James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“Like my dad always said, don’t trust anyone too honest or too crooked. They’ll both get you in hot water.”

“I still don’t know what we’re going to do with the pearls. But at least now I know not to give them to Augite or Teddy,” Kaz said.

“Which do you think Luca Amatori is?” I said, as we pulled onto the gravel driveway leading to the palace to pick up our escort and former enemy.

“I think we’ll find out more without his boss around,” Kaz said. “Capitano Trevisi didn’t seem to think much his Tenente’s opinions.”

“ Buon giorno,” the Carabinieri lieutenant said as he walked to the jeep. He was right on time. Kaz got in back and the lieutenant thanked him.

“After enduring Billy’s driving, you might not thank me, Tenente.”

“Please, call me Luca. We are all lieutenants, yes? It would be tiresome to hear of it constantly.”

“Certainly, Luca. Call me Kaz, which is Billy’s version of Kazimierz.”

“Been stuck at tenente long?” I asked as we shook hands.

“Stuck? Yes, and at war also,” Luca said, pulling his blue service cap down tight on his head. “It has been a long time since we have known peace. Here, take this turn for Acerra,” he said as we came to the main road. We drove south, past horse-drawn carts loaded with firewood, blackened ruins, the odd intact farmhouse, and fallow winter fields, sodden from recent rains. The weather was clearing, low gray clouds tumbling across the sky, making way for the sun and the bombers that would follow.

“Have you been stationed at Caserta long?” Kaz asked, leaning in from the backseat.

“No. I was transferred here with others from my battalion, two months ago. We had been in Yugoslavia, but returned to Italy with the armistice. I think we are about to be sent somewhere else. We have received new arms and supplies, and there are many rumors.”

“Not the first time I heard that. Any idea where?”

“No. No one tells us anything. We wait, we patrol, and we do what we can against the black market, but it is hopeless.”

“Do you have much trouble with GIs?”

“Yes, but we can do little about it. Only the military police and your CID may arrest your soldiers. We work closely with them, but it is understandable that they take care of their own in a foreign country.”

His words made sense, but I could tell from his tone that it bothered him. It would bother any good cop, so I liked that about him. “Any scuttlebutt about where you’re going?”

“Pardon me?”

“American jargon,” Kaz said. “Rumors, loose talk.”

“Ah. We will be flown into Rome after American paratroopers take the airport. Or, that we will land on the beaches west of Rome with our own San Marco Marine Regiment. We are going to protect the pope, we are escorting the king into Rome, take your choice. They all involve fantasies of heroics and reclaiming our national honor. I suspect the reality will be somewhat less glamorous.”

“Rome is not that far away, maybe a hundred and twenty miles. It’s not impossible.”

“Except for the Germans dug in along the Bernhardt Line, and on Monte Cassino, it would be a pleasant drive,” Luca said. “Although machine guns do spoil any outing.”

“A seaborne landing does make sense,” Kaz said, more usefully. “To go around them.”

“I’ll be sure to tell General Eisenhower next time I see him,” I said. Getting to Rome sounded fine to me. Maybe I could go along and find Diana.

“If only generals would listen to lieutenants,” Luca said.

“This general will. Billy is his nephew. We are attached to General Eisenhower’s headquarters,” Kaz said, with a touch of pride in his voice.

“Really?” Luca looked like he had a hard time believing we worked for Uncle Ike.

“Yeah, really. Now tell us what you know about Bar Raffaele.”

“How can I say no to the nephew of General Eisenhower himself? The bar is run by a pimp named Stefano Inzerillo. He took over a bombed-out building, cleaned it up, put in a rough bar, a few tables, and serves terrible wine at high prices, which soldiers are willing to pay.”

“The women?”

“Inzerillo is smart. He does not employ them directly, and they do not use his premises for their services. He has kept out of trouble, and probably pays someone not to declare the place off-limits.”

“But he did have trouble recently, according to the men in Lieutenant Landry’s platoon. He made them pay for damages.”

“I had not heard. Inzerillo has at least two men at the bar at all times to prevent fights.”

“Bouncers?”

“If you mean men who will break an arm or a kneecap, then yes.”

“Thugs,” Kaz said.

“Yes, thugs,” Luca said, nodding his head. “If anyone caused damages, they must have been damaged themselves. Inzerillo is not one to be caught unawares.”

We drove on, passing a crumbling castle perched on a hilltop, surrounded by olive trees. Destroyed in another war, centuries ago, Luca informed us. It was nice to know we weren’t responsible for every ruined building in sight.

“Billy,” Kaz said from the backseat, “there’s a jeep following us. It’s been there since we left the palace, hanging back.”

“I see it,” I said, checking the rearview mirror. With the canvas top up, it was hard to tell who or how many were in it. “You sure it’s following us?”

“Either that or they left for Acerra right after us.”

“There is an AMGOT office in Acerra,” Luca said. The American Military Government for Occupied Territories ran government functions in areas that had been liberated. “I’ve made the trip on several occasions with American officers in a jeep. Nothing unusual about it.”

“Keep an eye on it anyway, Kaz.” At that moment, two jeeps came around a curve and passed us in the opposite direction. A common enough sight, as Luca said. I drove on, past olive groves, the trees with their silvery leaves in straight rows, marred by the occasional shell hole and shattered, blackened trunks.

We followed Luca’s directions into Acerra, winding through narrow streets, past a walled castle, complete with moat and drawbridge, where American and British flags flew next to the Italian banner. That had to be AMGOT. We entered a neighborhood of even narrower streets. Clothing hung from lines strung between buildings, adding odd traces of color to the dingy and shadowed roadway. Shops and homes were shuttered, and only a few civilians were on the street, eyeing us with indifference, suspicion, fear, or avarice, depending on their intentions. I was pretty sure that covered all the bases in this part of town.

We pulled over in front of a building with a gaily painted sign announcing this was Bar Raffaele. The sign was the nicest thing on the street. Empty wine bottles, cigarette butts, and other debris littered the sidewalk. The sour smell of spilled wine mingled with the tang of urine and rotting garbage.

“Welcome to Acerra,” Luca said.

“Reminds me of certain parts of Boston,” I said. “Scollay Square, right outside the Crawford House, for instance. Makes me a little homesick, almost.”

“It makes me ill,” Kaz said. He pounded on the locked door. “I hope it smells better inside.” There was no answer.

“ Aprire, aprire! ” Luca thundered, hammering on the door with the butt of his pistol. “ Carabinieri! ”

I heard the creak of doors and shutters opening all around us, as people risked a look at the commotion. I turned around and they all shut, no one wanting to take a chance on being seen and dragged into an unknown situation.

“Carabinieri? Italiano? ” came a voice from behind the door. It sounded fearful and weak, not what I was expecting.

“ Si, aprire ora,” Luca said, and the door cracked open far enough for a bloodshot eyeball to peer out at us. It flickered at each of us, growing wide as it lit on me. Luca said something calming in Italian, and the guy finally undid the chain lock and opened the door.