Palasota grimaced and shook his head.
“The real bitch of it is that it would happen anyway. He would just do it at the threat of gunpoint. So, we pretend that it is part of our friendly business.” He paused, then pointedly added, “But, trust me, his time is coming.”
“Why not just see that he has an accident now?”
“No!” Palasota said quickly.
Canidy studied him.
That was a fast response—maybe too fast.
What is that about?
Palasota, trying to appear casual, said: “What I mean is, better the devil you know than the new SS bastard you don’t. Follow me?”
Devil? An interesting choice of word.
They say it takes one to know one, no?
Canidy nodded.
“This might sound odd,” Palasota then said as he looked at him, “but you look like you did not get a good night’s sleep. You got a place to stay?”
Canidy automatically rubbed his chin, and felt the heavy stubble.
“Yes and no,” he said.
“What is it? Yes or no?”
“We could do better.”
“We?”
“I have another man with me.”
One whose ankle will probably become instantly healed when he sees all these attractive women.
Palasota has to have a doctor who can look at that foot if it doesn’t get better.
“Then it is settled. You will stay here at the hotel.”
What? And have all your “ears” listening to everything I’m doing?
And where the hell would we run the wireless?
“That’s not such a good idea,” Canidy said. “I saw some SS in the lobby. That’s a little too close for comfort.”
Palasota nodded thoughtfully.
“I can find you something else, then.”
Well, we don’t need to be in that shithole any longer. Not with Nola’s dead cousin. Damn! The body . . .
“That would be helpful,” Canidy said.
“È cosa mia,” Palasota said finally, dramatically touching the fingertips of both hands to his chest.
Canidy remembered Joe Socks Lanza declaring the same to him—“It is my thing, leave it to me”—and Canidy had done that and Lanza had delivered.