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Dammit! I knew this was going too smoothly.
“What the hell happened to the guy who wanted to blow up all of the Germans himself?” Canidy said furiously. “Where the hell is he now? Jesus H. Christ, Frank!”
“He still stands before you,” Nola said stiffly, his voice wavering with emotion.
Canidy shook his head, then looked him in the eyes.
“Frank, I’m going to need more than family snapshots. I need hard intel. How many troops and exactly where? Who is in charge of harbor security, of town security? The locations of minefields on the beaches and offshore, and what’s been booby-trapped. I need documents on enemy ops. And more….”
“And you will have that,” Nola replied evenly.
Canidy stared at him for a long time. Then he looked as his watch, then at Fulmar. “Let’s go see Lanza. Ready?”
Fulmar nodded.
“I’ll be in touch, Frank,” Canidy said sharply.
He grabbed his attaché case and they went out the door.
Canidy and Fulmar crossed South Street and started walking the block north toward Meyer’s Hotel.
“Sonofabitch!” Canidy said. “I don’t know if I’m madder at Nola for saying he’s not going or at myself for assuming he was going.”
“I would not worry about that too much,” Fulmar said. “You have what appears to be good information to get going now. Each bit—”
“I know, I know. Each bit of info leads to more info. But I needed a lot yesterday.”
Canidy stopped walking.
When Fulmar stopped and looked back at him, Canidy said, “There’s just something about this that doesn’t feel right.”
Fulmar laughed. He checked the immediate area around them, then said, “Are you fucking kidding me? Everything about this doesn’t feel right!”
Canidy shook his head.
“Thanks, pal. Thanks for making me feel better.”
The door to room 201 could have used a fresh coat of paint. It actually could have used a complete refinishing since it had, judging by the fat flakes of paint that were peeling off, already been painted four or more times, layer upon layer. But then if renovation started with the door, there would be no end to it. The whole damned hotel needed work.
Canidy, still fuming at Nola’s announcement that he was not going to Sicily, knocked on the door harder than he realized and chips of paint came flying off.
“Easy, Dick,” Fulmar said.
The door swung open quickly and noisily and Joe “Socks” Lanza stood there.
“What the hell?” he said.
He looked at Fulmar.
“Who’s this?”
“A good friend,” Canidy said.
Lanza looked past them, down the hall, then said, “Let’s not talk in the hall.”
He turned and walked back into the room. Canidy and Fulmar followed.
The room was bare and ratty but brightly lit. It had a desk that was a mess of magazines and newspapers, and four mismatched chairs, one behind the desk. There was a single window that overlooked South Street, and the stained bedsheet that served as a curtain was pulled closed.
