Once outside, all that Bart and Tony could make out in the glare of the idling Cadillac's headlights was a large, dark figure coming toward them, and another head bent over in the passenger seat. Then the striding figure took clearer form: a tall man in a black leather coat, open and flapping in the frigid wind. As he walked, he rubbed his bare hands.
"Do I got the right place?" he called out as he approached. "Where's Gramps?"
Tony and Bart had a decent look at the guy now. Slicked back black hair, a goatee, one earring and a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck.
Being in a people business all these years, Tony had learned not to trust stereotypes, but this character looked like no florist he'd ever seen. More like a made man, a wise guy, someone who made people push up daisies, not helped arrange them.
Tony readied his hand for a handshake, but the guy kept his hands squeezed beneath his armpits.
"Hi, Tony Renzi. This is my partner, Bart. Gino's still inside getting himself together. He's had a hard day. We're real glad we found you."
"Yeah. I'll bet. Tell Gramps to hurry. Everyone's waitin'." The guy's eyes scanned the R&B lot. "Which car's his? Got the keys? I'll drive that one."
Tony reached into his pocket for the keys to Gino's Mazda pickup, but felt a touch on his arm. Bart. At that moment, Gino opened the door; he stood in the doorway, coughing.
"You're not the florist, I'm guessin'," Bart said. "And you called him Gramps. Thought he was an uncle."
"Flori ...? Uh, that's him in the car. Hey, Gramps is just what I call any old codger. C'mon, Gino, let's go."
Gino didn't move. "Don't know you," he murmured.
"He's a little shell-shocked, I guess," Tony said soothingly. "Your nephew's over there. C'mon, Gino, let me take you to the car."
"That rusty pickup, over there, the white Mazda, that's his car," Bart barked, eyes on the scorpion tattoo.
"That piece of . . . you sure?," the guy said.
"Tony, wait a sec," Bart said, staring at the guy. "Can I have some ID, sir?"
"ID? Who do you think you are, pal?" The guy's neck swiveled back to the idling Cadillac. He gestured toward the old pickup. A pair of hands waggled on the other side of the passenger window.
"Fine, I'm out of here," the guy said, striding back to the Caddy. "Take him to your Christmas dinner."
With gunning engine, the car peeled off onto the Pike.
"Holy moley, what was that?" Tony asked, still clutching Gino's arm. Gino, who'd been shrinking back to the doorway, now stood still.
"That, pardner, was a scam," Bart said, clapping his gloved hands. "Quick move, I'll give him that, but not real thought out. When this guy got your call, he quick-figured it might be a chance to steal a nice enough car. Lots of old folks drive a Town Car, a Caddy or a Marquis maybe."
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