he took away again. He smiled and chattered at me, bowing as he left. I shaved, combed my hair, and dressed, marveling at what a difference a hot bath and clean clothes made. I felt in my pocket for the handkerchief. It was still there but folded precisely, not stuffed into a ball. No wonder the old man was so much nicer when he came back.
I found Sciafani in his room, putting on a new white collarless shirt. The only thing he'd gotten back was his shoes, polished to a shine.
'They took my dagger,' he said, as he ran a comb through his thick dark hair.
'You might get the wrong end of it back when they discover what happened to Tommy the C,' I said, keeping my voice low.
'It was my first step toward revenge, to strike at Don Calo, to take something from him. And if I could do it once, I would know I could do it again. I had to find out.'
'Can you do it again?'
'I am not sure,' Sciafani said. 'He may not have been a good man, but I find I wish I could take my action back. I have seen so much death, I thought one at my own hands would not matter. But it does.'
'There's an old Chinese saying according to my father,' I said. 'Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.'
'Did your father ever seek revenge?' Sciafani asked.
That was complicated. Among the Irish on the Boston PD there were often crosscurrents of loyalty and betrayal. There were IRA men like Uncle Dan, who organized money and guns for the cause in Ireland, and those who winked at their work. There was the day-to-day pilferage and graft, which greased the wheels for everyone but kept us all in the same boat. Then there was serious corruption, those who took payoffs from the Mob, guys who were after the big score, not satisfied with a little extra on the side. Guys like Basher, a cop who'd come up with my dad and gone really bad. Basher had shot Dad from ambush, to keep him from blowing the whistle on him. Only Basher wasn't as good at shooting as he was at being a crooked cop, so Dad had awakened in a hospital with Uncle Dan and a few IRA boys at his bedside. Basher was never heard from again, though they did find him floating facedown one fine day. I'd never thought about it before, but a year or so after that Dad started quoting Confucius to me.
'No,' I lied, not wanting to have to explain or think more about this coincidence right now.
'He sounds like a wise man,' Sciafani said.
Wiser than I ever knew maybe.
'Yeah. I guess he always hoped some of it would rub off.'
I could see Dad clearly, standing on a wet sidewalk as the gray light of early morning found its way over the tenement roofs, his hands stuffed in his raincoat pockets, standing over a corpse in the gutter, prone, blood pooling against the curbstone. It was the first time he said it to me, and I had thought it was odd, since the argument that had led to this death had turned out to be a beef over a Studebaker, of all things. I'd listened, but not really. I'd listened with my ears, not my eyes or my heart, so it was only now, seeing someone else struggle with the demons of revenge and death, that I understood what my father had been telling me.
'Let's go find dinner,' I said, patting Sciafani on the shoulder and moving him out of the room. He was subdued, harmless perhaps, but I had to keep my eye on him. He'd finally seen the man he'd agonized over killing and found him to be the person who'd shaped his life more than his own father had. It wasn't a good basis for la vendetta, but Sciafani had already started that ball rolling, and I wanted to get him out of there before he drew me into his scheme of revenge.
We tried to retrace our steps through the busy house, passing young smiling girls carrying laundry and a couple of dark, grim men who ignored us. We ended up in the small courtyard, then found our way into a large kitchen, where an old woman, her dull black dress flowing from her chins to her ankles, hollered at us, pointing the way out with an eggplant, which she brandished like a saber. Pots were bubbling on the cast-iron woodstove, and plates of cheese were set out, ready to be served. I felt a powerful surge of hunger, not because I hadn't eaten, but because I'd eaten poorly. The smells from the kitchen were so rich and tantalizing that they drew out the hunger that had been kept at bay by Italian rations and dry bread. I breathed deeply, anticipating nothing but food, putting all thoughts of mafiusu and revenge aside. We entered a large room, dominated by a long wooden table, a dozen high-backed chairs arranged around it. Don Calo stood at the far end of the room talking with a small group of men.
'Come, come in,' he said, gesturing to us with both arms, welcoming us as if we were old friends. As he moved toward us, I saw the faces of the other men. And one ghost.
Harry. Lieutenant Harry Dickinson raising a glass of wine to his lips. I stopped, blinking, not sure that my mind wasn't still playing tricks on me. Harry was still there, his eyes fixed on mine.
'Billy!' He set down the wineglass hard, spilling the deep red liquid on the white lace tablecloth in his haste. 'My God, I'd given you up for lost.'
'I thought you were dead' was all I could say, in a faint voice. I should have been glad to see him, thrilled he was alive, but instead I was confused. Everything that had happened to me these last few days flowed from tossing that grenade and thinking I'd killed Harry, and here he was, drinking wine, hardly the worse for wear. Then I saw Nick, hanging back, watching me.
'And you-,' I said, clenching my teeth as I felt anger flood me.
'Never mind that now,' said Harry, holding up his hand. 'No need for a scene, Billy.'
'A scene? What, are you crazy? He-'
'You've got to tell me why you thought I was dead, Billy. But first I must introduce you to the other guests.' Harry spoke as if we were at a cocktail party, not behind enemy lines at a Mafia chieftain's house. I didn't get it, but then again I could hardly take in that this was really Harry, alive and clapping me on the shoulder.
'I believe we have already met,' a voice said from behind Nick. 'In Algiers.'
If seeing Harry had thrown me for a loop, this guy did it in spades. Harry and Nick were dressed in the same nondescript khaki uniforms they'd worn on the mission, nicely cleaned and pressed, but still the same. The other guest was dressed in khaki too, just as worn and sun bleached as theirs. The only difference was the cuff band that read AFRIKA with the palm-tree emblem of the Afrika Korps.
'Who… what?' I couldn't manage to say anything coherent. My mind felt rusty and slow, as if thinking back to Algiers was more than it could handle.
'Major Erich Remke,' Harry said, 'Lieutenant Billy Boyle, U. S. Army.'
'Yes, it was in Algiers, in that unfortunate Vichy prison cell,' Major Remke said. 'I am glad you were freed.' He extended his hand and I shook it, remembering the face and the circumstances. He was tall and lean with a weather-beaten face, his deep blue eyes set off by tiny white crow's-feet, a result of squinting in the sun.
'Yes, I was. Did your agent make it? The one with the student rebels?'
'No, no, Lieutenant Boyle,' Remke said. 'There are rules in this house. No weapons and no attempts at interrogation under Don Calo's roof. We are under his protection here, from each other.'
I looked at Harry, hoping someone would take pity and explain what the hell was going on. He smiled at me, the kind of smile you give a young child who can't keep up with the grown-up conversation.
'Billy,' Harry said, gripping my arm to get my attention. 'We've all come here to see Don Calo. He's talked to us separately, and insisted we all remain here-as his guests-while he decides what to do.'
'It is much simpler,' Don Calo broke in, 'to discuss things with both parties in the same house. It saves much driving about, and all it requires is that you do not kill each other under my roof. Now, come, eat.'
Don Calo introduced Sciafani as a local doctor, as if he were an ordinary visitor. We sat, weaponless soldiers obediently making small talk with each other. Two thick-necked bruisers with arms crossed stood against the wall, watching the servers come in and out with plates of food. I wondered if this was Don Calo's real home or a house where he only did business. No wife or children were in evidence, only his men and servants, who moved like players in well-practiced parts.
'This wine is from our local grape, gentlemen, the Nero d'Avola,' Don Calo announced, raising his glass. ' Salute.'
We all raised our glasses and, following the others as if in a trance, I drank but tasted nothing. Candles were lit and bright pinpoints of light danced above the table. My enemy laughed at something my friend said, and they all seemed far, far away. Someone served me a small triangle of crispy eggplant. I bit into it and hot cheese oozed out. Sciafani, on my left, spoke to Don Calo in Sicilian, an easy flow of everyday banter, no trace of the avenging killer in
