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One of the headlines read: MORE BOMBINGS LEAD TO MORE QUESTIONS.
“Let me ask you about something else,” he said, holding up the newspaper. “What do you know about these bombings?”
“Not much. Less than you, I’d guess.”
Canidy locked eyes with him.
Lanza said, “It’s not our guys, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Can you ask around?” Fulmar said.
Lanza shrugged.
“I’ll keep my ears open,” he said after a moment. “Anything else?”
“Not right now,” Canidy said.
Lanza stood up.
“Then I’ll show you the way out.”
They left the office, went down the hallway to the back of the hotel, then down a flight of wooden steps that led to the alley.
It was almost completely dark there, but the yellow of the taxicab made itself known. As did, Canidy noticed, the hulking silhouette of the monster fishmonger.
“You get the sticks?” Lanza asked the driver.
“In the trunk.”
“Good. They now belong to these guys. Take them wherever they want.”
The driver wordlessly got in behind the wheel and slammed the door closed.
Canidy turned to thank Lanza but he had already gone back in the hotel.
Fulmar and Canidy got in the backseat.
“Gramercy,” Canidy said to the driver. “I think you know the way.”
[ ONE ]
Gramercy Park Hotel
2 Lexington Avenue
New York City, New York
2210 7 March 1943
The monster fishmonger opened the trunk of the cab, and inside there were three parcels, each wrapped in the same heavy brown paper used for packing seafood. The two smaller packages were cubes about eight by ten inches; the one larger parcel was flat and rectangular, some two feet long, a foot wide, and eighteen inches high.
Fulmar reached in for one of the smaller parcels, expecting it to be lighter than the big one.
“Jesus,” he said. “That’s heavy as hell.”
“That’s because that’s a can of thirty-ought-six,” Canidy said, standing there holding his attaché case.
Fulmar picked up the bigger box.
