The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [59]
Pisciotta said gaily, “We’ll teach them some manners with the bastinado.” Then, with a confidential air, as if they were already brothers in arms, he said, “Have you a cigarette for me?”
To Pisciotta’s delight, the moment of good will fled. The guard was outraged. “A cigarette for you?” he said incredulously. “Why in Christ’s name should I give a piece of Sicilian dung a cigarette?” And now finally the guard unslung his rifle.
For a moment Pisciotta felt the savage urge to throw himself forward and slit the guard’s throat. “Because I can tell you where to find Guiliano,” Pisciotta said. “Your comrades searching the mountains are too stupid to find even a gecko.”
The guard looked bewildered. The insolence had him confused; the information offered made him realize he had better consult his superior. He had a feeling that this man was too slippery and could get him into trouble of some kind. He opened the gate and motioned Pisciotta with his rifle to enter the grounds of the Bellampo Barracks. His back was to the street. At that moment, Guiliano, a hundred yards away, kicked the mule awake and started his cart onto the stone pathway to the gate.
The grounds of the Bellampo Barracks consisted of four acres. On the land was the large administration building with an L-shaped wing that held the jail cells. Behind it was the living barracks for the carabinieri themselves, large enough to hold a hundred men with a specially partitioned section that served as a private apartment for the Maresciallo. Off to the right side was a garage for vehicles that was really a barn and still served partially as such since the detachment supported a troop of mules and donkeys for mountain travel where mechanical vehicles were useless.
Far in the rear were a munitions shed and a supply shed, both made of corrugated steel. Surrounding the whole area was a seven-foot barbed wire fence with two high towers for sentries, but these had not been used for many months. The barracks had been built by the Mussolini regime and then enlarged during the war on the Mafia.
When Pisciotta went through the gate he checked for danger signals. The towers were empty, there were no roaming armed guards. It looked like some peaceful deserted farm. There were no vehicles in the garage; in fact there were no vehicles in sight anywhere, which surprised him, and made him worry that one would be returning soon. He could not conceive of the Maresciallo being so stupid as to leave his garrison without a vehicle. He would have to warn Turi that they might get unexpected visitors.
Shepherded by the young guard, Pisciotta entered the wide doors of the administration building. This was a huge room with ceiling fans which did little to dispel the heat. There was a large raised desk dominating the room, and on the sides were railings which enclosed smaller desks for clerks; around the room were wooden benches. These were all empty except for the raised desk. Seated at this was a carabinieri corporal who was an altogether different proposition from the young guard. An ornate gold nameplate on the desk read CORPORAL CANIO SILVESTRO. The upper part of his body was massive—great shoulders and thick columnar neck crowned by a huge boulder of a head. A pink scar, a slab of shiny dead tissue, seemed pasted from his ear down to the end of his rocklike jaw. A long bushy handlebar mustache flew out like two black wings over his mouth.
He wore the stripes of a corporal on his sleeve, a huge pistol at his belt and worst of all he regarded Pisciotta with the utmost suspicion and distrust as the guard recited his story. When Corporal Silverstro spoke his accent revealed him to be a Sicilian. “You are a lying piece of shit,” he said to Pisciotta. But before he could go any further, Guiliano’s voice could be heard shouting inside the gate.
“Hey there, carabiniere, do you want your wine or not? Yes or no?”
Pisciotta admired the style of Guiliano’s voice; the tone coarse, the dialect so thick it was almost unintelligible except to natives of this province, the choice of words arrogantly