eleven

That night, Nigel and I went to Mario’s, a favorite restaurant of mine from my days with the department. It was a small place tucked away on a side street in Little Italy, but it served the best dish of linguine con le vongole anywhere in the city. I was surprised to find that the owner, Gino Santini, remembered me. He was a large man, with a ready smile and mop of bushy auburn hair that was beginning to go gray. He came out from behind the hostess stand and greeted me with a giant hug when we entered. “As I live and breathe! Detective Nic Landis!” he said. “How are you?”

“Hi, Gino. I’m fine. But actually, it’s Martini, now. I retired and got married. This is my husband, Nigel,” I said, indicating Nigel.

Gino extended his large paw of a hand to Nigel and said, “Well, congratulations to you. Nic, here, was one of the best detectives in the city, and the prettiest too. We miss having her around. But I suppose our loss is your gain.”

Nigel said something about agreeing to that, but Gino didn’t hear him. He had suddenly noticed Skippy. “What in the name of all that is holy is that?” he asked.

“That is Skippy,” I answered. “He’s new.”

Gino looked down at Skippy. Skippy wagged his tail, sat down, and presented his paw to Gino. Gino laughed and accepted it. Looking back at me, he asked, “Table for three?”

“Yes, please,” I answered.

Gino led us to a table in the back. Although we walked past several occupied tables, no one gave Skippy at second glance. There were some parts about New York that I really missed. Gino seated us at a table in the back corner. He handed us our menus and insisted to treating us to a bottle of wine. As we looked over the selections, I heard someone calling my name. I glanced up and saw Marcy and Arnie walking toward us. “Hello,” I said, smiling. “How are you guys doing?”

Nigel stood up and greeted them as well. “Are you here for dinner?” he asked. “We’ve just sat down. Can you join us?”

They demurred for a few minutes, saying that they didn’t want to intrude, but soon we had convinced them to join us. After Gino had taken our orders, Marcy turned to me. “So have you made any progress in finding your cousin’s husband?” she asked.

“Cousin-in-law’s husband,” I corrected. “There’s an important distinction. But no, we haven’t found him. Why? Have you heard anything?”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s related, but guess who turned up dead this morning?”

“Who?”

“Fat Saul.”

“How?”

“Shot.”

I wasn’t surprised. Fat Saul lived a violent life. It wasn’t too hard to guess that he’d come to a violent end.

“Where was he found?” I asked.

“At a building site downtown. It’s still under construction, but it’s another one of those high-end residential complexes. The flooring crew found him in one of the apartments. The coroner thinks he was killed sometime late last night,” said Marcy. She took a sip of wine. “We haven’t released the details of his death to the public just yet, so keep this to yourself.”

“Sure. Did Saul have any ties to anyone on the work crew?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not that we can find. But it’s early days yet. Besides, Saul wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you admitted knowing.”

“How was he shot?” I asked.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess, ‘with a gun,’” Nigel said. Turning to me, he smirked. “See? I should totally be an equal partner in this. I’m a natural.”

“Yes, dear. Very impressive. However, what I meant was, did it seem like an execution or the result of a fight?”

Nigel raised his eyebrows in admiration. “Oh! Good question!”

“From the looks of it,” said Marcy, “there had been some kind of struggle. He was shot in the stomach. Bled to death.”

“Painful way to go,” I observed.

“Yeah. I’m all broke up,” Marcy replied. “The way I see it, it’s one less psycho I have to deal with.”

“Any idea as to who might have wanted him dead?”

“Only half of New York. And not just the dodgy part. Fat Saul was an equal opportunity bastard.”

I thought for a moment. “Have you talked to Frank and Danny Little? With Danny out of prison, maybe they wanted to take over the business. When I last saw Frank he was sporting a pretty nasty black eye, a gift from Saul over Leo skipping town. Maybe Frank was tired of taking a beating from someone not his older brother.”

Marcy nodded. “Yes. I thought about that too. They both check out. They’ve got a group of people who swear they were with them all night, not that that means anything. That bunch would swear to Jesus Christ at the Second Coming with their fingers crossed behind their backs. Still, Saul made a lot of money with his business. It’s a hard motive to discount.”

“How lucrative was his business?” Nigel asked.

Marcy shrugged. “Who knows for sure? I doubt he ever filed a legit tax return. But let’s just say that had he visited L.A. before his untimely death, he might have had his fair share of starlets throwing themselves at him.”

“It’s a shame he missed that,” said Nigel.

I poked him. “Be serious,” I said, before turning back to Marcy. “Any chance you’d mind if I talked to Frank about this? Not in any professional capacity, of course,” I added when I saw her hesitate. “I just think that I ought to convey my sympathies over the recent loss of his business partner.”

“In person, I assume,” Marcy guessed, with a smile.

“I think it’s more appropriate.”

Nigel nodded in approval. “Very Emily Post.” Giving my hand a squeeze, he added, “Aunt Olive would be so proud of you.”