"Dottore Sciafani knows where paradise is."
"Where did you get this, Billy?"
"Rocko had it. When I was shanghaied into that fight at Biazza Ridge, I grabbed some gear when he turned tail. It was his gear, and this note was hidden in it."
"That is the same message Lieutenant Cammarata received about the rendezvous. His family is Sicilian, and he recognized it immediately."
"He didn't explain it to anyone?"
"No. Security."
Of course. The military loved security. That way, if I'd been caught, the Nazis could have tortured me all night long and I'd never have given them a thing. So thoughtful.
"I have a feeling this mystery man from Rocko's tent knows where it is. You know, he mentioned Palermo to Rocko, and said it with an accent just like I heard a guy in Boston say it."
"Who was that?" Kaz asked.
"Phil Buccolo, he was born there. Last time I was home, he was the head of the Boston mob. Lucky Luciano put him there."
"The navy and army intelligence services were recruiting everyone with a Sicilian background they could find, right up to the invasion," Kaz said. "There are probably quite a few native-born gangsters on the loose now. It could have been anyone."
"Yeah, well this character knows how to use a knife, doesn't mind killing, and is smart enough to frame me for it. That makes him someone to worry about in my book."
"I am too tired to worry, Billy. We should sleep." Kaz took a final drink of wine, winced at the taste, blew out the candle, and stood. "I'm glad you're alive, Billy. And that you didn't desert, or worse."
"Thanks, Kaz. Thanks for coming to the rescue."
We locked eyes for a second, no more. I sensed he was repaying a debt, one that was tied up with things I hadn't remembered yet. I followed him to the front of the house, wondering what were the ties that bound us, and if I deserved the payment. Desertion? Or worse? How could I be sure I was free of guilt? We entered the house. The small candle above the door had been relit and glowed in the carved niche, a timid, faltering flame that I supposed was an offering to the old gods or the newer saints, or perhaps simply a light to guide their son home from the wars, to sleep safe in his own bed once again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I awoke from a dream. I'd been standing at a window, or maybe it was a door to a veranda overlooking sparkling blue water. Sunlight glinted off low, rolling waves as soft breezes wafted through palm fronds in the garden below. It was beautiful, except for the twin-engine German bomber, smoke and fire trailing one wing, dropping its bombs as it headed straight for me. They struck, one by one, first in the ocean, then the beach, then closer to where I stood, and right before the last one, I felt someone by my side. We were holding on to each other, watching the last bomb hurtle toward us as the burning plane, nearly at treetop level, zoomed over the building and vanished.
I awoke before the bomb hit and before I could turn to see whom I held.
I awoke and wished I could go back to sleep, even if it meant dying in the explosion, if only I could see who was standing next to me. It was a woman, but not just any woman. She was the woman of my dreams. I realized she'd been in my dreams the past few nights, in the shadows, out of sight but always there, a presence, a reality I could never turn to fast enough to glimpse.
I sat up on the thick straw pallet that was my bed. Kaz lay across from me, covered in a rough wool blanket. We were in a bare stone room at the back of the house. I felt my way down the narrow hall to the back door. My mouth was dry and my head thick with the wine we'd drunk. I stood over the well, pumping up water to drink and rub over my face. It felt good to breathe in the cool night air, refreshing and cleansing. Off to the east, a line of light blue appeared at the horizon; dawn was not too far off. It was quiet, the kind of deep late-night quiet that seemed to hold the promise of a better day, or at least the chance of one.
Then it wasn't quiet. A scuffling of feet, a hushed whisper. I couldn't make it out, but it was Italian, or Sicilian, not that I'd know the difference. All I knew for certain was that it was a sound that didn't belong in the quiet hours before dawn. A suspicious sound, wrong in every way, in its haste and hidden nature. I walked around the side of the house, my hand on the cool stone, steadying myself as I watched each step to avoid the slightest stumble. I peered around the corner, my face in the shadows. Two stooped figures, one hurrying the other, tottered off into the grove of orange trees, and disappeared in the dark. Signor and Signora Ciccolo, beating feet for all they were worth.
I walked around in front of the house, not worrying about being seen by the old couple, swiveling my head, listening. I looked at my watch; the luminous dial and hands showed a quarter to five. What did the Ciccolos know, and at what time was it going to happen? No other sounds carried in the night. No heavy boots on gravel, no engines, no grunts from armed men running to surround the house. They wouldn't cut it so close, would they?
A tiny, distant grinding noise came from the main road we'd come in on. Gears. Someone was grinding his gears as he shifted. Nothing else, but the mechanical grating sound hung in the air, and I thought I could hear engines, two or three, coming closer. The Ciccolos must have overslept. I ran into the house.
"Kaz, Kaz, wake up!" I ran up the narrow steps to the small bedroom on the top floor. The door was open and Sciafani was already up. "What is it?" he asked. " Tedeschi? "
"I don't know, but let's get out of here before we find out."
Sciafani knew the Germans might shoot him as a deserter, parole or no parole. I flew down the stairs and Kaz was up and ready, revolver in hand.
"What?" he asked, his eyes darting around the room.
"The Ciccolos are gone; they went off into the woods a minute ago. And there are vehicles headed this way."
Kaz exited, Sciafani following. I dashed back into the bedroom, grabbing what little gear I had, glad to have my. 45 in its holster and the rifle in my hands. I went to the open door, straining to hear the engine noises to judge their distance. It didn't matter. As I stepped outside, I felt cold metal, the business end of a double-barreled shotgun pressed against my neck. I froze. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kaz and Sciafani off to the side, a big guy in a black suit standing behind them, a sawed-off shotgun raised to their heads.
" Pezzu di carni cu l'occhi," said the big man, pointing at me with his shotgun.
" Si, Muschetto," my guy said, laughing, as he pushed me toward the others. Two more men, wearing cloth caps pulled down over their eyes and black vests over rough farm shirts, appeared from in back of the house. Sporting sawed-offs on straps hung around their necks, they nodded to Muschetto, the all-clear sign. No trouble from us, we'd been easy pickings. The engines were closer now, and I figured these mugs had been here all along, waiting for us to run outside to see what the fuss was about and be gathered up, one, two, three.
"What did he say?" I asked Sciafani, glancing at Muschetto, who was grinning beneath his thick black mustache. He had a broad chin and small deep-set eyes set close together. He was at least six feet tall, and he could have rested his arm on top of Kaz's head if he got tired of holding the shotgun on us, but it looked like not much would tire out Muschetto.
"It is hard to translate exactly. He said you are a piece of meat with eyes, meaning that you look like, well, a shocked idiot, perhaps."
"Thanks for the translation. Next time make up something nice," I said.
" Silenzio, " Muschetto said.
I obliged as the others relieved us of our weapons and stacked them inside. Two vehicles came down the dirt track leading to the farm, past the field of cauliflowers, then past the barn, which I avoided looking at. Muschetto waved to them. In the lead was a little Fiat 500, one guy at the wheel. Behind that was a U. S. Army jeep, the driver and passenger both wearing khaki uniforms like officers, with the summer service cap, leather visor, and shiny brass eagle insignia.