1943
Dick Canidy and John Craig van der Ploeg rolled into Palermo proper. The city was dark and eerily quiet. The few people they passed—the bicycle allowed them to approach quietly and quickly—ducked down alleys or found other shadowy spots when they realized they’d been seen.
Why? Canidy thought. Is there a curfew?
If so, we’re screwed if we’re stopped.
After ten minutes, getting closer to the western side of the port, Canidy made sure they kept clear of the train station at Via Montepellegrino in case troops were arriving. Canidy then turned onto Via Altavilla and, looking intently, found the familiar side street that was lined with two-story apartments.
“We’re ten blocks up from the port,” he said quietly. “Which is where we go tomorrow and visit the Brothers Buda.”
John Craig van der Ploeg, even in the dim light, could see that the neighborhood was run-down. Trash littered the street. And the shabby buildings were not at all maintained.
Dick’s had to have been here before. But why?
“Where are we?” John Craig said.
“Our home away from home, I hope. I’ll tell you more once we’re inside.”
Canidy skidded the bicycle to a stop at an apartment midway down the street. Its wooden door was a faded yellow, the paint peeling. Mounted above it, in a small space, was a small, weathered wooden crucifix. Four empty clay flowerpots painted bright colors were in a wrought-iron rack in front of the lone window.
Canidy planted his feet on the ground as he steadied the bicycle.
“Can you get off by yourself okay?” Canidy said over his shoulder.
Canidy immediately felt John Craig put more weight on his shoulders and then the bike shudder as he slid off. Canidy thought that the bicycle, free of its burden, could almost float. He then leaned it against the wall under the clay pots. He pulled the clay pot that was painted red out of its holder and reached in under it.
He triumphantly held up a small object toward John Craig, and with a tone of satisfaction said, “Thank God for old habits.”
Canidy moved to the yellow door.
The key, John Craig figured out when he heard Canidy working the knob. So, he has been here before.
Canidy then exclaimed: “I’ll be damned. It’s been kicked in.”
Canidy pulled his .45 from the small of his back, then pushed at the door with his boot. It swung inward, its hinges making one long, low squeak.
There were no lights burning in the apartment, and when Canidy reached inside and slapped at the switch, none came on.
“Damn it,” he said, then carefully entered.
John Craig saw the beam from Canidy’s flashlight sweeping the room.
A moment later, he was back at the door. He rolled the bicycle inside, then said, “Get in here.”
John Craig winced with pain as he shuffled through the door. He pushed it shut behind him, then had to push it twice more before it stayed shut.
It was pitch-dark inside, but he could just make out that they were in the kitchen—and that the place had been trashed. Something crunched under his feet as he walked. And there was a faint fetid odor, as if something had been left to rot a long time ago.
“Wait here,” Canidy said. “I’m going to check the rest of the house.”
“Okay,” John Craig said, pulling out his .45 and putting his weight against what felt like a tile-covered counter by the front window.
As he strained to make out any objects in the kitchen, he could hear Canidy moving quickly through the apartment. First there were the sounds of Dick opening and closing doors on the first floor, then ones of him pounding up the wooden stairs and searching the second floor end to end.
He’s spent almost twice as much time upstairs.
Then John Craig saw the yellow beam of Canidy’s flashlight filling the stairwell and heard the sound of him bounding down the stairs.