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.

 

“Thank you. Don Ricci is quite proud of it.” Adamo gestured to a table in a corner where Ricci sat, watching them approach. “Would any of you care for something to drink?”

 

“I'll have a sambuca, neat,” Robby said.

 

“A dry martini for me, please,” said Brock, “and Cutty Sark on the rocks for my friend here.”

 

Crack nodded.

 

“Of course,” Adamo said, vanishing into a back room.

 

Brock felt his stomach lurch in unhappy anticipation. He hated martinis, dry or otherwise. But according to Robby, it was a preferred drink among northern Mafia bosses and their scions, so when in Rome...

 

As they reached the table, Ricci stood, smiling indulgently and offering his hand. “Ah, the enigmatic Mr. Nickelson. It's a pleasure to formally meet you.”

 

Robby lifted the manicured hand to his lips, kissing the ruby ring on Ricci's little finger. “Don Ricci. An honor, truly.” He waved a hand at Brock and Crack. “Please, allow me to introduce you to Gabriele De Luca from Toronto, and his associate Rodolfo.”

 

Brock gave Ricci a firm but respectful handshake. Robby had taught him that capos and consiglieres kissed rings—bosses and sons of bosses shook hands, to demonstrate their confidence and status as equals. He saw that the gesture was not lost on Ricci as the older man re-evaluated him carefully.

 

“I'm afraid Rodolfo is unable to verbally convey how honored he is to meet you, Don Ricci,” said Brock. “Sadly, he lost his tongue last year due to a misunderstanding with a rival family. However, he's more than capable of expressing himself in other ways.”

 

Crack stepped forward, taking Ricci's hand and kissing his ring.

 

“Have a seat,” Ricci offered. As they sat down, Adamo appeared, placed their drinks on the table in front of them, and vanished again without a word. Brock watched from the corner of his eye as Crack sipped the scotch slowly and carefully, as though he were trying to drink without the benefit of a tongue.

 

So far, so good, Brock thought.

 

“So, Gabriele...” Ricci begin.

 

Brock held up a hand politely. “Please, call me Gabe.”

 

“All right, then. Gabe. You're from Toronto? I had no idea there were made guys up in Canada.”

 

“Do you do much traveling, sir?” Brock asked.

 

“I'm afraid not,” Ricci conceded.

 

“Well, I've been all over the world. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's everywhere you go, there are guys like us in one form or another.”

 

Ricci grinned, nodding. “I suppose there are, at that. Now, perhaps you'd like to let me know why you've come such a long way to meet with me?”

 

“Families like ours up in Canada aren't very familiar with the ones down here,” Brock began. “I was lucky enough to make Robby's acquaintance a few years ago, and given the current situation, I asked him to put me in touch with the most discreet, honorable, trustworthy man in your position. He told me you are a man of impeccable moral fiber...a man of principle, who adhered to a strict code of conduct and kept his word above all else. He immediately recommended you.”

 

“Yes, yes, I'm flattered, but what is the 'current situation’?” Ricci demanded. “I still haven't heard any specifics, and my patience is wearing thin.”

 

“I understand, and I apologize for all of this secrecy. However, before I can continue, I must ask you to give your word that even if you decide not to get involved, you will keep everything you hear tonight in the strictest confidence.”

 

“What, are you guys trying to unload a batch of stolen nuclear warheads or something?” Ricci laughed. “All right, fine, whatever it is, you have my word that I won't tell anyone about it. And everyone in here is too busy trying to beat the house to hear what we're talking about. Okay?”

 

“Thank you. I realize this might seem ridiculous to you, but as your man Adamo said, certain precautions are prudent and necessary, even if they're unpleasant. When you hear the matter at hand, I'm sure you'll agree.”

 

“We'll see about that,” Ricci smirked, taking a sip of his drink.

 

“My father is Francesco De Luca, the boss of our family,” said Brock. “Last year, he was given the opportunity to acquire a string of previously-unclaimed poppy fields in Myanmar. We're talking billions of dollars' worth of raw opium, okay? So he took those fields over, and set up a couple of processing facilities to turn it into heroin once it reaches Ontario. This stuff is so pure it can be stepped on eight, ten times, and still be considered high-grade. Since the borders between the US and Canada are so porous, the idea is to ship the stuff down here and make a fortune. With that kind of product to move, we stand to become the biggest traffickers of H in North America.”

 

Ricci shrugged. “Congratulations. What's that got to do with me?”

 

“As you may already know, Myanmar is a jungle hellhole where civil wars rage constantly,” Brock continued. “During his last visit to inspect our fields over there, a group of rebels took my father as their prisoner. Now, for the moment, these assholes don't know who they've got. They just think my father's a wealthy Canadian businessman. They're demanding a ransom of five million dollars. But if they find out who he really is...”

 

“Ah. Now I see where all of this secrecy comes in,” said Ricci knowingly.

 

“Exactly. We're a small family, and this fiasco happened before we were able to start bringing this stuff in and distributing it. We need someone to put up half the money for his release, and once he's safe, we'll need some outside muscle to help us make sure this kind of thing never happens again. But if we went to the wrong people about this, who knows? They could use our current instability to seize the fields for themselves, or even make a deal with the rebels and tip them off about who their hostage is.”

 

“Why bring in outside muscle?” Ricci asked. “Why not use your own guys, or hire from other Canadian families?”

 

“Well, let's just say there's a reason you haven't heard of any legendary outfits from the Great White North,” Brock said. “When it comes to bribing Mounties, fixing hockey games, or ripping off shipments of maple syrup, we've got some good guys working for us. But anything heavier than that, and they're about as worthless as piss holes in the snow. Robby says you maintain an iron grip on New Orleans. I figure that can't be easy in a town like this, so you must have some serious people working for you.”

 

Ricci considered this for a moment. “Okay. So you need two and a half million dollars from me, plus a guarantee that I'll lend you some of my people later on an as-needed basis. What are you offering in return?”

 

Brock spread his hands expansively, putting on his most solemn and concerned face. “Sir, when my father passes on someday—God forbid—I stand to inherit all of his businesses. But, needless to say, this isn't how I want to do it. I love my father very much, and his safety is of the utmost importance to me. It's my greatest wish to see him returned home unharmed as soon as possible. If you're willing to help me do this, then you can name your price. Whatever you think is fair and reasonable. Once our interests in Myanmar have been secured and the opium shipments start coming in, I'll make sure we honor our end of the agreement, whatever it is. You have my word on that.”

 

Ricci's expression softened. “I admire your devotion to your father. I wish my daughter honored me the way you honor him.”

 

Brock was starting to wish he had a nickel for every time someone used the word “honor” that evening.

 

“In exchange for my assistance,” Ricci continued, “I want your assurance that once you start to import and distribute the product, I will be your only point of contact for selling it in the southern United States. Naturally, I'll provide a specific list of territories.”

 

Inwardly, Brock danced a jig. Ricci had taken the bait. With all that uncut H dangled in front of him, how could he pass up the chance to become the undisputed sultan of heroin across fifteen states or more? As long as he stuck to the south and steered clear of the bigger syndicates in L.A., Chicago, and New York, he'd be unstoppable.

 

“Absolutely,” Brock agreed.

 

“Naturally, before I hand over the money, I'll need a sample of the product so my people can test it and ensure it's as pure as you say.”

 

“I can definitely arrange that,” said Brock. “As I'm sure you can imagine, I couldn't risk traveling with something like that, but I can have it brought down here within the week so you can inspect it.”

 

“Excellent. Now that we've settled that, there's another matter I'd like to discuss with you.”

 

Brock tried to look curious, even though he knew what was coming next. Whether the targets were high-powered mobsters or tourists in Akron, a rube was still a rube, and a mark was still a mark.

 

“I've noticed you don't wear a wedding ring,” Ricci pointed out. “Am I correct in assuming you're currently unattached?”

 

Brock shrugged, smiling. “You know how it is, Don Ricci. I see girls here and there, but nothing serious. I prefer to focus on my family's business interests.”

 

“That's commendable,” said Ricci. “And, please, call me Turo. As I mentioned before, I have a daughter. Margherita. She's my only child. She's beautiful, intelligent...quite a prize, for the right man. I've been trying to find a suitable husband for her. Someone young and hungry, who has a good head on his shoulders and knows how to show respect. Someone who could take over my operations when I pass on someday.”

 

“Not for a hundred years, God willing,” Robby said, raising his glass in a toast. Brock and Crack raised theirs, as well.

 

“Thank you, that's very kind,” Ricci said. “I realize this request is somewhat unorthodox, but while you're in town, would you consent to a date with her? I can't promise she'll fall in love with you right away—she can be a bit headstrong, like her mother—but if it goes well and you eventually marry, the empire that our two organizations forge could reign in North America for generations.”

 

Brock made a show of thinking this over carefully. “With all due respect, Turo, I appreciate your offer, and I'm certainly flattered. But I don't know if it's a good idea, given the context of my visit. I get nervous mixing business with pleasure, and if things don't work out between me and Margherita for some reason, I wouldn't want to jeopardize our professional arrangement. Besides, I've been so worried about my father's well-being, I'm concerned I wouldn't be good company.”

 

And that might be enough for some people to back off, Brock thought. But not you, right, Turo? Because having a billion-dollar heroin connection for a son-in-law makes all the other Mafia creeps who've come to court your daughter look like pikers by comparison.

 

Ricci leaned in earnestly. “I can definitely understand your concern for your father, and it's admirable. But speaking from my experience with you tonight, I can assure you that you are wonderful company regardless. And as for endangering our agreement, I promise it won't come to that. If you two happen to hit it off, that would be lovely. If not...what's that saying your hockey players up there are so fond of? 'No harm, no foul?'”

 

Brock gave Ricci his most charming laugh. “Well, when you put it that way, Turo, I won't insult you by saying no.”

 

“Excellent,” Ricci said with a grin. “Thank you. I'll set it up and call you with the details tomorrow. Who knows? You could be a match made in heaven.”

 

There's only one match I care about, old man, Brock thought as he shook Turo's hand again. And that's between me and your money.