Brock

 

Brock 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, Robby,” Brock commented. “Better than the view we had upstate in D Block, huh?”

 

Behind him, Robert Nickelson grunted his agreement and fussily rifled through the papers on his desk for the fourth time since Brock had walked in. Brock watched the bespectacled man's discomfort reflected in the window glass, enjoying it. Nickelson had long ago earned the nickname “Robby Nickels,” 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 Moretti crime family, achieving the rank of consigliere or “trusted advisor.”

 

Brock 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,” Robby sighed impatiently.

 

“Man, that's swell,” Brock continued. “You sure have come a long way, haven't you, Robby? 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?” Robby 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 Breanna, and you left me hanging. Look, Brock, 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?”

 

Brock 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.” Robby 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 Moretti'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 Brock. “Moretti'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?” Robby asked.

 

Brock finished his drink and set the glass down on Robby's desk. “You just said it yourself, Robby. Thirty years of busting your hump for Moretti, 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 Moretti 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.”

 

Robby chuckled. “I'm Sicilian, Brock. We don't believe in leprechauns. But, okay, go ahead and give me your pitch. It should be good for a laugh, at least.”

 

Brock sat on the edge of the desk. “You know Don Ricci 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?” Robby 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,” Brock 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 Ricci.”

 

“So what do you need me for?”

 

“You're gonna be the most important part of this whole thing,” said Brock. “See, if this is going to work, Ricci will have to believe 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—”

 

Robby threw back his head and laughed. Brock waited patiently for him to stop, but the cackling continued for several minutes, until Robby's face was red and tears were streaming down his cheeks.

 

“That's your plan?” Robby 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,” Brock 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, Robby? Not after all we've been through together?” Brock asked, pouting theatrically. Inwardly, he was loving this. He'd hoped that the carrot would be enough to convince Robby to help him, but hey, the stick was fine, too.

 

“Brock—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,” Brock sighed wistfully. “For instance, I remember one magical day when a certain someone sold heroin to Darrell Diggs, who tragically OD'd on it—”

 

The color drained from Robby's face as his eyes widened. “Don't you do that.”

 

“—and hey, it turned out that Darrell's father was none other than Reese 'R-Gunz' Diggs, 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?”

 

Robby's eyes blazed with anger. “I'm fucking serious, Brock. Don't you dare bring that up.”

 

Brock 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...”

 

Robby 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, Brock?”

 

“Hey, I walked in here offering you more money than you've ever seen in your life, and a chance to stop shining Moretti'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 Moretti something came up and you have to leave town for a while, and let your old pal Brockie make you into the richest motherfucker you know. How about it?”

 

Robby 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 Brock. “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.”

 

“Robby,” Brock assured him, “consider me clay in the hands of a master sculptor.”