Page 10 of Just for Him
I shrugged. “That’s up to you.”
“What do you care?”
That was a good question, and one I wasn’t sure I could answer.
“Haven’s a friend,” I said finally, “and I look out for my friends.”
“Yeah? Good for you, man.” His scowl deepened as he weighed his options. He wanted to tell me to get lost and go about his business, but he was smart enough to realize the odds of that happening were slim to none.
Part of me felt for the kid. He’d had a pretty lousy day, and I was adding to it. Another part of me didn’t care. If I could help him and his sisterandcatch a much-needed break on the case, I would do it. I’d like to think Haven would agree.
“I go with you, you don’t call my sister?”
“Not unless you give me a reason to.”
His shoulders slumped and he exhaled, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Fine.”
There weren’t many places open that time of night, which was one of the reasons Lindelman’s did such a good business. I didn’t want to take him there, for obvious reasons. Luckily, I knew just the place.
I walked him over to my car and told him to get in. He was hesitant at first, but he did.
He tensed up as we drove past Lindelman’s, but I was doing the cruise-by for my benefit, not his. I wanted to know that Haven had made it into work okay. She had.
Through the big, plate glass windows, I saw her behind the counter taking a guy’s order. A guy who was sitting inmyusual seat.
Did she give him extra sausage links, too? My chest tightened and my jaw clenched at the thought. I ignored it.
A few minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Mama C’s and turned off the engine.
“What the hell is this?” Joel asked.
“Il ristorante della mia famiglia,” I answered. “My family’s restaurant.”
I walked him around the back and took him into the kitchen. Things were quiet. The restaurant was closed to the public, but was always open to family. My parents were used to us popping in any time, day or night.
I pointed the kid to the table in the corner, then went to the massive refrigerator where my mother always kept extra prepared meals for us. I grabbed two and popped them in the commercial microwave. While they heated up, I grabbed a couple of sodas, too.
I put the chicken parmigiana in front of him, keeping thepasta aglio,my personal favorite, for myself.
“Eat,” I commanded, waving my fork toward his plate. “Then we’ll talk.”
He glared at me.
I ignored him and happily tucked into my own meal. Eventually, he stabbed the chicken cutlet and took a bite. Then another, and another, until he had finished the whole thing.
I withheld my grin. No one could resistmia madre’s cooking. My siblings and I had crumbled more than once at this very table.
I grabbed my plate and took it to the sink to rinse it. After a minute or so, he did the same.
“So,” I said, now that our bellies were full, “let’s talk about how that stuff got in your locker.”
