Walking back to them, I saw figures come out of the woods and head for the wrecked German vehicles. They both followed my glance. Salvatore retrieved his lupara from where he'd hidden it. There were about a dozen people, some of them women. The men were armed with shotguns, German Mausers, Italian Mannlicher-Carcano carbines, and pistols. They were all ragged, their clothing dirty and patched. The women stripped the dead Germans where they lay in a row at the side of the road.
"Bandits," said Sciafani, the smile gone from his face.
"Mafia?" I asked. Salvatore shot me a glance then returned his gaze to the nearest group of men.
"No, mafiusu do not look like that. Bandits. There is no time to hide, we should leave now."
It was too late to leave. Three men had detached themselves from the group and were walking toward us. One held an automatic pistol- a nice Beretta, it looked like. The other two were armed with short Italian carbines. Salvatore stood still, his right hand on the leather strap of the lupara that hung from his shoulder.
Harsh words and angry gestures came from the guy with the Beretta. He pointed to the cart, then the donkey. I thought he was going to shoot it, but then understood. He was saying it was his now. He waved his hand toward the road. Maybe he was in a good mood today, and we could go free, simply leave the donkey and cart behind. Or maybe he preferred shooting his victims in the back. He looked the type-narrow little eyes, a broken nose, and crooked teeth rotted nearly black. I'd want to shoot somebody too if I looked like that.
At about ten feet, they were too far away to rush. It didn't look good, but Salvatore didn't say a thing as he stood his ground. Sciafani looked as worried as I was, and took an involuntary step back, holding his arms out at his side, palms out. None of the three bandits had their weapons pointed at us. There was still the threat of Salvatore's lupara, and they seemed to prefer that he walk away with it. Silence filled the space between us as the man with the Beretta raised it, a half-threatening gesture that went nowhere. I could see Salvatore lock eyeballs with him, and very slowly lift his left hand to his shirt. The other men shifted their weight, but the movement was so deliberate that it didn't surprise them into action. He unbuttoned the top button, then the next, then another, until his shirt fell open. Now it was the bandit's turn to take that step back. I couldn't see what was on his chest, and thought it best not to move into the line of fire for a better view. The two men with the carbines took another two steps back, lowered their rifles, and took off. The Beretta guy with the bad teeth stood with his gun hand still half up, looking too mean too run, too uncertain to shoot.
" Cazzo! " He spat out the curse as he raised the Beretta. In one fluid motion, Salvatore pulled on the leather strap with his right hand and the lupara appeared in it, a blast from both barrels knocking the bandit onto his back, two neat blackened holes, seeping red, right over his heart. As he reloaded Salvatore walked over to the dead man and picked up the Beretta. He found a spare clip in the man's jacket pocket and brought both over to me.
The other bandits stood quietly at a respectful distance, their weapons slung over their shoulders. The grove of trees was quiet as the coppery smell of fresh blood rose from the ground.
Salvatore handed me the Beretta and the ammunition clip. " Un regalo," he said.
I was too busy reading the tattoo on his chest to react. In a bold arc across the top of his chest were the words VIVA LA MALAVITA. "What does he mean?" I asked, looking at Sciafani.
"A gift, he is giving it to you as a gift."
" Grazie, grazie, " I said to Salvatore with sincerity. "But what does this mean?" I tapped on the tattoo. Salvatore smiled and buttoned up.
"Long live the underworld, the life of crime. It proclaims who he is, a man of honor."
I watched as the band of bandits made their way back into the woods, carrying German boots and uniforms and other debris the convoy had left behind. They could have massacred us. But they were afraid, afraid someone would see, or simply afraid of killing a mafiusu.
"He's a member of the Mafia," I said.
"It is only the newspapers that use that word, although it has become more widespread now. The entire purpose of the organization was to be secret. It was never really named. You have heard of c osa nostra?
"
"Sure," I said. "That's another name for the Mob."
"Here in Sicily, it is called a society. And members of that society refer to it as 'our thing.' Which translates as cosa nostra. So you see, there is no real name for it, other than the labels outsiders create for it. The life of the underworld. That is what it is."
"How do you know so much about it, Dottor?"
"Let us bury you again, Billy, under the almonds."
"Are you part of cosa nostra? Are you mafiusu? "
"You ask too many questions. In Sicily that can be unhealthy," Sciafani said.
"It's been nice getting to know you so well, Dottor," I said as I slipped into the cart and pushed away almonds from my hiding place. "How far to Agrigento?"
"Two or three hours, if you do not have to see a horse again."
"See a man about a horse," I corrected him as I pulled the blanket over me and they piled on the almonds.
I was certain there was something Sciafani was keeping from me. I didn't know what it was, but I figured it was about his past, reaching back into his childhood. What worried me was why he would bother lying about anything to me. What could it possibly matter?
I may be nuts, I thought to myself, but I felt a whole lot safer with the Beretta in my pocket. I might be nuts? It would have been funny if it had not been such a distinct possibility.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I spent the next three hours thinking about the last time I had been in Agrigento, or at least what I could remember. It was a bit hazy. I had met Nick Cammarata before the mission. He was a Naval Intelligence officer, recruited for his knowledge of Sicilian. He'd been born in the States, but his parents had emigrated from Sicily so he'd grown up speaking the Sicilian dialect at home and English on the streets of Brooklyn. There was even a village with the family name somewhere in the mountains, not far from Villalba. Nick had hoped he could get there when the shooting was over to look up his aunts and uncles.
Some navy commander had brought Nick and four other agents to Allied Forces HQ a month before the invasion. They each had a different mission. Nick had been paired with me, since Uncle Ike wanted to keep tabs on the Mafia angle. The whole thing had almost been called off when one of the guys let slip he'd been brought to the attention of the Office of Naval Intelligence by Joe Adonis, head of the rackets in Brooklyn, who worked for none other than Lucky Luciano himself. While some of the brass was nervous about the Mob connection, others would have been glad to shake hands with the devil himself to get the upper hand in this invasion. Uncle Ike wasn't sure either way, except I remember him telling me how Don Calo's cooperation would save lives.
I could see Nick's face, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't place him on this island. The last thing I remembered was seeing him on the deck of Harry's MTB, leaving the dock in North Africa. Harry's face came to me easily enough, especially that last moment when he came into view rounding the stone column before the grenade exploded. I could feel the cool darkness of the night and the pressure of the explosion in my eardrums, see the bright flash, and hear the frantic yelling in Italian and English. Had Nick been there? How had we ended up at the Valley of the Temples, shooting up the ancient ruins? Had we been betrayed?
English. If there had been yelling in English, it must have come from Nick. Harry would have been standing right where the grenade went off. The cry I'd heard hadn't been one of pain, it was more controlled and urgent than anguished. What had Nick been saying?