"Who's Roberto?" Nick asked.
"The Italian kid who saved my neck after the fight at the temple. He was bringing me back to our lines."
"Why would a Signals officer be looking for a POW?" Harry asked.
"I guess because he was in on the… wait a minute," I said, stopping in midsentence. My memory still felt as if rusty gears were grinding against each other. "Rocko had a corporal working for him. He was a technician fifth class, assigned to Rocko from the Signals Company. When he was killed at Biazza Ridge, Rocko was real shook up about it, which wasn't his style. He wasn't the sentimental kind."
"Billy, you may have gotten hit on the head harder than you realize. You're not making any sense," Harry said.
I tried to slow myself down, to lay it out step by step, but I was worried that if I didn't get it all out now it wouldn't make sense to me either. "Rocko didn't give a hoot about anyone but himself, but he took it hard when I told him Corporal Hutton was dead. That's because Hutton was a communications specialist. I overheard Rocko tell Vito that they had to get some sort of German piece of equipment working. A dialer of some sort, I can't remember its designation."
"So the plan called for a communications specialist. Hutton must have had the job of splicing into the local telephone wires. If he had had the right kind of equipment, he could have placed a call anywhere," Nick said. "Hell, he could have called Mussolini if he'd known the number."
"Hutton set up his equipment as soon as they landed and sent a message from Rocko to Vito, or maybe to Legs," Harry contributed.
"I'd bet on that," I said. "And when Hutton was killed, Vito and his pals had no further use for Rocko. He was just another loose end, like Roberto. Rocko hadn't gotten the handkerchief from me, so they came after me themselves."
"Well," Harry said with a tired sigh, "we still have a job to do. You've got to convince Don Calo to work with us, to tell the Sicilian soldiers to surrender, and you've got to do it tomorrow."
"One more thing," I said. "Is there a woman named Charlotte anywhere in this mess?"
They looked at each other blankly. "Why?" Harry asked.
"Something else I overheard. Vito told Rocko that Charlotte was worried."
"Did he ever refer to Charlotte as she?" Nick asked. "Like, 'I spoke to Charlotte and she's worried about you'?"
"No," I said. "it was, 'Charlotte is worried about you.'"
"I don't know if this means a thing," Nick said. "But ONI sent me to take a course at the Judge Advocate General school of military government, out in Charlottesville, Virginia. Most of the guys were from AMGOT, but there were a few other Sicilian-and Italian-Americans. Everyone called the place Charlotte. Don't know why, but they did."
"What the bloody hell is AMGOT?" Harry asked.
"American Military Government of Occupied Territories," I said. "The guys who take over after the fighting's done. They're the ones in charge of occupation currency."
"Right," said Nick. "They're planning on exchanging all the lire in Sicily for occupation lire, to keep inflation and black marketeering down. Someone high up in AMGOT would have access to the paymaster's orders."
"How much money are we talking about, in occupation scrip?" I asked.
"Nobody knows for sure. We're bringing enough in for divisional payrolls and for exchanging at the first couple of big banks we find. That will give AMGOT time to set up printing presses on the island, for turning out everything from newspapers to more lire."
"I hope they get your 45th Division News going first, if they are going to print newspapers. I do like the Willie and Joe cartoons," Harry said. "The blokes on my boat can't get enough of them."
"Patton hates them," Nick said. "I doubt that Mauldin kid will get much ink while he's in Patton's army."
I wasn't thinking about Bill Mauldin, who drew Willie and Joe, or the Sad Sack character, or Georgie Patton. I was thinking about Charlotte, a code name for someone in AMGOT, someone who'd attended a course at the JAG school in Charlottesville and probably knew Nick from there. Someone asleep in a warm cot right now, safe in Algiers or at the advance base for the invasion of Sicily, Amilcar, in Tunisia. He had two deaths on his hands already-Rocko and Roberto-and he'd nearly ruined this mission. No, make that three deaths.
"Harry, there's something else I need to tell you. Banville didn't make it. He and Kaz found me, and we were on our way here when the Germans showed up. Kaz and I escaped, but he didn't."
"Was he captured?" I saw the faintest hope in Harry's eyes and felt like a heel for not saying it straight out.
"No. He's dead."
"Bloody hell. There's going to be a score settled, the sooner the better. Get us out of here, Billy, first thing tomorrow."
I knew what he meant. I felt it myself, the urge for swift violence to right a wrong done to me. Sciafani had held on to his hate for too long, and when he'd finally done something about it, he'd found vengeance was darker and more haunting than he'd ever imagined. As I had in my own struggle with la vendetta. A knife in the ribs eliminated one problem, but another appeared in its place, one that all the violence I could ever summon up would never touch. I felt an overwhelming desire to sit on the front porch stoop with Dad and shoot the breeze for a while, the way we did when he had something important to say. He'd talk around it for a while, circling, easing into it. Maybe he could tell me something more about revenge than having to dig two graves. Or maybe he'd end up saying there simply wasn't any way around it. If that was true, it would be nice at least to hear it from him. But I wasn't anywhere near that front stoop in Southie, and I had to get the job done here and now. I had to convince Don Calo to support the Allies, I had to figure out how to get Nick out of this mess, and I had to find the greedy bastard who'd taken three lives. Graves were going to be dug.
"I'll do my best, Harry. Nick, how far is Cammarata from here?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Don Calo was waiting for me in the small courtyard, drinking espresso in the early morning sun. I wondered if I was supposed to bow, kiss his ring, or give the secret Mafia handshake. I decided to use one of my few Italian phrases and then get to the point.
" Buon giorno, Don Calo. I have something for you."
"That is refreshing. People usually want something from me."
I drew out the handkerchief by an edge, and held it up so he could see the L. "From Salvatore Lucania."
Don Calo took it, rubbing the silk between his fingers. "He was born less than thirty kilometers from here, and he has never forgotten his home. Salvatore Lucania is a good man. Sit, please, have some caffe while we talk."
He snapped his fingers and a moment later a woman brought out a small silver pot and poured hot, thick coffee into a tiny cup. As I took my first sip, I watched Don Calo run the fabric through his hands. His fingernails were manicured. Once his hands had probably been rough and callused, when he was on his way up, hunting men in the hills. Now he had others around him with rough, hard hands, and he sat in the sun, pressing silk against his palms. I figured a guy like that would want to stay on top, and that he'd go along with whoever could keep him there.
"We call him Lucky Luciano in the states, Don Calo, and I have a message from him for you but first I should tell you about the message I do not have."
"There are many messages you do not have, my American friend. Why should I care about those?"
"Because there are men who wish to use you, to put you in danger, with plans to steal from the American army. Lucky Luciano has no part in that."
"What do you mean?" He spoke with the calm, innocent assurance of a master liar.
"Money. Three million dollars in occupation scrip."
That made him flinch. He was ready to deny anything, but by adding the extra million to the haul I caught him off guard and made him wonder if Vito was holding out on him.