She stopped and looked impressively at Heller. He nodded. She went on. “Now, Charlemagne had quite a few marriages. And he married — that’s this line here — the daughter of the Duke d’Aosta. That means ‘of’ Aosta and that’s a province in northwest Italy just south of Lake Geneva.

“There are blond and tall Italians clear across northern Italy but they are thick in the Valle d’Aosta.

“Now, follow this line here. From the Duke d’Aosta we come right down to Biella, which was my father’s name. You still with me, kid?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Heller in a fascinated voice.

“All right. Now, at the start of World War II, my parents fled to Sicily. They stayed in Sicily four whole years! At the end of the war, they emigrated to America and that’s where I was born. So,” and she drew up in triumph, “I’m just as Sicilian as any of them! What do you think of that?”

“Complete proof!” said Heller.

Babe flipped a finger at the chart. “And, furthermore, I am a direct descendant of Charlemagne! Oh,” she gloated, “the mayor’s wife went absolutely green with envy!”

“I can see why she would!” said Heller. “But wait. There’s something that’s not here. That maybe you don’t know. You ever hear of Atalanta?”

“I never been to Atlanta.”

“No, Atalanta,” said Heller. “Now, at the beginning of this tree, a lot earlier than it starts here, there was a prince.”

This had her attention. And it sure had mine! Code break! He was about to be carried away with his stupid enthusiasm for Folk Legend 894M. I reached for my pen.

“His name,” said Heller, “was Prince Caucalsia. He…”

From the door came a piercing, “Pssst!”

Babe and Heller turned toward it.

There was a Sicilian there. He was holding a large money sack. He had come halfway through the door and was bending over, beckoning urgently to Babe Corleone. His face. I had seen his face! I was trying to place it!

Babe went over and bent down. The Sicilian stood on tiptoe to reach her ear. He was urgently pointing toward Heller. I could not hear what he was whispering. She shook her head, negatively, a bit puzzled. Then he whispered and seemed triumphant.

The woman’s eyes shot open. She stood up. She turned and stamped across the room to Heller. She seized him!

Then she pushed him off, holding him by the shoulders. She stared at him as though memorizing his face. Then she whirled. In a voice that could have knocked the walls down, she said, “Where the hell is that Geovani?”

Geovani was right there. The hood that had brought Heller up in the elevator.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me this was that kid?” she thundered.

There were other faces in the door. Scared!

“Here I been treating him like dirt!” She turned. She pushed Heller down into an easy chair. “Why,” she pleaded, “didn’t you tell me you were the one that saved our Gracious Palms?”

I could hear Heller swallow. “I… I didn’t know it was yours.”

“Hell, yes, kid! We own and control the fanciest cat houses in New York and New Jersey! Who else?”

Gregorio, glasses shaking, belatedly walked in with the milk and seltzer.

“To hell with that,” said Babe. “This kid wants beer, he can have beer! To hell with the illegality!”

“No, no,” said Heller. “I’ve really got to be going.” He thought for a moment. “You can tell me where to find Bang-Bang Rimbombo. I think I’ve got car trouble.”

So that was why he had walked in on the Corleone mob!

Suddenly, it all added up. He had read of Bang-Bang in the papers, knew he was part of the Corleone mob. He had Babe’s address from Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. To find himself an expert car bomber, he had simply gone to Babe’s. Very, very smart detective work at locating somebody.

But wait! He had shown himself at that garage! They would be waiting for him when he came back there. Very, very dumb!

Heller was going to drive me crazy yet! He was too brightly stupid to live!

Babe turned to the people inside the door. They were whispering to each other and pointing at Heller and trying to get a better look at him. “Geovani, get out the limo and run this young gentleman over to Bang-Bang’s. Tell him I said to do what the kid wants.”

She turned back to Heller. “Look, kid, anything you want, you let Babe know, see?” She turned to the staff. “You hear that? And you, Consalvo, I want a word with you.” She was pointing at the one who had identified Heller.

I suddenly remembered who the Sicilian with the money sack was. He was the clerk at the Gracious Palms! Trying to keep up with Heller was exhausting me, spoiling my recall for faces even.

Heller took his leave. Babe bent down and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Come back any time, you dear boy. You dear, dear boy!”

Heller sat in the front seat of the limousine with the hood, Geovani, driving.

“You really wasted them punks just like that!” said Geovani in a voice of awe. “Did you know one of them was Faustino’s nephew?” He drove for a while and then, taking his hand off the steering wheel, he made a gun out of his fingers and, pointing at the road, made the motions of firing and said, “Blowie! Blowie! Blowie! Just like that! Wow!”

They drew up in front of a down-at-the-heels apartment house. Geovani led Heller up to the second floor and knocked on a door, a code signal. A girl’s face came out through the door crack. “Oh, it’s you.” She opened it wider. “For you, Bang-Bang.”

Bang-Bang Rimbombo was in bed with another girl.

“Come on,” said Geovani.

“Hell, I just got sprung!” protested Bang-Bang. “I ain’t had any for six months!”

“Babe says you go.”

Bang-Bang was out of bed in a flash. He struggled into his clothes.

“Car job,” said Geovani. “This kid will show you.”

“I’ll get my things,” said Bang-Bang.

Geovani used the phone and called a cab. Waiting, he covered the phone. “We never use the limo for wet jobs,” he said apologetically. “And we control the cab companies. They don’t talk.”

Shortly, Geovani shook Heller’s hand and left. Halfway down the hall he turned and made a pistol out of his fingers again. “Blowie! Blowie! Blowie!” he said. “Just like that!” He was gone.

The cab arrived and Bang-Bang, dragging a big bag, got in. Heller followed him. Heller gave an address a block away from the garage.

He was learning, but he was not really up on this tradecraft. They would be alerted. I knew he was going into a battle. And I didn’t have that platen. Short of sleep, haggard, I hung on the viewscreen. He had my life in his hands!

Heller paid the cab off and walked around the corner toward the garage.

“Wait,” said Bang-Bang. He was a very narrow-faced little Sicilian. He looked pretty smart. Maybe he had sense enough, I hoped, to keep them out of trouble. “If that’s the place,” he said, “I know it. It’s a garage Faustino uses to repaint stolen cars and other things. You sure you know what you’re doing, kid?” He shook his head. “Sneaking in there to rig a car for a blitz is a little bit steep.”

“It’s my car and I want you to unrig it,” said Heller.

“Oh, that’s different,” said Bang-Bang. He hefted his heavy shoulder bag and approached the garage.

The door was locked on the outside with a big padlock. Heller put his ear to the wall and listened. Then he shook his head. He went around the building and checked the back door. It, too, was locked with a padlock. He returned to the front. He stood back and saw that there was a window beside the front door, about six feet from ground level.

He took out a tiny tool, inserted it in the padlock, fished it, and almost at once had it open.

Heller was moving very fast, very efficiently. It was so much in contrast with his sloppy disregard for routine espionage that I had forgotten for some time what he actually was. I was looking at a combat engineer. Getting into an enemy fort was something they did with a yawn. He was in the field of his own tradecraft!