They drove right past the barn. I shifted my eyes away, not wanting to tip them off. Banville was in there with the truck, and unless he was a heavy sleeper, he had to be watching us through one of the narrow windows of the stone barn. Old Man Ciccolo was playing an angle with these guys. He had to have betrayed us, but why should he give up a nice truck? He must've told these palookas there were three of us in the house, and left out the part about stashing a truck in the barn.
Muschetto motioned the three of us to back up against the house, and held his shotgun on us casually as he waited for the men in the jeep. I didn't hold out any hope this was the cavalry coming to the rescue since our captors were relaxed and confident. They didn't look much like the Mafia gang members I knew from Boston. Back home, they were togged to the bricks, always clean, shoes shined, colorful ties like garlands around their necks. These guys wore dusty black or dingy gray, with a few days' growth of beard, and evidently had spent longer than that between baths. But the sawed-offs said Mafia, real down-home Sicilian mafiusu.
The jeep pulled up in front of us. The passenger wore a. 45 automatic in a shoulder holster. He was short and stout, not a picture of military elegance in his rumpled khakis, maybe forty or so. He displayed no rank or insignia, but Muschetto jumped to as if this passenger was royalty, offering a hand to help him out. Muschetto bowed like a servant, then quickly eyed us to make sure no one moved a muscle.
It was only when the passenger tipped his cap up and I saw his eyes that I made the connection. Deep set, they were surrounded by dark bags and shadows cast by his heavy brow, the whites of his eyes looking lost in bluish gray caverns. I'd seen them gazing at me from wanted posters and glossy photos sent by J. Edgar.
"Vito Genovese," I said, not by way of introduction, but out of astonishment. He stood in front of me and smiled, a meaningless expression on the face of a major crime boss.
"You know me, that is good," he said. It was the same voice I'd heard in Rocko's tent. The kind of calm self-assurance that comes from having a pack of Mafia gunsels to back you up, and at the same time knowing you don't need them. "Let's go inside where we can talk."
He brushed past me and I got my third shock of the morning. First came the Sicilian Mafia, then the American Mafia shows up, and now here was Joey "Legs" Laspada, enforcer for the Boston Mob. He was the driver, looking natty in his khakis and service cap, worn at a jaunty angle over thick, wavy black hair. He gave us all the once-over, but I could tell he didn't recognize me.
"I thought you were dead," I said, locking eyes with him even as Muschetto herded me to the door with the butt of his shotgun. That caught Laspada off guard, as his eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed again into his permanent look of suspicion. They constantly darted about, gauging the chances of threat or enrichment wherever he went. His mouth was long and thin, a match for his narrow eyes. He had a wide, high forehead, a sign of intelligence according to some. On Laspada, it looked like a wall behind which deadly secrets were forever held.
"I ain't," he said, as he followed Genovese into the house, not giving me a second look.
I followed meekly, knowing what these men were capable of and wishing I didn't.
" Fa'il caffe, " said Genovese, and Muschetto, towering over us all, made himself busy at the stove. He did so with ease, pulling a tin of coffee from a shelf without looking for it. He was no stranger to this house. Genovese sat at the head of the table, and Kaz, Sciafani, and I were shoved into the other three chairs by Muschetto's goons, who left without a word. Laspada leaned against a wall and lit a cigarette, peering at me through the smoke.
"Boyle," he said, snapping his fingers. "Your old man's on the Homicide Squad, right? Hey, Vito, this one's a bluecoat from back home. Kinda makes me homesick."
"Seeing you makes me plain sick, Legs," I said. Laspada stood, a scowl on his face and one hand on his holstered pistol.
"Gentleman," Genovese said, his hands up in a gesture of calm. "There is no need to revive old animosities here. We have come to help you, but first we need to know exactly who you are and what you are doing here."
"How did you know we were here," I asked, "so you could help us?"
"We have come, at great risk, because we heard of two Allied soldiers traveling with an unknown civilian, out in front of our lines," Genovese said, drumming his fingers on the table in irritation. "Think of this as a rescue mission. You should be thanking us, not questioning us as if this were a police station. We are a world away from all that, my friend. This you would do well to remember."
"Billy," Kaz said. "How do you know these people? Who are they?" Genovese nodded to me, as if I should make introductions. I started with our little group.
"I'm Lieutenant Boyle, and this is Lieutenant Kazimierz. Il dottore Enrico Sciafani was just released from a POW camp and has his papers to permit him to return home." I watched Sciafani as I spoke. He looked nervous, and I wondered if he'd heard of these guys before. But then any Sicilian would recognize these men with their sawed-off shotguns.
"You'll be interested, Kaz, since you like American gangster movies so much, to meet Vito Genovese, one of the top Mafia bosses in New York City. Word has it that he killed his former boss, Joe Masseria, on the orders of Lucky Luciano himself. Luciano took over all the Mob operations in the city, and Vito rose up with him. Until 1937, anyway, when he left the country ahead of a murder charge."
I could see Kaz was actually interested in all this.
"You head one of the Five Families," Kaz said, sounding a little like he was meeting a movie star.
He and Daphne had loved to watch gangster movies and learn American slang. I rubbed my eyes, trying not to think about it, trying to focus on what was happening and how to get free of these mobsters.
"No, no," Genovese was saying. "That is all nonsense the newspapers print. I am simply a businessman who wished to visit the old country, and then was trapped here by the war. How could I be facing a murder charge? I work for AMGOT."
I could see Sciafani didn't understand so I broke in. "That's the American Military Government of Occupied Territories."
"Yes, exactly. I met some of the first American troops in Gela and soon found a Senior Civil Affairs officer and volunteered my services. I am employed as a translator and for whatever special situations may occur."
"Him too?" I jerked my thumb in the direction of Laspada. I tried to think only about Legs back in Boston, not about Daphne, not about Kaz and his pain. And not about mine.
"Joey is my driver, also officially employed by AMGOT. So you see, we are all on the same side."
Genovese spread his hands and laughed. All one big happy family, with Vito at the head of the table. Muschetto set down a small cup of steaming coffee in front of him, and handed one to Laspada. I guessed the distant relations didn't warrant any java.
"Joey 'Legs' Laspada," I said to Kaz, nodding at the other American. "Chief enforcer for Phil Buccola, head of the Boston Mob, or syndicate, as they call themselves. Back in '39, we found a badly decomposed body on the incoming tide in Boston Harbor. Had Joey's billfold on him and two slugs in his skull. We figured Joey had done something to anger Phil, who'd had enough of him. But it looks like Joey found a way out of that mess."
"Like Mr. Genovese, I am an American citizen who was trapped in Italy when the war started. I've been hiding out in the mountains here, waiting to be liberated. Now I am eager to assist in any way I can."
It was a nice little speech, one I was sure appealed to the AMGOT bigwigs. They were desperate for Italian speakers, especially anyone with an intimate knowledge of Sicily. When these two showed up waving their arms and welcoming GIs, I bet AMGOT's brass fell over itself to sign them up and let them play soldier. And they had contacts among the locals; their own private Mafia army was proof of that.