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“I just got the news that Frank Nola is not going to go with me,” Canidy said.

Lanza sat down behind the desk. Canidy and Fulmar took seats across the desk from him.

“Yeah—and?” Lanza said.

“And I thought that that was what you were going to get for me—someone to get me into Sicily and to the locals there.”

“He didn’t give you any names?”

Canidy grunted.

“I’ve got more names than the fucking Palermo phone book.”

“Then what is the problem? You use that list, you will get what you want. That is a promise. Those names—” Lanza reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it across the desk “—those names and this are all you need.”

Canidy took the envelope, opened it, and unfolded the letter.

It was written in English and in what appeared to be Sicilian. Canidy’s eyes fell to the former:

* * *

March 1943

The bearer of this letter is Mr. Richard Canidy.

With this letter, the bearer brings to you my many good wishes.

It is requested of you in turn that the bearer be given the same respect and con siderations that would be given if I were to personally appear before you.

Your friendship is appreciated and it will not be forgotten.

Charles Luciano

(Salvatore Lucania)

* * *

It was clear that the date and the first line, slightly misaligned with the other lines, were newly typed.

“You keep a stack of these around?” Canidy asked, his tone sarcastic. “Just type in a date and a name and you’re—what?—instantly made?”

“It is necessary with Charlie being away,” Lanza said, clearly not pleased with being mocked. “He signed that letter. It will be honored.”

Canidy raised his eyebrows dubiously.

“We’ll see. But this is one reason why I wanted Nola.”

“Look, Charlie Lucky said to give you whatever the hell you wanted and we will. But it is not possible for Nola to go with you.”

Canidy’s eyebrows went up again.

“Anything?” he repeated.

Lanza sighed.

“Anything but Nola—”

“For starters,” Canidy interrupted, “I want one of the Johnson LMGs, like the one that you gave Nola.”