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“Something funny?” Lanza said.
Canidy heard a Lower East Side tough-guy tone of voice that he figured had to be close to what Lanza used when he was about to put the screws to someone who had not paid his protection money or his kickback.
“No, not at all,” Canidy said, earnest but unnerved. He took a sip of his espresso, then looked Lanza in the eye. “To answer your question, he would be getting what he is getting now, a deep sense of patriotism for his part in helping to win the war.”
Lanza held the eye contact for a long moment, then looked away deep in thought. He drained his coffee cup, set it down in its saucer with a clank, and nodded.
“E cosa mia,” he said finally.
Canidy’s face showed that he did not comprehend.
“It is my thing,” Lanza said with some semblance of a faint smile. “Leave it to me.”
[ TWO ]
When Dick Canidy stepped out of Nick’s Café onto the busy sidewalk, after Joe “Socks” Lanza had told him that he was sure he could pull together something for that night and to call Meyer’s Hotel in two hours for an update, he decided that he needed to clear his head and think all this through.
And one of the best ways Canidy knew to do that was to take a walk.
First, though, he realized that his original plan for the day—to take the late train back to Washington, which was why he had not brought a suitcase—was now changed and that he needed a place to spend the night.
And he also needed a destination to walk.
May as well be one and the same, he thought.
He went to the street corner, to the bank of three pay-telephones there, picked up the handset of the only phone not being used, dropped in a coin, and asked for the Gramercy Park Hotel.
When he was connected by the operator with the front desk clerk, she said that they had a few rooms available, but since it was getting to be afternoon he would do well to come directly to the hotel in order to secure one.
He said that he’d be there in about an hour—maybe sooner—and hung up the phone.
He started walking north on Pearl and noticed that while the air still was crisp and cold, the sky had cleared and the sun, now shining brightly on his side of the street, felt warm and refreshing.
And after that encounter with a cold-blooded mobster, Canidy thought as he crossed to go west on Fulton, I could use something—anything—to break the chill.
Canidy walked along, trying to put his finger on what bothered him—and something did indeed deeply disturb him—about Lanza.
Is it the corruption? His background of coercion, beatings, killings—the basic thuggery? Sure, some of that.
Hell, it was all of that.
But don’t be naïve, Dick, because the fact is that in all of history there has been corruption, and with corruption comes the violence of coercion, beatings, killings, and more.
After a few blocks, he made a right at the corner of Broadway. City Hall came into view.
And here’s proof that there always will be corruption—politicians.
What makes a coat-and-tie pol getting a kickback for awarding a city public works contract any better than a Guinea goon in rubber boots getting one for “protecting” a café owner or the hookers in his hotel?
It’s not the absence of violence. Don’t kid yourself. Many a politician has met an ugly end for failing to do as agreed—particularly when in bed with the mob.
Canidy walked past the grand City Hall grounds, admiring the building and marveling at the memory of just how much—and how blatantly—Boss Tweed, as New York City’s commissioner of public works, and the political machine known as Tammany Hall had stolen in the 1860s and ’70s.
What was it, some two hundred million dollars? Corruption of unbelievable proportions.
And who the hell knew how much the Honorable La Guardia had to pay—or still was paying—Tammany Hall for his election as mayor?
And with that kind of money involved, only a fool would believe that no one got hurt—that a kneecap or two didn’t get popped, that someone wasn’t forced to take a long walk on a short pier—in the process.
