3 - Blood Alone: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery by James R. Benn

Author:James R. Benn [Benn, James R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781569475959
Google: j4ARPwAACAAJ
Amazon: B0057DB7PM
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2009-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER • TWENTY

HALF AN HOUR LATER Tommy the C showed us out through the side door of a storage room beneath the sacristy. It led to a narrow courtyard between the cathedral and the city wall. He’d given Sciafani a small burlap sack stuffed with bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine, and the dottore wore it suspended from a strap over his shoulder, looking more and more like a hobo. A black sedan sat idling, its driver leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette. Tommy had put on his black robe again, but the top was unbuttoned, his big pistol within easy reach. He nodded to the driver, who crushed out his cigarette. It was another Fiat—a Balilla—sort of a miniature touring car. It had running boards and a shiny grille, and would’ve looked pretty fancy if the driver hadn’t been leaning against it with his arm draped over the roof. It looked like a half-size version of a 1930 Model A.

“Good luck with the Germans and Don Calo,” he said.

He watched us get in the backseat, the driver alone in front, and opened the heavy wooden door to return to the cathedral.

“Un momento,” Sciafani said to the driver, holding up one finger. He scampered out, called “Signor Corso,” and followed him inside. I wondered if he’d forgotten something or had decided to apologize or wanted to say a prayer. None of these options made sense. Less than a minute passed before the door reopened. Sciafani smiled an apology to the driver and slid into the backseat with me.

“What was that about?” I asked as the driver hit the accelerator.

“I had some unfinished business.” He was breathing hard, looking back at the cathedral, as if we might be pursued.

“What—” My words were cut off as the driver took a hard left. I caught a glimpse of brown uniforms, hunched low, crossing the street ahead of us in the direction we’d been driving. It felt odd to be evading the American troops fighting to take the town. Sciafani turned to look and I noticed the cuff of his once white shirt was soaked red. Not the dark rusty color of yesterday’s blood, but the fresh, unmistakable red of a fresh blood stain. I pulled his jacket aside. The Blackshirt’s dagger was still tucked into his belt. He pulled his jacket tight once more and stared out the window, holding onto the empty passenger seat in front of him as our driver weaved in and out of narrow roads and alleys.

“Enrico,” I said quietly. He shook his head before I could continue. The burlap sack was at his side, the strap still over his shoulder. It wasn’t hard to see the butt of the big Italian Bodeo revolver crammed in next to the loaf of bread.

I didn’t know if the driver spoke any English or whether he’d admit it if he did, so this wasn’t the time to come out and ask Sciafani if he’d killed Tommy the C. Anyway it was obvious he had even if I didn’t know why.

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