Page 35 of Girl, Reformed

The Bella Napoli Pizzeria squatted on thecorner like a zit on prom night. Faded bricks, peeling paint. A veritablecarbuncle on the ass-end of the city.

Ella killed the engine and eyeballed theplace through the windshield. ‘This is it?’

‘Looks like it,’ Luca said. ‘Never judge abook, etcetera.’

‘True enough. Ready?’

Luca double-checked his sidearm andunlocked the car door, one foot outside. Ella scrutinized the exterior of theshop again, and she was about to crack wise about the health department’s laxstandards when Luca leaned back in.

‘You know, some of these places aren’tpizzerias at all.’

Ella cocked an eyebrow. ‘Come again?’

‘They’re fronts.’

‘For what?’

‘You know…’ Luca said. ‘The Family.’

‘Is that so?’

‘I saw it on Law and Order.’

Ella snorted as she got out of the car andmet Luca on the other side. 'If this place is laundering money, then that's theleast of our concerns. Let's see if anyone inside remembers our vics.'

She led the way, pushed through the door.The tinny chime of the bell was drowned out by the wheezing rattle of anancient AC unit. The odor of congealed grease invaded her nostrils and suddenlyreminded her the last time she ate anything was in a different state. If thisplace was a money laundering operation, they were working for it.

A bored-looking kid slouched behind thecounter, idly hunched over his cell phone. Two customers huddled in a booth,lost in a murky haze of vape smoke that smelled suspiciously like marijuana.Ella let it slide.

‘Excuse me, we’re looking for the managerof this place,’ she said. She slid her badge across the counter. ‘FBI.’

The kid blinked slowly, mouth opening andclosing like a guppy gulping for air. ‘FBI? Uh, yeah. Sure. Lemme just...’ Hescurried off towards the back, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

‘Smooth,’ Luca said.

Before Ella could fire off a suitableretort, the kid returned with a man in tow. The guy was a mountain of fleshstuffed into a sweat-stained wifebeater. A doughy face set in a permanentscowl.

‘Carmine Rossi,’ he grunted, meaty armscrossed over his barrel chest. ‘I own this joint. What's your damage?’

Ella flashed her badge again, gratified tosee a flicker of unease in Carmine's piggy little eyes. ‘Agents Dark andHawkins, FBI. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

Carmine's scowl deepened, transforming hisface into something resembling a bulldog chewing on a wasp. ‘Grab a table,’ hesaid. Despite the command, he led the way to a corner booth, far enough awaythat the other patrons couldn’t eavesdrop. Ella and Luca slid into the crackedvinyl of the booth as the ancient table wobbled between them like a drunk on abender. Carmine loomed over them and took a seat opposite.

‘What’s this about?’ Carmine snarled.

‘We're investigating an ongoing case.Victims were regulars at this place according to their records. Georgia Boltonand Archie Newman. Ring any bells?’

Carmine's scowl deepened, creasing hisface like an origami frog left out in the rain. ‘Bolton and Newman? Nah, neverheard of 'em.’

Luca whipped out his phone, thumbedthrough a couple of screens, then slid it across the table. ‘Maybe these mugswill jog your memory.’

Carmine squinted at the images, eyesnarrowed to piggy slits. Slowly, recognition dawned on his doughy face likesomething rising to the surface of a backed-up toilet.

‘Oh, yeah. Them. The guy was a regular,and the chick came in a few times too. Couple of pezzo di merdas, if I'mhonest. Every time they were in here, they brought attention.'

Ella studied Carmine, watching the angersimmer just beneath the surface of his greasy skin. The guy was built like aside of beef, with hams for fists and a neck thick as a tree trunk. Probablystrong enough to snap a man's spine if the mood struck him. But then again,wasn't that the stereotype? The hot-tempered Italian, ready to blow his top atthe drop of a ravioli?

‘Well, I hate to be the bearer of badnews, Carmine, but your regulars? They're cooling their heels in the morgue aswe speak.’

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