“How old did you say you were again, lad?”
The rigid man in the military uniform looked up at Lonzo, who stood before him with his soiled cap clutched in nervous fingers, but his expression resolute. He had washed up with a stolen bar of soap, and water from a public fountain, and then nicked a set of secondhand clothes from the back of a shop. His worn-out brogues had been replaced by a pair of shoes he’d found after the most recent bombing. The owner had apparently been blown right out of them, leaving the shoes a bit singed but still far better than what Lonzo had.
“Eighteen,” answered Lonzo promptly.
“You don’t look it,” said the sergeant major in His Majesty’s Army. He was missing his left arm below the elbow, and his right eye where a black patch now lay. They were the reasons he was sitting here recruiting others to fight a war he no longer could. His trim mustache ran straight as a ruler over his firm upper lip.
Lonzo stood as tall as he could manage. “Just need me some proper food and a uniform and I’ll look my age all right. Fill out, I will.”
“And your address?”
Lonzo said immediately, “Flat Four-a, Thirteen Dapleton Terrace, Bethnal Green, guv.”
“East Ender, eh? You blokes make good fighters. And you may call me sir.”
“Been fightin’ for a while now, sir. On the streets, I’m meanin’.” Lonzo grinned.
“Fighting in a war is a very different thing, young man.”
“Right, guv, er, sir.”
“Parents?”
“Dead, sir,” replied Lonzo.
“How?”
“Me dad in the war. Somewhere’s in France, least I think. Mum in a bombin’ near the docks. She did the charrin’. The Jerries got ’er then.”
“And you live with whom?”
“Me gran. But I don’t need ’er to say it’s okay, ’cause I’m of age.”
“You have papers to prove that? Birth certificate? Registry card?”
“Got lost in a fire.” He wiped his runny nose and wouldn’t look at the sergeant major. “But it was a B card, sir, 262 was my number, I swear it.”
This indicated Lonzo was born in the second quarter of 1926 and was thus eighteen. The B card was issued to those between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one.
“Full name?”
He stood up straight and recited, “Alonzo Sylvester Rossi. Folks call me Lonzo.”
The mustache dipped a bit. “Rossi? You foreign?”
“Me dad was from Italy and me mum got some Spanish blood in ’er.”
“So, Benito Mussolini and Francisco Franco foreign, then.”
Lonzo eyed the man steadily. “Me mum were born in Stepney, same as me. Me dad come over ’ere when he was young. And ’e joined up and died fightin’ for the English, sir, so’s ’e weren’t foreign when it come to pickin’ sides. I ain’t know nothin’ ’bout them other blokes you spoke of.”
The sergeant major cleared his throat. “You’ll need to pass a physical, have the doctors look you over, eyes, ears, feet, chest.”
“I’m ’ealthy as a ’orse.”
“Can you read?”
Lonzo didn’t miss a beat. “Nuns taught me.”
“Nuns?”
“At the school where I went.”
“You Catholic?” The sergeant major said this as though that also might be a problem.
“Just smells and bells to me, sir,” said Lonzo offhandedly.
“Let’s fill out the papers, shall we? And then you can take a seat over there.”
“Right you are, sir.”
Lonzo, with the sergeant major’s assistance, did the necessary paperwork, and the soldier instructed Lonzo to wait. As he was reviewing some documents the man looked over a list that had been provided to him, along with a description of someone. He ran his eye down it and then glanced up at Lonzo, who appeared to be dozing in his chair.
The sergeant major quietly stepped away and made a phone call from another room.
Fifteen minutes passed and then someone tapped Lonzo on the shoulder, waking him.
He saw the official warrant card and the stern-looking man holding it.
“Detective Inspector Willoughby. You’ll need to come with me, boy.”
Lonzo looked wildly around, but two burly constables with their shiny buttons and tall helmets barred any escape.
“I ain’t done nothin’.”
“No one said you had, son,” replied Willoughby. “Did they?”
With a constable on either side of him, Lonzo was marched out as the sergeant major watched for a moment before ripping up Lonzo’s papers and tossing them in the dustbin.
“Next,” he called out to an assistant waiting at the door.
DI Willoughby
The ride to the police building in the official motorcar was swift. One of the constables and DI Willoughby took Lonzo to a small room with an overbearing electric heater that made him sweat, and barred windows that made him fear.
The constable pushed him down in a hard chair set at a wooden table and then settled his bulk in front of the only door. Willoughby slipped off his overcoat, placed it on a peg, removed his hat, lit up a cigarette, and offered one to Lonzo, who accepted.
Willoughby was fifty and tough-looking, with wide hips and meaty, brutish shoulders. His features were mostly impassive, but he had the look of a man who had seen far too much of life that was horrible, and it had changed him, and not for the better. There was no compassion or empathy or anything else like that left in him. He eyed Lonzo as one would a prize to be turned into an even more valuable one.
As they smoked, Willoughby loosened his tie and opened a file he had placed on the table. He leisurely read over it and then lifted out a picture and placed it in front of Lonzo. “Recognize him?”
Lonzo glanced down at the photograph before quickly looking away, his expression one of revulsion. “No, I ain’t never seen him.”
“His name’s Eddie Gray. Surely you know him, Lonzo. You two were mates.”
“That ain’t look like Eddie to me. And, ’sides, I ain’t seen ’im for a while, ’ave I, guv?”
“That’s because he’s dead. Surely you can see the way his head is all crushed, can’t you? And all the blood?” He pushed the picture closer. “Take another look.”
Lonzo shook his head. “No, I ain’t want to.”
Willoughby leaned across, ripped the cigarette from Lonzo’s mouth, gripped the back of his head, and forced it over the picture. “Look at your friend, Lonzo. What’s left of him. Look at the mate you left to die.”
Lonzo cried out, “I ain’t know nothin’ ’bout that. Swear it on me mum’s grave.”
The detective inspector released his grip and sat back. “We’re going to have a little identity parade in a few minutes, boy. The lorry driver saw you clearly. He’s here to finger you as one of the other criminals there that night. And let me remind you that a constable died. He had a wife and young children. The wife no longer has a husband and the children have lost their father.” He pointed a finger at Lonzo. “All because of you.”
Willoughby looked up at the constable and nodded.
The next instant Lonzo’s face was slammed into the wood of the table. Then he was viciously punched in the head and knocked to the floor.
“Careful, boy, you’ll hurt yourself.” Willoughby lit up another cigarette and lazily blew smoke out while a bloodied, bruised, and clearly dazed Lonzo sobbed and put his hands over his injured face. One of his eyes was already starting to swell shut.
The constable jerked him off the floor and thrust him back into his chair.
“Is... is this a ’angin’ job?” asked Lonzo in a whimper.
“It could very well be. A constable did die. But if you tell me who the other boy was, well, I might be able to do something for you.”