"Sure, Mafia boss, serving time in a New York state pen. Prostitution charges, I think."
"Correct. He was born Salvatore Lucania, in a village not far from where we are now: Lercara Friddi, about fifteen kilometers northeast of us."
"So?"
"Luciano has been cooperating with your government, through the Office of Naval Intelligence, to provide assistance to the war effort. At first, he used his Mafia and union connections to keep watch on the waterfront docks, to prevent Axis agents from gathering intelligence or committing sabotage. After the SS Normandie burned at her moorings in New York Harbor, there were questions, and ONI began to rely more on Luciano's sources."
"I remember that; it was right after the war started."
"Right after America entered the war," Kaz said. His family had been killed when the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939, so the war had already been old in 1942 when the Normandie burned and capsized in the Hudson River, and I had still been learning how to do an about-face in basic training.
"Of course," I said. "Go on."
"When the invasion of Sicily was planned, ONI got Luciano to provide contacts in Sicily to assist our forces."
"Mafia contacts, you mean."
"Naturally," Kaz said. "Mussolini tried to wipe out the crime families in Sicily, so of course they hate him, not that Sicilians would be too friendly to any government in Rome."
"What does Luciano get out of all this?"
"There are rumors," Kaz said, "that he will be released from prison once the war is over. Even that he is here in Sicily already. Or that he is running his criminal operations openly from prison, take your pick. I doubt he is here, but his influence is very important."
I pulled out the silk handkerchief with the large L and laid it on the table.
"Luciano?" I asked.
"Yes. The night before the invasion, Harry brought you and Lieutenant Cammarata ashore secretly in his Motor Torpedo Boat. Banville is his petty officer. Cammarata is Sicilian-American himself, one of a team of intelligence officers sent in to make contact with those who could be helpful to us."
"Why was I along for the ride?"
"General Eisenhower was leery of doing business with gangsters. He thought with your police background, you would be useful in assessing their honesty and worth. Harry went along as added security."
"What was I supposed to do with this?" I laid my hand on the yellow silk square, feeling the supple fabric between my fingers as I gripped it. In the fire, I thought, in the fire.
"You are to deliver it to Don Calogero Vizzini, head of the Sicilian Mafia, in a little mountain village called Villalba. It is a sign that the bearer has the blessing of Luciano. This method of communication has been used by Don Calo himself."
"No wonder Rocko wanted it," I said.
"The dead supply sergeant?"
"The same," I said. "I could tell he had more than a casual interest in it. How could he have known what it meant?"
Kaz shrugged. "Do you have any idea who killed him?"
"There was a guy in Rocko's tent the night he was killed. I didn't see him but I heard him talking. He was putting pressure on Rocko to find me and to find Roberto Bellestri, the Italian who helped me. They were in contact with a Lieutenant Andrews at the POW camp by field telephone, and Rocko was practically ordering Andrews to find Bellestri."
"Did the sergeant address this man by name or by his rank?"
"No, but it was clear he was scared of him, and that this guy was used to intimidating people. He didn't have an accent exactly, but when he said the name of a place here it came out smooth, like he knew how to say it the right way."
"Was he in uniform?" Kaz asked.
"I couldn't see him. But I heard a jeep start up after he left the tent, so he had to be. He mentioned something odd, though. Is there a safe that needs to be cracked in all this?"
"What?" I knew Kaz had heard me, but I'd thrown him with that one. "No, not exactly."
"What do you mean, not exactly?"
"One of the ONI agents who went ashore got into the Italian naval headquarters and blew open a safe. He brought out the operational plans for Axis naval operations around Sicily. But that had nothing to do with your mission."
"Right, since he used dynamite. Rocko and this guy talked about a yegg-gangland slang for a safecracker who works with his fingers."
"Billy, we have to put that aside for now. I don't know what it means, but we have to figure out what happened to you and complete your mission, if at all possible."
"Not that I suppose it will be easy to find the head of the Sicilian Mafia, but why did you say that?"
"First," Kaz said, counting off on his fingers, "prior to the invasion it was easier to move about on the island with the proper precautions. Your jacket, for instance. At night, it would make it impossible to tell if you were American, Italian, or German."
"Sure. It would give everyone a reason to shoot at me."
"Secondly, Cammarata knew the location of the rendezvous with the contact who was to take you to meet Don Calo. Something must have gone wrong, so unless he told you and you can remember it, we have no way of contacting Don Calo, short of walking into Villalba and asking for him. And that would be a bad idea."
"Why?"
"Because we have heard rumors that Don Calo has put out a contract on you. He wants you dead."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" As the words came out I could hear my father speak them. It was the worst blasphemy he could utter, and he saved it for those times when simple anger wouldn't do, when he needed a string of names to signify total, stunned disbelief in the face of overwhelming bad news.
"Indeed," Kaz said. "Which is one reason we cannot trust the good doctor. With all his talk of mafiusu, he may be one himself."
"What about Ciccolo?" I asked.
"He wouldn't have been a problem, mafiusu or not, if the doctor had not known about your situation. Now we must keep Sciafani with us. It would have been easier to shoot him."
"But you didn't." I was glad to hear it, remembering that Kaz had not only grown careless about his own life, he had become more casual than I liked about killing.
"No. Banville was adamant about not shooting prisoners, especially a doctor."
I took a drink. The wine had grown less harsh, but it still bit my tongue and left a taste of sour grape skins in my mouth.
"All right," I began, trying to summarize. "I failed in my mission. Harry and Cammarata are missing, and the MPs want me for one murder, maybe two. The Sicilian Mob has a hit out on me. I don't remember most of the key events surrounding any of this, and-let me guess at this one-the mission is critical to the war effort and we need to get this damn yellow snot rag to Don Calo, toots sweet."
" Tout de suite, yes. A task made difficult by the fact that he apparently wishes you dead."
"Goes without saying on this island. Can you tell me why this is so important?"
"Don Calo can influence the Italian soldiers, especially those in Sicilian units. The island is dotted with pillboxes on every hillside overlooking the main roads, mostly manned by Italian troops. If they fight, we lose lives and days. If they disappear or surrender…"
"We save lives. And time."
"In war, those are nearly the same thing," Kaz said. He was right. It was more of the terrible mathematics of war, which was all too familiar. If these few men die today, fewer may die tomorrow. If I risk my life, I can save other lives. Tough part was, the guys doing the dying didn't give a damn about the math. I didn't either, but I couldn't deny that saving GI lives was worth a risk. I just wished it was someone else's neck on the line.
"OK. At least we have one advantage."
"What is it?" Kaz asked.
I took the wrinkled note from my pocket, and placed it on the table, smoothing it out.