“We are not religious,” Ginny said. “Come on. They don’t send out co-ed pair groups. You know that; it’s always, like, two dudes.”
“One time, I had two ladies,” Shepherd offered. He spoke up for the bent blind’s benefit. “They were Jehovah’s Witnesses! I’m just a pizza guy!”
There was an almost audible hesitation, like the silence itself was a loud noise. “You have pizza?”
“No,” Shepherd said. “Imakepizza.”
“No, you don’t,” Ginny said.
Shepherd shook a hand from side to side. “I employ people who make pizza. OK? I’m not trying to sell you anything. We’re not trying to sell you anything. Ginny just wants to talk to you.”
“Ginny who?”
“Virginia Kent.” Ginny reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She held up her driver’s license to the blinds closest to the door. “My family represented you in court a little over a year ago.”
There were footsteps inside, like the man was pacing back and forth. Through the crack in the door, he said, “Cardello ain’t here, lady. Don’t need no process servers hanging around, either!”
“I’m not a process server, Mr. Cardello. I’m not even a lawyer anymore. I lost my job.”
There was another loud silence, broken only by a lock being turned. Slowly, on creaking hinges, the front door cracked open. A disheveled and dirty man in a bathrobe eyed them from inside. With a sniff, he asked, “You too, huh?”
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. Awise 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 onher 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.
