Chapter Text
Water brewed quietly within the pot. Mario's calloused fingers slid a bundle of long, dry pasta into the scalding liquid. His wrist twisted the noodles expertly so that they fanned out like a blooming flower.
Mario picked up that particular technique a few years ago after noticing his pasta was cooking unevenly—some of the noodles were coming out firmer than others. He'd since mastered the art of boiling noodles after watching countless hours of celebrity-hosted cooking shows.
Mario wasn't an incredible chef by any means, but he loved to cook. It was unfortunate that he could only pick up culinary skills from television; he would’ve given anything to learn from a real chef and whip up some traditional Italian food. But for now, he would have to make do with store-brand spaghetti.
The clattering of pasta against steel punctuated the nearby radio. A new song, synthetic and digital, began to drone in its place. Mario paid no mind to the repetitive, simplistic lyrics; he simply bobbed his head to the downbeat as the noodles spiralled further into the boiling water below.
From another room, the phone barely began to ring before someone immediately picked up the receiver. The muffled tenor voice of Mario's younger brother carried into the kitchen. He couldn't decipher any words, but judging by his brother's calm and friendly voice, there was no need to worry. Mario smiled and whistled along to the simplistic four-note melody buzzing from the radio.
But Mario had become so engrossed that he didn't notice when the phone call ended, nor did he notice his brother enter the kitchen with a small scowl.
"Ugh, this song again," Luigi huffed.
"You don't like it?" Mario frowned, turning his head to the side but not fully facing his brother. "It's an interesting song. Very, uh…” Mario paused to think, struggling to recall a word. “Incantevole is the word, I think.”
Luigi rolled his eyes, rummaging through the darkness of a nearby cupboard. "The word you're looking for is irritante . That song was on the air fourteen times today." His hands emerged with two dinner plates and two glasses, which he set on the table nearby. "It doesn't even have a second verse. They just sing the first one twice."
"Why make another verse if the first one is already perfect?" Mario quipped with a cheeky grin. He proceeded to remove the pot from the stovetop and pour the contents into a strainer. "Sure, this kind of music isn’t Pavarotti or anything , but I think it's good."
"It doesn't have to be Pavarotti," Luigi sighed. "It just has to be bearable."
Mario guffawed in reply.
The song soon ended, and the brothers meandered their way to the dinner table. Mario began heaping soft, steamy noodles onto his plate while Luigi poured two glasses of water.
"Who were you talking to on the phone?" Mario asked.
"Mrs. Davis. Her bathtub is clogged again."
Mario winced. " Again? But I just fixed it yesterday." He sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes for a moment as he held the scoop out for Luigi to grab. "I'll give her a discount, I guess. Did she book an appointment?"
"Yeah, tomorrow at six." Luigi accepted the scoop from Mario and dished up his plate. "Um, bro… do you think I can come with you this time? No one calls us that late, so I won't need to stay with the phone…”
Mario glanced pointedly at Luigi's dinner plate. Luigi had dished up a pitiful pile of food—hardly enough to feed a child, let alone a full-grown man.
"Tell you what, bro,” Mario began. “If you eat a proper meal tonight—that means two more scoops, at least—then you can tag along."
Luigi blinked, taken aback by Mario's proposition. "But I'm not hungry—"
" Mangia, Luigi. You need to eat."
With an indignant huff, Luigi reluctantly served himself some more pasta.
And that was that. Aside from the tinny, distant voice of Elton John and the gentle patter of rain on the roof, all was silent. The brothers wordlessly slurped up their respective meals. Mario finished long before Luigi did but stayed seated at the table and waited for his brother to finish too. Luigi ate slowly, almost hesitantly, struggling to clear his plate of pasta.
Then Mario yawned. After a long day of driving around Brooklyn from house to house, the man was simply exhausted. He leaned back into his seat, crossing his arms and sticking his legs beneath the table as far as they could reach.
"Bad day today?" Luigi asked.
"Nah, it’s just the Thompson family causing problems for me again." Mario barked out a curt laugh, although there was no mirth or joy behind it. "Mr. Thompson called the cops on me for trespassing. I swear, those folks are crazy."
"He called the police?!" Luigi gasped, his eyes bugging out of his head. "My God, why doesn't that man leave you alone? He knows you work there!"
"He's just old school, bro," Mario replied with a grin. "You know how that geezer is. Besides, that neighbourhood pays well. I can take a tongue lashing if it means a bigger paycheck."
"Still…"
Mario’s smile wavered at Luigi’s disheartened reply. "It's alright, bro. He's just an old grouch." He sat up straight, resting his hand on Luigi's forearm. "Besides, the lady I worked for gave us a nice tip. We can almost afford that Commodore computer thingy now. That'll make your job a lot easier, yeah?"
The thought of a personal computer didn't seem to comfort Luigi. He twirled his noodles absently, circling them around the plate. "I guess so," he murmured. "...Oh, hang on. I almost forgot to give you this." Luigi suddenly set his fork down and shoved his hand into his front pocket, fishing out a crumpled note with a series of numbers on it. "You got a call today from someone named James Forde. He wanted to talk to you."
"I don't know anyone named Forde." Mario grabbed the slip of paper to scan the phone number. It wasn't one that he recognized. "He didn't need us to come in for anything?"
"Nope. He just wanted to talk to you."
Mario rose to a stand. "Finish your food. I'll go call him back."
With that, Mario whirled around, making his way to the other room and leaving Luigi in the kitchen. A large desk was positioned against the white wall, lined with documents and notebooks surrounding their typewriter. A rotary phone sat on the left side. Pale green paint peeled away from its base, revealing the white plastic beneath. Mario collapsed into the chair, slumping over as he reread the phone number on the creased slip of paper.
Who was this Mr. Forde fellow, anyway?
Mario twisted the dial and squeezed the receiver with his shoulder. Only one way to find out, he supposed.
The phone barely had time to ring before someone picked it up. "Forde speaking."
"Hello!" Mario said with as much pep as he could muster. "This is Mario Mitchelli. I missed a call from you today."
The man on the other end went silent for a moment before responding. "Ah, yes," he murmured. "Thank you for calling me back, Mr. Mitchelli. This is Detective Constable James Forde. I was hoping to ask you a few questions."
Mario blinked. Mr. Forde was a detective? Luigi hadn't mentioned that. "Of course," he fumbled, hastily taking a seat at the nearby desk. "Uh… is this about what happened with the Thompsons? I thought everything was cleared up."
"No, this isn't about that." The firm, grizzled voice on the other end of the phone spoke with a hint of urgency. "Does the name Ricardo Warner ring a bell, Mr. Mitchelli?"
"You mean Rico?" Mario inquired, his hand resting on the nearby typewriter. His thumb rhythmically clacked the spacebar in an attempt to keep his hands occupied. "Sure I do. We went to high school together."
“He's been reported as missing."
Mario's finger froze in place. "Missing?"
"His neighbours called us first. Mr. Warner's front door was open, but he wasn't home. His employer says he hasn't been to work in a few days, either."
Mario reached for the receiver and slowly pulled it away from his shoulder, gripping it tightly with blanched fingers. “Please, tell me he’s okay.”
“It’s too early. We can’t confirm that yet. We’re not even sure if he’s still alive.” Forde paused for a moment. “Mr. Mitchelli, would you be opposed to coming in tomorrow for questioning? We don’t suspect you of anything, but we believe you have information that can help us.”
“I—I’m free between three and five tomorrow afternoon,” Mario stammered. “But I’m busy at six.”
“Three will be fine. Do you know where the station is?
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll see you there,” Forde said curtly. The sound of rustling papers sounded as the detective continued. “Just go to the front desk and give them your name. Have a good night, Mr. Mitchelli.” With no further fanfare, the line went dead, and Mario was left holding a voiceless receiver with only a long, steady beep to break his stunned silence.
For a few minutes after Forde hung up, Mario didn’t move. He eventually placed the phone down to stop the incessant beeping, but stayed seated at the desk, his face buried in his palms. A hand eventually rested itself on Mario’s shoulder, and Luigi appeared in his field of vision, his expression contorted with concern.
“Mario, what’s going on? Was that Forde on the phone just now?”
“Rico’s missing.”
Luigi gasped, his eyes widening with the sudden onset of horror. “What?”
“I—I have to go to the station tomorrow,” Mario continued. “The detective wants to talk to me... I really shouldn’t go. I shouldn’t have said yes.”
Luigi’s eyes softened. “No, no, I understand. It’s okay.” He stretched his arms past Mario’s head, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, bro. I know how close you and Rico were.”
“Why him?” Mario whispered, halfheartedly returning the hug. “What did he do to deserve this? Rico never hurt anyone in his life. What if he’s—”
“He’s fine.” Luigi interrupted Mario’s worried rambling. The older brother sadly lowered his gaze. “He has to be,” Luigi continued. “They’ll find him… I know they will.”
“Yeah.” Mario collapsed his forehead onto Luigi’s shoulder and sighed deeply. “Yeah. He’s okay.”
The radio droned on as the brothers held each other. The rain continued to fall outside.
It took Mario all of his strength to go to bed.