Canidy was quiet a moment, absorbing that bit of new information.
Shit! Now what?
“Like I said, you could be talking about someone else,” Tubes said. “Hard to say. But I can tell you that this Carmine isn’t going to make it with a radio.”
Canidy nodded. “Thank you, Tubes. I appreciate your expertise.”
Tubes smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Canidy and Fine started for the door.
Then they heard Tubes call across the room.
“You want a good W/T guy,” he said, his tone authoritative, “then the guy you want is Tony. He’s a kid, with lots of energy, but he’s got a great hand. Tony’s who I’d pick.”
Hank Darmstadter’s jeep pulled up with a noisy screech of brakes. He shut off the engine.
Canidy got a good look at the kid in the passenger seat. “Tony” was indeed the excitable one he’d had in Max Corvo’s classroom at the Sandbox. He had that unruly shock of wiry jet-black hair that stuck out at odd angles.
The kid was looking at Canidy, smiling, and making the connection, too.
Darmstadter got out. The kid did the same, then followed Darmstadter over to where Canidy stood.
“Major,” Darmstadter said.
“Afternoon, sir!” the kid said, his manner excited. “Very nice to see you again. I had some follow-up questions about your lecture—”
“What’s your name?” Canidy interrupted.
“Antonio Jones, sir. Tony.”
“No, your real name.”
The kid looked for guidance to Darmstadter, who motioned with his head Go on, it’s okay to tell him.
“John
Craig van der Ploeg, sir,” he answered in a chipper tone.
Canidy studied him a moment.
“That’s Dutch!” Canidy snapped. “How the hell are you Italian? And stop calling me sir.”
Unnerved, John Craig van der Ploeg grabbed a fistful of his hair.
“This look Dutch?” he said, smiling, then let go of the hair and motioned to his olive-skinned face. “This look fair?”
Canidy started at him impatiently. “So, what’s your story?”
“I was adopted, sir. Lost my family to La Grippe.”
Canidy was about to snap at him again for saying “sir,” but then thought, Jesus! The 1918 Spanish flu? That wiped out tens of millions….
“I’m sorry,” Canidy said, his tone genuine.
John Craig van der Ploeg shrugged, unbothered.
“I was two years old,” he said conversationally. “It’s ancient history to me. I have no memory of it—or them.”