Canidy shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Ah, how I’ve been forgotten so quick. I was Charley Lucky’s chauffeur before he went to the big house. He taught me everything I know”—he snorted—“which I suppose is why I wound up in the goddamn slam, too, before I got deported in ’35.”
“Deported?”
Palasota didn’t answer as he opened one of the deep drawers of his desk and reached in. He came up with a bottle of Italian grappa and two squat glasses. He poured three fingers of the pressed grape brandy into each, handed one to Canidy, and held his up in a toast.
“I think we might be able to help one another out,” Palasota said, then added, his voice sounding on the edge of being emotional, “To Charley Lucky and Sicily!”
Canidy met his eyes.
And so, Jimmy Skinny, we have established our bona fides. . . .
Canidy tapped his glass to Palasota’s, and they tossed back the brandy.
That booze is going to play hell on my empty stomach—and my thinking.
Be very careful, Dick. . . .
“Okay,” Canidy then said, “you asked why I need to find Frank Nola. . . .”
* * *
“. . . and,” he finished ten minutes later, “now we’ve come back to find Frank and Tubes and get them the hell out of here before the invasion begins. I don’t have a hard date for that—I’ve only heard soon—but be aware that the Allies started early bombing of Pantelleria and some other small islands a couple weeks ago.”
“May eighteenth,” Palasota said.
How the hell did he know that?
Palasota then grinned.
“You should have seen the Krauts, especially the local head SS guy, scared shitless, running around Palermo. You would’ve thought the bombs had hit here. We actually did a lot more business than usual for a few days after that. The Krauts didn’t want to go meet their maker without a last couple good romps in the sack.”
Canidy grunted.
“After they calmed down,” Palasota said, “nothing much happened. Life went back to normal.” He paused in thought, then went on: “I don’t know about any more of the nerve gas, but we can quietly get word out. The information on military strength is easy enough. We know what’s here—which the Germans are complaining is not much, and mostly just a bunch of Italian soldiers. I bet that explains why the news of Pantelleria and all its heavy defenses being bombed made them panic. And we have ways to find out about what may be coming.”
Canidy grinned.
“What?” Palasota said.
“Sorry. That just made me think about Mussolini’s bold declaration. He said that the heavily fortified Pantelleria meant that Italy unequivocally owned the Mediterranean. And then I thought of the Maginot Line. Some of those Germans no doubt remember it, too.”
“I don’t follow.”
“France, in the First War, built a line of fortifications along its border, very heavy ones that they were absolutely convinced would keep the Germans out. The Krauts, however, immediately flanked the line and plowed right through, taking France in a matter of days. That miserable failure gave way to: ‘What’s the literal translation of Maginot Line?’”
“What?”
“Speed Bump Head.”
Palasota laughed.
“Well,” he said, and shrugged, “that looks like what’s going to happen here, too.”
“You don’t seem to be too concerned about that.”
“Look,” Palasota said, “I learned a long time ago that I am nowhere near the sharpest knife in the drawer. But I am a survivor.”
Yeah. A survivor just like your tough old boss.
But don’t think you’re conning me into thinking you’re not bright.
You were damn quick and smooth with your little test to see if I really knew Joey Socks.
Jimmy Skinny went on: “I am biding my time until the Americans come. I can put together two and two and get, not four, but twenty-two, capiche? These Nazi officers are arrogant and love to brag. And I have ears everywhere.” He waved his right hand above his head. “The girls, the waiters, the bartenders, everyone is listening. And of course certain rooms have been bugged.”
You did learn more than a thing or two working for Charley Lucky.
The most important being: knowledge is indeed power.
Are you recording our conversation?
“I understand,” Canidy said, then after a moment added, “This is none of my business, but that girl in here earlier . . . Maria?”
Palasota nodded. “A very nice girl. She is not available, but there are many others just as nice.”
“That’s not—”
“You want a girl?” Palasota interrupted. “Just pick one. Or two. On the house.”
“That’s not what I came for,” Canidy said.
Jimmy Skinny laughed loudly.
“But that’s what everyone comes for! And to be with one of these beautiful pinup girls for an hour, they happily pay fifteen lire.”
Canidy did the conversion. That’s fifty cents.
Palasota smirked and added, “When the Americans get here, the price is going up to sixty lire.”
Canidy ignored that and instead said, “Maria is a beautiful woman. What I was going to ask is, who the hell hit her?”
Palasota looked at him a long moment, then nodded and said, “There’s an SS officer, head of the Palermo office here—”
“Müller,” Canidy interrupted, immediately understanding.
Palasota’s face gave away that he was impressed.
“Yeah,” he said, his tone now bitter and mocking, “Herr Sturmbannführer Hans Müller. He really is a mean bastard. And the one who was scared shitless about the May eighteenth bombings.”
Vito, at the mention of Müller, grunted contemptuously.
Canidy glanced at him, then back at Palasota as he thought: That’s saying something coming from one who’s known a mean bastard or two in his life.
“I’d suggest that that’s the understatement of the day,” Canidy said. “I’ve seen his work. He’s the sonofabitch who had the fishermen tortured after the cargo ship blew up in the harbor, then hung their bodies by wire nooses from the yardarm to rot. And he executed a professor from the university—at point-blank in front of Professor Rossi.”
And I think Mariano is some more of his handiwork—or at least his men’s.
Palasota looked at Canidy a long moment, then said, “I remember the bodies. Müller was ten kinds of pissed off. At the blowing up of the ship and the villa. He decided to send a message with that.”
“So I heard.”
“With such a hot temper, I do not think you will be surprised that he likes to smack around the girls. Especially when he’s been drinking; he’s one mean drunk, too. So, I pay the girls extra. Because of the abuse. And because they become damaged goods and can’t work. They are lucky if it’s just a bruise or two. That is what just happened with Maria. One girl was not so lucky after he ordered those fishermen hung.”
He paused to let Canidy consider that.
I hear you.
You’re saying I’m responsible for that collateral damage.
But you do understand the big picture. Otherwise we would not be having this talk. . . .
“Müller got pretty rough with her,” Palasota finished, “and she wound up cracking her skull on a table corner. He called it just an accident. But she’ll never be right in the head again. She just turned twenty.”
Canidy had a sudden mental image of the birthday dinner at Claridge’s that he’d had only months earlier with Ann Chambers—when they celebrated her twentieth.
Jesus H. Christ!
Rationally, I shouldn’t feel bad for a hooker. What happened to her is what’s called an occupational hazard.
But I do.
Especially after having almost lost Ann.
“And there’s no telling the sonofabitch no?”
Palasota grimaced and shook his head.
“The real b
itch of it is that it would happen anyway. He would just do it at the threat of gunpoint. So, we pretend that it is part of our friendly business.” He paused, then pointedly added, “But, trust me, his time is coming.”
“Why not just see that he has an accident now?”
“No!” Palasota said quickly.
Canidy studied him.
That was a fast response—maybe too fast.
What is that about?
Palasota, trying to appear casual, said: “What I mean is, better the devil you know than the new SS bastard you don’t. Follow me?”
Devil? An interesting choice of word.
They say it takes one to know one, no?
Canidy nodded.
“This might sound odd,” Palasota then said as he looked at him, “but you look like you did not get a good night’s sleep. You got a place to stay?”
Canidy automatically rubbed his chin, and felt the heavy stubble.
“Yes and no,” he said.
“What is it? Yes or no?”
“We could do better.”
“We?”
“I have another man with me.”
One whose ankle will probably become instantly healed when he sees all these attractive women.
Palasota has to have a doctor who can look at that foot if it doesn’t get better.
“Then it is settled. You will stay here at the hotel.”
What? And have all your “ears” listening to everything I’m doing?
And where the hell would we run the wireless?
“That’s not such a good idea,” Canidy said. “I saw some SS in the lobby. That’s a little too close for comfort.”
Palasota nodded thoughtfully.
“I can find you something else, then.”
Well, we don’t need to be in that shithole any longer. Not with Nola’s dead cousin. Damn! The body . . .
“That would be helpful,” Canidy said.
“È cosa mia,” Palasota said finally, dramatically touching the fingertips of both hands to his chest.
Canidy remembered Joe Socks Lanza declaring the same to him—“It is my thing, leave it to me”—and Canidy had done that and Lanza had delivered.
“The last I saw Frank Nola,” Canidy then said, “was at his cousin’s house. Do you know them, too? I believe it’s Mariano and Nicole.”
Palasota shook his head. “Does not ring a bell. Got a last name?”
“I’m not even sure I have their first names right.”
“Sorry.”
Canidy nodded, and thought, The Brothers Buda would recognize him, if that’s who it is.
Canidy went on: “Frank had brought the Budas’ baby sister there to that house to hide her from the SS.”
Palasota raised his eyebrows in question.
“Her name is Andrea,” Canidy said, “maybe nineteen years old, a beautiful girl with dark hair and eyes.”
Palasota nodded. “Yes, that’s Andrea.”
“You do know her?”
“Yes, she’s here.”
What? She’s a hooker?
That’s why Tweedle Dee looked sad. And then got pissed off when he thought I mimed that I wanted to screw her. . . .
But then he said he didn’t know where she was.
Or was that just one more miscommunication?
“What do you mean she’s here?”
“She’s here working.”
Then that’s what Tubes said when he told John Craig about screwing a whore? It was Andrea. . . .
“Andrea is a . . . working girl?”
“Oh!” Jimmy Skinny then said. “No, not that. She’s in charge of the maids. And she keeps an eye on the girls when they get hurt. She studied to be a nurse at the university. Maria saw her this morning, before she came to see me.”
No shit!
“I need to speak with her,” Canidy said. “As soon as possible.”
Palasota turned to Vito, snapped his fingers, and in Sicilian rapidly gave what clearly was an order.
The midget nodded once and without a word went out the door.
Canidy looked again at the Tommy guns standing in the corner.
“Dumb question,” Canidy said. “Where did all the American weapons come from? Those Thompsons, and I saw that Shorty—I mean, Vito—has a Model 1903 Colt.”
Palasota chuckled. “You are lucky he doesn’t know English. If he heard you call him that, he might use it.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Canidy said. “Most Model 1903s I’ve seen have belonged to general officers. Shor— Vito isn’t quite in their league.”
“Actually, the real story is I’ve got more Berettas and Lugers than I know what to do with. They’re worthless pieces of shit, as far as I’m concerned. Worse than that compared to the Colts. As for them being carried by officers, that may be true, but first guy I saw packing a 1903 was in Chicago—Alfonso Capone?”
Jesus. All these wise guys are connected!
Canidy grunted.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of Al.”
“So I’ve been having Colts and Thompsons, same as I carried in New York, shipped here since I arrived. Joey Socks gets them, then Francisco Nola, until he disappeared anyway, was smuggling them for me.”
No surprise there . . . Lanza’s office is where I got my Johnny gun.
Need to change the name of that place from Fulton Fish Market to Fulton Black Market.
There was a knock at the door, and the door immediately swung open.
Vito entered, trailed by Andrea Buda. Canidy saw that she was nicely dressed but not in anything revealing like the hookers wore. There was something different about her, then he realized that she had had her shoulder-length thick chestnut brown hair cut short.
Changing her appearance on purpose?
Better to hide from the SS?
The shorter hair seems to accentuate those breasts. . . .
Her dark almond eyes glanced around the office.
When she saw Canidy, he started to smile and was about to say “Ciao” when he saw her eyes grow huge—and furious.
She began screaming at him, then lunged. Vito, trying to restrain her, grabbed her around the waist and dug in his heels—but only managed to get dragged across the office.
Canidy caught her wrists as she started hitting him openhanded on his chest.
“Andrea!” Palasota yelled.
IX
[ONE]
OSS London Station
Berkeley Square
London, England
1410 31 May 1943
“That’s right, General Sikorski,” Colonel David Bruce said into his telephone as he made notes on a legal pad. “Sausagemaker confirms that they got the latest delivery. I’ll let you know when I know more.”
Lieutenant Colonel Edmund T. Stevens—standing at the desk and holding a stack of manila folders—watched Bruce hang up the phone, stare at it a long moment, then grunt.
Bruce looked up at Stevens and said, “We could turn over the entire U.S. Army and Navy to Sikorski and it wouldn’t be enough. That makes their third supply drop for May, right?”
“Yeah,” Stevens said. “His Tourists distributed the first two to underground cells in the north, and this third went to Szerynski in the south. It had the usual five thousand pounds of”—he flipped open the top folder and read from a sheet—“four Browning thirty cal machine guns, forty-four thirty cal carbines, fifty-five Sten submachine guns, and just over forty thousand rounds of ammo, plus a couple hundred pounds of Composition C-2.”
“How much more can we get our hands on, and how quickly?”
Stevens looked back to the folder and began flipping pages.
“Two more on hand. That’s an additional five tons’ worth. And enough coming in today to put together another.” He looked up. “I can’t say exactly how long it’ll take—a day or three? Sometimes longer—to requisition more.”
David Bruce noted that on his pad.
“See what you can find out soonest, Ed,
and let me know so I can relay that to Donovan. He says to send more immediately.”
“Got it. I’ll get working on the two we have on hand, then start the paperwork for more.”
“Anything else?” Bruce said somewhat impatiently.
“Szerynski said that he is taking a team back to that camp they found the Germans building in southern Poland. They want to see what’s happened since they took out the train carrying Wernher von Braun’s assistant, and see if there is anything else that they can sabotage.”
“They’re going back that soon?”
“It has been seven, eight days.”
“Dulles says that the Germans have not even mentioned the sabotage, let alone the loss of that assistant . . . Schwartz?”
“Yes, SS-Sturmbannführer Klaus Schwartz, the chemist.”
Bruce shook his head. “What could the rocket scientist’s chemist assistant have been doing that would warrant such silence? Even Dulles’s connections in the Abwehr can’t find out—not only what he was up to but that he died doing it.”
“I don’t get it either,” Stevens said. “Normally, Hitler’s High Command would be ordering some ridiculously extravagant service, the casket covered in medals, to honor one of their fallen great SS heroes.”
There came a rap at the open door, and when they looked they saw the commo room chief in the doorway.
“Colonel, sir,” Captain Tom Harrison said, “another Eyes Only Operational Immediate for you. Busy day, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it, Harrison,” Bruce said, waving him in.
Harrison purposefully marched in and went through the ritual of extending the clipboard for Bruce to sign the Receipt for Classified Document, then Harrison handed him the document with the TOP SECRET cover sheet.
Harrison saluted, then after seeing that Bruce’s attention was on the message, gave up waiting for it to be returned, and marched out.
“Oh, what the hell?” Bruce said after he’d read the first two paragraphs:
* * *
TOP SECRET
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
X STATION CHIEF
FILE
COPY NO. 1
OF 1 COPY ONLY
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 28
