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Although the guy had his back to him, there was no doubt whatever that this guy was not average. He was big and burly—easily six-two, two-fifty—and towered over everyone else.
And then Canidy saw who was onboard handing the big guy a wooden crate.
I knew it!
Canidy stepped closer and said quietly, “I don’t suppose there’s fish in that box, huh, Frank?”
Francisco Nola turned to look but did not appear to be particularly surprised to see Dick Canidy standing on a pier in Palermo.
The monster fishmonger, however, almost dropped the wooden crate into the sea.
Nola looked around the pier, then jerked his head toward the cabin of his boat.
“C’mon aboard,” he said softly in English to Canidy.
Nola said something in Sicilian to the monster fishmonger, then turned to go into the cabin.
Canidy hopped aboard and followed.
“So you couldn’t come with me,” Canidy said, “but here the hell you are.”
Nola was standing next to the helm of the Stefania, his arms crossed. He stared at Canidy but did not speak.
“What the hell is that all about?” Canidy said, his voice rising.
Nola glanced out the window before replying.
“This trip was planned before you were sent to me,” he said.
Canidy shook his head in disbelief.
A member of the crew came up from down below carrying another crate. He went out of the cabin without saying a word.
“What’s in the boxes?” Canidy said.
Nola did not immediately reply.
“Chocolates,” he said finally.
“Bullshit!”
“And medicine.”
Canidy stared at him.
“That I believe. What else?”
Nola shrugged.
“Does it matter?”
Canidy ignored that.
“Maybe weapons?” he went on.
Nola looked out the window, then back at Canidy.
“You know whose side I’m on.”
