“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 everythingwent 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.”
TWENTY-ONE
The inside of Charlie’s house smelled like the stagnant seaweed in the canal outside. He led them out of the laundry room and into the living room, where bottles of beer and cans of cheese littered any available flat surface. Charlie took a plastic seat and motioned for the two of them to do the same.
“Remind me to get a tetanus shot when we’re done,” Shepherd whispered to Ginny.
She grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze, and didn’t let go even as they sat in different chairs. He held on tight, for the good of his own nerves. For some reason, his stomach was doing somersaults—probably because of the very terrifying mob boss in front of them, in his stained bathrobe and bunny slippers.
Ginny crossed her legs, her sneakered foot crunching on something loud hidden in what was left of the area rug. “Mr. Cardello, thank you for talking with me.”
“Eh.” Charlie held up a finger. “Pizza man, you time this.”
Shepherd furrowed his brow. “Huh?”
