Brock

 

Frank Sinatra crooned his greatest hits on a docked iPod in the corner of the hotel room. Robby carefully squeezed the black dye into Brock's hair layer by layer as Brock shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

 

The room was on the fourth floor of The Carondelet Hotel, one of New Orleans' most expensive guest houses. Hammer and the others had balked at the price, but Brock had assured them it was important to keep up appearances—he couldn't convince anyone he was the heir to a Mafia empire if he were holed up in some cheap shitbox.

 

“You need to fucking relax,” Robby said. “If you keep fidgeting like that, you're gonna end up wearing this stuff as war paint.”

 

“If you want to help me relax, you can start by switching off this easy listening horseshit and putting on some actual music. Maybe Nine Inch Nails, or a little Zeppelin, at least...”

 

Robby shook his head briskly. “Nope. From now on, you're on a strict diet of Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, and Louie Prima. You're gonna listen to them over and over, and you're gonna memorize the lyrics to all of their songs in case one of them comes on the radio and you need to sing along. Trust me, it happens more often than you might think.”

 

“Bullshit. The guy's daughter is, what, in her early twenties? You really think she's going to care if I'm into all this dusty old shit? She probably hates it.”

 

“Yeah, but the daughter isn't the one you're really trying to seduce, is she, smart guy? Don Ricci's the only one you need to worry about making a good impression on. Whether his daughter likes you or hates you isn't going to have any bearing on his decision to marry you off to her.”

 

“Still, it'll be easier if she likes me,” Brock observed quietly.

 

Robby stopped putting dye in Brock's hair, eyeing him warily. “Hey. You're not actually gonna try to fuck her or anything like that, are you?”

 

Brock rolled his eyes. “Pffft. Of course not.”

 

“Brock. Look at me.”

 

Brock sighed, turning to look at Robby.

 

“You do not fuck this girl. Understand? You take her out if Ricci wants you to, you play it like a total gentleman, maybe you even try to be a little charming. But if you get a real shot at taking her to bed, you think of the money that's at stake here and you keep your dick in your pants. You come back to this motel, you jerk off, dial a 900 number, hire a hooker, do whatever you gotta do to get it out of your system. Because if you somehow manage to blow this score with your usual Casanova crap, everyone involved—including me—is gonna want to see you strung up by your fucking balls.”

 

“Message received, okay? Now finish up my hair.” Brock studied the shiny surfaces of his fingernails. “I still don't see why I had to get a goddamn manicure. It's kind of girly, isn't it?”

 

“Not to guys like Ricci. To them, it's a status symbol. It's what separates them from the bookies, chumps, and leg-breakers. Hold still, I need to do your eyebrows so they match up.”

 

Brock chuckled. “You want to do my pubes, too, while you're at it? You know, for consistency?”

 

“You can't even stop being a prick for five minutes, can you?” Robby carefully brushed the dye into Brock's eyebrows. “And by the way, you'd better remember to shave about twice a day. You start to get any blonde stubble, and it's game over. Now let's go over Italian swear words.”

 

Brock groaned. “And English ones won't work, because...?”

 

“Because wiseguys don't use them, and if you can't understand what they're saying when they curse in Italian, they'll think you're an undercover Fed and chainsaw your head off. So: you want to call some guy an idiot?”

 

“Coglione.”

 

“And what's the literal meaning?”

 

Brock thought for a moment. He'd been studying for two days, and he was usually a fast learner, but he wasn't used to memorizing things in other languages. “Testicle.”

 

“Good, good. So if you want to say, 'Don't break my balls,' that would be...?”

 

“Um...'Non mi rompere i coglioni.'”

 

“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.