Spoils of Victory by John A. Connell Read Free Book Online

reinforced doors. He entered a room with a narrow bed and a table with two chairs. A thick wire mesh covered the single window, which overlooked the snow-covered parade grounds. Mason’s would-be assassin sat on the bed with his back against the concrete wall. He was maybe thirty, and he could have been a good-looking guy except for his prominent overbite and eyes that sat too close together. A sling cradled his broken arm. Mason expected to be greeted by the usual accusations of police brutality and protests of innocence. Instead, the man smiled and struggled to his feet. He tried to act cool and poised, as if he owned the room, but there was an edginess behind the movements, like he was wound way too tight.
    â€œWould you like some coffee before we start?” the man asked; his Italian accent gone and replaced by one typical of the Bronx. He moved to a hot plate that held a pot of coffee. “It takes an Italian to know how to make good coffee.”
    Mason shrugged an agreement, then said, “What happened to the Italian accent?” He sat at the table while the Italian poured two cups.
    â€œWhen dealing with Germans, an Italian accent is better for business,” the man said and winced in pain as he sat.
    â€œI see they fixed your arm,” Mason said.
    â€œNothing for the pain. That your idea?”
    Mason ignored the question and referred to the one-page record and the man’s identity papers. “Luigi Genovese. From Naples. Neither of those things is true, is it? You were born in Italy—probably Sicily—but grew up in the Bronx, and then sent to the Old World to drum up business for your bosses back home.”
    Luigi’s smile faded for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “No hard feelings about the gun to your head? There was nothing personal about it.”
    â€œStrictly business,” Mason said.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYour broken arm? That was personal.”
    Luigi simply shrugged.
    â€œWhat are you doing in Garmisch?”
    â€œI am on a tour of this lovely countryside.”
    â€œThen why the visit with Herr Giessen?” Mason asked.
    â€œHe was the man I talked to about Garmisch’s top attractions.”
    â€œWhat about a Herr Volker? Did you get tourist tips from him, too?”
    â€œI don’t know anything about a Herr Volker.”
    â€œHe’s the one who made me. He’d have been standing right next to you with one of his stinking cigarettes.”
    â€œI don’t recall a man like that. But somebody in Herr Giessen’s gang would have had you dead to rights eventually. A brave but stupid thing for you to try, Investigator Collins.” He leaned forward, always with the smile. “You are one of those cops who likes to take risks. Be the hero. Those cops’ names end up on memorial plaques on station house walls.”
    Mason produced a big, theatrical yawn. “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that same crap from scumbags like you. Then after they realize their bosses have forgotten them, and they’re facing years in the joint, just how many of them squeal for clemency or turn state’s witness.”
    Luigi sipped at his coffee to mask whatever was going on in his mind.
    Mason said, “I read that the U.S. deported Lucky Luciano and he landed in Naples a week ago. Does that have anything to do with you?”
    â€œTrust me, you don’t want a piece of that. On the other hand, we could use some men like yourself, helping grease the wheels.”
    â€œFor tourism.”
    â€œThat’s right. I know what an American soldier earns. And if you leave the army and go back to the States, you’ll be scrapping for a lousy job along with the millions of other former GIs. I could see that you’re set, financially speaking. There’s enough business to go around. A million bored GIs and sixty-million-plus desperate Germans? That’s a market