'And he is a superior officer,' Harry said. 'His Majesty frowns on his subjects shooting their allies.'
'This could all turn out badly,' I said. 'No reason not to bow out now, if anyone wants to. Probably would be the smart move.'
Kaz and Howard both spoke with Renzo, quick bursts of Italian and hand gestures.
' Sono con lei, ' Renzo said. He unshouldered his Italian carbine and worked the bolt. I didn't need a translation.
'We'll go with you,' Howard said, pointing to Renzo. 'You'll need somebody to watch your back once you're inside.'
A stairwell at the end of the building led up to the roof. We shook hands all around, and then Kaz and Harry clambered up the steps, out through a small shed and onto the open tin roof. Four air vents stuck up at intervals, the blades of their fans idly turning in the rising heat. The roofline had a slight slant, and I hoped it was enough to keep both of them hidden while they stood watch.
I couldn't worry about Kaz and Harry for long. I had other things to think about, like whether Renzo and Howard were going to be more help or hindrance. And whether someone was waiting around the next corner to put a bullet in my head.
We went out through the double doors we'd entered by. I put my finger to my lips to signal for silence, and they nodded. Good so far. Then I pointed across the road, to a small cinder-block building. Then motioned forward for them to follow. I took off running low, listening to the sounds of their boots scuffing across the hard-packed dirt. We circled to the back of the cinder-block building, skirting piles of rotting garbage. Coming around to the front, we faced the big gray building with the AMGOT print shop at the other end. I motioned them to get down, and they obeyed, out of breath and looking puzzled.
I never liked frontal assaults. Not as a soldier in the army or as a cop. What sense was there in crossing open ground or banging down a front door? That was always where the firepower was focused. Me, I liked the oblique approach. That's what Dad called it. By the time they shut the door, we'll be coming through the window, he used to say. And then Uncle Dan would chime in, When they shut the window, we'll be coming through the door. It's some old kids' song, and ended with them coming through the floor. They always thought it was hilarious. I wasn't so sure about that, but I got the point. 'Hit 'em where they ain't.' Even though that one came from New York Yankee Wee Willie Keeler, I still liked it. I liked Willie too, a little guy who played smart. He made it sound simple.
So that's what I was doing. Going through the window while they were watching the door. I motioned forward and we ran, crouching, hoping the bad guys didn't have anybody up on the other roof.
They didn't. We leaned against the wall next to the door, waiting for our breathing to slow down. It was hot in the late afternoon sun, and sweat dripped into my eyes. I wiped it away, grimacing as I raised my arm. I ignored the pain and put my hand on the iron door handle, which was already starting to rust. I pushed it down, feeling its grittiness against my sweaty palm. The door opened with a creak, and I stepped aside, ready for a hail of bullets. None came. I pushed the door with my shoulder, opening it wider. Signaling for Howard and Renzo to follow me, low and to the right, I moved in, keeping my back to the wall and sidestepping right. I kneeled and they followed suit.
It was dark inside. There were only two small windows. One was broken, taped over with newsprint. The other was filthy, barely letting in any light. I pointed to my eyes: Wait here and get adjusted to the darkness. It was cool; the concrete at my back felt damp and refreshing after the hot sun. Things came into focus: a workbench, wooden boxes of tools stacked on the floor, machine parts on the tables. Some sort of workshop. The room took up the width of the building. Another door faced us at the far end. When I thought we could see clearly enough not to stumble over a pile of wrenches and pliers or knock over a table, I got up and walked to that door.
Another creak and it opened. The second room was huge, and I guessed that the third one would contain the printing presses; there wasn't that much more building left. Large double doors on tracks faced each other from opposite walls. This was a garage of sorts. A broken-down truck, tires gone and engine removed, stood next to us, doors hanging open. Chains and pulleys hung from the ceiling, and there was a pit in the middle, so the mechanics could work underneath the vehicles. It wasn't the neatest shop I'd ever seen. Oil drums leaked dark fluids, and bolts and other discarded parts littered the floor. It was dark in here too, but the coolness was marred by the rancid odor of spoiled food. A table held plates of unrecognizable shapes, buzzing with flies and decorated with mouse droppings. I wondered why people weren't back at work by now, or at least cleaning up. Then I realized the present tenants probably didn't encourage visitors.
We eased our way around the hanging chains, stepping over anything that might make a sound. I thought I heard a noise, a shout from outside. I signaled Howard and Renzo to stop. Then three shots rang out in quick succession, the pop pop pop sounding like Harry's carbine, and before I could even think, two explosions sounded in the darkened room- boom boom- amid flashes that burst white against my eyeballs. Renzo fell backward, his white armband spattered with blood, before Howard turned from him in a single swift motion, bringing the butt of his automatic up to the side of my head.
My brain came to before my body. Not that it had been all that much help to me that day. But I had to give it credit-it had been sending me messages. Baseball messages. The New York Yankees. New York. Lieutenant Frank Howard, from New York City. Who worked on the docks, where Lucky Luciano and Vito Genovese controlled the unions. At the center of the II Corps communications network, in charge of the Message Section. Not the Code Section, where Captain Stanton held sway. So there had been no coded message. That was only an excuse, a pretext for Howard to tag along and take me by surprise. Why was I still breathing?
Why had Howard killed Renzo? Or had he? Was he was waiting for Elliott to show up?
Sounds worked their way into my awareness, along with the feel of rope tight around my wrists, the cold cement floor, and that increasingly familiar feeling of blood in my hair and a throbbing headache. I opened my eyes and saw the ugly face of Vito Genovese staring down at me. He wore nicely pressed U. S. Army khakis, and an officer's garrison cap with no rank insignia. I couldn't help noticing that the braid was gray and gold, the colors of the Paymaster Department. I had to laugh, even though it hurt.
'It's good to keep your sense of humor,' Vito said. 'What's so funny?'
'Do you know the braid on your cap is in paymaster colors?'
'No, I didn't. That is pretty funny, I gotta admit.' He kneeled down to look me in the eyes. 'But what's gonna happen to you if you don't talk, now that ain't funny. How much do you know, and who else knows it?'
'I know that you're going to kill me either way. And everybody else knows you're a lying crook too.'
'You're a real comedian, Boyle. Ain't he a riot, Box Hook?'
'I'm not laughing yet,' Howard said. Box Hook? I didn't have to think hard about how he got that nickname on the docks. A longshoreman's hook was an ugly weapon.
'OK, OK,' Vito said, waggling his hand back and forth. 'Listen, Boyle, I know I'm safe here. You got a deal with Don Calo and I'm it. I can hide Box Hook out so the army'll never find him. So we don't gotta kill you. But we do need to know who else knows what you know. Tell us, and we leave you here, tied up but alive. Someone'll come along.'
Vito hadn't risen in ranks of the Mob by leaving witnesses alive, so I knew he was spinning one for me. It seemed like a good idea to buy time and wait. For what, I wasn't sure.
'Hey, Box Hook, any idea where Vito will hide you? Now that he doesn't need you? I'd say six feet under but the ground is pretty hard around here. I'd bet two feet, maximum.'
'Nice try, Boyle, but Vito and me go way back. I got no worries on that account.'
'Stand up,' Vito said, and I noticed for the first time that he was holding my. 45. Howard had Renzo's carbine, and then I saw how it was going to happen. A renegade Sicilian shoots me, then Howard plugs him. But what about those first shots? Nobody was mentioning Elliott. I didn't get it.
Vito rapped on the door to the print shop. It opened, and Legs appeared, dressed in army khakis like Vito's, holding an automatic. I could see a small vertical printing press, not one with rollers like the big one Mauldin and his crew had been using. It had a big plate. A lever press, I think they called it. Next to it was an ornate iron paper cutter, its sharp blade a yard long. Stacks of neatly tied occupation lire filled the space along the wall.
'You've been busy,' I said.
'Shut up,' Howard replied and shoved me into the room.
Kaz stood in the corner, his hands on his head and his holster empty. Legs had the Webley stuck in his belt.
