Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
The term “mob boss” conjured up a particular picture in Shepherd’s mind’s eye.
He’d be a decent-looking, middle-aged Italian American guy.
With slicked-back dark hair, an expensive suit, maybe a cigar in his hand.
A wise guy. He didn’t have to be tall or short, skinny or fat—he just had to exude power.
The man in front of them did not fit any of those criteria. In fact, even his bathrobe didn’t fit, revealing a yellowing white undershirt and sweatpants that Shepherd hoped—for the love of God—were brown when they were manufactured.
On his feet were bunny slippers.
“Mr. Cardello”—Ginny held out a hand—“it’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, you too.” He shook her hand, then offered his to Shepherd. “Who are you, again?”
“Boyfriend,” Ginny said, at the same time as Shepherd said, “Boss.”
They both looked at each other, and then at Charlie. With a little giggle, Ginny said, “Fiancé, now, technically.”
Which was technically a lie, but Shepherd was OK with lying to mob bosses, even disheveled ones.
“Ginny works for me at my restaurant,” Shepherd said. “Which is, uh, where we … fell in love.”
Even though he was OK with lying to mob bosses, he was not great at it.
“OK.” Charlie shrugged. “Well, I’d invite you to sit down and have a drink, but I don’t want you here. So say your piece and get out.”
“We need your help,” Shepherd said. “Thanks for seeing us.” He was only slightly sarcastic.
Charlie didn’t seem to notice. “What’s up?”
“It’s my mother.” Ginny adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “She was kidnapped this morning. From Shepherd’s landlord’s house. There was a ransom call, and, um, well …”
“I don’t have any money,” Charlie said.
Looking around the house, where the only furniture consisted of plastic lawn chairs, upside-down cardboard boxes, and a giant TV on the floor, Shepherd concluded that Charlie was being honest.
“I don’t need you to pay the ransom. The thing is, the landlord who died—Michael Martin—his last word was ‘Cardello.’ Do you know him? Have you any idea why he might say your name as he died?”
Charlie took a deep, deep breath, his nostrils flaring. With a sage nod of his head, he said, “Nope. Have a good day,” and shut the door in their faces.
“Mr. Cardello!” Ginny cried. She pounded on the door with her fist. “Come on, Mr. Cardello! I need your help!”
Shepherd looked around the neighborhood. The kids were still playing soccer, and there was a woman out walking three Pomeranians; being dragged by three Pomeranians was more accurate.
“Wait here,” he said, and hurried down the stairs from the front door.
There was another set of stairs around the side, wooden and weathered and sun-stripped.
They wobbled under his feet as he climbed up.
The side door was made of metal and had warped some at the bottom, either from heat or a hurricane or both. Shepherd knocked on it.
Charlie’s muffled voice wormed its way out from the crack under the door. “Go away or I’m calling the police!”
“Dude, come on! Her mom’s missing. We just need you to answer a few questions!”
“What’s in it for me? Huh?”
That was not something a man said when he didn’t know the answer.
No, that was something a man said when he didn’t want to answer.
Shepherd drummed his fingers against his thighs as if the motion would help the words come to him.
This guy, this former mob boss, was obviously on hard times.
Shepherd didn’t have a lot of cash on hand—most everything went back into the business, and if it didn’t go into the business, it went to his daughter who was a totally unfair bookie. “Do you like pizza?”
“Who the hell doesn’t like pizza?”
Shepherd rolled his eyes. “Vegans, vegetarians. Gluten-free people.”
“Dumbasses, that’s who.”
“Listen, the restaurant I own, it’s a pizza place. You talk to Ginny, answer her questions. Give her five minutes. And I’ll give you a free pizza.”
Ginny appeared at the bottom of the secondary stairs. She threw her arms up in question, and he returned the gesture.
“No,” Charlie said. “More.”
“More?” Shepherd ran his fingers through his hair. “OK, one minute equals one pizza. You give Ginny five minutes, you get five pizzas.”
“Plus sides!”
Shepherd threw a what-is-wrong-with-this-guy look down the stairs. Ginny tossed back a please-it’s-for-my-mom. God, the sun was setting, and the orange rays sparkled in her eyes even from a distance.
“Fine!” Shepherd yelled at the door. “Plus sides.”
“And drinks!”
Shepherd lightly tapped his forehead against the door. “You get drinks if you come in. But if you want it delivered, no drinks.”
“Delivery is free, though?”
“You have to tip the driver.”
The door opened without warning, and Shepherd went headfirst into a laundry room. Fortunately—or, rather, unfortunately—a pile of old, stained, once-white shirts softened the blow to his head. Ginny hurried up behind him, grabbing on to his arm and helping him stand up straight.
Charlie scratched the scraggly beard on his face. “Come on in, then. I’m hungry.”