"OK," Howard said, leaning against a table and pulling out a crumpled pack of Luckies. He lit one with a shiny Zippo, took a deep drag on it, and spoke as the smoke wafted from his mouth. "There was an uproar after Corporal Miecznikowski let you get away. Or I should say Private, since Stanton busted him and threatened to have him court-martialed for leaving his post. What happened to you anyway?" He seemed finally to notice that I wasn't in the same shape as when he'd last seen me.
"Little run-in with the Luftwaffe. That's too bad about Big Mike."
"Yeah, well, no good deed goes unpunished. Mike's a stand-up guy, and if he thought you were on the level, then you're OK in my book. So when a message came through for Major Elliott from AMGOT in Gela, I took a look."
"What did it say?"
"That you were headed here, to the AMGOT printing facility in Vittoria, and that Elliott should follow to make certain you arrived. There are two Mafia gunmen waiting and a thousand-dollar contract out on you. In real greenbacks, not occupation currency."
"They said that in an open radio message?" Harry asked.
"No, it was in code, to be delivered to Elliott. He's on the road but he's got a communications jeep. I had to let it through, but I thought I should warn you."
"How were you able to decode it?" Harry asked.
"We have all the low-level codebooks. It only took a few minutes, then I passed the message down the line to be transmitted to Elliott."
"Thanks, Howard," I said. "I appreciate it."
"I've got my own beef with these guys. Hutton was one of my best men, and he'd still be alive today if it wasn't for them. I'll stay with you here until things get straightened out." He patted his. 45.
"Someone has already taken a shot at Billy," Kaz said. "It may have been the Mafia."
"If there is a contract out on me, I can't believe it comes from Don Calo," I said. "More likely Legs or Vito, working their own deal."
"You don't mean Vito Genovese? And Don Calo, the Mafia boss? You guys travel in strange circles," Howard said.
I walked back and forth in front of the printing press, thinking. Elliott was probably on his way here, with official or unofficial muscle. The shooter who had ambushed us in Scoglitti could be waiting in the next building for another try, or near enough to get off a clean shot as we headed into the AMGOT print shop. They were closing in from two sides; it was time to push back.
They were too damn close to pulling it off, using this big press to run off sheets of scrip with whatever high-denomination plate they had managed to steal or copy. I knew they couldn't have done it yet, not with Bill Mauldin and his crew hanging around. But now that they'd left all that stood in their way was a Sicilian cop and four junior officers with sidearms and one carbine. Well, if they wanted a fight, this was the time to oblige. With Howard's tip-off, we finally had an edge. A small one, but an edge.
"OK, here's what we do," I said, turning to face the others. "Kaz and Harry, get up on the roof and keep a lookout, one on each end. Watch for Elliott on the road, and the local shooter and his pals in one of the other three buildings."
"What are you going to do?" Frank asked me.
I wasn't sure. There were three long, narrow concrete buildings on our side of the road. We were in the front of the first one. The AMGOT print shop was at the other end of the middle building, which was the largest of the three. It stood two stories tall, wider than the buildings on either side, and was a grimy unpainted gray.
"I'm going to go in quietly, through the other end of the big building. They'll be expecting me to walk in through the print-shop entrance."
"What do you want us to do if Elliott shows up?" Harry asked.
"Shoot over his head or disable the jeep if you can hit it with that thing," I said, pointing to his carbine. "But keep your head down. Depending on who he has with him, you might be outgunned."
"And he is a superior officer," Harry said. "His Majesty frowns on his subjects shooting their allies."
"This could all turn out badly," I said. "No reason not to bow out now, if anyone wants to. Probably would be the smart move."
Kaz and Howard both spoke with Renzo, quick bursts of Italian and hand gestures.
" Sono con lei, " Renzo said. He unshouldered his Italian carbine and worked the bolt. I didn't need a translation.
"We'll go with you," Howard said, pointing to Renzo. "You'll need somebody to watch your back once you're inside."
A stairwell at the end of the building led up to the roof. We shook hands all around, and then Kaz and Harry clambered up the steps, out through a small shed and onto the open tin roof. Four air vents stuck up at intervals, the blades of their fans idly turning in the rising heat. The roofline had a slight slant, and I hoped it was enough to keep both of them hidden while they stood watch.
I couldn't worry about Kaz and Harry for long. I had other things to think about, like whether Renzo and Howard were going to be more help or hindrance. And whether someone was waiting around the next corner to put a bullet in my head.
We went out through the double doors we'd entered by. I put my finger to my lips to signal for silence, and they nodded. Good so far. Then I pointed across the road, to a small cinder-block building. Then motioned forward for them to follow. I took off running low, listening to the sounds of their boots scuffing across the hard-packed dirt. We circled to the back of the cinder-block building, skirting piles of rotting garbage. Coming around to the front, we faced the big gray building with the AMGOT print shop at the other end. I motioned them to get down, and they obeyed, out of breath and looking puzzled.
I never liked frontal assaults. Not as a soldier in the army or as a cop. What sense was there in crossing open ground or banging down a front door? That was always where the firepower was focused. Me, I liked the oblique approach. That's what Dad called it. By the time they shut the door, we'll be coming through the window, he used to say. And then Uncle Dan would chime in, When they shut the window, we'll be coming through the door. It's some old kids' song, and ended with them coming through the floor. They always thought it was hilarious. I wasn't so sure about that, but I got the point. "Hit 'em where they ain't." Even though that one came from New York Yankee Wee Willie Keeler, I still liked it. I liked Willie too, a little guy who played smart. He made it sound simple.
So that's what I was doing. Going through the window while they were watching the door. I motioned forward and we ran, crouching, hoping the bad guys didn't have anybody up on the other roof.
They didn't. We leaned against the wall next to the door, waiting for our breathing to slow down. It was hot in the late afternoon sun, and sweat dripped into my eyes. I wiped it away, grimacing as I raised my arm. I ignored the pain and put my hand on the iron door handle, which was already starting to rust. I pushed it down, feeling its grittiness against my sweaty palm. The door opened with a creak, and I stepped aside, ready for a hail of bullets. None came. I pushed the door with my shoulder, opening it wider. Signaling for Howard and Renzo to follow me, low and to the right, I moved in, keeping my back to the wall and sidestepping right. I kneeled and they followed suit.
It was dark inside. There were only two small windows. One was broken, taped over with newsprint. The other was filthy, barely letting in any light. I pointed to my eyes: Wait here and get adjusted to the darkness. It was cool; the concrete at my back felt damp and refreshing after the hot sun. Things came into focus: a workbench, wooden boxes of tools stacked on the floor, machine parts on the tables. Some sort of workshop. The room took up the width of the building. Another door faced us at the far end. When I thought we could see clearly enough not to stumble over a pile of wrenches and pliers or knock over a table, I got up and walked to that door.