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Hell, if he’s Mafia, then he probably stole it.
But where would he get one here?
The midget then took a last long drag on the cigarette, tossed it to the stone floor, and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe as he exhaled.
See, John Craig? Canidy thought, suppressing a chuckle. Here’s proof those damn things will stunt your growth.
And they apparently cause craters of zits. . . .
Canidy discreetly scanned the room and saw that they were in some sort of a storage room. The wooden shelving along the right wall was stuffed with stacks of folded linens. Against the far wall were cases of canned food and wine in stacks five to six feet high.
Antonio Buda bent over to exchange pats on the back with the midget. Then they had a brief conversation, one with a great deal of gesticulating. The only thing Canidy understood for sure was the mentioning of Francisco Nola. The man constantly glanced at Canidy as Antonio spoke.
I wonder, since he’s carrying that Colt, why he didn’t see if I’ve got a gun.
Maybe Antonio’s telling him now. . . .
Then Antonio pointed at Canidy’s coat.
Shit, he is!
But then Canidy realized he was pointing to where Canidy had put the envelope. Canidy produced the letter of introduction that was written in Sicilian.
Here you go, Shorty.
He watched the man read it, raise his eyebrows, and nodded. The midget then looked up and studied Canidy for a long moment. He said something to him in Sicilian. Canidy was about to gesture he didn’t understand when Antonio said what Canidy guessed was exactly that—he didn’t speak Sicilian.
Then the man grunted and marched out of the room with the letter.
Now what?
I don’t want that damn thing disappearing!
Canidy looked at Antonio, who shrugged but then put out his hands as if he were a priest blessing his congregation, the gesture suggesting It’ll be okay.
Canidy raised an eyebrow and made a face.
It damn well better be.
Glancing around the storage room, Canidy saw nothing unusual among the shelves—until he came to two medium-sized cardboard boxes. One was labeled bluntly in black block lettering, the other in a flowing red typeface that was below a red cartoon drawing.
The black was in German. It read: LATEX FORSCHUNGSGEMEINSCHAFT KONDOME.
The red was in Italian—PER AMORE—and the drawing was that of Cupid putting what looked like a balloon on his blunt-tipped arrow.
Aha! Occupational necessity . . . condoms.
And guess which one’s stick-up-their-ass Kraut-made and which one’s Italian.
Five minutes later, the midget appeared at the door to the storage room and exchanged a few words with Antonio. He then looked at Canidy and motioned for him to follow him.
Canidy looked at Antonio and raised an eyebrow.
Antonio started with miming. He pointed to Canidy and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he pointed at himself, held his palms together at the side of his head, indicating sleep, then pointed in the direction of the import-export office.
Okay, so he’s going back to the couch to sleep—and probably to fart. No surprise.
Canidy gave him a thumbs-up that he understood.
