“What was the cousin’s name?” Palasota said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Palasota looked at Andrea and said what he wanted. All Canidy understood was “Nazi SS.”
“Mariano?” she then said softly, looking at Canidy. Tears suddenly flowed down her cheeks. “I go.”
“You really shouldn’t,” Canidy heard himself say. “Let Antonio or—”
“I go!” she repeated, this time angrily.
That is one tough young broad.
“Your English . . . it is getting better.”
She nodded. “Tube teach me.”
Yeah, I bet he taught you a thing or two.
* * *
Canidy led Andrea into Mariano’s house, their feet crunching on the broken glass and plates. Andrea gasped at all the damage. Canidy closed the door then motioned for Andrea to wait in the kitchen. She nodded, then saw a straw whisk in the corner and started sweeping up small piles of debris.
There had been no response to Canidy’s calling out, “Apollo!”
He looked around. The bicycle was where he’d left it. He listened carefully for a moment, then stepped around the bicycle, pulling out his .45 as he went.
“Apollo!” he called out again as he pounded up the wooden stairs.
He approached the top, turned to look toward the window—and saw John Craig van der Ploeg, still sitting on the floor, was bent over the makeshift radio table. The Sten and the empty K-ration box were on the floor beside him.
Canidy quickly scanned the room, noticed nothing unusual, then quickly crossed the floor.
He saw John Craig’s torso slowly rising and falling, then heard his soft snores.
He’s out cold.
Canidy put his .45 back in his waistband, then walked over, grasped John Craig’s shoulder, and gently shook him.
John Craig awoke startled, groping around for the submachine gun as he sat bolt upright.
Then he realized it was Canidy.
“Damn it! You scared the crap out of me!”
“Welcome to my world. Hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.”
John Craig exhaled audibly.
“Actually,” he then said, rubbing his eyes, “I’m glad you did wake me. I was having this really bad dream about that Luftwaffe transport. But instead of me shooting it down, it shot us up. Then I bailed out and as I popped my chute, the Giant circled back and came right at me. The last thing I saw was the pilot—who looked just like Mariano—screaming bloody murder. Then you woke me . . .”
Canidy grunted. “Either your bum foot must be making you delirious or you need to lay off those Peter Paul Choclettos.”
“You find anything?”
“Yeah,” Canidy said. “Jimmy Skinny’s Whorehouse Hotel.”
“What?”