The guy with the hurt ankle looked up. He knew it. Slowly, while his pal stood rooted to the pavement, he raised his hands, palms out.
He had bent over to tend to his ankle so he looked like he was rising from prayer, the fear of God written across his face.
" Non sparare, non sparare," he said quietly, soothingly. " Carabinieri. Siamo carabinieri."
He turned, showing the large white armband that had caught my eye. In bold English letters, it read: CIVIL POLICE PERMIT PASSAGE AMGOT
"He says not to shoot, Billy," Kaz said, walking up to them, his Webley still in his hand.
"That much Italian I've learned," I said, lowering the. 45. "Ask them where they got those armbands." Kaz spoke to them, gesturing with the business end of his revolver at the white armbands.
"He says they are from a carabiniere unit, the national military police. They have been put to work by AMGOT, patrolling the town and preventing looting."
"Ask him what there is to loot out here."
While the man closest to me finally managed to shut his mouth and stop attracting flies, the other pointed to the buildings, where we were headed. He was taller, and his uniform wasn't as dirty as his buddy's. He spoke emphatically, gesturing to the buildings, to everything around us.
"He says there is machinery in those buildings. A tool-and-die firm, and a printing company. The Americans are employing many locals there. They publish a newspaper and print important proclamations. He and his companion are to guard against looting, so they patrol this entire area. AMGOT is located in the city hall, back in the town center."
"Tell them to beat it, and to keep their mouths shut."
Kaz rattled off some Italian and pointed back the way we'd come with his revolver. The tall fellow drew himself up and replied without moving, pointing to Kaz, Harry, and me. The other guy's mouth opened again.
"He asks what we are doing here, interfering with their duties, and why we have weapons drawn in this rear area," Kaz said. "And he threatens us with arrest."
Great. An honest Sicilian cop and a brave one, to boot. Kaz was smiling. It was just like him to enjoy this predicament.
"OK," I said, holstering my automatic. "Tell him I'm a cop too. Tell him we are on the trail of an American who's involved with the Mafia. Ask him if he wants to help us apprehend him."
That will separate the men from the boys, I thought, as Kaz translated. When he was through, the tall man put his hand on the other man's shoulder, and spoke to him quietly, nodding in the direction of the town center. Looking relieved, the little one shut his mouth and darted off, away from us and the Mafia.
"Sergente Renzo Giannini, al suo servizio," the tall one said, snapping a crisp salute my way.
"Ask him why he's willing to help us," I said to Kaz as I returned the salute and studied Renzo. His face was long and his nose was watched over by thick eyebrows that met in the middle. He had an intense look about him as his eyes searched each of us. He looked at me as he answered Kaz.
"Because if you are lying and we are thieves, he will arrest us. The people of Vittoria need this work, they have suffered enough. And if you tell the truth, then he wants his revenge. The Mafia killed his father, who was also a carabiniere. "
I looked at Kaz and Harry. A shrug and a nod, and Renzo was in. Now all we needed was a bar to walk into.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The first building was long and narrow. Stalks of dried dead grass stuck out from sagging drainpipes. Open windows revealed machinery sitting idle in the darkness. Lathes, maybe, I don't know. I never liked getting close to factory work. Long hours doing the same thing while worrying about losing fingers never held any attraction for me.
Peering around the corner, I saw a single deuce-and-half truck parked near the open door at the front of the building. GIs wearing the 45th Division shoulder patch were loading up boxes and gear, pulling out, like the corporal had said. Watching the windows as I walked toward them, I tried to sense any movement inside, any furtive shuffling or shadowy figures. There was nothing, only the beat of my heart and the thuds of heavy cartons being dropped on the truck bed.
I smiled, my best friend-of-the-enlisted man smile. "Hey, fellas, anyone else around here?"
"Who you looking for? Hey, Renzo, come sta?"
The private, who looked like he was ready for his sixteenth birthday, exchanged some halting Italian and sign language with Renzo, grinning. He gave him a pack of Luckies and they shook hands warmly.
"Renzo's a great guy," he said. "What are you all looking for? Kind of an odd bunch, aren't you?"
He didn't even try to salute Kaz or Harry. Me, I could've been their driver in my OD undershirt and bandaged right arm. I liked his attitude right away.
"We're looking for an AMGOT print shop. We're supposed to meet a guy there," I said.
"You came to the right place. They're taking over our joint now that we're moving out."
"You're the chap who draws Willie and Joe, " Harry said. "I saw your picture in the newspaper back in Tunisia. How come no drawings in the paper here?"
"That's me, Bill Mauldin's the name. We 're heading up to Caltanis-setta now, and if we can find a photoengraver and zinc plates, Willie and Joe will be back in business. Wasn't enough here to work with. Gotta go," he said, as the engine started and the other GI newspapermen climbed aboard.
"Wait," I said. "Where's the AMGOT print shop? Is anybody there?"
"Next building over, down at the far end. They're using a small press they found there, but they're going to move into this place as soon as they get reliable electricity. Turning presses by hand is a bear of a job!"
The truck pulled away, Mauldin waving and calling out to Renzo, " Arrivederci!"
Everyone was cheery, but my arm was throbbing and I didn't like standing out in the open.
"Let's get inside," I said, glancing up at the roofline of the building across from us.
We went through the double doors. Tables held tin cans full of cigarette butts, empty wine bottles, and scattered pages of the 45th Division News. It was dark and cooler inside, the concrete walls damp and musty. Behind the tables was a printing press, the huge rollers idle but still glistening with ink from the last run. The room smelled of ink, oil, and tobacco, with the yeasty smell of old wine and sweat thrown in. Any newspaperman I'd known in Boston would have felt right at home.
"Lieutenant Boyle."
I jumped at the sound of my name, startled that someone had come up behind us without our hearing him. The voice came from a figure in the doorway, but my eyes weren't adjusted to the darkness yet and with bright sunlight behind him, I couldn't make him out right away. I could only see his outline and the position of his hands. None of it was threatening. Then his face became clear.
"Howard?" It was the Signals Company lieutenant. Kaz looked at me, one eyebrow raised and the Webley pointed in the general direction of the doorway.
"Yes. Lieutenant Frank Howard, 45th Division Signals," he said, extending his hand to Kaz and Harry, who introduced themselves. I was trying to think why he might be here or how he'd known we were. Perhaps Harding had told him, but before I could ask, he and Renzo were shaking hands.
" Sono contento di conoscerla, Sergente, "Howard said, returning Renzo's salute.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked.
"I have a message for you."
"How did you know I was here?"
"I wasn't certain you would be. Can we talk privately?"
"If it's about the matter we discussed earlier, Kaz and Harry work with me. They know everything I do." Or don't. But I didn't bother saying that.