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“Ciao,” John Craig said, and made a half-attempt to get up, then winced with pain.
As she started to make a weak smile in reply, her face suddenly showed great concern.
“Is bad!” she said, and quickly went to John Craig and knelt beside his deeply bruised and swollen foot.
* * *
Andrea Buda tried for what to Canidy felt like an hour to get him to understand what she clearly insisted was to happen next. All he knew for certain was that it had something to do with John Craig’s foot—she pointed to it and repeatedly said, “Is bad!”—and that she wanted it done somewhere else but in Mariano’s house.
Finally, she grabbed Canidy’s hand and led him across the room. As she started to pull him down the stairs, Canidy called back to John Craig, “Sit tight, Gimpy. I’ll get this figured out.”
Canidy then guessed that Andrea was going to have him do something with Mariano. But then she led him, not to the living room, but to the kitchen, and then out the front door.
Ten minutes and five blocks later, they came to another residential street and then to another house. As Andrea pulled a key from her pocket, she pointed to the door and then to herself and said, “My casa.”
They entered, and Canidy saw that it was more or less similar to Mariano’s—with one main exception. It was not destroyed. It was furnished simply and very neatly kept.
They stood in the kitchen, which had a basic wooden table with four wooden stools. Andrea went to one of the lower cabinet doors and took from it a small black bag that she then put on the table. She dug into it and produced a roll of tape.
It’s her medical bag.
She held it up to Canidy, then pointed in the direction of Mariano’s house, then motioned from it to the tape roll.
“You want to bring Apollo here?” Canidy said.
She looked at him not completely comprehending, then repeated the gestures.
He nodded. But it will have to be after dark.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Andrea was again kneeling at John Craig’s feet, her medical bag nearby. He was lying on his torn mattress. She had moment
s earlier just come out of the small bathroom carrying a large bowl of water. She carefully put the hurt foot in the water, then soaped a sponge and began slowly cleansing it.
From John Craig’s expression, Canidy thought he looked like he’d died and gone to heaven.
“You going to be all right for a while, Gimpy?” Canidy said to him. “I need to go talk to Palasota about my new priority.”
John Craig’s mop of hair nodded as he gave Canidy a thumbs-up.
* * *
When Dick Canidy returned two hours later, he was still annoyed that going back to see Jimmy Skinny basically had been a wild-goose chase.
He’s gone God Knows Where, and when I finally repeat “Vito” often enough that they get the goddamn midget to show up at the front desk, the sawed-off wiseguy hands me a note from Palasota with a hotel room key—after I specifically said that I did not want to stay there.
What a clusterfuck this is becoming!
Canidy again entered the house calling out, “Apollo!”
And again there was no answer.
And again he pulled out his .45 and went up the stairs, approaching the top cautiously.
“Sonofabitch!” he said as he quickly looked around the room.
There was no sign of John Craig van der Ploeg or Andrea Buda. The room held only the shredded mattresses and the makeshift table.
