“Do you want to hear about him?” Kaz said, from his perch in the rear seat.
“We ain’t going nowhere soon,” Big Mike said, gesturing at the line of stationary traffic in front of us.
“Well,” Kaz began, warming to the lesson and a willing audience, “Chaucer lived in the fourteenth century. He was originally from London, but the story goes that he was peripherally involved in a power struggle between a group of powerful barons and King Richard II. He and his friends backed the king, and the king lost. Chaucer’s friends lost their heads, so he wisely retired to the countryside, in Kent.”
“Those barons, they knock off the king?” Big Mike asked.
“No, they kept him as a figurehead, but eliminated all his advisers. The parliamentary session after they took over was called the Merciless Parliament, since the death sentence was imposed on all the nobles who had supported the king’s cause. Chaucer had been a soldier and a diplomat for King Richard II, but he was not highly born and probably would have been left alone, but he took no chances.”
“Smart guy,” Big Mike said. “Like after a Mob war. The ones who come out on top watch for any threat, and eliminate it. So Chaucer went on the lam?”
“Not in hiding, just out of the way, until Richard regained control, insuring a royal position and pension.”
“Exactly like a Mob war,” Big Mike said, bridging the gap between centuries with his common-sense analysis. “What did he do, bring in some muscle from out of town?”
“Exactly,” Kaz said. “The king’s uncle, John of Gaunt, returned with his forces from a war in Spain.”
“And they put Richard back in power, and Chaucer got his cut for staying loyal, and alive,” Big Mike said.
“Yes, quite. He wrote one of the great works of the English language while living here in Kent, presumably near Canterbury. It begins with a group of travelers setting out on a pilgrimage from London to Canterbury, to visit the cathedral. It is a long walk, so they agree to tell stories on the way there and back. At the end of the trip, the person who has told the best story will have their dinner paid for by the others.”
“I get it,” I said. “Since we’re on the road from London to Canterbury…”
“I’m in,” Big Mike said. “Kaz, you tell us some of those old Chaucer stories, and we’ll see how they stack up against our yarns.” The traffic inched ahead then started to move and as quickly came to a stop. There was a chill in the air, even with the bright winter sun, and I buttoned my trench coat collar and nodded to Kaz to begin.
“One of my favorites is ‘The Pardoner’s Tale.’ He tells the story of three men who are drinking heavily, mourning the death of a dear friend. The more they drink, the angrier they grow at death, whom they hold responsible. So they go out, searching for death, vowing to kill him. On the road, they meet an old man, who points to an ancient oak tree and tells them that is where they could find death. The three wait by the tree, and while there, discover eight bags of gold coins. The bags are heavy and they decide to wait until dark to remove the gold, or else someone will see them and steal their treasure. By now, all thoughts of killing death are forgotten. Growing hungry, they agree that one man should go to the village for food and wine. They draw straws and the youngest draws the short one. He leaves without complaint, trusting that his friends will not depart before nightfall. As soon as he is gone, his companions plot to kill him, reasoning that the gold will be best split two ways instead of three. The lad returns, with three bottles of wine and ample food, when he is set upon and killed. To celebrate, his killers drink the wine, not knowing that the boy had poisoned two of the bottles, intending to kill them. When darkness finally comes, all three are dead at the foot of the tree, having found death, just as the old man had foreseen.”
“Good one,” I said. “What’ve you got, Big Mike?”
“I remember a story about Joey Adamo, whose old man ran the Westside Gang in Detroit. This was before I joined the force, but the old-timers told the story over and over. Joey was a Sicilian orphan, and Angelo Adamo adopted him, since he and his wife couldn’t have kids. He’d picked a kid from Sicily, so he’d be sure to get a real Siciliano, pureblood. Anyway, he raises him like his own, and brings him up in the organization. Joey makes his bones during the Vitale Wars. Lots of touring cars with guns, the whole nine yards. The Adamo faction does OK, they come out on the winning side. Joey marries into the Zerilli family, another Mob family, and the girl’s a real looker to boot. He’s got everything: respect, honor, money, a beautiful wife, and pretty soon a healthy baby son. All because he was plucked from some orphanage by a nun, to be the son of a Detroit hoodlum.” The traffic moved, almost up to twenty miles an hour now, and Big Mike shifted gears and continued. “But something went wrong.”
“What?” Kaz said, leaning forward from the backseat.
“Guilt. Regret. He shoots a kid by accident, a bystander who takes a slug to the chest and dies in the hospital. He’d killed five men without missing a beat, but after killing an innocent kid, he can’t pull the trigger, no matter what.”
“What happens to him?”
“He runs. Steals twenty grand from his old man, and hightails it off across the border, into Canada, wife and kid in tow. Old man Zerilli takes it as a personal insult, and starts a shooting war, demanding his daughter and grandson be turned over to him, along with some of the Adamo territory.”
“Can he really do that?” Kaz asked. “Barter human beings?”
“They’re from the old country,” Big Mike said, as if that explained everything. “Anyway, Angelo agrees to one out of the three, but Zerilli wants more than his daughter back. Things get worse, and both sides are hurting. A Mob war costs money, and there’s less dough coming in for everyone. So Angelo sends some boys into Canada to track down Joey. They find him. Couple of days later, Zerilli’s daughter is delivered to the old man, with all her luggage. She’s fine, but there’s a steamer truck with Joey inside, and he ain’t.”
“Angelo Adamo killed his own son?” Kaz said.
“Orders him killed. According to the rules he lives by, he doesn’t really have any choice. He keeps his grandson and all of his territory. The kid must be almost thirty by now. He’s in the family business as well.”
“He works for the man who killed his father?” Kaz said.
“Yep. Works for him up until his twenty-first birthday, the day he shoots Angelo and his bodyguard, both in the head. Story is, he weeps as he does it, and old man Adamo smiles and nods his head, just before he gets his.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Everyone falls in and stays with the kid?”
“They do. Guess they figure the kid set things right, according to his lights, and shows the other families that he isn’t one to mess with. Counts for a lot with that bunch. Zerilli ends up the big loser. About a month after she was returned, the daughter runs away. She grabs some jewels the old man had stashed for a rainy day, and is never seen again. So, Kaz, does that story stand up to Chaucer?”
“And to Shakespeare,” Kaz said. “Billy? What do you have for us?”
I held onto my seat as Big Mike hit the accelerator, the traffic jam finally giving way. We cleared an intersection, the tail end of a convoy disappearing off to our right. As I was about to begin, the distant sound of aircraft engines rose up from due south, and within seconds it became a sputtering, growling noise, signaling a plane in big trouble.
“There!” Kaz said, pointing ahead to a black smudge in the sky, descending and trailing smoke. It was a B-17, probably hit by fighters or flak along the French coast and heading for home. A couple of trucks ahead of us pulled over to watch, and Big Mike gunned the engine, passing them and a couple of other vehicles that had slowed down. The B-17 was closer now, losing altitude and airspeed. It was off to our right, but parallel to the road, and I began to wonder if it was going to land on top of us. Two of the four engines trailed smoke, and a third suddenly sprouted yellow flames, as the smoke turned an oily black. I saw its flaps go down, and knew the pilot was trying for a belly landing. It was going to have to be in the plowed fields alongside the road, the flattest ground within sight. I hoped they’d jettisoned the bomb load in the channel and the crew had bailed out over land. The bomber seemed to drop straight down as it slowed, its huge wings wobbling back and forth as the pilot fought for what control he could get out of the damaged plane. Kaz and I stared, transfixed, but Big Mike took his opportunity and sped between the line of vehicles, as nearly everyone on the road stopped to watch.