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 two.
'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.'
