"What does it mean?" asked Kaz. Vittoria was a couple of hours east of Gela, past Biazza Ridge.
"Maybe nothing. If it had been official business, I'd have less doubt about Andrews being alive when they were hit. But the way people have been turning up dead, I wouldn't be surprised to find out he was already a corpse in the back of that truck. Maybe they didn't need him anymore."
"Why wouldn't they?" Harding asked.
"They wouldn't if Charlotte was already in Sicily. Maybe Charlotte can run his own communications now. Maybe Andrews got cold feet, or maybe that was someone else's body in the truck. I don't know, but it makes me wonder."
"What's in Vittoria?" Kaz asked. He was getting pretty good at this detective stuff.
"Let's put that number one on the list," I said. "Could be important."
"One more thing," Harding said. "What about your Dr. Sciafani? Where does he fit in?"
"He helped me when I needed it," I said.
"He could have gotten you killed too, by knifing Don Calo's caporegime," Harding noted. Harry grunted in agreement.
"He wasn't acting rationally," I said. "He fell apart and found out the hard way it wasn't in his nature to be a killer. He was a big help to me, no matter what else he did. I don't think I could have gotten to Don Calo without him. But he can't stay in Sicily, that's for sure."
"What do you want me to do?" Harding asked.
"Can you get him to the States?"
"Only way to do that is via a POW camp. We're not accepting enemy prisoners as immigrants."
"But he's not a prisoner. He was paroled, he has the paperwork to prove it. Why couldn't he go back on a hospital ship? He's a doctor, he could help with the wounded."
Harding stroked his chin, struggling with the notion of bending army regulations. "I don't know about the States, but I could easily get him to North Africa. We have lots of Italian prisoners there. They need medical care. He could work for us, in one of the POW hospitals."
"He wouldn't be a prisoner?" I asked.
"No. He'd work for AMGOT. They hire many civilians. And he would be out of Don Calo's reach, and once he's on staff he'd have a better chance of making it to the States."
"As long as his boss isn't named Charlotte," I said.
"Then find Charlotte. I'll work on getting Sciafani to Tunisia. You let him know he's to stay put for now."
"OK," I said, standing. "How about I check out what Andrews was up to back at the Signals Company? Kaz and Harry can track down the location of the payroll." I had a hunch we might end up in the same place.
"Fine," Harding said. "Take a jeep there now. They can contact the 45th Division headquarters by radio to find out where the payroll is. All of you report back here tonight or radio in if you can't. If you find these mobsters, bring them back too. As our guests, of course. Mr. Genovese can stay for dinner."
"Will you wait until we return to decide about Nick?" Harry asked. He and Nick had grown close during their stay with Don Calo, and he was clearly on Nick's side. It also helped that Nick hadn't pointed a gun at Harry. I wasn't so sure, although I thought the best punishment for Nick would be to keep him here, not to send him packing-home.
"He's not going anywhere for a while," Harding said. "I might be able to use him as a translator, with an MP posted at the door."
"Fair enough," Harry said.
Fair had nothing to do with it, but Harry had his illusions. If life were fair, Vito Genovese wouldn't have a free pass and Roberto would still be alive, working on a plan to get to America. Hutton wouldn't have taken a bullet in the head, and Rocko would be alive, serving a sentence in the stockade for selling army inventory on the black market. Fair was a fairy tale.
I left after talking to Nick and Sciafani, trying to sound upbeat about their respective futures. Freshly shaved, in a clean uniform, with the familiar feel of a Colt. 45 automatic at my side, I pulled onto the main road to Gela and let the breeze blow away the heat and dust of the day. I had given the Beretta to Kaz as a souvenir; he liked having a backup gat. Or maybe he liked saying gat, rolling the hard gangster slang around his Oxford-educated tongue. Me, I liked the feel of my new clothes, the open road, and the sure knowledge of where I was going- all things that had been in short supply recently. A medic had removed the stitches from my arm and cleaned out the cut on my head. It was a relief not to sport white gauze anymore.
The open road soon lost its allure as I choked in the smoke and grit of a convoy of deuce-and-a-half trucks. Traffic crawled along, and I was glad of the goggles that had been left on the passenger seat. I tied a handkerchief, plain army-issue khaki, over my nose and mouth, and ate dust for a dozen slow miles.
I tried to think things through, wondering how I could get a line on Charlotte. Was he already in Sicily, or still back in North Africa? Some AMGOT staff were already here, I knew, setting up basic services in liberated towns. They started with burying the dead, working their way up from there, helping to establish a normal life for civilians while at the same time insuring the army had everything it needed. That meant food, transportation, road and rail access, all the things civilians wanted. It wasn't an easy job, and it required lots of patience both with our own bureaucracy and with civilian complaints. Sort of like Boston politics, but in the middle of a war zone.
So, how to find Charlotte, a bad apple in a big barrel? I had hoped to interrogate Lieutenant Andrews, but the Luftwaffe, or somebody, had eliminated that option. It was too convenient. But that didn't stop me from craning my neck in every direction, scanning the skies for enemy planes. Our convoy would be a juicy target, and I didn't want to get caught at the tail end of a strafing run.
It would be great if Harry and Kaz found Vito and Legs, and brought them in without a fight. I'd like to question Vito myself. I'd bet he would give up Charlotte in return for his freedom or his life.
I wondered about Nick. Would Vito still be after him either as revenge for killing his henchmen in order to free his family, or for his services as a yegg? Not the latter, I concluded. All those lira notes had to be dried out. If they were left in the safes, they would turn to moldy paste in no time. Someone had to have opened those safes by now. So somewhere in Sicily, two million dollars' worth of occupation scrip was drying in the sun. In Vittoria, where Andrews had been headed? Why would a communications guy go there? I needed to know what was in Vittoria. And if Andrews had started the trip dead or alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY
With Gela and Porto Empedocle in our hands, not much was still coming in via the beachhead. The mountains of supplies were mostly gone, moved inland with the troops. I drove past the field hospital where I'd awakened, the single tent now multiplied by four, all connected and marked with large red crosses on a white background. It was quieter now, no rush of wounded on stretchers, no kids left on the ground to die alone. Maybe making a deal with the devil was worth it if it kept a few GIs out of that place and above ground.
Was Signora Patane still coughing up blood in her bed? Or had she died in the night, unaware of the quiet Don Calo had ensured for her last moments? I couldn't understand why anyone, even a crime lord like Don Calo, had to be convinced to avoid bloodshed. Why had I endured all this to convince Don Calo to save the lives and homes of his own people? It seemed the more power people had, the less they were likely to use it to make something good happen, as if they needed to bank it for a rainy day. I hadn't seen it rain in Sicily yet.
The Signals Company was easy to find. More wire had been strung, and tall poles had been erected along the shore road to carry it. All lines led to the communications center, which sprouted aerials and antennas from tents, trailers, and trucks. I parked the jeep and looked for an officer.