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. Masonâs 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.
âWould you like some coffee before we start?â 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. âIt takes an Italian to know how to make good coffee.â
Mason shrugged an agreement, then said, âWhat happened to the Italian accent?â He sat at the table while the Italian poured two cups.
âWhen dealing with Germans, an Italian accent is better for business,â the man said and winced in pain as he sat.
âI see they fixed your arm,â Mason said.
âNothing for the pain. That your idea?â
Mason ignored the question and referred to the one-page record and the manâs identity papers. âLuigi Genovese. From Naples. Neither of those things is true, is it? You were born in Italyâprobably Sicilyâbut grew up in the Bronx, and then sent to the Old World to drum up business for your bosses back home.â
Luigiâs smile faded for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. âNo hard feelings about the gun to your head? There was nothing personal about it.â
âStrictly business,â Mason said.
âThatâs right.â
âYour broken arm? That was personal.â
Luigi simply shrugged.
âWhat are you doing in Garmisch?â
âI am on a tour of this lovely countryside.â
âThen why the visit with Herr Giessen?â Mason asked.
âHe was the man I talked to about Garmischâs top attractions.â
âWhat about a Herr Volker? Did you get tourist tips from him, too?â
âI donât know anything about a Herr Volker.â
âHeâs the one who made me. Heâd have been standing right next to you with one of his stinking cigarettes.â
âI donât recall a man like that. But somebody in Herr Giessenâs gang would have had you dead to rights eventually. A brave but stupid thing for you to try, Investigator Collins.â He leaned forward, always with the smile. âYou are one of those cops who likes to take risks. Be the hero. Those copsâ names end up on memorial plaques on station house walls.â
Mason produced a big, theatrical yawn. âYouâd be surprised how many times Iâve heard that same crap from scumbags like you. Then after they realize their bosses have forgotten them, and theyâre facing years in the joint, just how many of them squeal for clemency or turn stateâs witness.â
Luigi sipped at his coffee to mask whatever was going on in his mind.
Mason said, âI 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
âTrust me, you donât want a piece of that. On the other hand, we could use some men like yourself, helping grease the wheels.â
âFor tourism.â
âThatâs right. I know what an American soldier earns. And if you leave the army and go back to the States, youâll be scrapping for a lousy job along with the millions of other former GIs. I could see that youâre set, financially speaking. Thereâs enough business to go around. A million bored GIs and sixty-million-plus desperate Germans? Thatâs a market
Learning to Kill: Stories