Silver Stars

by Michael Grant

  “Yes,” he says. “I’ve seen it. But New York is all about the works of man, and here we have the perfect melding of man and nature. The sea, the steep cliffs and hills, the brightly colored homes. And of course the food is better here.”

  “The coffee certainly is,” Rainy allows, straining for affability.

  They stop at last on the street outside a whitewashed, three-story building. Its door is wide, open, and inviting beneath blue, aquatic-themed tile work. A sign in matching cobalt-glazed letters spells out Hotel Alto Positano.

  “A hotel?” Rainy asks. She’s been expecting some dank hideaway in which to be instructed by this charming murderer on the business of assassination.

  “Certainly a hotel, and a good one too, I believe. It is run by a friend. I must be honest and tell you that he will not allow you to make telephone calls or mail letters.” This last comes with a regretful shrug. “Here the authorities will not trouble you. You are not an American and certainly not a Jew—though I have no such prejudices, many of the great men of our business are Jews—Dutch Schultz, rest in peace, Bugsy Siegel, Meyer Lansky. But for our purposes you are Irish, a neutral, on a retreat following some unfortunate event.”

  “What unfortunate event?”

  “You have been living in Rome and your engagement to an Italian man was broken off at the last minute, so you have come to romantic Positano to take your mind off your sadness. And perhaps find some other, more amenable, more marriageable fellow.”

  “Like you?”

  He makes one of the faces only Italians can make, an expression that manages to combine romanticism, resignation, amusement, and a cool distance, all in less than a second. “It would explain why I may sometimes come to call on you during your stay.”

  “Right,” she says tersely, and begins to climb out.

  Tomaso puts a hand on her arm. “Miss Schulterman, you must have no fear that I would exploit . . .”

  She nods tightly and the two of them go in, leaving the driver to light a cigar and unfold a newspaper.

  Tomaso walks Rainy to a room that is nothing special: white walls adorned only by a crucifix and a portrait of Mussolini, a tile floor, a sagging bed in an iron frame, the tiniest sink she’s ever seen in one corner beneath a milky square of mirror.

  But the view . . . the view is breathtaking.

  Even after the stunning drive along the coast from Salerno, Rainy is not prepared for what now unfolds below her. The Mediterranean is genuinely blue, almost placid, and it sends up sudden reflections that dazzle and make her look away to avoid being temporarily blinded.

  The town of Positano rests mostly on the side of a hill, which at the bottom is quite steep and by the top becomes sheer cliff. Stucco houses and hotels painted ochre, sunflower, pink, tan, and white cover the hill—all but that last hundred feet of cliff, and even there a terrace has been cut into the rock to allow one last house to be supported. Many of the buildings, almost all in fact, have arched galleries or graceful balconies facing the sea, and on virtually every one there are green plants of a type Rainy cannot name. Palm trees grow here and there on larger terraces.

  Looking down there are the roofs, some flat, others gently pitched and covered in Spanish tile. Then, just before the beach, where at last the land levels briefly before touching the sea, there rises a dome, presumably a church. At a glance it is gold, but on closer examination it looks as if it is covered in fish scales, colored shingles that form abstract mosaic patterns of gold, faded green, and dark blue.

  Tomaso steps beside her on the balcony and nods. “Yes, that is the duomo. There you will find Father Patrizio.” He steps back inside, unfastens his coat, and draws out a long and clumsy-looking pistol. He lays it on the bed.

  Rainy stares at it and up at him.

  “It’s a .22 with a silencer, a quiet but not silent gun, and deadly at close range. Tomorrow morning you will go to confession. You will shoot him through the grating in the confessional. Pop, pop, pop. Three times. Quick. You will leave the gun behind, and I will pick you up a block away. You will be taken directly to the Swedish Embassy in Rome. If something intervenes on the first try, you will make a second attempt the next day.”

  “Once the priest is dead, you’ll kill me,” Rainy says.

  Tomaso steps close. There’s a flinty look in his eye. “I have given my word. Don Pietro has given his word. We have kept our word to this point, and you have the information you sought. Now we embark on a new deal, a deal that we will also keep. So do not treat me with disrespect, or I may forget that I am a gentleman.”

  He runs his hand up her arm, raising goose bumps in their wake. He touches the side of her face, pushing the springy hair back to see her neck. “Unless, of course, that’s what you would like?”

  Rainy shakes her head no, not trusting her voice, because as much as she fears Tomaso, as much as she knows him for what he is, there is something undeniably . . . compelling . . . about him. The touch of his hand leaves fear but also excitement in its wake.

  “Pity,” Tomaso says. “And now I must go. You see therefore that I am a man of my word. I hope you are a woman of your word.” With that he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

  It’s a very convincing performance, and for several seconds Rainy is almost willing to buy it. The side of her face where he touched her burns, and she wants to touch it herself. But the effect lasts only those few seconds before cold logic sobers her up to reality.

  She walks back out onto the balcony and ignores the beautiful view. Instead she focuses on the railing, and the similar balconies below and to each side of her.

  Wherever she goes she knows she will be watched. If she is to warn the priest and escape with her life, she’ll need to avoid the watchers. Will they expect her to try and climb down? If yes, she will certainly die. If no, she will only probably die.

  Rainy sits on the edge of the bed, puts her face in her hands, and cries. Then, with tears of frustration and fear released, she begins to plan.

  21

  RIO RICHLIN—CATANIA, SICILY

  Rio is up in the hayrack in a private space she has shaped for herself by moving a few bales. She has a forbidden copy of a scandal magazine with Judy Garland on the cover and a headline promising juicy tidbits.

  Hay surrounds her. Hay aroma fills her nostrils—that and the rich smell of cows. She cannot hear them, the cows, which is strange because cows are always making some sort of noise, lowing, shifting position, farting. She’s sure they’re down below and not out in the field, but she can’t hear them because there is a ringing, a very persistent ringing, and now the hay bales are falling and she along with them and . . .

  What? Wh . . . What is . . .

  Blink. Is that the ground? She’s looking down, seeing the ground and a pair of boots. The boots are running noiselessly. They turn to bypass a large branch lying on its side. Her middle is compressed. Her legs are dangling. She can see, she can feel, she cannot yet put it all together.

  And then she does.

  “Put me down!” Rio yells.

  “Hey! She’s awake!” She can feel the vibration so she knows the sound comes from the person carrying her, but the words sound far away.

  Rio is lowered to the ground, an action made more difficult by her attempts to jump down on her own. She’s been carried, over the shoulder, by someone, and then, lying on the ground and looking up, she sees a face in shadow but still recognizable.

  Jack.

  “What happened?” she asks, panicky, and begins checking her body.

  “You blew the fug out of everything.” This from Cat, who is panting, sweating, and looking shaken.

  Rio nods, straining to hear and straining, too, to remember. She glances around. A huge fire burns no more than two hundred yards away. Smaller fires blaze away to the left and right and beyond the spot where the plane had been. Around her an eerie scene out of a natural disaster, like some newsreel clip of a tornado’s aftermath. A wide circle of trees has either b
een knocked flat or stands burning.

  The bombs.

  “Strand?”

  Jack jerks a thumb to indicate Strand lying on a makeshift stretcher. Cat and Geer have obviously been carrying it and have set it down to rest while Rio regains her wits. Strand is breathing, she can see his chest rising and falling. The two flyers are standing nervously, peering at her with something between disapproval and amazement.

  “Where’s my rifle?” Rio demands.

  Geer lifts it off Strand and tosses it to her. She catches it just ahead of the trigger guard and automatically slides the bolt to check that she has a chambered round. The brass cartridge glows warm in the firelight.

  “All right,” Rio says, still woozy and not completely sure what has happened. “Let’s get moving.”

  Jack is directly in front of her. His blue eyes are absent their usual mischief, and in the orange light they seem very serious. He says something, but it’s in a low voice and she can’t quite hear it.

  She taps her ear and says, “Sorry,” in a too-loud voice.

  Jack shakes his head very slightly. His expression is unreadable. In a much louder voice he says, “Never mind,” which she does hear.

  “I’ll take a turn carrying the stretcher once we get clear of this place,” Rio says. “Let’s move.”

  And with that she levels her rifle and leads the way into the trees beyond the blast area.

  The trip back is much slower than the trip to the site. Strand is not small nor particularly light, and rifles do not make the best stretcher poles. But finally they strike a road and hail a passing deuce-and-a-half whose driver takes pity on them.

  An hour and a half after being picked up they are back with the Fifth Platoon, which has been pulled off the line and back to the beach for a rest. There are as yet very few tents set up, and soldiers are passed out in sleeping bags or simply lying atop shelter halves. The night is warm, and the dawn, just peeking from behind distant Mount Etna, promises to be downright hot.

  Sergeant Cole and the rest welcome their buddies with the usual sincerity as expressed in wry looks, teasing insults, and indifferent nods or waves.

  Beebee and a new guy from another squad are detailed to carry Strand to the nearest aid station. Cat leads Rio down to the chow tent.

  “You got blood coming out of your ears,” Cat points out with no sign of concern.

  Alarmed, Rio touches her ears. “It’s dried. Mostly.”

  “I didn’t say it was pouring out.” Cat walks beside her and then suddenly stops, reaches over, and hugs Rio in an awkward sideways way. “You did good back there.” The clinch is over in a second, leaving Rio not knowing quite what to say.

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  They reach the chow line, which seems to be a permanent fixture regardless of mealtimes.

  “You blew the living shit out of the Krauts,” Cat says.

  “You know . . . dammit, SOS again? Isn’t this breakfast?” SOS is the abbreviation for Shit on a Shingle, the gooey, creamy mess of meat, milk, and flour the chow line has been featuring almost without a break. “Just as I was tossing the grenades it occurred to me, what if the bombs don’t all go off at once, what if the first explosion just throws them all around the place.”

  “I hate to tell you, but that’s exactly what happened. Bombs flying through the air. Whoosh. Boom. Sheer dumb luck one didn’t land on us. People wouldn’t be using words like splendid then, would they? Tell you one thing, any fish in that lake is either dead or has the worst headache of its life.”

  “Splendid? What are you talking about?”

  “Stafford.”

  “I couldn’t hear a thing, not then. Much better now.”

  “He said you were absolutely splendid. Very English too. They can say words like splendid and it doesn’t sound nearly as silly.”

  They carry their loaded mess kits to a spot where a tent side provides a scrap of shade. It’s only midmorning, but already the sun is riding high and hot. Then, because she has to hear it again, Rio says, “What did he say? Exactly?”

  “Well, once we saw you were alive he said it was the finest thing he’s ever seen. That you were bloody marvelous. Then, later, the splendid thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “What am I supposed to say, Cat? Hooray for me?”

  Cat shakes her head. “You are a pain in the ass, Richlin, you know that? Half the time you’re playing little miss milkmaid, and the next minute you’re GI Jane, which is all fine, but now you’re getting bitchy about it.”

  “I am not bitchy,” Rio protests through a mouthful of food.

  “You used to be fun, that’s all.”

  “I have to be fun too? What, am I not smiling enough?” She gets up and knocks the remains of her food into a slop drum. Then without a word to Cat she heads back.

  Cat trots after her. “Jesus, Richlin, since when can’t you take a joke?”

  “You know what, everyone can drop dead!” Rio rages.

  “Yeah, well fug you too, Richlin.”

  Rio’s still furious when she rejoins the platoon, now coming down to the beach, and Jenou, seeing a white-faced fury she’s never seen before on her friend, pulls her aside. “Are you all right? How’s Strand?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rio hisses.

  Jenou blinks. Looks at her like she’s seeing a stranger and says, “It’s supposed to mean, ‘How is Strand?’”

  Rio is breathing fast, panting almost, wishing she could have some privacy, somewhere away, somewhere she can think without being judged. Anywhere. Literally anywhere so long as it’s not here.

  “You’re upset,” Jenou says. She looks around, mirroring Rio’s desire for privacy, but there is none to be found on the crowded beach. She does the best she can, puts an arm around her friend and draws her closer to the path the tanks are following up from the LSTs (Landing Ship Tank). The noise of engines and the clanking of tracks will shield them from too much snooping.

  “Something’s bothering you,” Jenou says.

  “Yes, you. You’re bothering me. And Cat. And everyone.”

  A tanker riding atop his vehicle winks at them and says, “Hey, honey, want to see what I’ve got for you?” and grabs his crotch.

  In a flash Rio draws her koummya and with amazing ferocity says, “How about I cut it off and look at it later?”

  The shocked tanker just gapes at her, twisting to continue gaping as his tank rattles away.

  “I’m sick of people looking at me,” Rio says angrily, as if picking up an ongoing conversation. “I see how you look at me, Jen. I know what you think. You think I’m not acting like me, but I’m still me!” She almost impales herself jabbing with the koummya for emphasis.

  Tears fill her eyes and make her even more angry. But tears have a power of their own to subvert rage and leave only sadness and hurt to rise to the surface.

  “Come here, honey,” Jenou says, and holds her arms open.

  Rio shakes her head almost violently, spilling the tears down her cheeks and sending one to land on Jenou’s chin. “I’m not crying.”

  Jenou accepts that gravely and lowers her arms. “I understand. You don’t want to act like a girl. You have to be big, tough Rio Richlin.”

  “I did it with Strand.”

  “You were tough with . . .” The silence stretches and stretches as slowly Jenou realizes what she means.

  The confession seems to hang in the air between them. It takes Jenou a solid minute before she can ask, “You mean, just now, after he crashed?” When Rio doesn’t answer she says, “Tunis? Tunis? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I knew how you’d react. Like it was this terribly important thing.”

  “It’s not?” Jenou is flabbergasted.

  Rio shakes her head and wipes furtively at a tear. “Look around us here, Jen.” Rio waves a hand to encompass the beach and the whole island and indeed the whole war. “Look at all of this. What’s important compared to this? What
does anything matter when we’re doing this?” Each “this” sounds like a curse word.

  “But, honey, Rio, we’re going home someday. We’re going home to Gedwell Falls, and so is Strand, and it’s not like either of you can just forget what happened. My God, this means you have to get married.”

  “Really?” Rio’s laugh is a sneer. “Suddenly you, Jenou Castain, are the voice of morality?”

  “Well, no, but I’ve never—”

  “You lie!”

  “Don’t you call me a liar!”

  “You’ve told me you . . . you . . .” But Rio’s memory is not giving her what she wants. She’s searching and not finding any moment when Jenou ever actually said she’d lost her virginity.

  Jenou shakes her head and looks at Rio sideways, as if tilting her head will show her a new picture of her friend. “Everything but that,” Jenou says. She makes a cross over her heart. “Hope to die.”

  Rio closes her eyes and stands swaying, tired, so tired. And more than tired, disturbed, twisted around inside. There’s a rage boiling inside her again, a rage with no target, a rage she can’t put into words.

  Do not start crying again!

  “Well, it happened,” Rio says at last. “And I killed more Krauts. A lot more Krauts.” Suddenly Rio drops to her knees. “I’m tired. I’m really tired, Jen.”

  She slumps sideways and falls instantly asleep, curled up in the sand twenty feet from passing tanks.

  Jenou summons Cat and together they carry a completely unconscious Rio out of the line of traffic. They erect a shelter over her and Cat finds Jillion to borrow a piece of paper.

  Rio sleeps for fourteen hours and wakes to find herself sore, stiff, and in desperate need of a latrine. And she finds Geer’s Miss Lion curled up beside her.

  She crawls out of the shelter and sees the note Cat has pinned to it.

  Danger: Explosives! Disturb at Your Own Peril!!!

  Rio tears the sign down and goes in search of chow, which is, once again, SOS.