to revive your memory. Don Calo has questions for you."

  "Does he want me dead?" I asked, remembering what Kaz had said about rumors of a contract.

  "That will depend on your answers."

  "Fair enough," I said, as if fairness had anythi
ng to do with it. "Who else knew about the rendezvous?"

  "Don Calo himself told me about it, a week before you came. A British agent contacted him and asked him to see your party."

  "Where's that agent now?"

  "Dead. He was stopped by the Germans and tried to shoot his way out. Stupid."

  "Do you know Vito Genovese? Joey Laspada?"

  "I knew Vito back in the States. Then I was known as Tommy the C. Joey, him I met here a few times. Why ?"

  "Are they involved in this?" I asked, ignoring his question.

  "Not that I know of."

  "And you know everything that happens here," I reminded him.

  "Everything that happens in Agrigento," Tommy the C said, stretching out his hands as if to include the entire province.

  "Does the name Charlotte mean anything to you?"

  "Other than a dame in Jersey, not a thing. And she didn't mean much. What are all these questions for?"

  "We had a run-in with Vito and Joey a couple of days ago. They're working for the Allied Military Government as translators. They were looking for one of the guys I was with. And for the handkerchief."

  "Vito usually gets what he wants," Tommy said.

  "A company of German paratroopers got in his way this time. Tell me, is Vito well connected here?"

  "Everybody in Sicily wants to go to America. Those who do and come back as men of honor, are respected. So, yeah, Vito has connections." "With Don Calo?"

  "Of course."

  "And you are Don Calo's man, Tommy the C?" Sciafani said, breaking his silence, and pronouncing the strange American nickname with exaggerated correctness. He pointed his finger at Tommaso, and left it there, like a pistol pointed at the man's heart.

  "Of course. I worked for Luciano in New York, and when I came back here, Don Calo honored me with the position of caporegime, in Agrigento. I am his lieutenant. Like you, Lieutenant Boyle. Aren't you somebody's man?"

  Sciafani dropped his hand to the table but kept his eyes on Tommy, and spoke before I could answer.