by Zoey Parker
“I can't tonight, Dad,” Stef reminded him uneasily. “I'm going over to Alice's place, remember?”
Benny reached into his back pocket and pulled out a photograph, sliding it across the table to her. “I wouldn't worry too much about those plans. They've been canceled.”
Stef looked down at the photo, and her breath caught in her throat like shards of broken glass. In it, Arthur was lying on the floor of a basement, bruised and bleeding. Three men in ski masks stood over him, holding baseball bats.
Her father looked at her with raised eyebrows. Her mother stared down at her empty plate, her lips pursed.
“How could you do this to him?” Stef hissed. She could feel hot tears welling up in her eyes, making the gory image double and triple before her.
“I didn't do this to him,” Benny countered, pointing his fork in Stef's direction. “You did it when you made plans to see him behind my back. From now on, you'll have no more computer, no more access to the internet. And you won't be allowed to see Alice anymore, either. She's lucky I don't have my guys work her over too.”
“Why do you have to treat me like this?” Stef yelled, standing up from the table and throwing the photo in Benny's face. “Why are you so cruel?”
“Every child asks that of their parent sooner or later,” her father said, trying to sound soothing and reasonable. His tone only made Stef more furious. “'Why do I have to do what you say? Why can't I do what I want?' But that's because even at twenty-one, you're still a child, Stef. You still don't see that everything I do, I do because it's what's best for you, and for this family. One day, when you have children of your own, maybe you'll understand.”
“I hate you!” Stef shrieked, storming out of the room.
“You can hate me all you want,” Benny called after her. “You can slam the door to your room as hard as you want, too. But you'd better make sure you're ready to meet Carmine in an hour, and you'd better be done with these tantrums by then, or I might have to pay Alice a visit after all.”
Stef stomped up the stairs and into her room, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Thinking of what had happened to Arthur made her want to throw up, especially since she knew that on some level, her father was right. It was her fault. She hadn't told Arthur what business her father was in, or how angry he'd be if he found out about them. She'd been stupid enough to think she could hide her relationship with him from her parents. And he'd paid the price, and who knew how badly they'd beaten him? Was he crippled? Would he die from internal bleeding?
She'd never be able to find out now.
For the millionth time, Stef fantasized about running away from home—just packing a bag and getting as far away from all of this as she could. No more threats from her father, no more disapproving looks from her mother. She could wear what she wanted, eat what she wanted, fall in love with whoever she wanted.
But these fantasies never lasted long, because she understood how sheltered she'd been her entire life. Her parents had never allowed her to learn how to drive a car, since even that would be too much independence. She had no money of her own, and even if she did, she wouldn't be able to buy a ticket for a bus, plane, or train without Benny finding out. She had no friends she could stay with, no way of knowing how to make it in the world alone.
She was trapped.
Once she got her tears under control, Stef walked over to her mirror and started to wipe the makeup from her face so she could re-apply it in time to meet Carmine.
As much as she hated it, she couldn't think of a single other thing to do.
Chapter 3
Bax
Bax swirled the tumbler of aged scotch, peering out the penthouse window of Crockett Plaza. It was one of the tallest buildings in Dallas, and the streets and homes were so far below him that they looked like detailed miniatures from a model train set.
“Hell of a view you've got here, Tommy,” Bax commented. “Better than the view we had upstate in D Block, huh?”
Behind him, Thomas Quattrocchi grunted his agreement and fussily rifled through the papers on his desk for the fourth time since Bax had walked in. Bax watched the bespectacled man's discomfort reflected in the window glass, enjoying it. Quattrocchi had long ago earned the nickname “Tommy Quarters,” since his early crimes had generally involved shaking down parking meters and jukeboxes. But in the three decades since then, he'd risen in the ranks of the Parrino crime family, achieving the rank of consigliere or “trusted advisor.”
Bax took a sip from his tumbler, savoring the burning flavor that gave way to the sweet aftertaste of oak and liquid gold. “This is some incredible scotch, too. What's that aged? Fifty years?”
“Something like that,” Tommy sighed impatiently.
“Man, that's swell,” Bax continued. “You sure have come a long way, haven't you, Tommy? Hey, remember that pruno we used to brew in the toilet bowl? We used to use the fruit cocktail they gave us in the chow line, plus some ketchup, sugar, bread crusts for the yeast—”
“Yeah, sure, I remember, okay?” Tommy snapped, tossing the papers to one side. “I also remember that we were gonna sell that hooch to Big Lester to square my gambling debt. Instead, you used it to try to charm that corrections officer named Deborah, and you left me hanging. Look, Bax, I'd love to believe you came by today to shoot the breeze about when we were cellmates up in Ditchfield. That way, I could just tell you to fuck off and be done with it. But since we both know you've got something else in mind, why don't you just come out and say it instead of wasting my time with this cutesy, mysterious Memory Lane horseshit?”
Bax raised an eyebrow mildly. “Wow. Sounds like someone woke up on the cranky side of the bed today.”
“Not all of us get to spend our lives standing around in fancy suits and making quips, shitbird.” Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. “Jesus, I thought getting promoted would mean less work, not more. Sit back, relax, delegate, and wait for the guys under me to kick up what they owe. Instead, Old Man Parrino's got me busier than a one-armed pimp in a bitch-slapping contest. Little Ralphie just got picked up by the Feds last week, which means I've gotta make sure he's either sprung or shivved before they get him talking. Plus I've got to deal with these Russians who are setting up shop down in Corpus Christi, and it's the busy season for sports betting, so...”
“Yikes,” said Bax. “Parrino's gonna crap a litter of lizards when you tell him you're going to be gone for the next month or so.”
“And why the fuck would I tell him that?” Tommy asked.
Bax finished his drink and set the glass down on Tommy's desk. “You just said it yourself, Tommy. Thirty years of busting your hump for Parrino, laughing at his stupid jokes and kissing his ass, and you still feel overworked and underpaid. And you're second in command, and you know you'll never reach the top unless you whack Parrino and both his sons—which we both know you don't have the stomach for. So it seems to me like the only way you're ever gonna actually get the life of leisure and luxury that you want is by stumbling over a random fucking pot of gold. Well, here I am. Consider me your own personal goddamn leprechaun.”
Tommy chuckled. “I'm Sicilian, Bax. We don't believe in leprechauns. But okay, go ahead and give me your pitch. It should be good for a laugh, at least.”
Bax sat on the edge of the desk. “You know Don Altamura over in New Orleans? Long story short, he ripped off a friend of mine, and I promised I'd get him some payback with interest. I've got the whole thing planned out, and when it's over, everyone involved is gonna come out the other side with enough money to retire on.”
“Oh really?” Tommy smirked. “How do you plan to reel in a fish that big?”
“By using the oldest con in the book.”
“If it's such an old con, won't he see it coming from a mile away?”
“They never see it coming,” Bax assured him. “That's why it's the oldest one in the book. No one ever went hungry betting on people's greed, especially guys like Altamura.”
&n
bsp; “So what do you need me for?”
“You're gonna be the most important part of this whole thing,” said Bax. “See, if this is going to work, Altamura will have to believe that I'm the heir to a Mafia family. But the only thing that'll convince him is if a trusted, high-ranking member of la cosa nostra makes the introduction, so—”
Tommy threw back his head and laughed. Bax waited patiently for him to stop, but the cackling continued for several minutes, until Tommy's face was red and tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“That's your plan?” Tommy asked when he could finally get enough breath in his lungs. “Are you the dumbest fuck who's ever walked the earth, or what? First of all, look at you, with your spiky, moussed-up blonde hair, and your fruity little Brooks Brothers monkey suit! You look like some kind of Wall Street yuppie. There's no way anyone would even believe you're Italian, let alone a made guy.”
“Yeah, but some hair dye and contact lenses can give me the right look,” Bax insisted. “And you can help me with the rest. Give me some coaching so I can walk the walk and talk the talk.”
“Even if I thought that would work—which it wouldn't, by the way, not in a billion fucking years—I still swore an oath never to betray this organization. That includes all the families in all the states. I make this introduction, and my life ain't worth stale dogshit. I'd be better off jumping out that window behind you.”
“So you won't do it, then? Not even for me, Tommy? Not after all we've been through together?” Bax asked, pouting theatrically. Inwardly, he was loving this. He'd hoped that the carrot would be enough to convince Tommy to help him, but hey, the stick was fine too.
“Bax—and I say this to you with all the love and respect in the world, man, I really do—but go get fucked and die in a fire, okay? We haven't 'been through anything together,' we just served a few months in the same cell.”
“But I have such fond and treasured memories from that enchanted time,” Bax sighed wistfully. “For instance, I remember one magical day when a certain someone sold heroin to D'Aundre Walker, who tragically OD'd on it—”
The color drained from Tommy's face as his eyes widened. “Don't you do that.”
“—and hey, it turned out that D'Aundre's father was none other than Jerell 'J-Gunz' Walker, one of the biggest gang bosses in California! Man, that was some rotten luck for you, huh? Christ, can you imagine what that guy would do if he found out who sold the junk to his kid?”
Tommy's eyes blazed with anger. “I'm fucking serious, Bax. Don't you dare bring that up.”
Bax shrugged. “Well, I certainly wasn't ever planning to tell anyone, out of respect for our relationship. But now you're telling me I was wrong about how close we are, so...”
Tommy stood up, kicking the trash can next to his desk. It hit the opposite wall hard, and the cheap plastic split down the side. “You're a real piece of garbage, you know that, Bax?”
“Hey, I walked in here offering you more money than you've ever seen in your life, and a chance to stop shining Parrino's shoes and picking up his dry cleaning. You're the one who wanted to play it like a hard-on, so here we are. Now come on—take a few deep breaths, pick up the phone, tell Parrino something came up and you have to leave town for a while, and let your old pal Baxie make you into the richest motherfucker you know. How about it?”
Tommy banged his forehead against his desk, letting out a sound that was somewhere between a roar of fury and a groan of acceptance. Then he raised his head again, rubbing his eyes and looking at Bax.
“That suit's gotta go,” he said. “And you're gonna need more than just hair dye and contacts to pass as a paisan. Your vocabulary, your whaddayacallit—inflection, shit, even the way you stand still. We're gonna have to work on all of it if this menefreghista plan is gonna have a snowball's chance in hell.”
“Tommy,” Bax assured him, “consider me clay in the hands of a master sculptor.”
Chapter 4
Bax
“Are we getting close?” Tommy yelled in Bax's ear for the ninth time that afternoon, his arms tightening around Bax's waist.
Bax winced at the noise and the pressure on his midsection. Even though he knew the odds of this scam working without Tommy's help were slim to none, he was still giving serious thought to simply dumping Tommy off the back of the bike and riding off without him, given how much bitching and moaning he'd already had to put up with.
“I'll tell you when we're close,” Bax said. “Until then, keep your mouth shut and quit squirming around back there.”
“My fucking pants are riding up on me,” Tommy whined.
“I warned you not to wear a suit on a motorcycle.”
“But all I got are suits! Damn, this shit's uncomfortable. And this dumb-looking helmet's gonna fuck up my hair.”
“So take it off.”
“I can't!” Tommy shrieked. “You're riding this thing like some kind of maniac!”
“So have fucked-up hair, then.”
Bax took a deep breath. He tried to ignore Tommy, focusing on the warm breeze on his face and the lush green swamps of Louisiana on either side of the road. He loved cruising on his bike, and he hated knowing that he'd have to stay off it for a few weeks while they conned Altamura. He consoled himself with the thought that if the scam went the way it was supposed to, he could buy a dozen bikes and a private road to ride them on.
“What about these other guys of yours?” Tommy asked.
“I already told them where and when to meet us. They should show up around the same time we do. Now for Christ's sake, pipe down and ease up, will you? You hold onto me any tighter and my liver's gonna come squirting out of my nose.”
Tommy didn't talk for the rest of the trip, but his arms didn't loosen their grip.
Finally, they pulled up in front of The Lucky Hand, a squat roadhouse that served as the base of operations for The Voodoo Devils. Bax killed the engine, put down the kickstand, and unstrapped his helmet, smiling at the sign on the door that said “Private Party Tonight.”
Tommy took off the spare helmet, tucking it under his arm and grimacing at the bar. “Maddon', this place is a fucking dump. I feel like I could get a bad case of crabs just by looking at it.”
Before Bax could respond, the door flew open and Skull burst out, beaming at Bax. “Holy shit, there he is!” He ran up to them, throwing his arms around Bax and lifting him off the ground happily.
“The Skull and the Brain, together again at last,” Bax wheezed, patting Skull on the back. “Now put me down, huh? I already got half my ribs squeezed in on the way here, I don't need the other half busted too.”
Skull put him down again. “Sorry, man. It's just...what's it been, ten years? You ain't changed a bit.”
“Wish I could say the same for you,” Bax retorted, poking Skull's stomach. “I told you not to eat those pork rinds all the time, didn't I? Now look at you.”
Skull laughed. “Same old Bax, always busting balls.” He looked at Tommy. “Who's your friend?”
“Skull, meet Tommy Quarters. He may not look like much, but think of him as the golden key that's gonna open all the doors we need opened. Now let's go inside and go over the plan. The rest of my team should be showing up any minute.”
They walked into the roadhouse and Bax looked around at the other members of the Devils. “Wow, Skull. You've really built this MC into something heavy, huh? And you can vouch for the loyalty of everyone in here?”
“Damn straight,” Skull affirmed.
“You're absolutely sure about that?” Tommy asked. “Because if even one of these apes thinks he can make some extra cash by selling us out to Altamura—”
Skull's meaty hand clamped down on Tommy's shoulder hard. “You've been in here for all of five seconds, and you're already questioning how righteous my guys are? You must carry your balls around in a fucking wheelbarrow, pal.”
“Easy, Skull,” Bax said. “Tommy's just a little nervous, that's all. This ain't his usual scene.” He turned
to Tommy. “You might want to go ahead and say you're sorry, before Skull puts your nose through your fucking brain.”
Tommy opened his mouth to crack wise, then closed it. “I was impolite,” he murmured. “I apologize.”
“There, see? Now we can all be friends,” said Bax, slapping them both on the back.
The door opened again and David walked in, followed by three other people. The first was a tall black man in his forties with a shaved head and gold hoops dangling from his ears. The second was a short woman in her early thirties with a delicate frame and a white streak in her otherwise-brown hair. The third was a man in his late twenties who was built like a refrigerator, with a round, hairless, piggy face and slab-like arms.
The black man's eyes fell on Bax and he immediately exclaimed, “No. No, nope, all the no in the fucking world, uh-uh, fuck off, goodbye.” He turned to leave.
