Sharky handed him a lift of the two fingerprints. ‘I need to match these prints to a face. They’d be inactive, probably dating back to World War Two.’
‘You’re playing a hunch, aren’t you, Sharky? That’s what it is. Shit, you haven’t changed a damn bit. And it can’t wait till Monday, hunh? Got to be right now, before the bugler’s even got his sock’s on.’
‘By Monday I’m dead.’
‘Always the same story. Eager beaver.’ Weinstock looked at Livingston. ‘This one’ll drive you apeshit. He never stops, he’s either coming or going all the time.’
‘So I’m learnin’,’ Livingston said.
A nervous young recruit was waiting in the telex room, looking like he had dressed in his sleep. Weinstock handed him the two prints. ‘Send this to DX 10, attention Sergeant Skidmore. And come get us down in the coffee room when you get response.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the youth said. ‘Should I send it urgent?’
‘Willoughby, I seriously doubt that anybody in his right mind is using the twix before nine o’clock on Saturday morning. Just send it off. Skidmore’s waiting at Fort Dix for it.
‘Yes, sir.’
Weinstock turned and marched out of the room followed by the two detectives.
‘Skidmore? Is that old Jocko Skidmore? Sharky said.
‘The same,’ Weinstock said. ‘Had to get him outa bed, too. I’ll tell you something, Shark. If he didn’t remember you — and like you — we’d’ve been shit outa luck. Know what he said? He said, “That silly son of a bitch never did do anything at a civilized time of day.” To which I say, amen.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Livingston said. ‘I haven’t been to bed since I met Sharky.’
They drank coffee and made small talk about the old days, sitting in the coffee room in the basement for almost forty-five minutes before Willoughby appeared at the door.
‘It’s comin’ in now, Sergeant,’ he said.
Sharky bolted from his chair and took the steps two at a time, his heart racing in anticipation. This had to work. He needed more than just Shoes and Arnold the bartender, much more, to keep his machine rolling, to keep its adrenalin pumping. As he entered the room and saw the teletype message a shimmer of disappointment rippled through his chest. The report was short, no more than a few lines. Livingston rushed in behind him as he tore the sheet from the machine and read the peculiar print argot of the military:
POS ID, 2 PRINTS, ANGELO DOMINIC SCARDI. B
SIRACUSA, SICILY, 1916. EMGRTD Us, 1935.
VOLTRD CVL LSN SICILY INV, JUNE, 1943. CIV
ADV GELA-PACHINO-CALTAGIRONE, JULY,
43-MARCH 44. TRNSFD FIRENZE, ITALY, JNT,
MI/OSS OPSTITCH (TSEC), MARCH, 44-OCT 44.
RET US OCT SERV TERM OCT 21, 44. SKID,
‘Not too much,’ Weinstock said.
But Livingston was staring at the first line, his eyes bright with excitement. There it was. The name.
Angelo Dominic Scardi.
And what a name it was.
‘Shit, all we need’s right here on this first line,’ he said. ‘Angelo Scardi. Does that ring your bell, Sharky?’
‘No. Should it?’
‘Angel the Undertaker,’ Livingston said. ‘This guy was a top button for Genovese, Luciano, Costello, all the biggies. When Valachi spilled his guts to the Senate, Scardi’s name popped up all over the place. Then a couple of years later who should turn up doin’ the same number Valachi did for the Feds? Angelo Scardi.’
‘What happened to him?’ Sharky said.
‘He died of cancer about six months after testifying.’
‘How convenient,’ Sharky said. ‘And would you like to make a little bet that Howard Burns turned up in Nebraska just about that time?’
‘No bet. It fits, man. It fits like a glove.’ He turned his attention back to the report. ‘How the hell can anybody read the rest of this shit?’
Weinstock took the sheet from him. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘Let me translate for you. It says this Seardi was born in Siracusa, Sicily, in 1916. Came to the U.S. in 1935. In june, 1943, he volunteered as civilian liaison adviser to the Sicilian invasion forces and then worked with the Army in the GelaPachino-Caltagirone sector until March 1944. He was transferred to Firenze, Italy, and attached to a joint Military Intelligence—OSS operation — something called Opstitch — until be returned to the States in October ‘44. Service was term mated the same month.’
‘What the hell was he doing over there?’ Sharky said.
‘Beats the hell outa me,’ Weinstock said. ‘That’s the year I was born.’
‘Arch?’
‘All I remember is that he was a number one hitman for the Cosa Nostra and he blew the whistle on them.’
‘But it fits, damn it, it fits!’ Sharky said.
‘What’s so important about this guy if he’s been dead for seven or eight years?’ Weinstock asked.
‘Jerry, when this is all over, I’ll come out and we’ll spend a night at the noncom club on me and I’ll tell you the whole story. How about this Opstitch, what would that be?’
‘That translates Operation Stitch. With the OSS involved it was probably some cloak and dagger number. TSEC means it’s classified secret.’
‘You mean it’s still classified after thirty years?’
‘Could have been a royal fuck-tip of some kind. Nobody in the army wants to admit a screw-up, so they just keep the lid on. Or maybe they just never got around to declassifying it. You know the goddamn army.’
‘Who cares?’ Livingston said. ‘We got the name, that’s what’s important.’
‘It could relate, Arch. How could we find out about this, Jerry?’
‘Forget it. You got to go through the Adjutant General in Washington and probably the CIA to bust it out. That could be a lifetime project.’
‘Somebody must remember something about it,’ Sharky said.
‘We’re pushing for time, Shark,’ Livingston reminded him.
‘I know, but as long as we’re here, why not check it out?’
‘He’s havin’ another hunch attack, if you ask me,’ Weinstock said.
‘C’mon, Jerry, this is headquarters for the whole Third Army. Think! There’s probably a dozen guys on this base could help us.’
‘See,’ Weinstock said, ‘a goddamn bulldog. He gets something by the ass and he won’t let it go.’
Weinstock stroked his chin for a few moments. ‘Well, your best bet, I guess, is General Bourke. Hardy W. Bourke himself. He was in Italy during the war. If he don’t know, maybe he knows where you can find out.’
‘Can you call him, ask if he’ll see us?’
‘When, right now?’
Sharky patted him on the cheek. ‘Jerry, we’re fighting the clock. You’re a goddamn prince.’
Weinstock leered back at him. ‘No, you’re the goddamn prince, Sharky, ‘cause this little operation here this morning is gonna cost you one gallon of Chivas Regal.’
Sharky nodded. ‘Do it.’
Weinstock grinned. ‘Don’t have to call him. You’ll find him out on the golf course.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I would guess he’ll be somewhere around the third hole by now. And good luck. I hope he doesn’t hit you with his mashie niblick.’
General Hardy W. Bourke was built like a footlocker standing on end and had the face of an angry eagle. Sharky was leaning against a tree at the edge of the third tee when he rolled up in his golf cart and stepped out, a tough little man with pure white hair cut an inch long.
Sharky walked across the trim green tee as the boxy little man leaned over and placed his ball.
Excuse me, sir. Are you General Bourke?’
The general glared at him.
‘Yes. What is it?’
Sharky showed him his buzzer. ‘My name’s Sharky. Atlanta PD.’
The General looked at the badge, then at Sharky’s hair and snorted. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’