“E cosa mia,” he said finally.
Canidy’s face showed that he did not comprehend.
“It is my thing,” Lanza said with some semblance of a faint smile. “Leave it to me.”
[ TWO ]
When Dick Canidy stepped out of Nick’s Café onto the busy sidewalk, after Joe “Socks” Lanza had told him that he was sure he could pull together something for that night and to call Meyer’s Hotel in two hours for an update, he decided that he needed to clear his head and think all this through.
And one of the best ways Canidy knew to do that was to take a walk.
First, though, he realized that his original plan for the day—to take the late train back to Washington, which was why he had not brought a suitcase—was now changed and that he needed a place to spend the night.
And he also needed a destination to walk.
May as well be one and the same, he thought.
He went to the street corner, to the bank of three pay-telephones there, picked up the handset of the only phone not being used, dropped in a coin, and asked for the Gramercy Park Hotel.
When he was connected by the operator with the front desk clerk, she said that they had a few rooms available, but since it was getting to be afternoon he would do well to come directly to the hotel in order to secure one.
He said that he’d be there in about an hour—maybe sooner—and hung up the phone.
He started walking north on Pearl and noticed that while the air still was crisp and cold, the sky had cleared and the sun, now shining brightly on his side of the street, felt warm and refreshing.
And after that encounter with a cold-blooded mobster, Canidy thought as he crossed to go west on Fulton, I could use something—anything—to break the chill.
Canidy walked along, trying to put his finger on what bothered him—and something did indeed deeply disturb him—about Lanza.
Is it the corruption? His background of coercion, beatings, killings—the basic thuggery? Sure, some of that.
Hell, it was all of that.
But don’t be naïve, Dick, because the fact is that in all of history there has been corruption, and with corruption comes the violence of coercion, beatings, killings, and more.
After a few blocks, he made a right at the corner of Broadway. City Hall came into view.
And here’s proof that there always will be corruption—politicians.
What makes a coat-and-tie pol getting a kickback for awarding a city public works contract any better than a Guinea goon in rubber boots getting one for “protecting” a café owner or the hookers in his hotel?
It’s not the absence of violence. Don’t kid yourself. Many a politician has met an ugly end for failing to do as agreed—particularly when in bed with the mob.
Canidy walked past the grand City Hall grounds, admiring the building and marveling at the memory of just how much—and how blatantly—Boss Tweed, as New York City’s commissioner of public works, and the political machine known as Tammany Hall had stolen in the 1860s and ’70s.
What was it, some two hundred million dollars? Corruption of unbelievable proportions.
And who the hell knew how much the Honorable La Guardia had to pay—or still was paying—Tammany Hall for his election as mayor?
And with that kind of money involved, only a fool would believe that no one got hurt—that a kneecap or two didn’t get popped, that someone wasn’t forced to take a long walk on a short pier—in the process.
So Canidy told himself that it wasn’t the ugly under-belly of the mob that really disturbed him.
It was more the fact that he innately, and perhaps too easily, understood how and why the mafia worked.
And he understood that he now had to work with it—“to dance with the devil,” as Colonel Donovan had said.
What the mob does is not a good thing. But it is better than anything that Hitler and Mussolini have in mind.
Just shy of crossing Canal Street, Canidy passed a series of storefronts and noticed the window of one in particular that advertised a sale on religious books.
It caused him to wonder, as he continued north, how much of an impact the news of his association with the underworld would make on his father. That is, if he told him—and he had absolutely no intention of even suggesting it to him.
The Reverend George Crater Canidy, Ph.D., D.D., was the headmaster of St. Paul’s School in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He was a kind and good man—a true gentle man—whose faith in the Lord Jesus Christ was surpassed—if that was at all possible—by his dedication to the education and well-being of the students put under his care.
The Reverend Dr. Canidy lived in the Episcopal school’s dormitory, in a small, separate apartment there, and had his office nearby, which allowed him to spend every possible minute on the mission that he devoutly believed to be one of the highest and most noble callings a man could have.
Dick Canidy loved his father. He respected him—genuinely, in the truest definition of the word, not the bastardized version that he had used with that Guinea sonofabitch just now.
The Reverend Dr. Canidy had had his share of disappointments in life, yet he always had stayed strong while he suffered them silently.
He had long been a widower; Dick had no real memory of his mother—other than a vague recollection of visits to a hospital room with a bad odor in her final months—but knew that her illness had not been a short one and that his father had shouldered the responsibility of her care with remarkable strength and quiet courage.
Afterward, he also had delicately handled the new role of single parent and teacher.
That might have been his toughest challenge, Canidy thought now, and grinned mischievously as he approached Houston Street.
Young Dick had been somewhat difficult, and the troubles really reached a head when a young man name Eric Fulmar was enrolled a grade behind him in the lower school.
Eric had arrived at St. Paul’s with a bad attitude—he knew that he was being stuck somewhere safe for the convenience of his mother, Monica Carlisle, the vivacious and—if you believed the studio publicity people—young actress prone to playing coed roles.
It absolutely was not good PR for Miss Carlisle to have a son—and one so old!—and, even worse, if the truth got out, a child who was unwanted, whose father was a German industrialist close to Hitler.
So off Eric was shipped to Iowa.
There, he and Canidy made fast friends, and in no time they were boys being boys—the pinnacle of which was misbehavior that resulted in piles of fall leaves being set afire…and their flames accidentally following a path to the fuel tank of a Studebaker President.
The explosion was spectacular, as was the reaction of everyone to it.
To smooth things over, Miss Carlisle’s studio sent a sharp young lawyer—one by the name of Stanley Fine—and with the miracle of a calm demeanor and a checkbook, all was made right.
Everything except the disappointment young Dick saw in his father’s eyes.
It was much the same look that, not much later, when Dick was determined to learn to fly at the local airfield, he had seen in his father’s eyes when it became clear that the son had no desire to follow the path that the father had hoped—into either the church or academia.
Canidy, dodging a cab as he crossed Tenth Street, knew that it would be quite the same look if the Reverend Dr. Canidy were to learn of his most recent dealings with the murderous and the corrupt.
Dad would not care for it one bit. He’s like most people. He wants to believe in the good, and only the good—and that’s okay.
It just leaves dealing with the bad to guys like me, and that’s okay, too.
Except…except maybe that’s what’s so troubling to me.
How can a father and son be so different?
Then again, maybe we’re not.
It’s not as though I’m dealing with these goddamned Guinea gangsters because I want to; in fact, I don’t want to.
I’m doing it beca
use it’s necessary.
A block south of Union Square, Canidy came to the storefront of an expensive lingerie shop and Ann Chambers came immediately to mind.
But Dad would like Ann.
He looked in the window, at the display, and had graphic thoughts about the lingerie and Ann.
And what about Ann?
That is one incredible woman—and a long way, in many ways, from the young coed I first met two years ago at her family’s Alabama plantation.
Beautiful, smart…and determined. Her capacity for affection and care is off the chart.
And it’s not as if I have none of those feelings for her.
I’m just not accustomed to having feelings for only one woman for any length of time. Fifteen, twenty minutes max, making me one sorry sonofabitch.
So then…where is this going, this “relationship”?
The war is not going to end tomorrow, or next week, and I can’t keep promising her that I won’t go away—then immediately break that promise.
This is what I do.
And now I’m off to Sicily?
I’m going to need some help with that, help handling these mob guys.
Maybe I can get Fulmar. Or Stan Fine. Screw David Bruce.
Sicily! Jesus!
Ann won’t like that…me gone again to parts unknown.
Canidy noticed a display of silk hosiery.
I’d be smart to bring back some of those for her. And some soaps and fragrances. Yeah, after I hit the hotel I’ll head back here, then over to Kiehl’s, over on Third Avenue and—what?
He looked at the street sign—it read 13TH.
That’s it. Third and Thirteenth. Come to think of it, without my Dopp kit I need deodorant and stuff, too. But first, the room.
[ THREE ]
Gramercy Park Hotel
2 Lexington Avenue
New York City, New York
1415 6 March 1943
Dick Canidy pushed hard on the gleaming brass bar of the heavy revolving door of what he considered to be one of the city’s best-kept secrets.
The Gramercy, built in the 1920s of brick in a renaissance revival style, had a simple elegance that was in keeping with its quiet but very nice neighborhood. It even had a private park across the street.
It was, Canidy believed, every bit as elegant as, say, the Roosevelt up on Madison at Forty-fifth—only some twenty or so blocks north—but a world away from the feel of a crazed city outside your door.
So without really trying, the hotel drew a wide spectrum of guests, including high-level politicians and a slew of celebrities on the way up—or down. There were all kinds of stories about the stars, including, Canidy recalled hearing, that Humphrey Bogart had been married to his first or second wife—or maybe it was both of them—in the rooftop garden.
Some of the well-heeled kept apartments here, and it was not unheard of for one of the elevators to open on the ground floor and have, say, a couple of Old English sheepdogs come bounding out, pulling a resident off of the elevator—clearing a path between the regular guests—on their way to the private neighborhood park.
All of this served to give the place the comfortable feeling of home—a very nice home—and Canidy tried to stay here every opportunity he could.
As he entered the hotel lobby, he could see people seated in the oversized armchairs beneath the understated chandelier. There were others moving to catch one of the elevators to the left of the room. And directly ahead of him was the front desk with, to his great disappointment, a line of three people.
He joined them—two young men and a woman a bit older—and began to worry that he had taken too long to get to the hotel. The woman he had spoken to on the telephone had said that there had been only a few rooms left. Now, clearly, there were a few people in front of him, and there was no telling how many had come and gone in the time since he called about an hour ago.
The front desk was actually a massive slab of dark polished stone, some eight feet long, set atop finely milled oak paneling. Filling the wall behind the two clerks working the desk was an impressive honeycomb of at least a hundred cubbyholes, also fashioned of oak, each box about six by six inches, with a brass number affixed to the bottom lip. Visible inside them were room keys, messages, an occasional envelope.
At the head of the line was a young man in a business suit. Canidy heard him give his name and room number and ask if there had been any messages. The clerk turned to the wall of cubbyholes, reached into one, and retrieved a small stack of note-sized messages. The young man took them, thanked the clerk, and turned away as he thumbed through the stack, now leaving two people ahead of Canidy.
Next in line was a woman of about fifty, well-dressed, and when she approached the desk the clerk smiled and warmly greeted her by name.
Canidy overheard her ask the clerk for another key to her room.
“Because,” she said, making a face and turning to gesture at the young man behind her, “my son seems to have locked both my key and his in his room.”
The clerk turned to the cubbyholes, reached in one and then in another, taking a duplicate key from each, and then gave one to the mother and one to the son.
As they left, Canidy sighed with relief.
He stepped up to the desk.
The clerk—his name tag read VICTOR—smiled.
“How may I help you, sir?” Victor said.
“I called a short time ago about a room.”
“Welcome to the Gramercy. One moment, please. I’ll see what we have available.”
Victor went to a wooden, open-topped box filled with five-by-seven-inch index cards. He flipped through the cards, wrinkled his face once, then twice. He pulled out one card, looked at it, then shook his head as he put it back in the box. He flipped farther back. His eyebrows went up suddenly and he smiled.
He turned to Canidy with the card.
“We do have something,” Victor said and smiled again. “A very nice one-bedroom suite.”
“Suite?”
“Yessir,” Victor replied, producing a blank registration card and fountain pen. “It overlooks the park. Very nice.”
Canidy knew that the Gramercy’s rooms were huge, and that the smallest of the huge were on the twelfth floor.
“Nothing smaller? Maybe something on twelve, overlooking Twenty-first?”
The clerk’s eyes brightened a moment, indicating that he caught that this was not Canidy’s first visit. Then he frowned and shook his head. “No, sir. I’m afraid not.”
Canidy did not respond.
What’s a suite going to cost?
What do I care? It’s not my money.
And the OSS has nearly limitless funds.
Still, I don’t like just throwing it away.
“Is there a problem?” Victor said.
Canidy looked at him.
Well, hell, it’s just for one night. Who knows what miserable place I’ll be sleeping in tomorrow night, or the next.
Canidy was about to open his mouth when Victor leaned forward.
Quietly he said, “I do believe that for a regular guest such as yourself I can offer one of the singles on twelve if you’ll allow me to upgrade you to a suite for the same rate.”
Canidy’s eyebrows went up. “That would be very nice. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Victor watched as Canidy began writing his name on the registration card. The clerk turned his head, almost touching his left ear to his left shoulder, as he tried to read the card so that it was not upside down.
“‘Canidy’?” Victor said, looking thoughtful.
“Richard,” he confirmed, looking at him.
The clerk turned to the cubbyholes and from one with a brass tag stamped MISC he pulled out an assortment of odd-sized pieces of paper. Canidy recognized some of them as being message notes like the first man in line received when Canidy joined the line.
The clerk pulled one of the message sheets from the stack, put the bulk of the papers back
in the cubbyhole, then turned to Canidy.
“This came for you”—he glanced at the line on the form where the time had been handwritten—“twenty minutes ago.”
What the hell? Canidy thought, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. No one knew I was coming here.
Hell, I didn’t know until an hour ago.
He looked around him, checking the lobby. He saw nothing but the same mix of harmless-looking guests going about their business.
He quickly took the form from Victor, somewhat offending the clerk with his brusqueness, and scanned it.
All that was written on it, on the appropriate lines, was: “3/6, 2:05, Mr. Canidy, WOrth 2-7625.”
Canidy looked at Victor. “There’s no name on the ‘from’ line. Any idea who called?”
Victor reached out for the form, looked at it, then looked at Canidy.
“No, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t take this. The operator did.”
“Where’s WOrth?”
Victor looked again at the message. “That would be a number for the Lower East Side, down around the fish market.”
Canidy nodded. “Thank you. Can I get that room key now?”
[ FOUR ]
Suite 601
Gramercy Park Hotel
2 Lexington Avenue
New York City, New York
1445 6 March 1943
Dick Canidy got on an empty elevator, pushed the 6 button, and when the doors had closed removed the Colt .45 ACP semiautomatic from his attaché case and slipped it in the small of his back.
Who knew I was here? And how?
Does the mob have insiders working here, too?
The elevator stopped and opened on the sixth floor. He stuck his head out, looking down the hall to the left and then to the right.
Nothing.
He glanced at the small signage on the wall opposite the elevator. It listed a series of room numbers that included 601, with an arrow pointing left.
He went left down the hall, found the door, put in his key and turned it.
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