"Why do they call you Legs?" asked Kaz, ever the eager student of American gangland slang.
"Guess because I ran track in high school," Laspada said.
"I doubt he ever went to high school," I said. "They call him Legs because that's his trademark. A pair of broken legs for the first offense, whether that's a late loan-shark payment or shorting the numbers receipts."
"What's the penalty for the second offense?" Kaz asked.
"Two bullets in the brain."
"There will be no more talk of these things," Genovese said, in that calm and grave voice, as he drew his. 45 from his shoulder holster and laid it on the table. It gave off a solid clunk as it hit the wood and drew my attention, especially since the barrel was pointed straight at me.
I stared at the muzzle. I wanted to tell Kaz I remembered Daphne, to tell him I was sorry, but we'd been through all that. I'd already made good on my promise to avenge her death. It didn't matter now. I needed to drive those thoughts out of my head.
"What do you want?" I asked, folding my shaking hands in my lap. Genovese stared at me as he slurped coffee. I met his eyes but was drawn back to the gun barrel. Anguish rose in my throat and I choked it down, understanding for the first time the allure of a quick end and a journey to a place without burned bodies in blackened cars, where no flowers, plucked by bullets, fell on the dead and dying. Everything in the room narrowed to the small circle of steel pointed in my direction, as if every step I'd taken in the past days, weeks, maybe even years had led me here. I was amazed to be calm. I forced myself to look at Genovese and caught a glimpse of feral surprise. He'd expected to see fear, and instead saw something else. I was beyond a Mafia bully and his pistol. I'd watched a Tiger tank crest a rise in front of me, seen planeloads of paratroopers flame out into the sea, killed men close up and far away, some of whom I knew, most of whom were unknown, and except for one, I was sure they had all been better men than Vito Genovese.
"We want to know why you are here. We want to know who you are looking for," Genovese said as he picked up the. 45 and holstered it. He knew its threat wasn't working.
Except for one. Who was that? Why had I thought that? Images and words swam through my mind. I saw Harry Dickinson and recognized him instantly, even though hours ago he'd been a stranger. Harry, who'd taken me to Norway under forged orders on my first assignment for Uncle Ike. Click. Another memory fell neatly into place. Click. Harry at the MTB base in Algeria, swinging his fist and threatening to kill me. That had been on my next assignment. Not every memory was a happy one.
Except for one. Who was that one?
"I am speaking to you!" Genovese shouted, a white gob of spittle hanging from his lip. He wiped it and slammed his hand, palm down, on the table.
"We are deserters," Kaz said, with a quick glance at me. "The dottore was going to hide us in the mountains. We thought we could sell cigarettes on the black market. We have connections."
"What, are you going to sell Limey smokes?" Legs thought he was a comic.
"No, we have someone in the American supply services. He has access to everything-cigarettes, penicillin, liquor."
"What about this one?" Genovese asked, pointing to me.
"He is shell-shocked. He's been in the fighting. The man in supply is his cousin, so I need to keep him safe. That's why we're hiding out here."
I had to admire Kaz-it was a good story. A little truth, a little lie, and told with no hesitation. Liars usually hesitate, even for a fraction of a second, but the truth comes out smoothly, since people don't have to think about it. It just is.
"How did you choose this farm?" Genovese asked.
"I have access to reconnaissance photos. I picked it out because there are no main roads, no intersections, nothing of military value. The track turns to a trail and winds up into the hills. No one, German or American, should be very interested. So I offered the Ciccolos payment for a few days' shelter."
"How did you get here?" Legs asked.
"We had a jeep, but a Messerschmitt came out of the sun and strafed us. We jumped out, but he got the jeep. We left it burning in a field a few miles from here."
Legs looked at Genovese, reluctantly conceding that they'd seen the wreck.
Except for one. My mind raced, and I felt the woman of my dreams close by.
Except for one.
"How much penicillin can you get?" Legs asked. He'd bought the whole line and was ready to cash in. He was a solid enforcer, but that didn't make him the brightest guy in the room.
"Stop," Genovese said. "They are lying. Don't be stupid." He caught Muschetto's eye and pointed at Sciafani and the door. The big Sicilian grabbed Sciafani and led him outside.
"No," Kaz said, "don't…"
"Don't worry," Genovese said, his voice calm again. "We need doctors in Sicily. It is time for us to talk, just among soldiers."
"What do you want?" I asked. My hands were still in my lap, but they weren't shaking. When Legs said penicillin, there'd been another click. The hospital in Algiers. Kaz had been shot in the arm while rescuing Harding and me from the Vichy jail. Click. I was somewhere else, watching a newsreel of my life play out in my mind, each new episode a revelation.
"I respect a man who can focus on the business at hand," Genovese said, the smile playing across his face a mask, broad and false. "So I will tell you what I want. I want the man who was put ashore before the invasion to meet with Don Calo Vizzini. I want to help him to complete his mission. Do you know such a man?"
"He sounds like a failure," I said. I tried to concentrate on Genovese, but I was seeing a woman raise a pistol to her head-who was she?- echoing the thoughts I'd had earlier. An end to all this, an end to suffering and pain. I understood what she'd wanted. To go to that other place, where the suffering had not yet reached, and never would.
"Not yet. He still can complete his mission, and I can help him." Genovese sounded like a pal. "Even though he has done 'many bad things'."
I laughed. "Many bad things? We're in the middle of a fucking war, and you talk about 'many bad things'?"
"Billy," Kaz began.
I cut him off. "'Many bad things'. You don't know, Vito. Even in your blood-soaked dreams, you have no idea." I couldn't stop laughing.
"Where is the handkerchief? Search them," Genovese said to Legs. "Find it and we will all bring it to Don Calo."
Legs lifted Kaz up by the armpits and started to pat him down. It was just the four of us in the kitchen now, and while Legs was searching Kaz, Genovese drew his. 45 again, but this time held it cradled close to his chest.
"Do you know who Don Calo is?" he asked me.
"Somebody who needs to blow his nose?"
He snapped his hand holding the. 45 at me, slamming the barrel against my temple. He was fast, so fast that before I noticed the blood dripping from my head he had brought the pistol back, a satisfied smile on his face.
"I believe you are the man we have been looking for," Genovese said. "I believe that you know where the handkerchief is. And I believe you will give it to us, and we will all be heroes."
"He's clean," Legs said after thoroughly searching Kaz, who was lacing up his boots.
Genovese, gestured at me with the pistol. "Search him, then the house, if he doesn't have it."
I thought about going for the gun, and then there was another click. Harry, going for a woman's gun, coming up from behind her, and snatching it away.
Diana. The woman had been Diana, Daphne's sister. She was the woman of my dreams. Diana, who'd been kidnapped, drugged, and raped by a Vichy rat, Luc Villard. Except for him, I was sure every man I'd killed was a better man than Vito Genovese. Diana, who wondered if I still loved her, if I'd be man enough to stand by her.