by Sophia Gray
“Okay, not bad. If you want to call someone a queer?”
“Finocchio.”
“Half a queer?”
Brock smiled. “Mezzafinocchio.”
“Stick it up your ass?”
“No thanks, I don't swing that way,” Brock chortled.
“Brock, I swear to fucking God, if you go in there and don't take this seriously—”
“Vaffanculo, okay? Christ, loosen up.”
“Okay,” Robby said. “Not bad. You should work on your accent a little, though. You're still making it sound more Spanish than Italian. Watch a few more gangster flicks tonight. Just the ones on the list I gave you, though—any other ones you watch won't teach you shit. And remember, the hand gestures need to go with it if you want to seem authentic.”
“But other than that?”
Robby put the bottle of dye aside, admiring his handiwork. “Other than that, I'd say it's about time for me to make the call.”
Brock picked up Robby's cell phone and handed it to him. “Go for it.”
Robby stared at the phone for a long moment. “Fuck. This is it, isn't it? Later, when I'm down on my knees in the fucking swamp with some wiseguy's gun pressing against my ear, this is gonna be the exact moment I look back on and think, 'I didn't have to betray everything I swore an oath for. I could've just walked away instead.' And it'll be too fucking late.”
“Robby, when you're lying on your own private beach somewhere with a Mai Tai in your hand and a big-titted girl's lips wrapped around your cock, this is going to be the moment you look back on and think, 'God bless Brock for making sure I never have to take orders from arrogant shitheads like Moretti ever again.' And then you're gonna finish your drink and blow your load all over the chick's face, and it's going to be beautiful and Hallmark's gonna write a card about it. Now stop clutching your fucking pearls and make the call.”
Robby closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and dialed the number.
Chapter 6
Maggie
Maggie walked down the steps, heading for the kitchen. Her stomach was grumbling, and the worst part was that she knew it still would be, no matter what she chose to eat. None of the food her mother approved of—seeds, hardboiled egg whites, salads with no dressing—was actually filling, and trying to sneak a mouthful or two of unapproved food would be futile. Her mother watched the contents of the fridge and the pantry like a hawk, and whenever there was less of anything than there should be, she made sure Maggie was punished for it. The few times Maggie had tried to smuggle in snacks, Amelia immediately found them and confiscated them. Sometimes she even ate them herself in front of Maggie, just to torture her.
Maggie hated always feeling hungry.
As she passed the door to her father's private study, she heard the phone ring twice. Her mother answered, exchanged a few quiet words with the caller, and called out, “Turo, it's for you!”
The door to the study opened slightly, and Turo's voice emanated from it. “Did they say who it is, or am I supposed to guess?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. They'd installed a state-of-the-art intercom system a few years before, but her parents still insisted on yelling to each other from across the house like something out of a damn sitcom.
“Robby Nickels from Dallas,” her mother hollered. “He says he's Old Man Moretti's consigliere.”
“Robby who?” her father shouted. “Old Man what? Who are these people?”
“I don't know, but he says you know him, and he says he wants to talk to you. Are you going to pick up the phone or not?”
“Fine, fine, I'll take the call in here,” Turo snapped. He stepped away from the door, but left it ajar instead of closing it like he usually did when a call came in for him.
Maggie stood in the downstairs hall for a moment, thinking about how the open door gave her a rare chance to listen in on the conversation. Turo frequently took calls from other gangsters in his study, and he usually put them on speakerphone so he could pace as he talked. Maggie had never cared about his business or anything associated with it, so she generally wasn't interested in eavesdropping.
But she also knew this call might be about her—another hopeful matchmaker from another rotten crime family, trying to arrange a marriage between her and yet another self-important punk. If she listened in, she might have a better idea of what she'd be dealing with on her next date.
She crept over to the door, keeping her body pressed against the wall to stay out of sight. She felt silly, and she knew if her mother or father caught her spying, she'd be in big trouble. But she couldn't resist. She was tired of having no knowledge of—or control over—her own life.
Maggie heard her father clear his throat and hit the button on his desk phone. “This is Turo Ricci. Who am I speaking with, please?”
A voice answered, sounding stilted and formal. “Don Ricci, it is truly an honor to speak with you. Thank you for taking my call. I hope I have not disturbed you. I'm not sure if you remember me—we met briefly at the thing in Vegas a couple of years ago. My name is Robert Nickelson, and I have the privilege of acting as advisor to the Moretti family in Dallas.”
Good lord, Maggie thought. This guy sure isn't big on brevity.
“And why are you calling me, Mr. Nickelson? Surely, if your boss has business to discuss with me, he can speak with me himself. Unless, of course, he feels I'm unworthy of his time, in which case—”
“I can assure you, Don Ricci, my employer has the utmost respect for you. However, the matter I'm contacting you about...well, it doesn't actually involve Mr. Moretti. It's an unrelated matter, one in which I've been asked to act as a sort of go-between between you and another party.”
“And I can assure you, sir,” Turo countered testily, “that nothing robs me of the inclination to trust my fellow man more than vague nonsense and murky phrases like 'another party.' If you're trying to conduct some kind of business behind your boss's back, that doesn't sound like anything I'd want to be involved in.”
“My deepest apologies, Don Ricci,” Robert said quickly. “I feel I've done a poor job of stating my intentions. If I seem as though I'm being furtive in this matter, I'm sorry. I promise you nothing about this situation is untoward or inappropriate, or counter to my employer's interests in any way. It's simply that there are certain factors which demand a high degree of discretion. Actually, that's the reason I've been asked to contact you specifically. The, uh, other interested party has heard of your impeccable code of ethics, and feels you alone can be trusted to protect his interests in this delicate matter.”
Maggie smiled. Whoever this person was, he clearly knew the right way to approach Turo—by appealing to his vanity and his self-image as a “man of principle.” It seemed like this call wasn't about setting her up with anyone, but she figured she may as well hear the rest of it.
She heard her father sigh, then chuckle wearily. “All right, Mr. Nickelson. You got me to ante up, and you've gotten me to see your raise. Well done. But now I think it's time for you to show your cards, don't you? And please, resist the urge to start every sentence with 'Don Ricci.' Your respect is noted. There's no need to gild the lily, so to speak.”
“Unfortunately, as I've said, this is a matter of tremendous secrecy. And since men in our position often find our lines of communication...compromised, shall we say, by certain government agencies, I believe it would be best for us to go over the details in person. Are you available for a meeting tomorrow evening? I can make myself available at your convenience, naturally, as can the interested party.”
“Very well,” Turo agreed. “Meet me at The Azalea Room at seven o'clock. And Mr. Nickelson?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If this turns out to be some sort of setup, I can guarantee you that when I'm done punishing you, I'll move on to everyone you've ever cared about. Do we understand each other?”
“Certainly,” Robert said. Despite the threat, Maggie thought he actually sounded relieved. “And thank you for this
opportunity, Don...sir. You won't regret it.”
Maggie heard the call end and scuttled away from the door. She was relieved this wasn't another attempt to set her up, even though she knew that would certainly be happening again soon anyway.
She thought about proceeding to the kitchen, then decided to return to her room instead. None of the food options available to her sounded appetizing anyway. If she could force herself to take a nap, maybe that would make her hunger go away, if only for a little while.
Chapter 7
Brock
Brock walked down Bourbon Street at sunset, with Robby and Crack next to him and herds of tourists and hucksters passing them on both sides.
The hot evening air was thick and hazy, filled with the smells of booze, sweat, spicy foods, and manure from the horses that pulled the carriages once the avenues were closed to cars for the night. Raucous jazz and drunken karaoke blared from every bar, and strippers danced lazily in the doorways of the clubs, half-heartedly beckoning to vacationers. Out-of-work actors with goatees and ponytails led groups on ghost tours, telling the same hokey stories of pirates, vampires, and voodoo over and over.
“Jesus, this is like some redneck version of Atlantic City,” Robby said.
Brock smiled. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this place until now. Sometimes while he was on the road, every town started to seem the same as the last one. But nowhere else on earth was like New Orleans. It was crowded and sticky and noisy and it stank, but there was a certain poetry beneath it all that was deeply alluring.
More than anything, Brock missed the stories. No matter where a person went in the Big Easy or who they met, they were guaranteed to hear stories. Half of these stories were exaggerated beyond all proportion—the other half were bald-faced lies. But they were always spellbinding, even when the teller had his hands deep in the listeners' pockets.
Brock liked that.
Despite his stroll down Memory Lane, though, he didn't feel much like himself in that moment. He'd dressed the part for plenty of scores before, but never like this—diamond cufflinks, a silk handkerchief folded into three crisp points, narrow Italian shoes so polished he could see his reflection in them, and an Ermenegildo Zegna suit that cost almost five-thousand dollars. His hair was slicked back with pomade so thick and greasy it felt like pure lard. The ensemble was a lot to get used to for someone who spent at least half of his time cruising around on a motorcycle with road dust caked on his jeans.
Still, Brock had to admit that if he were feeling a little self-conscious and uncomfortable, he could only imagine how Crack felt. They'd almost had to find a tent-maker to tailor a suit that would fit Crack's huge, awkward, billowing frame. Robby had tried to teach Crack the same lessons about proper vocabulary and inflection, but he gave up after fifteen minutes and told Crack it would probably be better if he just didn't say anything at all. Crack couldn't even mimic the cocksure stride of a true Mafioso—all he could do was lumber, slope-shouldered, with his eyes fixed on the ground.
By contrast, Brock swaggered like the owned the whole city, swinging his shoulders and popping his hips arrogantly with every step.
“I really nailed the walk, didn't I?” Brock asked Robby. “I found some footage of John Gotti online and copied him.”
Robby smirked. “Gotti only walked like that because he accidentally crushed his own foot trying to steal a cement mixer when he was fourteen. Don't overplay your part. Remember, mid-level wiseguys walk around like they've got a couple boulders swinging between their legs. The higher-ups don't have to.”
Brock laughed and discarded the exaggerated stride, walking normally instead.
A skinny hustler with a pockmarked face and a stingy brim fedora sidled up to the trio. “Hey, big-timers, big spenders! You wanna have some fun tonight?” He winked, gesturing to a nearby strip club. “We got live sex shows, we got private booths, we got air conditioning, we got the prettiest cooch and the strongest hooch this side've the Mississippi. We got lap dances for thirty bucks...buy two, get a third one half-price. Y'all ain't gonna find lower prices anywhere on Bourbon Street. Whaddaya say, whaddaya say?”
“Thanks, but we've got a prior engagement this evening,” Brock said. “Another time, maybe.”
“Aw, ain't no time like the present, boys! From the look of them fancy suits, I figure you gents could buy a dance with every gal in the place twice over an' still have enough for a six-course meal down at Tujague's.” The hustler nudged Crack's side playfully. “Bet we could even rustle up a mountain-climbin' gal to see to the big fella here, how 'bout it?”
Crack's massive arm shot out with surprising speed, seizing the hustler's wrist and bending it around behind him. The hustler let out a yowl like a scalded cat.
“Speaking of mountain-climbing, my friend, how about you take a hike?” Brock suggested.
“Okay, okay!” Crack released the hustler, who rubbed his wrist with a wounded look on his face. “No disrespect intended, gents. Y'all enjoy your evening, now.” He retreated to the doorway of the closest strip club.
“You've got some mighty quick hands, there,” Robby observed.
Crack smiled.
Shortly before Bourbon intersected with Canal Street, Brock and the others found themselves standing in front of The Azalea Room. It looked like most of the other party joints in the French Quarter—tricked out with fake palm fronds, gaudy paint, and cheap strings of hanging skull-shaped lights. A blues quartet played a down-and-dirty boogie-woogie, and tourists spilled out from the doors and windows holding tall neon plastic cups filled with strong mixed drinks.
“Seems kind of tacky for a guy like Ricci, doesn't it?” Brock commented.
“That's probably just window dressing,” Robby answered. “Come on, follow me.”
They shouldered their way through the crowd of perspiring drunks. One of the dancing patrons almost spilled a beer on Brock's suit, and he flinched nervously. He'd used his own money to buy this outfit, and he couldn't afford to shell out for another one.
The bartender was a ruddy-faced man with a wide-brimmed straw hat and a t-shirt that said “Voodoo Unto Others Before They Voodoo Unto You.”
Robby leaned over the bar, raising his voice to make himself heard. “My name's Robby Nickelson, and I'm here to see Turo Ricci. These men are with me.”
The bartender nodded serenely and pointed to a door between the two bathrooms. “Knock six times.”
Robby led Brock and Crack to the door and rapped on it six times. After a moment, it opened to reveal a tall, cadaverous-looking man in his forties with a shaved head and piercing black eyes. There was a long, ragged scar across his throat.
“Mr. Nickelson, my name is Adamo, and I am Don Ricci's majordomo,” he said in a raspy voice. He beckoned them inside, closing and locking the door behind them. “At the risk of appearing impolite or unwelcoming, I must ask whether any of you gentlemen are carrying weapons of any kind.”
“No, we came here in good faith,” Robby assured him.
Adamo nodded. “Very good. Even so, it is my unfortunate duty to pat you down, just to make sure. I trust you will not take offense at this precaution?”
“We understand,” Robby said. “By all means, do whatever you need to do.”
“Excellent. If I brush against your more delicate areas during my search, I do hope you will forgive me. Many would-be assassins have been known to hide firearms in such places, so I'm afraid we are forced to be quite diligent, even at the expense of our guests' comfort.”
“Hey, you pat down those areas thoroughly enough, there may even be a tip in it for you,” Brock chuckled.
Adamo offered a thin, humorless smile. The trio raised their arms and spread their legs, allowing Adamo's bony fingers to examine every inch of their bodies. Sure enough, when he reached Brock's crotch, he didn't shy away from it the way most men would during a pat-down.
“You want I should turn my head and cough while you're down there?” Brock asked wryly.
“I do not believe that will be necessary. Thank you for your cooperation. Don Ricci is waiting for you downstairs. Please follow me.”
As they followed Adamo, Robby said, “Hey, I couldn't help but notice the bulge at your shoulder. Looks like you're packing a mighty big piece, there. What is it? .357 Magnum?”
Adamo turned to him and pulled his jacket open for a few seconds, revealing a massive Desert Eagle handgun in his shoulder holster.
Robby let out a low whistle. “Wow. Very nice. I gotta get one of those.”
Adamo led them down a black staircase to a smoky room with a low ceiling. A song by Mel Torme played softly from several strategically-placed speakers, and men in expensive suits sat around tables with green felt surfaces, playing poker, blackjack, roulette, and dice. None of their voices raised above a hushed tone.
“Nice setup you've got here,” said Robby.
