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“Looking for Frank Nola,” Canidy said.

The coal black eyes studied Canidy a moment.

“The name’s Canidy,” he added. “Nola knows we’re coming.”

“Upstairs.”

Canidy followed the squat Italian’s eyes upward. There he saw a bare steel framework of beams supported by steel poles, painted red and rising from the concrete first floor. Above the framework was a wooden tongue-and-groove floor.

“The steps are in the back there,” the squat Italian added, pointing to a far corner.

“Thanks,” Canidy replied.

Fulmar followed Canidy to the back corner, then up the steps, which led to a narrow landing on the second floor and a wooden door with a small metal sign reading: OFFICE.

Canidy knocked, and then they heard footsteps approaching the other side of the door. The knob turned and the door flew open inward.

The office was dimly lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, but Canidy and Fulmar could see well enough to tell that they were looking at the muzzle of a high-caliber long arm—and immediately put their hands up, waist high, palms out. Canidy’s attaché case hung painfully on his thumb.

Behind the business end of the firearm was an Italian fishmonger, this one somewhat slender and of medium height, wearing a dark wool sweater and black rubber overalls. Canidy could not be sure in the low light of the office but he thought that this guy looked like one of Nola’s men whom he had seen loading crates on the truck the previous night.

I can easily grab the end of the barrel, Canidy thought. But even if I get the muzzle pointed away, this could get messy fast, especially if that’s what I think it is and it’s on full auto.

Canidy saw some motion behind the fishmonger, and then Francesco Nola’s voice called from farther inside the office. “Mario! Put that gun away!”

Another set of footsteps quickly approached the door. The door swung open completely and there stood Nola. He pushed Mario to the side, forced the direction of the muzzle to the ceiling, and then smacked him on the side of the head.

As Fulmar and Canidy put down their hands, they exchanged glances. Fulmar’s said what Canidy was thinking—We’ve got to deal with dangerous goons like this?

“Nice welcoming party,” Canidy said. “I’d hate to see how you host people you don’t expect.”

“My apologies,” Nola said. “Mario, he’s just a little jumpy. Come in, come in.”

Canidy looked around the office once they were inside. There was a rusty filing cabinet against one wall, a grimy, threadbare couch with the stuffing poking out the cushions against another, and in the middle a big, beat-up wooden desk that had its front right leg reinforced by a two-by-four nailed to it.

“This is a very close friend of mine, Frank,” he said as he gestured to Fulmar.

Nola offered his hand to Fulmar. “Francesco Nola.”

Fulmar shook the hand but made no effort to offer his name.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nola.”

“It’s Frank, please.”

Canidy said, “Mind if I ask where Mario got that gun?”

“Why?” Nola said.

“Can I have a look at it?” Canidy pursued.

“Mario,” Nola said, “give my friend the rifle.”

Mario, in a sloppy motion, swung the barrel so that the muzzle swept across Canidy and Fulmar. This time Canidy did grab the end of the barrel and thrust it toward the ceiling.

“No offense, Mario,” he said coldly, “but I’ve seen people killed that way.”

Nola smacked the top of Mario’s head again. “Idiot!”