Jack Higgins - Luciano’s Luck

Carter stared down at the envelope, bewildered. ‘To do what, General?’

‘How in the hell do I know?’ Eisenhower said. ‘Talk to the man. See what he has to say. Yank him right out of that damn prison if you have to. You’ve got the power. Now, are you going to use it or aren’t you?’

Carter, filled with an excitement he had not known in years, slipped the envelope into one of his tunic pockets and buttoned it carefully.

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ Eisenhower nodded. ‘Another thing. I’ve arranged a promotion to full colonel for you. Only temporary, of course, but it should give you some extra muscle along the way.’

He turned before Carter could reply and switched on a lamp that illuminated the map of Sicily. He stood looking at it for a while and spoke without turning round. ‘Are you surprised that I’m willing to have dealings with people like Luciano?’

‘Frankly, sir, I think I’ve got well past being surprised at anything.’

‘The Nazis have plundered and raped Europe, murdered millions of people. The stories that are beginning to emerge about their treatment of the Jews are past belief and I’m of German stock myself. Have you any idea how that feels?’

‘I think so, sir,’ Carter said.

‘Oh, no, you haven’t,’ Eisenhower shook his head. ‘To beat these people, Major, finish them once and for all, root and branch, I’d shake hands with the Devil himself if it were necessary.’

On his twentieth lap of the exercise yard at Great Meadow, Luciano increased his speed, running fast and free, the best moment of the day when there was an infinite possibility to things. Then, as usual, the north wall got in the way and he had to slow down.

He walked back through a scattering of other prisoners, acknowledging a greeting here and there, to his usual spot in a corner by the landing where Franco waited with a towel.

‘You’re getting better each day, Mr Luciano,’ Franco said.

He had the look of a professional wrestler and the build to go with it, a New York Sicilian who had killed many times on behalf of the Mafia and was serving a double life sentence for murder.

Luciano caught the towel as Franco threw it. ‘You reach my age, you got to keep in shape. Did you get that book from the library?’

‘I sure did, Mr Luciano.’

He passed it across, an English translation of The City of God by St Augustine. Luciano sat on the step and examined it with a conscious pleasure.

He was forty-six, a dark, handsome, saturnine man of medium height. The lid drooped slightly over the left eye, relic of an old wound. In spite of the drab prison uniform he was a man to be looked at twice, and not just because of the authority and self-sufficiency that were plainly indicated in the face. There was also that perpetual slight smile of contempt directed at the world in general.

Franco said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Luciano, but there’s a kid here called Walton from D block. He needs a favour.’

Luciano looked up. Walton was a tall, gangling young man of twenty-one or two with flat brown hair and arms that were too long for his shirt.

‘What’s he in for?’ Luciano asked softly.

‘One to three. Liquor store hold-up. No previous.’

‘Okay, let’s see what he wants.’

Franco nodded to the boy, gave Luciano a cigarette and lit it for him. ‘Okay, speak your piece.’

Walton stood there, twisting his cap in his hand nervously. ‘Mr Luciano, they say you can do anything.’

‘Except sprout wings and fly out of this place.’ Luciano smiled softly. ‘What’s to do, boy?’

‘It’s like this, Mr Luciano. I’ve only been here two months and my wife, Carrie … well, she’s on her own now and she’s only a kid. Eighteen is all.’

‘So?’

‘There’s a detective from the eighth precinct called O’Hara. He was one of the guys who pulled me in. He knows she’s on her own and he’s been pressuring her. You know what I mean?’

Luciano looked him over calmly for a long moment then nodded. ‘Okay. Detective O’Hara, eighth precinct. It’s taken care of.’ He returned to his book.

The boy said, ‘Maybe I can do you a favour some time, Mr Luciano.’

Franco said, ‘You will, kid. Now get out of here.’

As the boy turned away, Luciano looked up. ‘Is it true that liquor store heist was your first job?’

Walton nodded. ‘That’s right, Mr Luciano.’

‘And one to three was the best your lawyer could do? He should have got you probation.’

‘I didn’t really have no lawyer, not a real one,’ Walton said ‘Just a man the court appointed. He only spoke to me the once. Said the thing to do was plead guilty and throw myself on the court’s mercy. I didn’t see…’

‘All right!’ Luciano put up a hand defensively. ‘I’ll speak to my lawyer when he comes up Wednesday. Maybe he can do something.’

The boy walked away and Franco said, ‘Keep that up and you’ll have them standing in line at the bottom of the stairs every morning.’

One of the guards approached, an ageing Irishman named O’Toole, with the weary, bitter look of one who had long since faced up to defeat.

For Luciano, he managed a smile. ‘The warder would like to see you in his office, Mr Luciano.’

‘Now?’ Luciano said.

‘That’s what he told me.’

Luciano got up, still holding his book, and nodded to Franco. ‘See you later, Johnny.’

They moved across the yard, O’Toole in the lead. He said, ‘They’re waxing the entrance hall so we can’t use the main door. We’ll go through the showers and up the back stairs.’

His forehead was damp with sweat and his hand shook a little as he unlocked the door to the shower block.

Luciano smiled easily, every sense sharpened. ‘Something bothering you, O’Toole?’

O’Toole gave him a sudden quick push inside and slammed the door and Franco, halfway across the yard, started to run, already too late as O’Toole turned, back to the door, the club ready in his hand.

Walton moved out of the first shower stall. He stood there, no expression on his face at all, no light in the dark eyes.

Luciano said easily, ‘I thought that story of yours was strictly from the corn belt. They send you up here specially?’

‘That’s right.’ Walton’s right hand came up holding an ivory Madonna. When he pressed her feet, six inches of blue steel appeared, sharp as a razor on both edges. ‘Nothing personal, Mr Luciano. With me, this is strictly business.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Fiorelli. He sent you his regards and gave me strict instructions to leave you with your prick in your mouth. He said being Sicilian, you’d know what that meant.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Luciano said and kicked Walton under the left kneecap.

Walton shouted in agony as bone splintered, and slashed out wildly. Luciano seized the right wrist with both hands, twisting it so cruelly that the knife dropped to the floor.

‘You’re going to cut someone up, kid, do it, don’t talk about it.’

He twisted round and up, locking the arm as in a vice. Walton screamed as muscle started to tear and Luciano ran him face-first into the wall of the nearest stall. The boy slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the tiles.

Luciano picked up the knife and closed the blade. The Madonna was about eight inches long and obviously extremely old, carved by some master of ivory and chased with silver. He slipped it into his belt against the small of his back and picked up his book.

Walton crouched at the base of the stall, moaning. Luciano turned on the shower and the boy clutched at the wall.

‘So long, kid,’ Luciano said softly and he opened the door and went out.

O’Toole swung to face him, instant dismay on his face. Franco dodged past him. ‘You all right, Mr Luciano?’