How could he find out for sure? He lived too far from Mr. Robinson’s shack to walk there, and if he asked someone to drive him, Papa would want to know the reason for the trip.
Sal’s arm paused in midair, his hand full of chicken feed.
If he could just get as far as town—as far as Antonina’s house—then maybe he could manage the five miles to the other side of Freedom.
“Papa, when will you go into town again?” Sal caught up with him on the edge of the fields.
“Probably tomorrow.” Papa adjusted an irrigation pipe for the corn crop and didn’t look up.
“I’d like to visit Antonina if that’s okay.” It wasn’t really a lie.
“You get up early and help Hiram and Uncle Enzo. Then we can go.”
“Thanks, Papa.” Sal smiled, but on the way back to the barnyard, he had to breathe deeply to quiet his heart.
Chapter 7
The Spies
Antonina wouldn’t budge. She folded pudgy arms across her chest and stood facing Sal, staring at him as though it was the craziest idea she’d ever heard.
“Why do you want to go to Mr. Robinson’s old shack?” she asked for the second time.
Sal clutched the iron railing that surrounded the rear balcony of Antonina’s building, which overlooked the courtyard connected to the back of Costa’s Grocery. Below them, Carlo leaned on a shovel and stared at the ground.
What should Sal admit to Antonina? Beads of sweat formed on his forehead at the thought of breaking his promise to Papa. How could he keep the secret about what had happened that terrible night and still find out what he needed to know?
Sal looked into Antonina’s green eyes for a moment—eyes he’d learned he could trust. “Remember the night Mr. Costa was shot?”
Antonina nodded, unfolding and dropping her arms.
“Well, I think the bank robbers may be hiding out at the shack.”
Her eyes widened. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I know who they are.”
Antonina gasped. “Tell the polizia!”
“I can’t just yet.” Sal watched Carlo break dirt with the shovel’s tip. “The robbers threatened to hurt us.”
“You and me?” She raised a hand to her mouth.
“No. My father and mother and my uncle and me.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I want to see if the robbers are still around.” Saying it out loud made his heart jump. “But if they’re not there, then maybe I’ll tell the police what I know.”
“How would you get to the shack?”
“I thought maybe you’d help me think of something.”
Antonina sat on the floor, bent her knees, and rolled up the legs of her trousers above her bare feet. She wiggled her dirty toes and studied them. With a jerk of her head that sent red pigtails flying into the air, she raised her face to Sal, eyes sparkling. “My cousins used to fish in the stream that runs by that place. We can walk there from here in a couple of hours, and it won’t look funny if we’re going fishing.”
“Do you have any fishing poles?”
“My father has some. People forgot them when they came into the bar.”
Sal smiled. The plan might work. “What about worms? We need worms.”
“That’s easy.” Antonina grinned. “My mama’s flower garden is full of them. I’ll find a can.”
“Thanks.” Sal patted her on the back. They headed down the stairs toward the courtyard.
Mid-morning, Sal and Antonina reached the field where the shack, raised off the ground with cement blocks, rested in the shadows of an ancient oak tree.
Battered straw hats—also forgotten by farmers who’d visited the bar—helped conceal their identities as well as protect their faces from the blistering sun.
Sal and Antonina took cover behind a pecan tree, leaning their poles against it and setting the can of worms on the ground.
“How can we see anything way back here?” Antonina placed both hands on her hips and frowned.
“Shhh.” Sal held an index finger to his lips “Just wait a minute.”
The oak tree prevented direct sunlight from reaching the interior of the shack for the time being, but Sal knew to be patient. Papa had taught him that while waiting for game in the woods on his first hunting trip.
An unidentifiable figure passed by a window of the shack. Antonina gasped. Before she could speak, Sal reached out and placed his hand gently over her mouth.
“We need to move closer so we can listen,” Sal whispered.
Antonina shook her head, fear in her eyes.
“I’ll go by myself if I have to.” Sal’s voice was gruff. Immediately he regretted his tone. To Antonina this plan had probably been a game—only make-believe.
She chewed her lip.
“I’m sorry.” Sal’s voice softened. “Do you want to go home?”
She sighed. “No. I came to help you.”
“Thanks.” Sal tapped her on the arm. “Now follow me and stay close behind.”
Watching the window, Sal darted to another pecan tree. He used the shadows and underbrush as camouflage. Antonina, who had more experience carrying a tray of food or drinks than sneaking through the field’s rough surface, stumbled along a few feet behind him.
“The closer we get, the more careful we need to be,” Sal whispered. “Try not to make any noise.”
Snap! The sound of a breaking twig was too far behind them to have been caused by Antonina. Sal whirled around and searched in the direction from where they came. His hands began to tremble. Were they being followed?
Sal swallowed hard. He shouldn’t say anything to Antonina and risk alarming her. That would do no good. They had to proceed if he was to learn anything that would help his family live a normal life again.
They moved farther from where the twig had snapped, and Sal looked back once more. A small orange light glowed behind them in the shadows a few trees behind—like the burning end of a cigarette.
The skin on Sal’s arms prickled. Was someone watching them? Ready to pounce? They’d come too far to give up now and run away. He rushed a silent prayer and continued to follow the line of pecan trees until it ended several yards from the shack. Sal and Antonina sat for a minute against the backside of the last tree to catch their breath. The little light had disappeared.
Sal twisted his torso and eyed the window. “We’ll have to stay low.”
On all fours, they crawled along the side of the shack, staying as close to the wall as possible. A brown spider like the one that had bitten him last spring skittered across Sal’s hand. He flinched but kept moving.
When they reached the window, they scooted into the crawlspace beneath the raised floor and turned around to face out below it. Sal’s hat fell off, and he left it in the dirt. He scanned the area they had traversed, but—for good or for bad—no light from a cigarette. No sign of another human being outside. No one to hurt them. Or help them either.
The floorboards creaked and groaned with the movement of weight above them. Chair legs scraped across the floor. Someone was very near the window. When a board above their heads made a loud cracking noise, Sal held his breath and gripped Antonina’s arm, fearing the floor would collapse and crush them. Antonina grimaced in pain. The danger passed, and Sal eased the air from his lungs. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed as he let go of her.
“Bring me a cup of coffee.” The boss spoke in Italian.
“Sure, Boss.” This voice belonged to one of the men who had ridden in the backseat with Sal on the way to the bank.
“And put on a shirt,” the boss said in English. “Nobody wants to look at you.”
Sal and Antonina glanced at each other and did their best to keep from laughing.
“Angelo, you got the map?”
“Right here.”
The floor complained once again under the weight of Angelo’s large build.
“So what looks good?” the Boss asked.
“This one�
��Greenville—or that one—Summerfield.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Both are small and won’t have many cops.” The floor creaked again as though Angelo adjusted his position in the chair. “Greenville is farther away from here, which would be good,” he continued, “but Summerfield is almost on the state line.”
“Ah,” the boss said. “Summerfield.” The fat man’s voice oozed with glee.
“Either way, we have to get a car soon.”
“You and one of the boys can handle that,” the boss said. “Emilio, come over here.”
Footsteps sounded across the aged planks.
“Tonight, you go with Angelo and look for a car,” the boss commanded.
“Okay, Boss. So, uh—you want some more coffee?”
“Nah,” the boss said. “We need to get some sleep. Go wake up those other two to keep watch.”
Sal motioned to Antonina. They should try to leave while everyone in the shack was accounted for.
He had never seen Antonina move so fast.
That night, Sal lay in bed on his back, hands behind his head, staring through the tall windows at a sky filled with countless stars. Of all the little towns in America—or even Louisiana—why had a gang of bank robbers come to Freedom? And now, another town—one that Sal had never heard of—would be the gang’s next target. Would they try Summerfield’s bank? Or a grocery or jewelry store? And when? First they had to find a car—steal one, for certain.
Summerfield probably had nice people like those in Freedom. Boys and girls like Antonina and himself who lived there. In Summerfield, would there be someone who accidentally got in the gang’s way and had to be killed? Sal placed the heels of his hands on his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to stop thinking about it.
Uncle Enzo snored softly from the other bed in their shared room, his pants hanging on the wooden bedpost. Shirtless but covered to his armpits with a white cotton sheet, he appeared at peace in his sleep.
Should he wake Uncle Enzo and tell him what he’d heard today? No, it would do no good. Because as long as the gang was still close by, none of the Scavianos was safe. And if one of the police had been bought like Angelo said, it would be dangerous to give them any information.
A terrifying thought occurred to Sal, and he stopped breathing. What if one of the men had spotted him or Antonina this morning? Someone could have glanced out the window of the shack and seen them running away through the trees. And the cigarette—had someone followed them? If so, there was no way to know whether that person was a friend or foe or merely a passerby. Perhaps it was only a hobo, one of many who traveled north and south using the railway. Or perhaps not.
But even if he and Antonina hadn’t been identified today, it would be easy for someone to search for and find them eventually. There were not many boys his age in the area—or girls with long red pigtails. And if he went to the police, the criminals would surely know who’d turned them in.
Although the warm night air covered him like a blanket, Sal shivered beneath it.
Chapter 8
Hole in the Ground
“I can do this, Gianni.” Mama pressed her lips together in a determined line.
“Are you sure? You’ve practiced driving into town only once with me.” Papa stood on the ground below the porch and looked up at her. His forehead creased with uncertainty, same as when Mama announced she’d be voting for the first time.
Was this the start of another argument? Seated on the edge of the porch, Sal continued to shuck corn from a bushel basket. To be safe, it would be best not to give his opinion—although Mama drove as well as anyone else around the farm.
“Yes, I’m sure, and I must visit Lena Costa. She’s still my friend.” Pink flushed her cheeks.
“It’s not only that …” Papa’s expression softened.
“I’ll be careful what I say. I promise.”
“Rosa, you know as soon as it’s safe—”
“I know.” Mama held up her hand. “But I can’t wait any longer to visit her, or she’ll feel hurt.”
“Ah, wife.” Papa shook his head but trotted up the steps and handed her the key. “Sal, help Mama watch the road.”
Sal dropped an ear of corn back into the basket and swallowed hard to ease his queasiness. He’d have to show his face in town way too soon after being at the shack.
Mama heaved an exaggerated sigh that ended in a smile. She put her arm around Papa’s neck and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry.”
The bell above the door jingled a notice of Sal and Mama’s arrival at Costa’s Grocery. The aroma of fresh-baked Italian bread wafted over them. Carlo stood behind the counter in the same spot where his father had once stood, but no smile greeted Sal.
Did Carlo suspect Sal knew who murdered his father? Sal quickly looked away, pretending to be interested in the big glass containers of hard candy at the end of the counter. Mrs. Costa emerged from a stairwell that led to the living quarters above, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. She was so small—smaller than before if that were possible, as though a piece of her was missing.
The Scavianos had lost pieces of themselves too, in more ways than one. Sal rubbed his abdomen, fingering his ribs. He hadn’t been very hungry since that night.
“Rosa, it’s so good to see you.” Mrs. Costa reached out to Mama.
“Lena, I’m sorry it took so long. How have you been?” Mama hugged her and then took Mrs. Costa’s hand.
The two women moved toward a table and chairs along the back wall and began to speak softly in Italian.
Sal walked closer to the candy to kill some time, but what caught his attention was visible through a small glass window in the back door. A hole in the ground. Large and rectangular, it was about the size of—the size of a coffin. That must’ve been what Carlo was doing with the shovel yesterday. Digging that hole. Small shrubs had been planted around three sides of the hole as though to camouflage it. What was he planning to bury there?
The hair on the back of Sal’s neck stood on end, and he spun around. Carlo’s eyes burned into his. Sal finally understood what it meant to be so scared you nearly jump out of your skin.
He had to escape. The store was empty except for the four of them, and. Mama held one of Mrs. Costa’s hands as they whispered to each other. She wouldn’t notice if he slipped out the front door. He’d find the comfort and safety of his friend Antonina.
He stepped through the doorway into the bright sunlight, squinting and raising a hand to his eyes. Across Main Street at the train depot was the usual business. People and cars and trucks loading and unloading. One horse-drawn wagon. As his eyes adjusted to the change in light, figures sharpened into focus.
Someone outside the depot was looking straight at him. Standing near the railroad tracks was the young blond policeman who’d stared at him on the road that night. Dressed in regular street clothes, but definitely him.
Sal dropped his hand to his side and froze for a moment. Should he return to the grocery store or try to make it to Antonina’s? The policeman trotted across Main Street in his direction. Sal’s heart hammered. If he ran, the man would know he had something to hide.
“Sal!” the officer called. “Wait a minute. I want to talk to you.”
Sal forced himself to face his pursuer. Butterflies fought to escape his insides.
“I’m Officer Tom Kentwood.” He stood less than two feet in front of Sal. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes, sir, Officer.” How could he ever forget?
“You can call me Tommy.”
Sal nodded. “Okay.”
Tommy’s voice deepened. “Have you ever seen the inside of a police station?”
Something surged through Sal, urging him to flee, but he only shook his head.
“Why don’t you come with me now, and I’ll show it to you.” It was more of a command than an invitation.
Sal glanced behind him, toward the door of Costa’s Grocery.
“I
t’ll be all right.” Tommy placed a hand on Sal’s shoulder to guide him.
The police station smelled of Tung-oiled wood mixed with cigar and cigarette smoke. Paneled walls and three heavy desks made the small room dark and somber. In spite of open windows, Sal couldn’t take a deep breath, and he really needed to.
Tommy walked toward the men working at the desks. “This is my friend Sal.”
Sal raised his brow. They were friends?
Two uniformed policemen nodded hello. One of them had a dark mustache and brown eyes deep-set in olive skin—Italian. Sal didn’t know there was an Italian on the police force. Did Papa? Would that have made a difference when the gangsters first approached him?
A third officer sat on the edge of his desk—the white-haired policeman who’d given Papa gasoline. “Why, sure,” he said. “How’re you doing, Sal?”
“Fine.” Sal shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. His hands began to sweat. He wiped them on his pants and stuffed them into his pockets.
“I’m Officer Lewis Hammond.” The old man stood and extended his hand to Sal.
Sal withdrew his right hand from his pocket and shook Hammond’s. Behind the old man’s body, his desk was cluttered with papers and a lunchbox. And tools.
Papa’s tools.
Something flipped in Sal’s stomach and his hand went limp. Papa’s initials were carved on his hammer. Worn and almost invisible among the grooves and scratches, but still there.
“So, what do you think of the station?” Tommy asked.
Sal tore his gaze from the tools and turned to Tommy, whose blue eyes pierced right through him.
Sal inhaled too loudly. “It’s very nice, but I have to go now.” The words rushed out of him on the exhale. “My mama will wonder where I am.”
The Other Side of Freedom Page 4