against our yarns.” The traffic inched ahead then started to move and as quickly came to a stop. There was a chill in the air, even with the bright winter sun, and I buttoned my trench coat collar and nodded to Kaz to begin.
“One of my favorites is ‘The Pardoner’s Tale.’ He tells the story of three men who are drinking heavily, mourning the death of a dear friend. The more they drink, the angrier they grow at death, whom they hold responsible. So they go out, searching for death, vowing to kill him. On the road, they meet an old man, who points to an ancient oak tree and tells them that is where they could find death. The three wait by the tree, and while there, discover eight bags of gold coins. The bags are heavy and they decide to wait until dark to remove the gold, or else someone will see them and steal their treasure. By now, all thoughts of killing death are forgotten. Growing hungry, they agree that one man should go to the village for food and wine. They draw straws and the youngest draws the short one. He leaves without complaint, trusting that his friends will not depart before nightfall. As soon as he is gone, his companions plot to kill him, reasoning that the gold will be best split two ways instead of three. The lad returns, with three bottles of wine and ample food, when he is set upon and killed. To celebrate, his killers drink the wine, not knowing that the boy had poisoned two of the bottles, intending to kill them. When darkness finally comes, all three are dead at the foot of the tree, having found death, just as the old man had foreseen.”
“Good one,” I said. “What’ve you got, Big Mike?”
“I remember a story about Joey Adamo, whose old man ran the Westside Gang in Detroit. This was before I joined the force, but the old-timers told the story over and over. Joey was a Sicilian orphan, and Angelo Adamo adopted him, since he and his wife couldn’t have kids. He’d picked a kid from Sicily, so he’d be sure to get a real Siciliano, pureblood. Anyway, he raises him like his own, and brings him up in the organization. Joey makes his bones during the Vitale Wars. Lots of touring cars with guns, the whole nine yards. The Adamo faction does OK, they come out on the winning side. Joey marries into the Zerilli family, another Mob family, and the girl’s a real looker to boot. He’s got everything: respect, honor, money, a beautiful wife, and pretty soon a healthy baby son. All because he was plucked from some orphanage by a nun, to be the son of a Detroit hoodlum.” The traffic moved, almost up to twenty miles an hour now, and Big Mike shifted gears and continued. “But something went wrong.”
“What?” Kaz said, leaning forward from the backseat.
“Guilt. Regret. He shoots a kid by accident, a bystander who takes a slug to the chest and dies in the hospital. He’d killed five men without missing a beat, but after killing an innocent kid, he can’t pull the trigger, no matter what.”
“What happens to him?”
“He runs. Steals twenty grand from his old man, and hightails it off across the border, into Canada, wife and kid in tow. Old man Zerilli takes it as a personal insult, and starts a shooting war, demanding his daughter and grandson be turned over to him, along with some of the Adamo territory.”
“Can he really do that?” Kaz asked. “Barter human beings?”
“They’re from the old country,” Big Mike said, as if that explained everything. “Anyway, Angelo agrees to one out of the three, but Zerilli wants more than his daughter back. Things get worse, and both sides are hurting. A Mob war costs money, and there’s less dough coming in for everyone. So Angelo sends some boys into Canada to track down Joey. They find him. Couple of days later, Zerilli’s daughter is delivered to the old man, with all her luggage. She’s fine, but there’s a steamer truck with Joey inside, and he ain’t.”
“Angelo Adamo killed his own son?” Kaz said.
“Orders him killed. According to the rules he lives by, he doesn’t really have any choice. He keeps his grandson and all of his territory. The kid must be almost thirty by now. He’s in the family business as well.”
“He works for the man who killed his father?” Kaz said.
“Yep. Works for him up until his twenty-first birthday, the day he shoots Angelo and his bodyguard, both in the head. Story is, he weeps as he does it, and old man Adamo smiles and nods his head, just before he gets his.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Everyone falls in and stays with the kid?”
“They do. Guess they figure the kid set things right, according to his lights, and shows the other families that he isn’t one to mess with. Counts for a lot with that bunch. Zerilli ends up the big loser. About a month after she was returned, the daughter runs away. She grabs some jewels the old man had stashed for a rainy day, and is never seen again. So, Kaz, does that story stand up to Chaucer?”
“And to Shakespeare,” Kaz said. “Billy? What do you have for us?”
I held onto my seat as Big Mike hit the accelerator, the traffic jam finally giving way. We cleared an intersection, the tail end of a convoy disappearing off to our right. As I was about to begin, the distant sound of aircraft engines rose up from due south, and within seconds it became a sputtering, growling noise, signaling a plane in big trouble.
“There!” Kaz said, pointing ahead to a black smudge in the sky, descending and trailing smoke. It was a B-17, probably hit by fighters or flak along the French coast and heading for home. A couple of trucks ahead of us pulled over to watch, and Big Mike gunned the engine, passing them and a couple of other vehicles that had slowed down. The B-17 was closer now, losing altitude and airspeed. It was off to our right, but parallel to the road, and I began to wonder if it was going to land on top of us. Two of the four engines trailed smoke, and a third suddenly sprouted yellow flames, as the smoke turned an oily black. I saw its flaps go down, and knew the pilot was trying for a belly landing. It was going to have to be in the plowed fields alongside the road, the flattest ground within sight. I hoped they’d jettisoned the bomb load in the channel and the crew had bailed out over land. The bomber seemed to drop straight down as it slowed, its huge wings wobbling back and forth as the pilot fought for what control he could get out of the damaged plane. Kaz and I stared, transfixed, but Big Mike took his opportunity and sped between the line of vehicles, as nearly everyone on the road stopped to watch.
A line of deuce-and-a-half trucks blocked our view for a few seconds, but we got around them in time to see the pilot raise the nose a bit, seconds before the aircraft touched down. It slid forward, gouging out a blackened trench as one of the propellers spun off. The plane smashed through a stone wall, spinning crazily across the field, like a giant child’s toy. The B-17 swerved sideways before coming to a shuddering halt, its nose yards away from a row of oak trees edging a lane between the fields. We were close enough to see shredded metal where machine- gun or cannon fire had raked the wing and fuselage. Dozens of GIs ran over to help, spilling out of vehicles, swarming the aircraft, reaching to help any survivors out through the hatches. Smoke bloomed from the damaged engine and enveloped the rescuers. An ambulance pulled out of the traffic ahead of us, bumping over plowed fields, and disappeared into the thickening haze. We drove on in silence, stories forgotten.
An hour later, with images of death beneath gnarled oaks playing across my mind, we turned off the main road at a sign for Shepherdswell. We crossed the train tracks and parked at the station, not far from the Bricklayer’s Arms. It was a pleasant-looking place, and we walked toward it, silently in agreement on the need for a drink. Shepherdswell was a sprawling little village with a main street of shops and homes all built in the same brickwork style, painted a uniform white. Narrow side streets led off into country lanes dotted with larger homes, bounded by farmers’ fields showing husks of the last autumn crops, endless rows of withered stems, lined up like tombstones.
The Bricklayer’s Arms was warm and welcoming, the publican quick with his pints, a sharp, crisp ale that bit through the dust in my mouth and the visions in my head. We drank, and didn’t speak, the only sound a long sigh from Big Mike after he polished off his pint. He spoke for us all.
“Another?” the publican asked, appearing as soon as he noticed the empty glass.
“Sure,” Big Mike said. “But maybe you can help us first. We’re looking for a girl.”
“What kind of establishment do you think this is?” He took a half step back, his eyes wide with amazement at this cheeky Yank.
“No, no,” Kaz said. “What my friend means is we are searching for a specific young lady. We were supposed to deliver a gift to her, from her fiance, but we lost the address. All we know is that she’s visiting here, and wondered if you may have seen her. She came by train, and we thought with the pub so close to the station, she might have come in.”
“Well, then, that’s a different story. What’s her name?”
“Sheila,” Kaz said, leaving it unsaid that she might have used a different name. “Early twenties, dark hair, dark eyes. A pretty girl, not a movie star, but nice looking.”
“Kind of a small, round mouth,” I added. “A smart kid, too.” She had to be.
“Visiting here in Shepherdswell?”
