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“Tommy”? Canidy thought. Is this a test?
“‘Tommy Socks’?” Canidy repeated.
Palasota nodded. “Sure. Tommy Socks Gambino. You know . . .”
It is a test!
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t fucking know,” Canidy said, sharply sarcastic.
Canidy noticed Vito, who picked up on his tone of voice, stand a little more rigidly, his hands discreetly crossed at his belly so that his right hand was on his Colt.
Canidy went on: “Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Palasota then broke eye contact and laughed.
Fuck it, Canidy then thought. What’s to lose?
“It’s Joe Socks,” he said, “and you damn well know it. Lanza is my go-between with Luciano at Great Meadow prison. And for the record, I don’t like being fucked with.”
“Easy, my friend,” Palasota said calmly. “Just take it easy. I had to make sure you knew who was close enough to Charley Lucky to provide those items. Tell me, how is my old friend Joey Socks?”
Canidy saw that Vito relaxed at hearing Palasota’s calming tone.
“Last I saw him,” Canidy said, “in March, he was having a little trouble at the docks and had to whack at least a couple bastards.”
“That’s Lanza. Damn good guy. I miss him.”
“He was here?”
Palasota shook his head. “I was there, in New York City.”
“Doing what?”
Palasota met his eyes again and said, “I’m Jimmy Skinny.”
Canidy shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Ah, how I’ve been forgotten so quick. I was Charley Lucky’s chauffeur before he went to the big house. He taught me everything I know”—he snorted—“which I suppose is why I wound up in the goddamn slam, too, before I got deported in ’35.”
“Deported?”
Palasota didn’t answer as he opened one of the deep drawers of his desk and reached in. He came up with a bottle of Italian grappa and two squat glasses. He poured three fingers of the pressed grape brandy into each, handed one to Canidy, and held his up in a toast.
“I think we might be able to help one another out,” Palasota said, then added, his voice sounding on the edge of being emotional, “To Charley Lucky and Sicily!”
Canidy met his eyes.
And so, Jimmy Skinny, we have established our bona fides. . . .
Canidy tapped his glass to Palasota’s, and they tossed back the brandy.
That booze is going to play hell on my empty stomach—and my thinking.
Be very careful, Dick. . . .
