Brock
“Are we getting close?” Robby yelled in Brock's ear for the ninth time that afternoon, his arms tightening around Brock's waist.
Brock winced at the noise and the pressure on his midsection. Even though he knew the odds of this scam working without Robby's help were slim to none, he was still giving serious thought to simply dumping Robby 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,” Brock said. “Until then, keep your mouth shut and quit squirming around back there.”
“My fucking pants are riding up on me,” Robby 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!” Robby shrieked. “You're riding this thing like some kind of maniac!”
“So have fucked-up hair, then.”
Brock took a deep breath. He tried to ignore Robby, 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 he'd have to stay off it for a few weeks while they conned Ricci. 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?” Robby 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.”
Robby 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 Clear View, a squat roadhouse that served as the base of operations for The Twisted Saints. Brock killed the engine, put down the kickstand, and unstrapped his helmet, smiling at the sign on the door that said “Private Party Tonight.”
Robby 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 Brock could respond, the door flew open and Hammer burst out, beaming at Brock. “Holy shit, there he is!” He ran up to them, throwing his arms around Brock and lifting him off the ground happily.
“The Hammer and the Nail, together again at last,” Brock wheezed, patting Hammer 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.”
Hammer 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,” Brock retorted, poking Hammer's stomach. “I told you not to eat those pork rinds all the time, didn't I? Now look at you.”
Hammer laughed. “Same old Brock, always busting balls.” He looked at Robby. “Who's your friend?”
“Hammer, meet Robby Nickels. 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 Brock looked around at the other members of the Saints. “Wow, Hammer. You've really built this MC into something heavy, huh? And you can vouch for the loyalty of everyone in here?”
“Damn straight,” Hammer affirmed.
“You're absolutely sure about that?” Robby asked. “Because if even one of these apes thinks he can make some extra cash by selling us out to Ricci—”
Hammer's meaty hand clamped down on Robby'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, Hammer,” Brock said. “Robby's just a little nervous, that's all. This ain't his usual scene.” He turned to Robby. “You might want to go ahead and say you're sorry, before Hammer puts your nose through your fucking brain.”
Robby 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 Brock, slapping them both on the back.
The door opened again and Greg 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 Brock and he immediately exclaimed, “No. No, nope, all the no in the fucking world, uh-uh, fuck off, goodbye.” He turned to leave.
“Aw, come on, Ben!” Brock called out, grinning.
Ben whirled around again, furious. “I should have known. When Greg said he wasn't gonna tell me who was running this con, I should have known that meant it was you, and I should have shut it down right then. But no, instead I end up dragging my ass from L.A. all the way out here to fucking alligator country, just to find out it's you...”
“Yeah, but you're here now, right? So okay, fine, it's me. You may as well stick around and find out what the score is.”
“Why bother?” Ben asked. “All I'll hear is the part where I'm supposed to get giddy about how much cash is involved and how easy it's supposed to be. I won't hear about what happens later, when you figure out a way to get a bigger piece for yourself and change the plan without telling the rest of us.”
“Ben, that hurts me,” Brock replied with a smirk. “It really does. That only happened, what, one time?”
“Three times.”
“That second thing doesn't count. And, besides, I still made sure you got paid, right? So okay, maybe I didn't let you in on every tiny detail as we went along, but you still got taken care of in the end. Come on, sit down, have a drink. You'll love this, I promise.”
“This is already off to a hell of a start,” Robby grumbled.
“So first of all, some introductions are in order,” Brock continued. He knew if he gave Ben a chance to walk out, some of the others might decide to follow and then he'd really be screwed. Better to steamroll them with his pitch at the outset, before they had a chance to think for themselves too much.
He gestured to Hammer. “This is Hammer, the president and co-founder of The Twisted Saints MC, who will henceforth be known as 'The Aggrieved Party.'”
“Nice to meet you,” Hammer said.
“Hammer, this is Greg Mau. We've worked together on dozens of cons, and he's one of the sharpest operators in the business.” Brock pointed to Ben. “Benjamin Vickery III, or Hollywood Ben to his friends. He does makeup and special effects for movies.” He pointed to the short woman. “Francesca Flowers, known in the biz as Frosty Franny. One of the most talented chemists in the country, maybe even the world...”
“I'm not a straw, Brock,” Franny said flatly. “Don't suck up.”
“...and this strapping lad is Crack,” Brock finished, jerking a thumb at the morbidly-obese young man.
“What's his job?” Robby asked.
Crack cracked his knuckles slowly. “I'm the muscle.”
Hammer looked around at the burly bikers surrounding them. “You brought muscle? No offense, Brock, but ain't that kind of like bringing sand to the beach?”
Brock shook his head. “We can't use your guys for that part, or Ricci might recognize them. Besides, don't worry—I've got something in mind for them, too. Everyone's got a part to play, trust me.”
“Speaking of trusting you,” said Ben, “I still haven't heard one good reason why I shouldn't tell you to kiss my black ass.”
“Because the last five flicks you worked on were low-budget horror crap that probably paid you peanuts,” Brock answered. “I'm offering you a chance to get a six-figure payout. You really want to stand there and tell me you can afford to just walk away?”
Ben's jaw clenched, the muscles in his cheeks twitching ominously. Slowly, he went to the bar and sat down on a stool. “Five minutes. Talk.”
“Okay,” Brock began, “so excluding the professional confidence men—excuse me, and ladies—in the room, who here can tell me what the Spanish Prisoner is?”
There was silence from Hammer and the Saints.
“I probably should have expected that,” Brock said. “How about this: who here has gotten one of those scam emails from someone claiming to be a Nigerian prince?”
Another silence.
“You're not exactly talking to a point-and-click crowd here, Brock,” Hammer said uneasily.
“Fair enough. I'll make this simple. Basically, the Spanish Prisoner con targets people with money who want more of it. The scam's a classic Pigeon Drop, and it goes all the way back to the 1700s. The hustler tells the mark he's in contact with someone wealthy and powerful, who's being held captive for a huge ransom. The hustler offers the mark the chance to pay that ransom, in exchange for untold riches upon the prisoner's release.”
“So where does Ricci's daughter come in?” Hammer asked.
“I'll bet I can guess that one,” Franny chimed in dryly. “Traditionally, the Spanish Prisoner works best when it's accompanied by a sweetener—usually, the hustler has some gorgeous young girl who pretends to be the prisoner's concerned daughter, and she seduces the mark into paying.”
“Only this time, the script is flipped and you're the gorgeous young girl, right, Brock?” Robby asked. “You've gotta be kidding me. Ricci's a wiseguy, he's spent his whole life expecting people to fuck him over and take what's his. He'll never go for it.”
“That's where you come in, Robby,” Brock said evenly.
Over the next hour, Brock carefully outlined his plan.
By the time he'd finished, there wasn't a single person in the room—Ben included—who wasn't completely convinced that it would work.