The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [73]
Guiliano interrupted. “How did they think you could have known the bullets were defective?”
Silvestro looked sheepish. “I should have known. I was the armorer in the infantry, an expert.” His face became grim and he shrugged. “I had a lapse, true. They made me a desk man and I didn’t pay too much attention to my real business. But I can be valuable to you. I can be your armorer. I can check all your weapons and repair them. I can make sure your ammunition is properly handled so that your supply dumps don’t blow up. I can modify your weapons so that they will suit the use you put them to, here in the mountains.”
“Tell me the rest of your story,” Guiliano said. He was studying the man closely. This could be a plan to infiltrate his band with an informer. He could see that Pisciotta, Passatempo and Terranova were full of distrust.
Silvestro went on. “They were all fools and they were all frightened women. The Maresciallo knew that it was stupid of him to take most of the men into the mountains when we had a barracks full of prisoners. The carabinieri regard Sicily as some foreign occupied country. I used to protest against that attitude, and that got me into their bad books. And the authorities in Palermo wanted to protect their Maresciallo—they were responsible for him after all. It would look better if the Bellampo Barracks had been betrayed from within instead of taken over by men who were braver and more clever. They didn’t courtmartial me. They told me to resign. They said it would be without prejudice, but I know them better than that. I’ll never get a government job again. I’m fitted for nothing else and I’m a Sicilian patriot. So I thought to myself—what can I do with my life? And I said to myself—I will go to Guiliano.”
Guiliano sent to the cooking site for food and drink and then conferred with his chiefs.
Passatempo was gruff and positive. “What kind of fools do they think we are? Shoot him and throw his body off the cliff. We don’t need carabinieri in our band.”
Pisciotta saw that Guiliano was once again taken by the Corporal. He knew his friend’s impulsive emotions, so he said carefully, “It’s most likely a trick. But even if it’s not, why take the chance? We’ll have to worry all the time. There will always be doubt. Why not just send him back?”
Terranova said, “He knows our camp. He’s seen some of our men and he knows their number. That is valuable information.”
Guiliano said, “He’s a true Sicilian. He acts out of a sense of honor. I can’t believe he would act the part of a spy.” He saw that they all smiled at his innocence.
Pisciotta said, “Remember, he tried to kill you. He had a concealed weapon and he was a prisoner and he tried to kill you out of sheer temper and with no hope of escape.”
Guiliano thought, And that’s what makes him valuable to me. Aloud he said, “Doesn’t that prove he is a man of honor? He was defeated but felt that he had to die avenging himself. And what harm can he do? He’ll be a member of the common band—we won’t take him into our confidence. And we’ll keep a close eye on him. I’ll give him my personal attention. When the time is ripe we’ll put him to a test that he must refuse if he is a spy for the carabinieri. Leave him to me.”
Later that evening when he told Silvestro that he was now a member of the band, the man simply said, “You can count on me for anything.” He understood that Guiliano had again saved him from death.
At Eastertime Guiliano visited his family. Pisciotta had argued against this, saying the police might set a trap. Easter in Sicily had always been a traditional death day for bandits. The police counted on the deep ties of family to bring outlaws sneaking down from the mountains to visit their loved ones. But Guiliano’s spies brought word that the Maresciallo himself would be visiting his family on the mainland and that half the garrison at the Bellampo Barracks had been given leave to celebrate the holiday in Palermo. Guiliano decided that he would bring enough men with him to make it safe. He slipped into Montelepre on Holy