Reckless Ink_A Motorcycle Club Romance_The Twisted Saints MC

by April Lust

  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.

  Chapter 5

  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 serio
usly—”

  “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.

  Chapter 6

  Maggie

  Maggie walked down the steps, heading for the kitchen. Her stomach was grumbling, and the worst part was that she knew it still would be, no matter what she chose to eat. None of the food her mother approved of—seeds, hardboiled egg whites, salads with no dressing—was actually filling, and trying to sneak a mouthful or two of unapproved food would be futile. Her mother watched the contents of the fridge and the pantry like a hawk, and whenever there was less of anything than there should be, she made sure Maggie was punished for it. The few times Maggie had tried to smuggle in snacks, Amelia immediately found them and confiscated them. Sometimes she even ate them herself in front of Maggie, just to torture her.

  Maggie hated always feeling hungry.

  As she passed the door to her father's private study, she heard the phone ring twice. Her mother answered, exchanged a few quiet words with the caller, and called out, “Turo, it's for you!”

  The door to the study opened slightly, and Turo's voice emanated from it. “Did they say who it is, or am I supposed to guess?”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. They'd installed a state-of-the-art intercom system a few years before, but her parents still insisted on yelling to each other from across the house like something out of a damn sitcom.

  “Robby Nickels from Dallas,” her mother hollered. “He says he's Old Man Moretti's consigliere.”

  “Robby who?” her father shouted. “Old Man what? Who are these people?”

  “I don't know, but he says you know him, and he says he wants to talk to you. Are you going to pick up the phone or not?”

  “Fine, fine, I'll take the call in here,” Turo snapped. He stepped away from the door, but left it ajar instead of closing it like he usually did when a call came in for him.

  Maggie stood in the downstairs hall for a moment, thinking about how the open door gave her a rare chance to listen in on the conversation. Turo frequently took calls from other gangsters in his study, and he usually put them on speakerphone so he could pace as he talked. Maggie had never cared about his business or anything associated with it, so she generally wasn't interested in eavesdropping.

  But she also knew this call might be about her—another hopeful matchmaker from another rotten crime family, trying to arrange a marriage between her and yet another self-important punk. If she listened in, she might have a better idea of what she'd be dealing with on her next date.

  She crept over to the door, keeping her body pressed against the wall to stay out of sight. She felt silly, and she knew if her mother or father caught her spying, she'd be in big trouble. But she couldn't resist. She was tired of having no knowledge of—or control over—her own life.

  Maggie heard her father clear his throat and hit the button on his desk phone. “This is Turo Ricci. Who am I speaking with, please?”

  A voice answered, sounding stilted and formal. “Don Ricci, it is truly an honor to speak with you. Thank you for taking my call. I hope I have not disturbed you. I'm not sure if you remember me—we met briefly at the thing in Vegas a couple of years ago. My name is Robert Nickelson, and I have the privilege of acting as advisor to the Moretti family in Dallas.”

  Good lord, Maggie thought. This guy sure isn't big on brevity.

  “And why are you calling me, Mr. Nickelson? Surely, if your boss has business to discuss with me, he can speak with me himself. Unless, of course, he feels I'm unworthy of his time, in which case—”

  “I can assure you, Don Ricci, my employer has the utmost respect for you. However, the matter I'm contacting you about...well, it doesn't actually involve Mr. Moretti. It's an unrelated matter, one in which I've been asked to act as a sort of go-between between you and another party.”

  “And I can assure you, sir,” Turo countered testily, “that nothing robs me of the inclination to trust my fellow man more than vague nonsense and murky phrases like 'another party.' If you're trying to conduct some kind of business behind your boss's back, that doesn't sound like anything I'd want to be involved in.”

  “My deepest apologies, Don Ricci,” Robert said quickly. “I feel I've done a poor job of stating my intentions. If I seem as though I'm being furtive in this matter, I'm sorry. I promise you nothing about this situation is untoward or inappropriate, or counter to my employer's interests in any way. It's simply that there are certain factors which demand a high degree of discretion. Actually, that's the reason I've been asked to contact you specifically. The, uh, other interested party has heard of your impeccable code of ethics, and feels you alone can be trusted to protect his interests in this delicate matter.”

  Maggie smiled. Whoever this person was, he clearly knew the right way to approach Turo—by appealing to his vanity and his self-image as a “man of principle.” It seemed like this call wasn't about setting her up with anyone, but she figured she may as well hear the rest of it.

  She heard her father sigh, then chuckle wearily. “All right, Mr. Nickelson. You got me to ante up, and you've gotten me to see your raise. Well done. But now I think it's time for you to show your cards, don't you? And please, resist the urge to start every sentence with 'Don Ricci.' Your respect is noted. There's no need to gild the lily, so to speak.”

  “Unfortunately, as I've said, this is a matter of tremendous secrecy. And since men in our position often find our lines of communication...compromised, shall we say, by certain government agencies, I believe it would be best for us to go over the details in person. Are you available for a meeting tomorrow evening? I can make myself available at your convenience, naturally, as can the interested party.”

  “Very well,” Turo agreed. “Meet me at The Azalea Room at seven o'clock. And Mr. Nickelson?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If this turns out to be some sort of setup, I can guarantee you that when I'm done punishing you, I'll move on to everyone you've ever cared about. Do we understand each other?”

  “Certainly,” Robert said. Despite the threat, Maggie thought he actually sounded relieved. “And thank you for this opportunity, Don...sir. You won't regret it.”

  Maggie heard the call end and scuttled away from the door. She was relieved this wasn't another attempt to set her up, even though she knew that would certainly be happening again soon anyway.

  She thought about proceeding to the kitchen, then decided to return to her room instead. None of the food options available to her sounded appetizing
anyway. If she could force herself to take a nap, maybe that would make her hunger go away, if only for a little while.

  Chapter 7

  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.