Chapter 4
Sarah started telling us everything she knew about Marco.
About the people he associated with. The places he used to go. The habits he had.
She told us about a bar on the other side of town called The Rusty Nail. Marco used to go there all the time, she said. To gamble. To drink. To meet with his "associates."
She told us about a man named Jimmy "The Rat" Rizzo. Marco's best friend, or as close to a best friend as Marco could have. If anyone knew where Marco was, it would be Jimmy.
She gave us old phone numbers, email addresses, even the names of distant relatives Marco might have contacted.
It was more than we'd had in ten years of searching.
That afternoon, Tony and I went to The Rusty Nail.
It was the kind of place where the floors were sticky, the air smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, and everyone turned to look when you walked in the door.
We fit right in.
The bartender—a big man with a nose that had been broken more than once—looked at us as we sat down.
"What can I get you?"
"Two beers," Tony said. "And information."
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Information costs."
Tony slid a twenty across the bar.
"We're looking for Marco Rinaldi," I said.
The bartender's face changed. He looked around nervously, then leaned forward.
"You guys don't want to get mixed up with Marco," he said quietly. "He's bad news. Real bad news."
"We know," Tony said. "That's why we're looking for him."
The bartender hesitated, then nodded toward a corner booth.
"Jimmy Rizzo's over there. He's Marco's boy. If anyone knows where Marco is, it's him. But be careful. Jimmy's got a mouth and a temper, and he doesn't like strangers asking questions."
We thanked him and walked over to the booth.
Jimmy Rizzo was a small man with greasy hair and a face like a weasel. He was sitting with two other men, all of them playing cards and drinking.
They looked up when we approached.
"Jimmy," Tony said.
Jimmy's eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"
"We're friends of Marco's," I said. "We need to talk to him."
Jimmy laughed—a high, unpleasant sound.
"Friends, huh? I know all of Marco's friends. And I don't know you."
He stood up, trying to look tough.
"Why don't you two get out of here before you get hurt?"
Tony didn't move.
"We're not leaving until you tell us where Marco is," he said. His voice was low, dangerous.
Jimmy's face turned red. He reached into his jacket.
But I was faster.
I grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back, slamming him face down onto the table.
The other two men jumped up, but Vinnie and Joey—who had followed us in—stepped forward, blocking their path.
"Now," I said, my mouth close to Jimmy's ear. "You're going to tell us where Marco is. Or I'm going to break every bone in your hand. One by one."
Jimmy whimpered.
"Okay, okay," he said. "I'll tell you. Just let me go."
I released his wrist, but kept my hand on his shoulder.
"Talk."
"Marco's in the old warehouse by the docks," Jimmy said quickly. "The one on Third Street. He's been laying low there for a few weeks. He's got some problems. Some people after him. He's scared."
I looked at Tony.
The old warehouse by the docks.
We knew it well.
"Is he alone?" Tony asked.
Jimmy shook his head. "No. He's got a couple of guys with him. Bodyguards. They're not as tough as you guys, but they've got guns."
Guns.
Of course they did.
"Thank you, Jimmy," Tony said.
We started to leave.
"Wait," Jimmy called out.
We turned.
"Whatever you're going to do to him," Jimmy said. "He deserves it. He's a piece of garbage. He left me holding the bag on a deal last month. Almost got me killed."
We didn't answer.
We walked out of the bar.
Outside, the sun was setting.
The old warehouse by the docks.
Marco was there.
After ten years, we finally knew where he was.
I looked at Tony.
"What do we do now?" I asked.
Tony's jaw was tight.
May you like
"We call the police," he said.
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