Blood alone bbwim-3 Page 25

  "What's in Vittoria?" Kaz asked. He was getting pretty good at this detective stuff.

  "Let's put that number one on the list," I said. "Could be important."

  "One more thing," Harding said. "What about your Dr. Sciafani? Where does he fit in?"

  "He helped me when I needed it," I said.

  "He could have gotten you killed too, by knifing Don Calo's caporegime," Harding noted. Harry grunted in agreement.

  "He wasn't acting rationally," I said. "He fell apart and found out the hard way it wasn't in his nature to be a killer. He was a big help to me, no matter what else he did. I don't think I could have gotten to Don Calo without him. But he can't stay in Sicily, that's for sure."

  "What do you want me to do?" Harding asked.

  "Can you get him to the States?"

  "Only way to do that is via a POW camp. We're not accepting enemy prisoners as immigrants."

  "But he's not a prisoner. He was paroled, he has the paperwork to prove it. Why couldn't he go back on a hospital ship? He's a doctor, he could help with the wounded."

  Harding stroked his chin, struggling with the notion of bending army regulations. "I don't know about the States, but I could easily get him to North Africa. We have lots of Italian prisoners there. They need medical care. He could work for us, in one of the POW hospitals."

  "He wouldn't be a prisoner?" I asked.

  "No. He'd work for AMGOT. They hire many civilians. And he would be out of Don Calo's reach, and once he's on staff he'd have a better chance of making it to the States."

  "As long as his boss isn't named Charlotte," I said.

  "Then find Charlotte. I'll work on getting Sciafani to Tunisia. You let him know he's to stay put for now."

  "OK," I said, standing. "How about I check out what Andrews was up to back at the Signals Company? Kaz and Harry can track down the location of the payroll." I had a hunch we might end up in the same place.

  "Fine," Harding said. "Take a jeep there now. They can contact the 45th Division headquarters by radio to find out where the payroll is. All of you report back here tonight or radio in if you can't. If you find these mobsters, bring them back too. As our guests, of course. Mr. Genovese can stay for dinner."

  "Will you wait until we return to decide about Nick?" Harry asked. He and Nick had grown close during their stay with Don Calo, and he was clearly on Nick's side. It also helped that Nick hadn't pointed a gun at Harry. I wasn't so sure, although I thought the best punishment for Nick would be to keep him here, not to send him packing-home.

  "He's not going anywhere for a while," Harding said. "I might be able to use him as a translator, with an MP posted at the door."

  "Fair enough," Harry said.

  Fair had nothing to do with it, but Harry had his illusions. If life were fair, Vito Genovese wouldn't have a free pass and Roberto would still be alive, working on a plan to get to America. Hutton wouldn't have taken a bullet in the head, and Rocko would be alive, serving a sentence in the stockade for selling army inventory on the black market. Fair was a fairy tale.

  I left after talking to Nick and Sciafani, trying to sound upbeat about their respective futures. Freshly shaved, in a clean uniform, with the familiar feel of a Colt. 45 automatic at my side, I pulled onto the main road to Gela and let the breeze blow away the heat and dust of the day. I had given the Beretta to Kaz as a souvenir; he liked having a backup gat. Or maybe he liked saying gat, rolling the hard gangster slang around his Oxford-educated tongue. Me, I liked the feel of my new clothes, the open road, and the sure knowledge of where I was going- all things that had been in short supply recently. A medic had removed the stitches from my arm and cleaned out the cut on my head. It was a relief not to sport white gauze anymore.

  The open road soon lost its allure as I choked in the smoke and grit of a convoy of deuce-and-a-half trucks. Traffic crawled along, and I was glad of the goggles that had been left on the passenger seat. I tied a handkerchief, plain army-issue khaki, over my nose and mouth, and ate dust for a dozen slow miles.

  I tried to think things through, wondering how I could get a line on Charlotte. Was he already in Sicily, or still back in North Africa? Some AMGOT staff were already here, I knew, setting up basic services in liberated towns. They started with burying the dead, working their way up from there, helping to establish a normal life for civilians while at the same time insuring the army had everything it needed. That meant food, transportation, road and rail access, all the things civilians wanted. It wasn't an easy job, and it required lots of patience both with our own bureaucracy and with civilian complaints. Sort of like Boston politics, but in the middle of a war zone.

  So, how to find Charlotte, a bad apple in a big barrel? I had hoped to interrogate Lieutenant Andrews, but the Luftwaffe, or somebody, had eliminated that option. It was too convenient. But that didn't stop me from craning my neck in every direction, scanning the skies for enemy planes. Our convoy would be a juicy target, and I didn't want to get caught at the tail end of a strafing run.

  It would be great if Harry and Kaz found Vito and Legs, and brought them in without a fight. I'd like to question Vito myself. I'd bet he would give up Charlotte in return for his freedom or his life.

  I wondered about Nick. Would Vito still be after him either as revenge for killing his henchmen in order to free his family, or for his services as a yegg? Not the latter, I concluded. All those lira notes had to be dried out. If they were left in the safes, they would turn to moldy paste in no time. Someone had to have opened those safes by now. So somewhere in Sicily, two million dollars' worth of occupation scrip was drying in the sun. In Vittoria, where Andrews had been headed? Why would a communications guy go there? I needed to know what was in Vittoria. And if Andrews had started the trip dead or alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  With Gela and Porto Empedocle in our hands, not much was still coming in via the beachhead. The mountains of supplies were mostly gone, moved inland with the troops. I drove past the field hospital where I'd awakened, the single tent now multiplied by four, all connected and marked with large red crosses on a white background. It was quieter now, no rush of wounded on stretchers, no kids left on the ground to die alone. Maybe making a deal with the devil was worth it if it kept a few GIs out of that place and above ground.

  Was Signora Patane still coughing up blood in her bed? Or had she died in the night, unaware of the quiet Don Calo had ensured for her last moments? I couldn't understand why anyone, even a crime lord like Don Calo, had to be convinced to avoid bloodshed. Why had I endured all this to convince Don Calo to save the lives and homes of his own people? It seemed the more power people had, the less they were likely to use it to make something good happen, as if they needed to bank it for a rainy day. I hadn't seen it rain in Sicily yet.

  The Signals Company was easy to find. More wire had been strung, and tall poles had been erected along the shore road to carry it. All lines led to the communications center, which sprouted aerials and antennas from tents, trailers, and trucks. I parked the jeep and looked for an officer.

  The sides of the tents were rolled up to allow the sea breeze to provide ventilation. GIs scurried around tables piled high with communications gear, others sat at switchboards and radios, listening and transmitting with an intensity that was electric. Static crackled in the air.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  I nearly jumped, but instead managed to turn and see who had surprised me. It was an MP, his white belt and painted helmet gleaming. I remembered all the things Dad and Uncle Dan had told me about the military police in the last war, but decided not to hold it against this guy.

  "I'm looking for the officer in charge."

  "And who might you be?"

  I studied him for a moment while trying to perfect the kind of look Harding gave me when he wanted me to shake in my boots. He was a buck sergeant, a bit on the short side, which probably accounted for his chosen branch of service. As an MP, he could be a big guy, even at five foot t
wo.

  "I would be a lieutenant, looking for another officer, Sergeant," I said, leaning on his rank to make my point as obvious as possible.

  "No problem, sir. I can take you to the CO, but my orders are to check out everyone entering the area. We 've had some trouble lately."

  "What sort of trouble, Sergeant?" I looked over his shoulder and saw several other MPs patrolling the area. I picked up another one inside the main tent. This was more than a normal guard detail.

  "If you don't mind, Lieutenant, tell me what you're doing here first."

  "I'm Lieutenant Billy Boyle, attached to Seventh Army HQ." I turned to show him my worn shoulder patch. "I'm here to ask a few questions about Lieutenant Andrews."

  "He bought it a few days ago, so he won't be able to help you, Lieutenant Boyle."

  He started to walk away, dismissing me as if I were the enlisted man and he the officer. Not caring much for officers above the rank of second lieutenant-which meant all others-I would have admired his style if I hadn't clearly said I had questions about Andrews, not for him. I decided to try a little Harding out on him.

  "Sergeant!" I barked, loud enough to draw stares and send privates scurrying out of my line of sight. "Stand at attention!"

  "Yessir." He did, but without turning to face me. Well, my fault for not giving the order. I walked around him, taking my time and studying his uniform. It was clean, his boots were polished, and his haircut recent. He was braced, chin up, chest out, the perfect example of a tin soldier.

  "Have you put in for transfer to a line company, Sergeant… what's your name?"

  "Cerrito, sir. No, I haven't. I don't understand."

  "You don't understand, what?" I linked my hands behind my back and marched back and forth in front of him, playing the martinet and enjoying it a bit too much.

  "I don't understand, sir."

  "Well, I'll explain, Sergeant Cerrito. I bet you've been itching to get up to the front lines. I bet Bouncing Betty mines and German 88s don't scare you one bit. But your CO can't do without you, right? So you figure to piss me off enough to get you transferred. You probably figured it out as soon as you saw my HQ patch."

  "Bouncing Betty? Sir?"

  "A mine, Sergeant. You set it off and it launches up about waist-high and explodes. Good news is that it hardly ever kills you."

  "OK, sir. I don't need to hear the bad news, I get it." Cerrito was still at attention, but a line of sweat was working its way down his temples. He spoke through gritted teeth, and I knew he was as afraid of the other men's hearing him give in as he was of making Betty's acquaintance.

  "Stand at ease, Sergeant Cerrito, and let's start over." I clapped him on the shoulder so everyone could see we were pals.

  "You look like you could use a cup of joe, Lieutenant. How about we sit and talk?"

  I must have had dog tired written all over my face. Coffee and a seat that wasn't in a vehicle driving on a bad road sounded fine.

  "Lead the way, Sarge."

  My new best friend crooked his finger at me and led me over tent pegs and lines drawn taut. Eyes from inside the tents glanced out from beneath canvas flaps and quickly looked away. Cerrito began to whistle a tune, showing how casual this all was. "Mister Five by Five," a song about a singer in Count Basie's band who was as wide as he was tall. I remembered that Mister Five by Five had quite a line of jive, and wondered what made Cerrito pick that tune.

  He was a pretty good whistler, and I was humming the tune myself by the time we came to a long tent with all the flaps rolled up. I could tell it was a mess tent by the smell, which wasn't a compliment to the chef. Burnt toast, soapy water, and soggy eggs combined their odors into a single nauseating smell. A GI dumped a garbage can full of greasy water in front of us and we sidestepped the scummy remnants of a few hundred washed-out mess kits. Breakfast was over, and the cooks were cleaning up and preparing lunch. Dishing out army chow to GIs who had to wait in long lines for it was probably the most disheartening job on the island. No one had much good to say about dehydrated potatoes, eggs, and milk.

  Cerrito nodded to a cook in a white T-shirt and apron who had the look of another noncom. The cook nodded back, ash from the cigarette hanging from his lips flavoring whatever was in the aluminum pot he was stirring.

  "Hungry?" said Cerrito. "Sir?"

  "Coffee will do," I said.

  We poured steaming, thick coffee out of a pot scorched black from the embers of a dying fire. It smelled like wood smoke and eggshells. We sat on crates of U. S. Army Field Ration C under camouflage netting, the dappled shade a relief from the increasing heat.

  "So who ordered you to give the cold shoulder to anyone asking questions?" I asked, blowing on the hot coffee.

  "Just doing my job, Lieutenant," Cerrito said.

  "Does your job include protecting a murderer?"

  "Who said anything about murder? We're here to protect the equipment and personnel, that's all. That means limiting information about what goes on here."

  "Who are you protecting them from?"

  "Thieves, black marketeers, you name it. The Mafia is supposed to be active around here too," Cerrito said.

  "Yeah, so I heard. Who told you all this? Who sent you here?"

  "Listen, Lieutenant, you got me in a tough spot," Cerrito said, moving closer and leaning in as he glanced around to see if anyone was listening. "You're only a second louie, but you're from HQ, so maybe you could send me wherever you want. But it was a major who gave me my orders, and they were to keep everyone away from Signals Company, and not to answer any questions. I asked what the problem was, and he told me about thieves stealing communications gear, and how we had to keep a lid on things. That's all. If I spill more to you, then I'm in dutch with the major."

  I drank the coffee. Cerrito was nervous, but not big-league nervous. That comment about the Mafia would not have come out so easily if he were involved in any of this. There was no tell, no flickering of the eyes, no rubbing the nose, no involuntary gesture to show he was concerned about how that statement would sound to me. I had to gamble that he was being straight with me and guilty of nothing more than being a pompous MP afraid of being sent to the front. That meant I had to scare him more than the major did.

  "I don't think you need to worry about him, Sarge," I said, giving him a knowing smile. "Didn't you think it was odd that a major from AMGOT was giving orders to guard a Signals Company?"

  "How did you know that?" Cerrito's eyes widened, as if I had guessed the card he'd picked out of a deck.

  "You don't think I happened to stop by today, do you? You look too smart for that."

  "I did think about it, but the army doesn't always make sense, does it?"

  "No," I agreed. "But in this case, you were on the right track. Who else knew about the orders?"

  "Besides Major Elliott?"

  Bingo.

  "Yeah. Besides him," I said.

  "Captain Stanton, CO of the Signals Company. No one else."

  "OK, Sarge, that's a help. Now I want you to keep this conversation between us. Can you do that?"

  "Sure I can, sir."

  Damn straight he would. He was willing to let the officers fight it out among themselves.

  "Good. I don't see any reason to include your name in my report. So far, anyway."

  By the time I finished my coffee he was ready to give up his grandmother if it would get me out of his hair quicker. Cerrito even took my mess tin and washed it out for me. Major John Elliott, Civil Affairs Officer, had originally been with AMGOT HQ in Syracuse, but was now in Gela, as CAO in charge of the Agrigento and Caltanissetta provinces. It put him right in the thick of things. I listened to Cerrito whistle again as he walked away. This time it was "Shoo-Shoo Baby" by the Andrews Sisters, about a sailor saying goodbye to his girl. I couldn't read much into that one, but damned if he wasn't a good whistler.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  "I'm sorry, lieutenant, but you're not authorized to enter," the MP said. He held his c
arbine at port arms, blocking me from the tent. He was polite, none of Cerrito's initial insolence about him. I took him more seriously. Besides, he was bigger than me. A lot bigger.

  "That's Captain Stanton in there, isn't it? I can see him from here," I said. A private had pointed him out to me moments before. Stanton had bright orange-red hair, a hard guy to miss with his helmet off.

  "This is the Code Section, sir. Only authorized Signals personnel may enter. No exceptions, not even for lieutenants from headquarters."

  I was sure that last part was sarcasm, but I let it go. He was a corporal, and I couldn't blame him for giving an officer a hard time when he could. And, like I said, he was big, a head taller than me and about twice as wide in the shoulders. The carbine looked like a peashooter in his massive hands.

  "I'll come back later," I said. He wasn't interested in my plans for the day.

  The next tent was larger than the code tent, and unguarded, so I decided to try my luck there. A crude sign painted on a plank of wood read MESSAGE SECTION. No one stopped me or even paid attention to me as I walked in. Despite the rolled-up canvas flaps, it was still hot inside. The tent was thirty feet long, with all sorts of tables lined up on either side-folding tables, a fancy dining-room table, a door on a couple of sawhorses-all holding communications equipment that crackled and buzzed with static. Wires and cables wound their way from one table to another, connecting to other cables that snaked out of the tent to the tall camouflaged antennas outside. A teletype machine clacked away while GIs sat at radios and switchboards, connected to someplace far more dangerous.

  "Love Mike, this is Sugar Charlie. Over. Love Mike, this is Sugar Charlie. Over." The operator leaned over, pressing the headphones against his ear, straining to pick up a response. He slammed a pencil down on a blank pad, leaving a sharp mark like a ricochet.

  "Words twice, Dog Victor, words twice," the guy next to him shouted, grimacing at the noises that made him ask for the transmission to be repeated. Mortars maybe?

  Tension throbbed in the hot air trapped under the canvas roof, the smell of sweat, cigarette smoke, and stale coffee making me wish I hadn't come in.