AMGOT. We entered a neighborhood of even narrower streets. Clothing hung from lines strung between buildings, adding odd traces of color to the dingy and shadowed roadway. Shops and homes were shuttered, and only a few civilians were on the street, eyeing us with indifference, suspicion, fear, or avarice, depending on their intentions. I was pretty sure that covered all the bases in this part of town.
We pulled over in front of a building with a gaily painted sign announcing this was Bar Raffaele. The sign was the nicest thing on the street. Empty wine bottles, cigarette butts, and other debris littered the sidewalk. The sour smell of spilled wine mingled with the tang of urine and rotting garbage.
“Welcome to Acerra,” Luca said.
“Reminds me of certain parts of Boston,” I said. “Scollay Square, right outside the Crawford House, for instance. Makes me a little homesick, almost.”
“It makes me ill,” Kaz said. He pounded on the locked door. “I hope it smells better inside.” There was no answer.
“ Aprire, aprire! ” Luca thundered, hammering on the door with the butt of his pistol. “ Carabinieri! ”
I heard the creak of doors and shutters opening all around us, as people risked a look at the commotion. I turned around and they all shut, no one wanting to take a chance on being seen and dragged into an unknown situation.
“Carabinieri? Italiano? ” came a voice from behind the door. It sounded fearful and weak, not what I was expecting.
“ Si, aprire ora,” Luca said, and the door cracked open far enough for a bloodshot eyeball to peer out at us. It flickered at each of us, growing wide as it lit on me. Luca said something calming in Italian, and the guy finally undid the chain lock and opened the door.
He was holding a sawed-off shotgun. But that wasn’t what surprised me. It was his face. Ugly purplish-red bruises covered it. His other eye was swollen shut, and he winced as he stepped back, the shotgun pointed to the floor.
“ Posare il fucile,” Luca said, in a tone that I would have recognized in any language, coming from a cop. Put the gun down. He did. “ Che e successo a lei? ”
“Who is the Americano?”
“A friend. Now tell us, what happened to you?”
Inzerillo steadied himself with one hand on a chair, then eased himself down into it. Broken ribs. I could tell by the way he moved, and by the sharp intake of breath between clenched teeth. Two fingers were taped together on one hand, probably broken. His knuckles were about the only part of him that wasn’t bruised, meaning that he hadn’t even gotten a good punch in.
“You were beaten by someone who knew what they were doing,” I said, walking around the table to look at Inzerillo from all angles. “Somebody who took his time, who wanted to inflict as much pain as possible, and still leave you conscious. He broke your fingers, cracked your ribs, worked on your face, but didn’t hit you in the head. Or your mouth, so he wouldn’t have pieces of your teeth in his fist. A connoisseur of pain, a man who enjoyed his work.”
“I fell down the stairs,” Inzerillo said in his thick accent. If he could have moved his face more, he would have sneered.
“A man who might come back,” I said.
“When did you fall down these stairs?” Luca asked him as he holstered his pistol and then removed the shells from the shotgun.
“Last week, I don’t remember. Venerdi? ”
“Did anyone see you fall down the stairs last Friday?” Luca asked. Inzerillo shook his head. “Where were your men, your bodyguards?”
“Ask them, if you can find the bastards!”
“What was the argument about?” I asked.
“I told you, I fell down the stairs. Am I under arrest?” He sounded hopeful.
“No, Signor Inzerillo,” Luca said with a sigh. “We have nothing to arrest you for. Clumsiness is not a crime. Gentlemen, do you have any other questions?”
“Talk to us off the record, Inzerillo,” I said, pulling up a chair and sitting across from him. The stand-up interrogation was not going to work, so why not try the one-guy-to-another technique? “We know a GI did this to you. Just tell us what you know about him and we’ll keep it quiet.”
“I do not know you,” Inzerillo said. “So I don’t trust you.”
“He is the nephew of General Eisenhower,” Luca said. Inzerillo rolled his eyes. The eye I could see, I should say.
“Were these the damages Lieutenant Landry came back to pay for?” I said, gesturing at his face and hands.
“The lieutenant never paid me for anything.”
“You knew Landry?”
“Sure. He has a favorite girl. Always trying to get her to quit, but she makes too much money. I think she breaks his heart.”
“What about a doctor, Max Galante? Or an army priest, Father Dare?” The chaplain had said he never came here, but a pistolpacking priest deserved a bit of distrust.
“We have a doctor who takes care of the girls, but his name is not Galante. And priests do not come here, thank God. What is Landry going to pay me for?” The wheels had started to turn in his beaten, larcenous head.
“One of Sergeant Flint’s men broke up the place?”
“No. Only I have been broken.”
“Falling down the stairs.” He nodded, as if I’d finally figured it out. “You know Landry’s sergeants? Gates, Flint, Stump, Walla?”
“Louie Walla from Walla Walla,” Inzerillo said. “Louie likes to have fun. Sure I know them, I know many GIs. It is my job to help them relax, to enjoy vino and amore.”
“What you sell here is not fit to be called either,” Luca said. “Come, he is not worth our time.”
“You sure you won’t let us help you?” I asked, giving it one last try. He laughed, coughed, and winced again.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Signor Inzerillo,” Kaz said. “It will be duly noted in our report.”
“What do you mean, Inglese? ”
“I am Polish, Signor, but I do wear the British uniform proudly. What I mean is that we will report to the Army Criminal Investigation Division, and to the Third Division headquarters, that you have fully cooperated and an arrest of the soldier who attacked you is imminent.”
“Huh?” Inzerillo said, trying to follow Kaz. “ Imminente? ”
“Yes, imminente. You should probably give the Signor his shotgun shells back, Tenente. He may need them.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It is a death sentence, and I am an innocent man!”
“I doubt that,” Kaz said. “Innocent men have nothing to hide.”
“ La santa madre di dio,” Inzerillo said softly. “Talk to Landry. He will tell you.”
“You don’t know?” Luca said.
“Know what?”
“He is dead. Assassinato.”
It was a rookie move to tell Inzerillo that Landry was dead. He hadn’t picked up on the past tense when we’d mentioned his name; his English wasn’t that good. Luca was more of a military man than a detective, so he didn’t get that if Landry knew whatever Inzerillo was trying to keep covered up, and Landry had been killed, Inzerillo would see the same thing might happen to him. Kaz’s ploy had been a good one, but after hearing Landry had been murdered, Inzerillo clammed up tight. There was nothing to be learned from him.
We left Inzerillo’s neighborhood behind, gladly, and took Luca’s suggestion to stop for lunch off the main piazza. The Trattoria La Lanternina was a different world. Clean sidewalks, delicious smells from the kitchen, tablecloths, and several Carabinieri at their midday meal. Any joint where bluecoats ate was okay by me. Luca stopped to chat with two officers and we grabbed a table.
“Friends of yours?” I asked when he joined us.
