Blood Alone (12 page)
WE WALKED, CAUTIOUSLY AT first, keeping to the bushes and small trees that divided the cultivated fields, blending in with shadows and staying low where the ground rose and fell. Periodically we stopped to listen, swiveling our heads to catch the sounds of booted feet hurrying after us, but all we heard was the chattering and warbling of sparrows and starlings as they flitted among the plants and trees. We walked for hours, avoiding the few workers we saw in the fields and crossing dirt roads only after checking to see that no one was in sight. We walked east, by the sun. As it rose in the blue sky so did the heat. We crossed a stream, and drank from it, lying flat and letting the cool, clear water soak our chests as we gulped it down. We talked, at first in whispers. Then we grew bolder and spoke up, our own voices giving us strength, proving to ourselves that we were not afraid. But by the time the sun was directly above us, we were reduced to grunts and fingers pointing the direction to take, a single word serving where a conversation had earlier. We walked.
The ground changed from rich soil to crumbling, gritty reddish dirt mixed with stone. Dust coated our legs and floated up to choke us. We were higher up now, where there were no streams to drink from, less growth to hide in, and no low-lying gullies to walk along. We followed a trail that left us outlined against the hill that rose in front of us. I turned and saw the landscape below, green folds of cultivated fields and the yellows and browns of weeds and wild growth wilting in the arid heat. Anyone below could as easily see us. But Sciafani had chosen his route well; there was not a single person in sight, as well as no water or shelter from the sun. At that moment, I would have surrendered to a German or Italian patrol for the promise of water. I had to remind myself I could get a bullet just as easily, and that even if I didn’t, I’d still be facing murder charges.
I tried to think about other things as I followed Sciafani up the trail. My breath came in big gulps that never seemed to get enough oxygen to my lungs. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me and thought about home. About birds, actually, and all the things my mom had taught me about them. She had a feeder set up outside her kitchen window, and when I was small it was my job to put out the bird food and pieces of old bread she’d saved. Starlings, like the ones in the field below, were always pecking around the ground and sitting in the tree in our small backyard. She didn’t like starlings much, since there were so many of them and they drove away the other birds. She loved cardinals, who always traveled in pairs, the bright red male and the gray female with her flecks of red. I liked them too, the mom and dad cardinals, as they flew in together and nibbled at seeds, then swooped off in unison, an invisible command driving them both. I always wondered how they knew when to fly away, and where they went.
I wished I had some of that stale bread I used to crumble up in my small fingers and scatter on the flat feeder Dad had built. Maybe at this moment, early morning in Boston, Mom was opening the window and tossing out seed and bread crumbs, maybe watching the cardinals flutter in for a landing and remembering how we used to watch them. Funny, I’d been away from home for more than a year, and that was the first time I’d thought about those birds. It was nice but sad too. I decided the jury was still out on the value of remembering things. Everything that had come back to me was either a mixed bag or very bad news.
I realized we weren’t climbing anymore. We’d come around the crest of a hill and the trail continued on flat below it. Sciafani sat on a rock by the side of the trail, and I joined him, thankful for a rest. Below us, rows of olive trees curved downward to a sluggish stream that drifted through the valley.
“Ravanusa,” Sciafani said, pointing to the next hill. “A small town. We should go around it.”
“Germans?” I asked.
“Or Fascists,” he said. “It is all the same. We must find water.”
I watched Sciafani rub his eyes with the palms of his hands. He had an odd habit of shifting the conversation in midstream, as if he didn’t want to think about any one thing for too long. He raised one hand to shield his eyes and gazed at the horizon to the west.
“It will be dark soon. We need shelter too,” he said.
“Do you know anyone in Ravanusa?”
“Yes, but no one I could trust.”
“No family, you mean,” I said.
“Exactly, my friend. You are beginning to understand Sicily perhaps.”
“It’s not so different really. That’s how I got my job back home. All the men in my family are policemen. My father is a detective, and so was I.”
“And what are you now?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but there were no words. I remembered that I was Uncle Ike’s special investigator, but that sounded hollow, nothing but a title. Who was I now? A killer, an assassin, a deserter, a coward, maybe all those things.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We need water.”
Sciafani led the way into the olive grove.
Who am I? I knew my name, knew my rank, but didn’t seem to know myself.
Remember who you are.
I heard my father’s voice, saw him leaning over the table at Kirby’s, his tie loose the way it always was at the end of the day. I was still in my patrolman’s blues, a rookie, still walking the beat in my neighborhood so folks could keep an eye out for me. They had.
It was all because of Al. Alphonse DeAngelo, a guy I went to school with. He was Sicilian, and I’d known him since the fourth grade when we’d had a fistfight at recess and ended up in the principal’s office, each of us telling the other he was lucky Miss Bayley had broken up the fight before it really got started. We both had hot tempers. We were sent home with notes for our parents. Al ripped his up in the street and tossed it over his shoulder. I brought mine home, and Dad got out the strap. I should have known right then and there Al was going to go in one direction and me in the other. But before our paths diverged, we became pals, the original beef between us forgotten as we ran through the streets and parks, fished in the bay, played hooky, and caused all sorts of minor mischief. That summer after fourth grade, we’d play mumblety-peg with our jackknives, flipping them into the ground out of our hands or off our heads or whatever the rules of the game demanded. Al could always make the tough casts, his knife flying through the air and slicing into the ground at just the right angle. He was good with that knife.
Four summers later was our last as pals. When it was over I went up Telegraph Hill to South Boston High School, and Al went to work. His old man had something to do with the numbers, which didn’t mean much to me at the time, but I could tell that my old man was glad to see the last of Al. I’d run into him on the street every now and then, but it wasn’t the same. He looked and acted older, which he might’ve been by a year or two. He was almost grown-up, and I was trying to act grown-up, so there was no room for memories of childhood play. All that was behind us; we were nearly men now.
High school over, I joined the cops, started walking a rookie’s beat. That’s when I started seeing Al every day again, walking his own beat, collecting numbers receipts just as his old man had, while I wore the bluecoat, just as my old man had. We ’d chat a bit, then we started having a cup of coffee together at Noonan’s Diner, where we’d cross paths about ten o’clock each morning. That’s what did it.
“That bum takes people’s hard-earned nickels and dimes every day,” Dad had said as soon as we sat down at Kirby’s. “Next he’ll be shaking them down for protection, just like his old man over in Dorchester.”
“Everyone plays the numbers, Dad, there’s no harm in that. No one forces anyone to play.”
I was sure about myself on that subject, but I didn’t know what to say about protection. There were rumors that the mob was expanding its activities, and for all I knew, Al and his numbers were the start of it in our neighborhood. But childhood loyalties die hard. I watched as my father drew in a deep breath, as if he were filling his lungs for a long speech.
“There’s something you have to understand, Billy. There’s three kinds of people in the world. First, there’s the people out there, everyone you see each day on your beat, the rich and the poor, the bastards on Beacon Hill, and the Irish folk in Southie.” He stretched out his hand, palm up, and drew it around, the gesture taking in everyone in the tavern and beyond.
“Then there’s those who feed off the poor and helpless, who use their strength to take from others with less strength, or courage, or luck. Finally, there’s them who stand up for the weak and the helpless. I’ll be the first to say that I’m no angel, but I know who I am. I’m not one of the helpless, thank the Lord, and I know I’ll never take advantage of a man worse off than me.”
I remember thinking how that left a lot of leeway, while at the same time feeling glad of having enough wit not to point it out.
“What do you think the folks on your beat think when they see you and Al drinkin’ coffee together, and he pays each time?”
“I’m not doing anything wrong, Dad. I’m not on his payroll.” There were cops who were on retainer with mobsters, paid regularly to pass on tips about arrests and snitches.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, with a sad shake of his head, speaking in a low voice. “We’re the third kind of people, you and me. What matters is that you are supposed to protect the common folk. If you’re going to do that, you can’t buddy around with someone who takes from them. It’s only the numbers now, but someday soon, mark my words, it will be more. And then, boy-o, how can these poor folk come to you if you’re still pals with the one threatening to burn their store down if they don’t pay protection?”
“You think that’s why Al is being friendly?” I’d asked.
“It doesn’t matter, Billy,” he’d answered, leaning in close to me so I could feel his breath on my cheek. “What matters is that you remember who you are.”
With that, he slid out of the booth and left me there, before a pint could be served. The next day I told Al we weren’t kids anymore, and that he should watch his step on my beat. Part of me felt like a bum, and part of me understood that there was more to growing up and being a man than height and weight.
Remember who you are.
I wished I was sitting at Kirby’s, a cool pint in front of me, feeling the glass sweat into the palm of my hand, and having my old man explain it all to me again. I’d forgotten so much.
“Here,” Sciafani said, shocking me out of my thoughts. I realized I hadn’t been paying attention to anything around me. We were still in the olive groves, but nothing looked familiar. How long had we been walking?
“Here,” he said again, his voice rising with excitement. In a clearing ahead stood a stone building covered in stucco painted a pastel orange. The setting sun cast its rays from the side, illuminating it, in stark contrast to the greenery all around it. Our long shadows ran ahead of us, straight to an ancient rusty pump in front of the building. Sciafani grabbed the handle and worked it madly, both of us oblivious to the noise as it clanked and squeaked, waiting for the first gush of water. It came, and I gulped handfuls down, then took over at the pump and let Sciafani drink and stick his head under the flowing water. We took turns, laughing like kids, and I thought about Al and how we’d opened fire hydrants on hot August days, laughing in the cool spray and feeling like the world was our playground. It was, until the world split us up. I’d heard Al had tried to go straight and joined the navy. He’d been stationed at Pearl Harbor and caught in an explosion. Lost one leg, ended up back in Boston doing the only thing left for him to do. The numbers, and anything else to make a buck.
“Chi la sono?
The voice surprised us, and I jumped nearly a foot. A heavyset older man leading a donkey, weighed down with two baskets filled with olives, looked as surprised as I felt. His white shirt was open and he wore a handkerchief on his head and two or three days’ worth of gray stubble on his cheeks. Sciafani walked toward him, speaking calmly, but the old fellow backed up, his eyes searching the trees behind us for signs of any more strangers.
“
Amici
,” I heard Sciafani say. Friends. That seemed to calm the guy down, or maybe it was hearing Sciafani’s Sicilian accent. He pointed to me and rattled off a quick question. Sciafani shook his head no, and they talked some more, settling into a friendly conversation.
Finally the old man nodded. Sciafani reached into his pocket and took out a green fifty-lira banknote. Allied Military Currency was printed boldly on the front, and Sciafani pointed to it, seeming to explain what it meant. The old man took the money, folded it, stuck it in his shoe, and pulled at his donkey to get him going again. He didn’t give me a second glance.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“He will bring us food and blankets. This is a storehouse; no one else will be here tonight. It should be safe, he says.”
“Do you believe him?”
Sciafani shrugged. “What choice do we have? I choose to believe him. But we should wait in the trees and watch.”
“Where did you get the money?” I asked as we walked back up the hill.
“They gave me two fifty-lira notes when they released me. They said this currency would replace all Fascist-issued currency. Is that true?”
“Yep,” I said as we settled down in the olive grove, a safe distance from the building but still with a good view. “The plan is to replace all the money in the banks with this, and have people turn in their lire for occupation scrip. It’s supposed to stop inflation, I think. The official rate, set by AMGOT, is one hundred lire to the dollar.”
“This is the American Military Government you spoke of with the other
americano?
”
“Yeah, but those guys are no good, don’t go by them.”
Sciafani shrugged again, with that soulful expression of not expecting too much from life. I wondered about AMGOT. If Genovese and Legs had been able to talk their way in, was AMGOT up to the job of governing an island the size of Sicily? Replacing the currency alone— wait, how much money was that? Enough for all the banks on the island, plus all the lire stashed under mattresses, buried in backyards, and in the wallets of every Eyetie there?
