Chapter Forty-Two
FORTY-TWO
How much money can fit into one sad clown painting? Sounded like a question asked on a math test Shepherd hadn’t had a chance to study for—and then, during the test, he realized he was naked and back in high school, and oh, thank God, it’s a nightmare.
The answer, however, turned out to be a million and a half dollars.
Shepherd stared at the bricks of green scattered neatly around his kitchen, his various employees and mob bosses having organized them in easily recountable piles.
This was Scrooge McDuck–level money. This was never-work-at-his-dumb-restaurant-ever-again-level money.
Sure, he couldn’t retire in luxury—not in this economy—but he could retire. He could have hobbies!
Shepherd never really had a hobby before, but he could start now! Maybe … collecting baseball cards? Geocaching? Foreign films?
Charlie patted the nearest stack of hundreds. “It’s a good haul, kid.”
Ginny sat on her knees on the floor, surrounded by piles of money, her blue eyes glassy. “It’s short.”
“Right. Yeah.” Shepherd ran a hand over his face. The kidnappers asked for two million. There went the baseball cards and the GPS units and the subtitles. There went Deandra Kent, if he didn’t think of something quick.
“We could just … not get paid?” Noah offered. “I mean, I know we risked our lives and our freedom, but, Ginny, your scary mom is in actual danger.”
Chris and Max nodded.
But Ginny sighed. “Well, we’re only giving you each a thousand dollars. I don’t think three grand is going to make much of a difference to the kidnappers. Thanks anyway, guys, but you earned your money.”
Charlie gave each of them ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “You ever need another job, let me know,” he said with a wink. “Could use a group of good guys who are quick on their feet.”
The three of them left together out the back door, talking about a club downtown. Shepherd ran his fingers through his hair and then left them there, pulling on the strands in thought. “We could fluff it.”
“What?” Ginny wiped her face, sniffling quietly.
“Yeah. Put it in a duffle bag or two, mix in some fake money. The kidnappers won’t count it at the exchange, right? The bags just need to feel heavy enough.”
Ginny pushed a strand of red hair that had been stuck to her damp cheek behind her ear, and braved a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That could work, Shepherd. We’d have to set it up so they give us Mom at the same time they take the money, but my grandfather should be able to negotiate that.”
Charlie locked the kitchen door. “I can contribute,” he announced. “Not money, you understand. But”—he reached behind a counter and pulled out two dark-green canvas bags—“I brought you transport. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cardello.”
Charlie winked again, this time at Ginny. Shepherd pretended not to care. He hardly scowled and harrumphed at all.
“Anytime, kid.” Charlie clapped Shepherd on the shoulder. “Stack ’em up!”
The three of them moved all the money into the bags, Ginny counting as she went, the stacks thudding dully on the counter.
The canvas smell of the duffels mixed unpleasantly with the faint mildew of the bills that had been shut away too long and the garlic and tomato that always lingered behind in the kitchen.
Shepherd helped her, both of them hoping maybe they miscounted before.
Perhaps the extra five hundred thousand dollars was just misplaced.
But it was the same as before, minus three grand.
When they were finished, it was pitch-black outside. The kitchen window showed only their reflections, haunted and pale. Shepherd’s muscles ached. Even his eye muscles. Especially his eye muscles.
“We’ll make it work, Ginny,” he said. “OK? Don’t freak out. We’ll fluff it up and talk to your grandfather. We’re gonna get your mom back tomorrow, safe and sound. I promise.”
“You mean today,” Ginny replied. Her voice was quiet, her red hair falling in front of her face. “It’s late, Shepherd.”
“It is late,” Charlie announced. “I gotta get going. But look, it was a pleasure doing business with the both of you.” He cracked his neck. “There’s just one more thing, though, and I am sorry about it.”
Shepherd sighed. He was so sick of this Cardello community-theater-level bullshit. “What, Charlie?”
Charlie reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. “I’m taking the money.”