Another creak and it opened. The second room was huge, and I guessed that the third one would contain the printing presses; there wasn't that much more building left. Large double doors on tracks faced each other from opposite walls. This was a garage of sorts. A broken-down truck, tires gone and engine removed, stood next to us, doors hanging open. Chains and pulleys hung from the ceiling, and there was a pit in the middle, so the mechanics could work underneath the vehicles. It wasn't the neatest shop I'd ever seen. Oil drums leaked dark fluids, and bolts and other discarded parts littered the floor. It was dark in here too, but the coolness was marred by the rancid odor of spoiled food. A table held plates of unrecognizable shapes, buzzing with flies and decorated with mouse droppings. I wondered why people weren't back at work by now, or at least cleaning up. Then I realized the present tenants probably didn't encourage visitors.
We eased our way around the hanging chains, stepping over anything that might make a sound. I thought I heard a noise, a shout from outside. I signaled Howard and Renzo to stop. Then three shots rang out in quick succession, the pop pop pop sounding like Harry's carbine, and before I could even think, two explosions sounded in the darkened room- boom boom- amid flashes that burst white against my eyeballs. Renzo fell backward, his white armband spattered with blood, before Howard turned from him in a single swift motion, bringing the butt of his automatic up to the side of my head.
My brain came to before my body. Not that it had been all that much help to me that day. But I had to give it credit-it had been sending me messages. Baseball messages. The New York Yankees. New York. Lieutenant Frank Howard, from New York City. Who worked on the docks, where Lucky Luciano and Vito Genovese controlled the unions. At the center of the II Corps communications network, in charge of the Message Section. Not the Code Section, where Captain Stanton held sway. So there had been no coded message. That was only an excuse, a pretext for Howard to tag along and take me by surprise. Why was I still breathing?
Why had Howard killed Renzo? Or had he? Was he was waiting for Elliott to show up?
Sounds worked their way into my awareness, along with the feel of rope tight around my wrists, the cold cement floor, and that increasingly familiar feeling of blood in my hair and a throbbing headache. I opened my eyes and saw the ugly face of Vito Genovese staring down at me. He wore nicely pressed U. S. Army khakis, and an officer's garrison cap with no rank insignia. I couldn't help noticing that the braid was gray and gold, the colors of the Paymaster Department. I had to laugh, even though it hurt.
"It's good to keep your sense of humor," Vito said. "What's so funny?"
"Do you know the braid on your cap is in paymaster colors?"
"No, I didn't. That is pretty funny, I gotta admit." He kneeled down to look me in the eyes. "But what's gonna happen to you if you don't talk, now that ain't funny. How much do you know, and who else knows it?"
"I know that you're going to kill me either way. And everybody else knows you're a lying crook too."
"You're a real comedian, Boyle. Ain't he a riot, Box Hook?"
"I'm not laughing yet," Howard said. Box Hook? I didn't have to think hard about how he got that nickname on the docks. A longshoreman's hook was an ugly weapon.
"OK, OK," Vito said, waggling his hand back and forth. "Listen, Boyle, I know I'm safe here. You got a deal with Don Calo and I'm it. I can hide Box Hook out so the army'll never find him. So we don't gotta kill you. But we do need to know who else knows what you know. Tell us, and we leave you here, tied up but alive. Someone'll come along."
Vito hadn't risen in ranks of the Mob by leaving witnesses alive, so I knew he was spinning one for me. It seemed like a good idea to buy time and wait. For what, I wasn't sure.
"Hey, Box Hook, any idea where Vito will hide you? Now that he doesn't need you? I'd say six feet under but the ground is pretty hard around here. I'd bet two feet, maximum."
"Nice try, Boyle, but Vito and me go way back. I got no worries on that account."
"Stand up," Vito said, and I noticed for the first time that he was holding my. 45. Howard had Renzo's carbine, and then I saw how it was going to happen. A renegade Sicilian shoots me, then Howard plugs him. But what about those first shots? Nobody was mentioning Elliott. I didn't get it.
Vito rapped on the door to the print shop. It opened, and Legs appeared, dressed in army khakis like Vito's, holding an automatic. I could see a small vertical printing press, not one with rollers like the big one Mauldin and his crew had been using. It had a big plate. A lever press, I think they called it. Next to it was an ornate iron paper cutter, its sharp blade a yard long. Stacks of neatly tied occupation lire filled the space along the wall.
"You've been busy," I said.
"Shut up," Howard replied and shoved me into the room.
Kaz stood in the corner, his hands on his head and his holster empty. Legs had the Webley stuck in his belt.
"I'm sorry, Billy," Kaz said. "We tried to warn you with the gun-shots-"
"You shut up," Legs said, pulling his gun hand back as if to smack him. Kaz flinched, and Legs laughed. "Fucking four-eyed Polack."
"All right, let's get this over with," Vito said, waving with his pistol for Legs to bring Kaz closer. Legs stuck his gun in Kaz's back and prodded him forward. "I know you want to play by the rules and not tell us anything. But perhaps the rules won't mean as much when we cut your pal's hand off. For starters."
"No!" Kaz shrieked as Howard grabbed his left hand and shoved it under the blade. He held it there while Legs walked around the cutter and grabbed his wrist from the other side. Kaz yelled and writhed in Howard's grasp.
"OK, I'll talk," I said, blurting out the words in the hope of stemming Kaz's panic.
"What would be the fun in that?" Legs asked. The paper cutter had a large wheel on top, about five feet up. He had one hand on that, the other clasped around Kaz's wrist. Below the wheel was a curved arch above the long blade. He looked through it at Kaz, still squirming in fear.
"Take it easy, Four-Eyes, it'll be worse if you don't stay still," Legs taunted. It was obvious he relished Kaz's fear.
"Don't! Please, don't," I said to Vito.
"It's too late. You need to learn who is in charge here."
"Hold onto him, Box Hook," Legs said. "I'm gonna enjoy this."
Kaz kicked out and Howard's grip loosened. I saw a small pistol appear in Kaz's right hand and fly up. A flash and a loud blast and Legs's left eye disappeared in a blur of red. Kaz twisted as Howard tried to keep his grasp on him. Kaz jammed the pistol to Howard's chest, fired twice, then a third time.
I lifted my bound hands and slammed them into Vito, sending him sprawling against the stacked piles of lire. His. 45-mine, actually-slid across the floor.
Howard dropped, finally releasing Kaz from his embrace. Legs, whose bloody head had been resting against the cutter's iron plate, rolled off and thumped to the floor.
Kaz pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "I do not appreciate ethnic slurs," he said, turning the pistol on Vito. "Do you, Mr. Genovese?"
"You can't touch me, Don Calo's orders!"
"Billy, would you say Don Calo meant we could not arrest or kill this man?"
"Exactly, Kaz," I said, trying to get my rapid heartbeat back to normal. I picked up my. 45 and held it with bound hands, trained on Genovese. "That leaves us with a lot of latitude."
"You can have it all, don't shoot me. Please!"
"Is it too late?" I asked Kaz. "Does Vito need to learn who's in charge here?"
"No," the mobster said, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. My finger closed around the trigger. It felt good. My Irish was up, and I would have no regrets about shooting this bum, who moments ago had given the go-ahead to a sadist to take Kaz's hand off. But I had made a promise, and it was a promise worth keeping. Not the one to Don Calo. The one to myself. I wasn't going to kill an unarmed man.