Brock

 

Brock and Crack waited outside The Azalea Room as a herd of tourists ambled by. The sweaty, colorfully-dressed out-of-towners were dancing and snapping their fingers as they followed a parade of jazz musicians. It was the middle of the day, but the familiar haze of alcohol and vomit already permeated the air, mixing with the fragrant steam of a hundred different crawfish boils.

 

Brock couldn't believe it had only been about a week since the first time they'd been to the club. He'd done his share of long cons before, but he generally preferred short cons. A quick search for the right mark, a flashy bit of theater to lure them in, a smooth but hasty exit, and boom—instant money for an afternoon's work, a fancy dinner to celebrate, and on to the next scam.

 

But long cons paid off at levels short cons never could, and if this one was played just right, the payoff could be enough to sustain him for years—maybe even indefinitely. In this case, patience and focus were essential.

 

Right. Focus.

 

So why did his mind keep grabbing him by the lapels and dragging him back to thoughts of Maggie?

 

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He barely knew this girl, she was just another gear in the complex machinery of the con, and when it was over he'd never see her again. Just like dozens of other girls in dozens of other scores. No different at all.

 

Maggie, his brain whispered. Not “the girl.” Maggie.

 

Okay, fine, so her name was Maggie. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. See? He could think her name if he wanted to. It didn't make her special. It didn't mean he felt anything for her. And it didn't make what happened between them any less of a mistake.

 

And it had been a mistake. A big one.

 

But why didn't it feel like one? Why did he keep reveling in the memories of her hands on his body, how soft her skin was, the smell of her hair? And those dark eyes, so full of wanting and needing, and all for him...

 

Stop it, he snapped. You saw a pretty girl and you fucked up, plain and simple. This isn't the first time it's happened, it probably won't be the last, and if you don't feel bad about it like you should, well, that's just because you're a selfish asshole like everyone says you are. The next time you see her, you'll just have to play it cool and keep your hands to yourself.

 

“You're quiet,” Crack remarked. His fat fingers were gripping the handle of a briefcase.

 

“You're one to talk,” Brock snapped. “Now pipe down. They should be almost here by now.”

 

A few minutes later, a vintage Italian sports car pulled up in front of the club. It was candy apple red, and its low stance and smooth lines made it look like a jungle cat pouncing forward. Turo Ricci stepped out from the driver's side, and Adamo emerged from the other side. Turo's face lit up with a smile when he saw Brock, and he ran over to him eagerly.

 

“There he is!” Turo laughed, throwing his arms around Brock and squeezing him hard. For someone so short and wiry, he seemed quite strong. “There's the kid himself. Maggie's protector, her knight in designer armor. Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving her life, Gabe. Thank you.”

 

Adamo walked over to Crack. “I hope you weren't expecting a similar greeting from me,” he sneered.

 

Crack shook his head.

 

“Hey, take it easy,” Brock chuckled, trying to extricate himself from Turo's firm embrace. “Like I said before, it's what anyone would have done. No need to thank me. That's one hell of a car you're driving around in, by the way.”

 

“Do you like it? That's a 1960 Ferrari GT Berlinetta Luso. When I proposed to Amelia, her father gave this to me. It's my second most treasured possession, after my daughter. I took it to my mechanic and told him to do everything he could to make sure it was in the same condition it was when it first left the factory. Even the paint job is new.” Turo jingled the keys merrily for a moment, then slapped them into Brock's palm. “And now, Gabe, it belongs to you, for saving my most treasured possession. And I'll tell you the same thing my father-in-law told me: 'May it take you everywhere you want to go in life.'”

 

Brock stared at the keys, dumbfounded. “Don Ricci—”

 

“Turo, please. And don't tell me you can't accept it, because I insist. My entire life, I've waited to be able to present this to my own son-in-law someday. Finally, I have the chance.” Brock saw tears shining in Turo's eyes.

 

“Thank you for this gesture. I'm very humbled and grateful. But with all due respect, Turo, I wouldn't want you to bestow such a gift prematurely. There's no guarantee Maggie and I are going to be married. I mean, we've only had one date so far, and I think you'll agree it was somewhat catastrophic.”

 

“Ah, but the next one won't be,” Turo said happily. “I have an instinct for these things, and I can feel it. All of this—you showing up with this deal just when my daughter needed a husband, and being there to protect her right when she needed you the most—it's destiny, Gabe. I know it in my heart. Everything that's happened, even this unfortunate business with your father overseas, has happened for a purpose...to bring you into our lives. I thank God for that, and for you.” To Brock's surprise, Turo kissed him on both cheeks tenderly.

 

“I'm very touched, Turo. Truly. But what about Maggie? Shouldn't she have a say in this, too?”

 

“Oh, she's completely smitten with you! You should have heard the way she's been singing your praises for the past two days. She can't wait to see you again. When you ask for her hand in marriage, I know she'll say yes.”

 

“But, Turo, even so...”

 

Turo put his small hands on either side of Brock's face, looking into his eyes earnestly. “Listen, I understand. You're a good son, and you're worried about your father. It feels wrong to make plans for your happiness while he's in the hands of those savages. I admire that about you. So we'll make the necessary arrangements for his release, and we won't discuss marriage again until he's free. By then, hopefully, we can celebrate with a wedding announcement.” He planted another kiss on Brock, this time on his forehead. “And he will be free, whatever it costs, whatever it takes. I promise you that, and I never break my promises. Now let's go inside and get this boring business over with, shall we?”

 

Before Brock could answer, Turo walked toward the entrance of the club, followed by Adamo. Brock looked at the keys in his hand for a moment, then stuffed them into his pocket and followed. Crack lumbered along behind him.

 

As they made their way through the crowd of patrons, a rat-faced man with long, stringy, unwashed hair tapped Turo on the shoulder. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, frayed cargo shorts, and sandals. His fingertips were stained yellow and brown from nicotine, and his feet were almost black with dirt.

 

“Don Ricci, I was hoping to find you here.” When he spoke, he revealed a mouthful of rotting blue teeth. His breath smelled like fish rotting in high heat, and Brock's eyes started to water.

 

“Not now, Murray,” Turo said, turning his face away with a look of disgust.

 

“But you haven't put in the, uh, order for next month,” Murray insisted. “I tried to call you a couple times this week, but I never heard back. I just want to make sure that you get the, um, product you need on time, without any hassles.”

 

“When the Don needs you, he'll reach out to you,” Adamo rasped, yanking Murray out of Turo's face and shoving him away. “Until then, you stay out of his face, or you'll have me in yours. Now fuck off.”

 

Murray took one last, forlorn look at Turo before staggering away, his lower lip quivering.

 

“Who was that sad sack?” Brock asked.

 

“Murray Morrow,” Turo replied. “He's the one who's been supplying us with heroin for the past few years. But he's a small-timer, a nobody, and his product has been stepped on more times than a gas pedal. Once this deal between our families goes through, we won't need to do business with that ignorant swamp rat anymore.”

 

Brock nodded as they walked to the door at the back of the room. He'd intended to learn the name of the person who sold Turo his heroin anyway, so this chance encounter was a stroke of good luck.

 

Adamo unlocked the door and they descended the stairs to the casino below. This time, it was empty. Turo gestured to the table in the corner where they'd spoken last time, and they all sat down.

 

“You have the stuff?” Turo asked.

 

Brock turned to Crack, who set the briefcase on the table and opened it. He removed a small brick of powder wrapped in plastic, placing it in front of them.

 

Adamo produced a switchblade and a small vial of opaque liquid. He cut into the brick, using the tip of the knife to gingerly lift out a bump of the powder. Then he unscrewed the cap of the vial and dropped the powder into it, swirling it around. After a few seconds, the liquid turned bright orange.

 

Turo laughed, clapping his hands together. “Excellent! That's at least ten times purer than the garbage we've been selling. We could cut this four, five times, and it would still be some of the most potent stuff around.”

 

Brock smiled. “As advertised.”

 

“Well, then I'd say it's my turn, wouldn't you?” Turo reached under the table and came up with a large black valise, handing it over to Brock.

 

Brock opened the bag and looked down at the crisp bundles of hundred-dollar bills. There were far more than he expected, and the sight almost made him light-headed. After a lifetime of scores where the payoffs were handfuls of crumpled bills or hastily-scrawled bank account numbers on cocktail napkins, seeing this much money in one place was surreal, like seeing a unicorn stroll down Basin Street.

 

“Five million dollars. The entire ransom amount. You should save your half. Spend it on your honeymoon, maybe.” Turo winked playfully.

 

“Turo...you're a very generous man, but this is really too much...”

 

Turo shushed him. “I told you I'd do whatever it took to free your father, and I meant it.”

 

Brock nodded, still gaping at the bag full of money. “Thank you. I'll contact the rebels in Myanmar and arrange the trade-off immediately.”

 

“Good.” Turo slapped the table briskly and stood up. The others followed suit. “When you've made the arrangements, let me know and I'll choose some of my best men to act as bodyguards during your next trip to the fields.” He turned to Adamo with a grin. “How about it? Do you feel like taking a little jungle vacation?”

 

Adamo shook his head. “Louisiana's enough of a jungle for me already, thank you.”

 

“So now that we've got business out of the way,” Turo continued, “when would you like to take Maggie out again? Tonight? Tomorrow? Name the day, and I'll make reservations at the best place in the city.”

 

“How about three days from now?” Brock asked. “That should give me some time to make my calls to Myanmar and straighten things out.” He felt a nervous twinge in his stomach. What if Maggie wanted him again? Crack would be watching him, so he'd have to say no. The thought of that made him uncomfortable.

 

“Good,” Turo said, shaking Brock's hand. “I'll give you a call tomorrow with the time and place. I promise, it'll be the most romantic night of your life.”

 

But what if I've already had the most romantic night of my life? Brock thought.