"Are they involved in this?" I asked, ignoring his question.
"Not that I know of."
"And you know everything that happens here," I reminded him.
"Everything that happens in Agrigento," Tommy the C said, stretching out his hands as if to include the entire province.
"Does the name Charlotte mean anything to you?"
"Other than a dame in Jersey, not a thing. And she didn't mean much. What are all these questions for?"
"We had a run-in with Vito and Joey a couple of days ago. They're working for the Allied Military Government as translators. They were looking for one of the guys I was with. And for the handkerchief."
"Vito usually gets what he wants," Tommy said.
"A company of German paratroopers got in his way this time. Tell me, is Vito well connected here?"
"Everybody in Sicily wants to go to America. Those who do and come back as men of honor, are respected. So, yeah, Vito has connections." "With Don Calo?"
"Of course."
"And you are Don Calo's man, Tommy the C?" Sciafani said, breaking his silence, and pronouncing the strange American nickname with exaggerated correctness. He pointed his finger at Tommaso, and left it there, like a pistol pointed at the man's heart.
"Of course. I worked for Luciano in New York, and when I came back here, Don Calo honored me with the position of caporegime, in Agrigento. I am his lieutenant. Like you, Lieutenant Boyle. Aren't you somebody's man?"
Sciafani dropped his hand to the table but kept his eyes on Tommy, and spoke before I could answer.
"Do you find it easy, serving both God and Caesar?"
I knew my mind wasn't working at its peak. I also knew that its peak wasn't what it should be. I was still mixed up and tired out from days and nights on the run. Even so, I caught the charge in the air between the two of them. For some reason, Sciafani was challenging Tommaso-or Tommy-a man of God and of the gun, well-armed and inside his own cathedral. It was a sucker's bet and I couldn't understand what Sciafani was thinking, even if he didn't like priests keeping the riches of their churches locked away.
"Who do you serve, Dottor?" Tommy asked, as he began again to drum his fingers on the polished tabletop. " L'americano? "
"I have served the Fascists for three years, binding wounds and watching men die for them. Now, I serve myself."
"Serve who you wish. Men will still die,"Tommy said, stopping the rhythmic drumming and pointing at Sciafani. "I will remember you."
"Good," answered Sciafani, as if this settled something.
"Listen, we don't want to make trouble," I said, trying to reduce the tension in the room. "Can you get me to Don Calo? The dottore is headed to Palermo now-"
"No, Billy, I promised I would guide you, and I will. Villalba is on the way. I will stay with you," Sciafani insisted.
"I don't care if you go with him or go to the devil, but you both must leave soon if you want to get out," Tommy the C said, slapping the palms of his hands on the table as he rose from it. "The Germans are coming down from the north, and it looks like the Americans will have secured Porto Empedocle in no time. Then we'll be caught in a vise between them. Wait here. I will arrange transportation for you."
He left us. Sciafani stood and paced, stopped, drank his glass of wine, then paced some more. The church bells rang and explosions boomed, more menacing as they crept toward us. Sciafani ran his hands through his hair as he looked out the narrow window.
"Will it ever stop?" He covered his ears but couldn't look away. More explosions ripped at the edges of the city below us, overpowering the small arms fire that rattled in the streets. Houses were burning. I thought of the old lady who'd pulled us in and hoped she was safe. Whoever you serve, men will die. Tommaso had gotten that right. I went to the window and stood by Sciafani. For a long time neither of us spoke.
"What is it, Enrico? What's eating at you?"
"Many bad things, my friend, many bad things."
We watched the explosions. They became less frequent and then stopped. But the fires they left burned and spread, red flame and black smoke engulfing the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Half an hour later Tommy the C showed us out through the side door of a storage room beneath the sacristy. It led to a narrow courtyard between the cathedral and the city wall. He'd given Sciafani a small burlap sack stuffed with bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine, and the dottore wore it suspended from a strap over his shoulder, looking more and more like a hobo. A black sedan sat idling, its driver leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette. Tommy had put on his black robe again, but the top was unbuttoned, his big pistol within easy reach. He nodded to the driver, who crushed out his cigarette. It was another Fiat-a Balilla-sort of a miniature touring car. It had running boards and a shiny grille, and would've looked pretty fancy if the driver hadn't been leaning against it with his arm draped over the roof. It looked like a half-size version of a 1930 Model A.
"Good luck with the Germans and Don Calo," he said.
He watched us get in the backseat, the driver alone in front, and opened the heavy wooden door to return to the cathedral.
" Un momento," Sciafani said to the driver, holding up one finger. He scampered out, called "Signor Corso," and followed him inside. I wondered if he'd forgotten something or had decided to apologize or wanted to say a prayer. None of these options made sense. Less than a minute passed before the door reopened. Sciafani smiled an apology to the driver and slid into the backseat with me.
"What was that about?" I asked as the driver hit the accelerator.
"I had some unfinished business." He was breathing hard, looking back at the cathedral, as if we might be pursued.
"What-" My words were cut off as the driver took a hard left. I caught a glimpse of brown uniforms, hunched low, crossing the street ahead of us in the direction we'd been driving. It felt odd to be evading the American troops fighting to take the town. Sciafani turned to look and I noticed the cuff of his once white shirt was soaked red. Not the dark rusty color of yesterday's blood, but the fresh, unmistakable red of a fresh blood stain. I pulled his jacket aside. The Blackshirt's dagger was still tucked into his belt. He pulled his jacket tight once more and stared out the window, holding onto the empty passenger seat in front of him as our driver weaved in and out of narrow roads and alleys.
"Enrico," I said quietly. He shook his head before I could continue. The burlap sack was at his side, the strap still over his shoulder. It wasn't hard to see the butt of the big Italian Bodeo revolver crammed in next to the loaf of bread.
I didn't know if the driver spoke any English or whether he'd admit it if he did, so this wasn't the time to come out and ask Sciafani if he'd killed Tommy the C. Anyway it was obvious he had even if I didn't know why. A doctor would know exactly where to stick that dagger. Sharp on both sides, the thin blade was perfect for a surprise jab through the ribs and up into the heart. The victim would lose consciousness and die within seconds. Had Sciafani hesitated, I wondered? Long enough for Tommy the C to comprehend he was dying? As he pulled the dagger out had he looked into the dying man's eyes while a spray of blood soaked his shirt cuff? I watched him as he glanced away from me and out the window, not sure if he was looking for GIs or staring at his own reflection.
Whichever, it didn't amount to a hill of beans. I was stuck with Sciafani for now and had to hope we could get away before any of Don Calo's men heard about Tommy the C bleeding out in the cathedral basement. I wondered what would happen to us when they found out. I wondered if Tommy the C would end up in a special underground chapel for sacristans, his hands on his chest, wearing white gloves for eternity. I wondered about what would make a doctor turn killer, and who he might stick next with that dagger. It was a lot to wonder about.