General trigger warning for a non-graphic description of a hate crime.

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Chapter 4: The Gangs of Bensonhurst

Despite the monotony of fitting pipes at the building site, the remaining weekdays passed by at light's speed for Mario and Luigi. With exception of the brief hello and five-minute heated looks that he and Daisy gave each other at the bodega each morning, Luigi kept largely to himself and refused to hear Mario's nine-hundred fifty-second explanation of his nine-hundred eighty-third visit to the corner of 18th Avenue and 62nd Street. When he was not working, he kept his bedroom door shut and locked, putting on noise-cancelling headphones and blasting Los Lobos on full volume when, in the previous evening, Mario tried to offer his latest excuse of money and glory through the old wood. This one-way conversation ended with him kicking the door and yelling that his younger brother was being an unreasonable, passive-aggressive prick and busting his balls for no reason.

On Friday morning, Luigi mercifully found his brother absent when he dressed for work and grabbed his leftover sweet and sour chicken and steamed rice for his lunch pail. As per his now usual morning routine, he drove the company truck to Carroll Gardens for his bagel and 'visual quickie' with Daisy, chatted briefly with Sami who was watching the silent tease with amusement, and then headed to the construction site in downtown Brooklyn. As he put the vehicle into park, Luigi noticed two men standing just outside of the makeshift gate into the building site. He recognized the first man, Scott Pichler, the shifty property owner who was at the late-afternoon schmoozing on Valentine's Day; he was holding up his medium-sized hands defensively against the larger and menacing second man, none other than 'independent plumber' Matusz Kowalski. Horrified, Lou watched the Polish plumber slap him across the face and scream that "the Boss wants his fuckin' money" and he had "one more week to come up with payment or else he'd endure more than just a slap." Lou turned his head to avoid being seen by the thug; once both men had disappeared, he exited the truck with his lunch and equipment. Unnecessarily scanning the groups of union workers for either Matusz or Ferenc, he hurriedly searched the building edifice for his elder brother. A few moments later, Luigi breathed a sigh of relief when he found the red hoodie and blue jeans covered plumber meticulously measuring and cutting pipe.

"Mario!" called out Luigi.

The elder brother did not immediately respond; instead, he finished the measurement and leisurely used a cutter to cut the steel into five-foot long pipes. After several minutes and Luigi rolling his eyes, Mario glanced up at his younger sibling. "Oh, I didn't notice you were there. Since you've gone all silent and shit, it was easy to forget your presence," he stated nonchalantly. "So, Casper, you wanna talk to me now? About what?"

Luigi inhaled twice to avoid losing his temper. "We got bigger problems than your petty bullshit right now. I just fuckin' saw Matusz shake down Scott Pichler."

Mario snapped his head up in alarm. "You saw what?" he demanded.

Luigi nodded. "Yeah. Matusz the Moron threatened Pichler, sayin' that he had a week to pay the 'Boss's' money."

"Minchia!" Mario swore. "I always knew that Pichler was a greasy sonofabitch, but he's takin' money from Fat Tony now? Fuckin' fantastic! That means…"

"It means that our hard work's about to burn up or otherwise meet an unfortunate end," finished Luigi.

"Aight, aight," Mario mumbled, dropping the tool on the group to mentally consider their options. He wiped his hands on his jeans, then went to his black New York Mets varsity jacket to fish out his iPhone. Quickly searching through his recent call log, he selected and dialed Sal's number and put the phone to his ear. A few seconds afterward, Mario began to speak. "Hey, Sal. Look, we got a problem. No, it's your new contract, that rat fuck Pichler. The piece of shit's up Fat Tony's ass in God-knows-what kinda fuckin' deal, dija know that? Nah, Luigi saw our favorite Polish prick shakin' him down. Yeah, okay. Yep, you got it, boss. Bye."

Luigi raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms over his green 'Yankees Suck!' hoodie. "So what did he say?"

Mario smirked, dropped the phone on his jacket, and picked up the tool again. "Well," he started, blue eyes filled with mirth, "il mio rompipalle, we finish our shift and cut out a little early. Then we go get a drink."

The younger brother frowned in confusion until his face shifted into dismay after realizing the subtle message contained within Mario's blasé response. "No, non, nada, nyet, fucking no! We are not going there!"

"Oh yes, we are, little bro," snickered the elder plumber. "Sal ordered us to…investigate. It's part of the job, and we'll get overtime. C'mon, it'll be fun," he added, placing a strong arm around his kid brother's apprehensive shoulders. Luigi kept his arms folded, glaring at him in a silent refusal. "C'mon, man. I just took a thousand bucks off that stupid motherfucker; he's gonna be too busy trying to get it back than to kick your skinny ass."

Watching his younger brother huff a bit like a mule, Mario batted his blue eyes and rubbed his shoulder soothingly. Luigi rolled his eyes and crossed his arms tighter across his chest, grumbling, "Ti detesto molto."

Mario chuckled, rubbing his brother's shoulder before returning to work. "Nah, you don't!"


Luigi nervously followed Mario's leisurely stroll down the twilight and streetlamp lit 62nd Street toward the 'corner bar' on 18th Avenue. Although the brothers lived in a typically Bensonhurst red brick townhouse complex near the corner of 17th Avenue and 62nd Street, the Koopa Cocktail and Lounge, which Luigi called "The Mafiosi Shitbox," was a fixture of 18th Avenue. Externally, the Koopa did not resemble a corner bar; the business was a narrow red brick building with a cornflower blue awning wedged between a realty office and tae kwon do dojang. Tourists ignored it, instead searching for authentic Brooklyn slices at J&V Pizzeria, and locals gingerly walked their dogs past it, never noticing the multiple black SUVs and town cars and their thousand-dollar-suited owners that swaggered into the establishment. Rumor had it that the previous owner met an untimely end after becoming a rat to the FBI and three bullet holes marking the execution site were still visible in the backroom.

Sniggering in glee, Mario opened the glass door for them and entered the pass. A long polished wooden bar extended thirty feet lengthwise and parallel to an elegant presentation of wood paneling and drawers, crystal glasses, and a wide selection of liquors from all over the world, including Japan, Russia, Mexico, Brazil, Ireland, and Italy. Underneath the bar were several stools with well-worn brown seats. Across from the bar, several wooden box booths absent of markings or etchings were positioned linearly. In the background, Luigi heard a jazzy blues tune faintly playing, which he then recognized as Billy Joel's "A Minor Variation." As the brothers made their way to the bar, a tall burly redhead wearing a spiked bracelet, Black Sabbath tee-shirt, and blue jeans was cleaning and arranging glasses. Hearing the door open, he looked up with mahogany eyes and scowled, toothpick jammed in the right corner of his mouth.

Mario approached the bar and placed his arms on the recently cleaned countertop. Luigi stayed two feet behind his elder brother, content to watch from a discreet distance. "Yo," the elder brother signaled with his right hand unnecessarily, "I'm dyin' for an Irish Trash Can. I hear you're a pro."

The barman stared at Mario, chewing on his toothpick for a minute, then wordlessly and slowly nodded. He turned around to the bottles behind him and selected a tall glass from the crystalware. Pouring Blue Curaçao into the glass and filling it with ice, he then reached for vodka, gin, rum, Triple Sec, and Peach Schnapps and dumped an ounce of each into the concoction. He then opened the mini refrigerator for a Red Bull; cracking the seal, he drained the liquid contents into the glass, inverted the can, and placed it atop the finished drink. Slamming it in front of the plumber with his left hand, he presented his right middle finger and stated in a flat tone, "That'll be nine bucks, asswipe. You wanna open a tab? I hear you got a thousand bucks to cover it."

Instead of immediately replying, Mario took the tall glass in hand, made a 'cheers' gesture at the barman, and gulped half of the drink. Gently wiping his mustache, he set the drink back down on the countertop and said in a jovial voice, "Not bad, Bowser. You sure know your Irish Trash, doncha?"

"What do you want, Mario?" he growled. "You got my thousand bucks. So, unless you want my trousers, I don't see the point."

The plumber sipped again at his drink, then continued with the same joviality, "Where's Fat Tony? I know you pay him protection money. I'd like to sit down and have a little talk with him."

Bowser guffawed. "You're fuckin' insane, Masciarelli. Between Afghanistan and that sciaquadell' Peach, you've gone patz'. In any case, go fuck yourself, and don't bring your pet Chihuahua in my bar again."

Before Luigi could give a retort involving Bowser's dead Sicilian mother, an obese, mustachioed figure with a bulbous nose entered the bar. Dressed in a bulky bumblebee yellow-colored button-down shirt, brown dress pants, and expensive black Milanese dress shoes, the five-foot-six chestnut brunet strutted to the edge of the counter and waited for Bowser to present him with the obligatory lit cigar, whiskey – neat – and envelope of money. The man twisted his fat neck to glimpse Mario and Luigi and then faced the barman as though they were inanimate paintings on the wall. Having counted the numerous greenbacks and being satisfied at the correct amount, he happily stroked his thin, wiry mustache and puffed on his Cuban cigar.

Antonio 'Fat Tony' Morano was a soldier in one of the well-known Five Families of La Cosa Nostra. A low-level, yet ruthless wiseguy in his father's crew, he was thirty-six and grew up in Bensonhurst, three streets up from Mario and Luigi on 65th Street and 18th Avenue. Unlike his former high school classmate, who went off to fight terrorists abroad, he was initiated and accepted for membership, usually tasked with bribery, extortion, and occasionally larger thefts in the Brooklyn area. By twenty-five, he had been sentenced to three years in prison for bribing public officials in Kings County as well as participating in a health coverage and benefits scam through one of the local unions. Though much of the decades-old influence that the Cosa Nostra once had in Bensonhurst disappeared with the arrests, incarcerations, and deaths of high-profile Mafiosi such as John Gotti and Sammy 'The Bull' Gravano in the 1990s and 2000s, several existent crews still made their presence known, albeit quietly, to "preserve" Italian Brooklyn from the Chinese and Russian immigrants who replaced the old shops and garages. Fat Tony's father, Jackie Morano, whom rival crews called 'Big Jackass' for his general impulsivity and stupidity, was the local caporegime and homegrown terrorist of Russian, Arab, and Chinese immigrants. Having come from countries in which the police was associated with the regime du jour, they were predisposed toward silence. Despite a normalized protection of the Italians, Jews, and Irish living in the area, Big Jackass was not above extorting Italian- or Irish-owned businesses when it suited him.

"Just the guy I wanted to see," Mario stated, interrupting Fat Tony's contemplation of Bowser's profits.

Fat Tony continued to smoke his cigar and sip his whiskey, refusing to glance in Mario's direction. "Oh?"

"Yeah," began Mario, who stepped toward him. "I hear Slimy Scott owes you money."

Upon hearing the reference to Scott Pichler, Tony carefully looked at the irritated Mario and, cigar in his mouth, replied, "And how's that any of your fuckin' business, Masciarelli?"

"You know damn well how it's my fuckin' business, Tony," hissed Mario. "You keep takin' work from hardworking people – your people, goddamn it – to give to Tweedledee and Tweedledum from behind the Iron Curtain. Only it keeps backfiring on your fucking ass because they suck at it. How's Big Jackass takin' that, by the way?"

Both Bowser and Luigi nervously watched the scene unfold. Although Bowser would never admit it to his childhood frenemy, he admired Mario's sheer coglioni and lack of fear to tell off the capo's son – a made-man himself – even if he viewed it as an unsaid death wish. Throughout the years, Bowser had heard rumors of brave Italians like Mario Masciarelli disappear in broad daylight after telling Big Jackass to get fucked, whether it be refusing to pay for special protection or ratting to the NYPD about various criminal enterprises. "Mario, get the fuck outta here," spoke Bowser quietly. "Now!"

Puffing again on his cigar and eyebrow raised, Tony held up a hand to Bowser. "I'll say this for you, Masciarelli," he said in amusement, "you have a set of brass ones. Aight, let's sit down and have a talk. Both of youse – you and your kid brother." Tony picked up his whiskey in one hand, the envelope in the other, and slid his gigantic ass off the stool. He waddled to the nearest booth and gestured for them to sit opposite from him. "Hey, Bowser, get these men somethin' to drink. Maybe somethin' to nosh on, too."

Mario picked up his Irish Trash Can and moved toward the booth, dragging the recalcitrant Luigi by his green hoodie. He put the drink down at the end and subtly pushed Luigi into the corner to prevent his escape. Mario sat down directly in front of Fat Tony and next to his younger, anxiety-ridden brother. A moment later, Bowser brought out a basket of mozzarella sticks and a bright red drink for Luigi. "Your favorite, Tony," Bowser began, "mozzer'elle. And for the kid, a Shirley Temple. Cherry's on top."

The green-clad plumber glared stormily at the barman while Tony let out a full belly laugh. "Jesus Christ! The kid can't hold his fuckin' liquor or somethin'? Man, these fuckin' Millennials and their fuckin' avocado toast. Mario, you never told me that your bro was such a fuckin' pussy!" At Fat Tony's remarks, Luigi flushed a bright red, his fists clenched underneath the table. Mario said nothing, sipping his drink, but slid his hand over his brother's left fist in an attempt to calm him.

"Aight, let Little Pussy here pop his cherry and just listen," Tony said, chewing on one of the mozzarella sticks. "I think we have had a misunderstanding. It's true that Pichler owes me money. I just want it back. You get it – the thing between you and Bowser. That's it, and that's between him and me. Youse guys should never have been involved." He chewed open-mouthed on the hors d'oeuvre and lifted his broad shoulders. "My associates can be overzealous. They're loyal, they like workin' for me." At Mario's raised eyebrow and crossed arms in disbelief, Tony put up his hands in surrender. "Tell ya what. I might forget about Pichler's money for a while and let you work the job off Tillary if you'll do a little favor for me."

Luigi started to cough violently while Bowser started to wipe the counter furiously. Mario continued to stare down the gangster, waiting for him to describe 'the favor.' "I'm listening," he grunted.

Tony smirked, snacking on a third mozzarella stick and putting out his finished Cuban. Taking a sip of his whiskey, he responded, "There's a guy that needs his ass kicked. This fuckin' guy came out and said that New Yorkers can't – and I fuckin' quote him – fight worth shit, that we've been pussified into a land of sissies with no guns or guts. I want this cocksucker humiliated in the ring. And your fight a couple Mondays ago was a thing of beauty."

Mario rolled his eyes as his younger brother's skin rapidly became pallid. "Oh, bullshit, Tony. You just want a cut of the money." At Tony's shrug of affirmation, Mario conceded. "Fine, I'll fight whoever. You can even keep the fuckin' money. But if I win, you leave Sal, Luigi, and our shop alone. Just tell me where and when."

The fat man chuckled in glee. "Perfetto. The fight's in three weeks, so it shouldn't affect your service in Mass. It's in the usual place – Bowser's fight club."

Before he could elaborate, an extremely tall, rail-thin man loudly entered the bar. Like Fat Tony, he had short brown hair, dark eyes, and a wiry mustache; however, his wardrobe was tailored to his thin body – a pair of bluish-purple trousers with a thick, Moroccan leather belt, an ivory button-down Oxford, and lilac blazer with a matching silk handkerchief in the pocket. On his left wrist, he wore a Vacheron Constantin watch. The man, whom Mario estimated to be at least six foot four, stopped in front of the table, waiting for Fat Tony to slide over to make room. He did not.

In spite of the not-so-subtle slight, the tall man eyed the three men with a sneer. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Fat Tony, Mario the Masochist, and the Crackhead. Oh, I forgot," he turned toward Bowser at the bar, "the dumb Irish mutt. Having fun, are we?"

Luigi froze upon hearing that voice. Slowly, he lifted his eyes up at the towering young man who stared frostily at him.

"Do I fuckin' know you?" interrupted Mario, uneasy at the discomforting way which he regarded his brother.

"Crackhead knows me. Don't you, Crackhead? Tell your little hero here about our time together at Brooklyn City. Oh, yeah, you're shy. Sorry – it's been what? Twelve, thirteen years. Memory gets a little foggy." He leaned to peer at Luigi over the booth table, whispering, "Should I, y'know, tell them?"

Mario started to get up from the booth to confront the man, but Fat Tony held a single hand up, fingers slicked with grease. "Lucas, does it look like anyone here gives a flying fuck about what happened a decade ago? I sure as fuck don't. Now, ask me if you can sit down. If I say yes, you'll sit down and shut the fuck up like a good cupcake. Capisce?"

Lucas glowered at the obese man in yellow, balling up fists in humiliation at the second and third insults. Mario sat down, holding Luigi's sleeve in an iron grip, and eyed the man in purple expectantly. Unexpectedly regaining his composure, he straightened his frame and calmly asked, "May I please sit down, Tony?"

Pleased with the change in attitude, Tony slid over to his left by roughly a foot, just enough for Lucas to sit down on the very edge of the booth. The man in purple tried not to wince at the stench of body odor and garlic emanating from his partner. "Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my newest associate, Lucas Kariolis? His father and I are doing some business together. Lucas is his … representative."

"Oh, I fuckin' bet," muttered Luigi under his breath. Mario moved his grip from the green hoodie to his brother's thin wrist and squeezed. Keep your mouth shut, bro.

"I go by Luca," added the newest member of the booth party in an agreeable voice, who nonetheless continued to eyeball Luigi. "My mother's from Lazio and my father's Greek. Athenian Greek, the center of Western civilization, the Golden Dawn."

"I'm impressed," deadpanned Mario. "Look, are we done here? I'll be in the fight. Same place, same time, right?"

Tony shrugged while picking his nose. "Si. Va tutto bene. Win the fight, and I'll tell Matusz and Ferenc to take it easy on youse."

"Fine," concluded Mario. He opened his wallet and dumped nine dollars on the table, then dragged a blanched Luigi by the wrist from the booth as he stood up. Throwing a final glare at Bowser who was observing the scene from behind the bar, Mario snarled, "I left the money on the dresser." Wrapping his arm around his taller brother, he pushed them toward and out the glass door.

"I'll be seeing you real soon, Crackhead!" shouted Luca, who subsequently made kissing noises with his thin lips.

As they began walking toward 17th Avenue, Mario refused to allow Luigi to put distance between them, still holding on to his left wrist. For the first time since they were kids on 62nd Street, Mario felt like the entire neighborhood closing in on them. Fighting his way out of trouble was nothing new. When he was a pre-teen and then a teenager, he regularly wielded a Louisville Slugger to keep the gangs of Mafia and wannabe-Mafia kids from torturing Luigi and Yoshi. Their father, who was often called away to work at a moment's notice, could not help, so it fell to him as the eldest son to make sure they toed the line with the 'effeminate', brainiac Luigi and the Japanese 'infiltrator.'

Kids who did not conform to the code of white Italian machismo learned the hard way. On a late-summer evening in 1989, three black kids from East New York took the N Train to Bensonhurst to inspect and buy a used car off 68th Street. Unbeknownst to them, a local ragazza spread a rumor that she was inviting black and Puerto Rican kids to a 'private party,' to which the neighborhood Italian kids did not take kindly. Assuming the black kids from East New York were the party guests in question, as many as thirty Italian youths cornered them with baseball bats and guns. Words were exchanged, shots fired; one of the kids, sixteen-year-old Yusuf Hawkins, bled to death from a gunshot wound to the chest on the cold ground just off the corner of 20th Avenue and 68th Street. The shooter was rumored to have Mafia connections, and several Mafiosi later bragged about ordering the assault and murder. Several months of national outrage followed, culminating in several protest marches.

In one such incident, the Reverend Al Sharpton leading a protest march of hundreds through Bensonhurst in September 1989. Mario distinctly remembered his father yelling at him to stay inside with the ailing Gabriella and little Luigi on the day of the protest. Disobeying him as usual, the eleven-year-old Mario left his mother and the small child to go to 20th Avenue where he heard the loud, angry chants of "Central Park, Central Park!" and "N-s, go home!" from Big Jackass, Bowser's father, eleven-year-old Tony and Bowser, and several hundred Italian tough guys who had lined up along the sidewalks and streets. At one point, Bowser's elder brother, Marco, chucked watermelons at the protestors as the mob laughed and cheered. While several Italian and Jewish residents refused to participate in the mob, including the elder Mario and Uncle Joe who told Bowser's father to "go fuck himself with that crap," America saw the dark undercurrent of Bensonhurst and New York unveiled: they were cosmopolitan, yet segregated and deeply corrupt. That day, he vowed never to let that happen to Luigi or Yoshi.

Wrapping his arm around the latter's shoulders, the worried thirty-six-year-old Mario eliminated the small gap between he and his brother. Fat Tony was up to something, that much he knew, given how nervous Bowser was at the bar and the introduction of this fuckin' guy in purple who seemed to know Luigi. He glanced over at his ashen brother who had yet to offer a word or crack about Fat Tony's retched body odor or Bowser's latest scheme. Curiosity and concern building, Mario spoke first, gesturing at the bar with his right thumb. "Who was that guy? Why'd he call you Crackhead?"

Luigi did not answer; the taller plumber continued to stare straight ahead into the night, pushing himself out of Mario's embrace to move faster across 18th Avenue, so much that he failed to see the approaching car. The Silver Ford slammed on the breaks, narrowing missing his lanky body, and the driver honked the horn in annoyance. Mario ran toward Luigi, wrapping his arms around his back, escorting him to the other side. Once on 'their' side, he spun an unresponsive Luigi to face him and shouted, "What the fuck, bro? What the hell's going' on?"

Mario's infuriated voice startled Luigi out of his trance, and he narrowed his eyes. "You wanted to go there! You and your fuckin' bright ideas! Now, you want to fight whatever asshole that Fat Tony and Lucas's got lined up! What's next?! Just leave me alone!" As his voice broke on the last word, Luigi moved into a near-run toward their home. Mario followed, running to stop him. He jerked on Luigi's hoodie and pulled him into a bear hug, refusing to let the struggling younger brother go.

"I don't understand," he murmured. "What's got you so spooked? Tell me. Why was he talkin' about Brooklyn City?"

Luigi shook his head violently. "Let's just go home and drop this."

"No," Mario calmly replied. "If he did somethin' to ya, I wanna know. I need to know."

As Luigi began to answer, several mouthfuls of vomit came pouring out of his mouth, which he deposited next to the curb a hundred feet from their house. A shocked and enraged Mario watched silently as Luigi spat out streams of bile and saliva.

"Okay," said Mario in a deceptively composed tone, "I'm gonna have a chat with this motherfucker." He spun on his organic heel back toward Bowser's bar, but he was kept in place by strong, narrow fingers that had wrapped themselves around his right wrist.

"Don't," rasped Luigi. "He didn't do anything. It's what I did."

Although he was still angry, Mario rubbed his back and reluctantly nodded. "Okay, Weeg. Va bene." Once Luigi regained his self-control, his elder brother embraced him again, gripping his face in his hands. "Ti voglio bene. No matter what. Andiamo."

"I need a cigarette," gasped Luigi.

"Fuck that," retorted Mario.

After going to J&V's for a couple slices each, which Mario insisted was his treat, and returning home, Luigi took a long, hot shower and changed into a white tee-shirt and checkered pajama bottoms. He played a few hours of Call of Duty: Ghosts, then went downstairs to get a glass of water before bed. As he moved in and out of the kitchen, he spied Mario quietly sitting in the lazy-boy, eyes closed, listening to Springsteen's The River playing from the speakers attached to his iPod. The wooden Louisville Slugger, which had languished in the garage, now sat propped up against the corner within a hand's length.


The following morning, Luigi found himself unable to avoid Mario's pleas for an early morning run as, in his words, it had been ages since they had jogged together. He proceeded at a leisurely pace behind his brother through two full circuits around Prospect Park, giving Mario the false sense of security that, even as a Green Beret, he could outrun his long-legged younger brother. Although he grumbled and kvetched at Mario for waking him up at eight o'clock in the morning to board the thirty-minute N and Number Two train rides to Prospect Heights, Luigi secretly approved of the exercise to look his best and keep his ass firm for the beautiful and athletic Daisy. Because Green Berets maintained a high level of physical fitness, even as amputees and late-career engineer sergeants, their six-mile or seven-mile run usually finished just under forty-five minutes. Despite having gained twenty pounds on his five-foot-six frame from the amputation as well as a laxer diet of pizza, chicken alfredo, and other junk food, Mario met the criteria, albeit barely, to stay in the Army and collect his pension.

A Crown Heights coffee and a couple hours later, the Masciarellis returned home to shower and change their sweaty clothes. Once again, Mario stuck the younger plumber with laundry duty; much to Luigi's horror, he discovered that Mario had, for the sixty-sixth time, tossed all his dirty clothes haphazardly in the tank, without separating the colors as he had requested. Threatening underneath his breath to murder him with his wrench, Luigi proceeded to separate the light-colored from the dark-colored clothing, reserving the red hoodies in a third pile due to their tendency to bleed in the wash. Finished with the task, he returned to the kitchen and groused an audible "Fucker" in Mario's direction. The elder brother, who was busy preparing Italian beef heros – minus the gravy – for lunch, just smirked mischievously and handed Luigi his sandwich on a dinner plate. He bit into his own sandwich, licking his fingers. Then he strolled into the living room and turned on the television to one of their favorite movie channels, as it featured older movies from the 1960s and 1970s-era Italian spaghetti westerns as well as classic English-language films from the past twenty-five years. Exceptionally that afternoon, Apollo 13 was playing.

Luigi smiled contentedly; five years after his mother passed away, his stingy father, who always insisted upon waiting for the cheaper VHS version to be released, extraordinarily bought Sunday matinée tickets to see the film in the local theater. The elder Mario even splurged for a bag of popcorn for the three of them. The younger Mario, fully emmeshed in his almost seventeen-year-old teenage angst, moaned at being dragged to a "Dweeb flick" when he could be doing better things like getting to third base with Pauline or blasting the Beastie Boys' "Fight for Your Right" in his room. Mario Senior, rolling his blue eyes, told him bluntly that "he bitched more than a pair of old Italian nonne." The nine-year-old Luigi was mesmerized by the LM, the Odyssey, and the launch. As he watched the film, he imagined himself at CAPCOM-Houston or in a clean suit testing antimatter or nuclear fusion propulsion systems in Huntsville. Even Mario grudgingly enjoyed the experience, which he normally showed by being a Brooklyn wiseass at full volume, much to the outrage and disgust of the other moviegoers. Luigi snorted at the memory of Mario angering the half-full theater by shouting sarcastically at Kevin Bacon stirring the oxygen tanks, "Goddamn it, Swigert, 'I was just following orders' isn't a defense, you dumbass!" The elder Mario swatted his eldest son upside the head to keep quiet, though he had some difficulty keeping a straight face.

Between bites of the kosher spear pickle that he had fetched from the fridge, he heard Mario mutter, "Dumbass," at that same part.

Post-film, Mario excused himself to go kick it with his friends off 65th Street, and Mario Senior took his youngest son to Spumoni Gardens for a slice of Sicilian pizza. Luigi remembered asking his father question after question about the LM and how it worked. The elder Mario just chuckled and replied that they did not have lunar modules at the firehouse. The answer upset the nine-year-old, as he had believed, up to that point, he knew everything about technology because, after all, he could explain to a four-year-old how an exothermic reaction worked and how to avoid a backdraft. The strong Mario Senior put a large hand on his shoulder and replied that it was always better to admit what one does not know to understand what he does know. At the child's confusion and disappointment, he assured Luigi that, eventually, he would be the one to explain it to him. Somewhat satisfied with his father's response, Luigi declared that he would build a LM and take it apart so he would know its mechanics inside and out. He tried to keep that promise; a month and a half later, he had been brought to the principal's office and given a three-day suspension. The new math teacher – a former nun in her late thirties – had "interrupted his work" when she requested his attention on more trivial matters, such as basic arithmetic and geometry, and pettily threw away his "lab reports" to redirect his attention. The young Luigi screamed at her to fangul, stomped up to the blackboard, and proceeded to solve every question in seconds, including the more "challenging" bonus question in pre-algebra.

Father Rosetti sat the elder Mario down and gently advised him to send Luigi to a special school for gifted children such as P.S. 302, as he had been inattentive for weeks and had told the Monsignor that the lessons were "stupid" and for "babies." His father managed to talk the Monsignor down to an in-school suspension, given that Luigi had never been disobedient or disruptive. A casa, the senior Mario ordered Luigi to write a letter of apology to the math teacher and grounded him for a week. When the child tried to protest his punishment, his father replied, "Fightin' and mouthin' off will get you nowhere in a hurry, son. We all got bosses to answer to, and you gotta know when to shut your mouth to get where we all know you can go." Once he learned about the incident, however, the younger Mario snuck his kid brother out of the house for a celebratory Italian ice and Guzy-cruisie down 86th Street, blaring freestyle music and sticking one leg out of the driver window, while telling him that the "tight-assed bitch needed to be taken down a peg." Mario Senior later found out about their 'outing,' and Luigi overheard a shouting match in English and Italian – one of many – between father and eldest son.

At some point during the film, both brothers slipped into a Saturday afternoon riposo. Mario's cellphone rang which woke the snoring plumber. Blinking awake, he pressed the green telephone key and answered sleepily, "Cosa vuoi, Peach? Anch'io…Si, sono libero di venire 'sta notte. Si…So dove si trova. Ok, ti amo, ciao." Then he ended the phone call. As Luigi stretched from his napping position on the sofa, the piece of furniture a little too small for his six-foot-frame, Mario checked his watch. 4:30 pm. Rubbing his face with his hand, Mario rose from the lazy-boy to put his plate in the kitchen sink. Next, he stepped into his bedroom and adjacent bathroom to change for his impromptu date with Peach.

On one hand, Luigi wanted to roll his eyes at the umpteenth time that Peach had pulled the "You Suck-I Love You" routine. Every three months or so, they quarreled over meeting their family, her moving in with them, and when they were getting engaged. Mario had already proposed once last year, which she declined because "the time wasn't right." Luigi had long given up on her as a sister-in-law and wished that his brother would do the same. Mario's white knight complex was well-known in the neighborhood, even in junior high school. As the 62nd Street tough guy and enforcer, he protected the younger kids from Marco Bowser's gang of thugs and delinquents, including one dark-haired Polish bombshell named Pauline Novak, with whom he fell instantly in love. When Mario joined the Army, she had followed him from Brooklyn to North Carolina for his Special Forces training. They remained engaged through his graduation at Fort Bragg and subsequent deployment to Afghanistan in 2006. But much to everyone's shock and dismay back in Brooklyn, Pauline ended the relationship shortly thereafter and returned to New York, where she went to night school at Brooklyn College and became a local politician. No one knew precisely why they ended their twelve-year union, though Luigi and Uncle Joe had independently reached the same bitter conclusion. On the other hand, he was happy that he would not have to bald-face lie to his elder brother about why he would be out again in so many days. Over the years, Luigi perfected the art of half-truths, tiny exaggerations, and white lies.

An hour had passed when Mario exited the in-suite bathroom with a clean dark grey Oxford, black jeans, and polished brown dress shoes, hair styled as best as he could with a military regulation haircut. "Yo, bro, I'm meetin' Peach in the City tonight. You gonna be okay on your own?"

Luigi shrugged. "I'm a grown man, bro. I'll probably play some Call of Duty and call it a night. Are you coming to Sunday dinner tomorrow?"

"Depends on what happens tonight. Probably," replied Mario while fetching his jacket and keys. He put a hand on his little brother's shoulder, rubbing it slightly before stepping out of the house. Luigi watched the lights from Mario's black 2013 Honda Accord cross the wall as it pulled out of the garage and headed down 17th Avenue toward 65th Street. Once he was certain that Mario was not returning, Luigi excitedly ran up the staircase to his room and bathroom to shower again, brush his teeth, and change into his date clothes. Daisy mentioned casual; rifling through the wardrobe several times, he ultimately settled on a green form-fitting tee-shirt, blue jeans, a black zip-up hoodie, and the street shoes from the Valentine's Day party. Carefully styling his hair and trimming his mustache, he checked his watch. 6:00 pm. Groaning as he shifted downstairs, he sat irritably on the sofa again and planned to wait another thirty minutes before leaving for Carroll Gardens. Jettisoning off the sofa, he paced for ten more minutes, checking his watch multiple times, before deciding to arrive early.


Luigi sat in his car, waiting for Daisy to come out of her apartment. So as not to appear too desperate or stalkerish, he stopped at a coffee shop in Borough Park for a regular and to use up another fifteen minutes. Much to his satisfaction, he arrived at Daisy's brownstone five minutes until seven o'clock. Sipping the last of his coffee, he spied the auburn-haired beauty exiting the building and locking up behind her. Smiling, Daisy bounded toward the passenger side and opened the car door. She slid in and shut it. "Hello, handsome," Daisy said in a sultry tone, fluttering her eyelashes.

The plumber's mouth went dry, and his eyes glazed over at her wardrobe: a thick burnt orange cardigan, a yellow tight-fitting tee-shirt that traced and accented the outline of her breasts, light blue jeans, and a wooly scarf. Leaning over, he gave her a quick kiss on the lips; she, however, held his head to deepen the embrace, and he felt himself rapidly losing control. He retreated from her, blushing as he started the engine. "Um, so, where are we going?" he asked with a squeak.

Daisy snickered at her flushed date, experiencing a rush of primal power and jouissance at making him come undone so quickly. She reached over, inching into his space, and turned the key to shut off the engine. Luigi gulped; was she thinking of…staying home?

"Well, change of plans," she began in a deep voice. "I am frustrated and need to do something about it."

"Do something?" he echoed back in a nervous, high-pitched tone. Goddamn, if she's wanting to do this, I'll need to run over to the nearest Rite Aid or Walgreens.

"Mm-hmm," she replied, her lips now millimeters from his. "I made us a reservation for mini-golf down the street." She opened the car door and exited the cab. He heard her call out, "C'mon, we're gonna be late!"

Luigi sat in stunned silence for a moment before following her. "Wha?" he breathed. "Mini-golf?!"


It was a special Adults Night at the eighteen-hole mini-golf indoor park. Aside from escape rooms and event halls for birthday parties and the occasional wedding celebration, Pirates of Brooklynwas known for its wacky clown and pirate motifs as well as a cheesy sense of humor. Initially, Luigi felt a bit silly playing mini-golf, as he had not played the game since junior high when Mario and Yoshi took turns trying to knock his balls out of the green instead of putting into the hole. Once they had sufficiently screwed with him, they turned on each other, culminating with Mario picking up Yoshi's golf ball and either dunking it into ponds or farting on it, depending on what was immediately available. However, as he stood with his small golf club to the side of the first of four island-like holes, watching Daisy and her backside line up the ball with the hole located past a yellow and black anchor, Luigi found himself enjoying the start of the game. Daisy's club connected with the ball which rolled along the artificial green, past the anchor, and ricocheted against the short gray stone wall to stop two feet to the right side of the hole. Smirking heatedly, she looked up at him and said, "Your turn."

He shrugged and positioned his golf ball with the same hole, using his arm and eye parallax to make sure of its likely trajectory. Once he was sure of himself, Luigi tapped the ball whose path stopped just shy of the hole. He glanced up to Daisy who raised an eyebrow at him. "What?" he asked, voice filled with humor.

"Not bad," she replied and swallowed, obviously trying to keep some emotion in check. Luigi frowned at the tightness in her voice. She walked over and tapped the ball in the hole. Though her face was triumphant, her brown eyes shook and appeared watery. He did the same, as his golf ball was within a foot from the hole. They completed the course in silence, with Daisy smacking each ball with more force than what was needed, and Luigi alternating between diminishing concentration and mounting concern. By the tropical forest hole, she was shouting in Portuguese at her fourth try to putt, only for the ball to bounce out of the green and onto the linoleum floor. Angry tears came flowing from her agate-colored orbs. Despite the fear and self-flagellation burning his throat, Luigi put a comforting hand on hers, and he gently took away the golf club. Setting it against the wall, he pulled her to his chest and whispered into her ear, "What's wrong, princess? D-did I do something? D-did I … you know, in the car…?"

She shook her head. "No," she breathed, still silently crying. "I'm sorry, m-maybe I should go home. I'm not a good date tonight, I know."

Sensing her need to hide her inexplicable breakdown from public view, Luigi wrapped his arms around her protectively and kissed the crown of her head as his black zip-up became damp from her tears. "Don't worry 'bout that. You have me; there's no vetting on my end needed," he murmured. "As always, you can tell me to fuck off. But maybe … Maybe I could listen. It sounds like you need a friend right now."

Hesitantly, Daisy lifted her puffy eyes to his anxiety-filled blue ones. How would she explain this to him? "God, you must think I'm insane," she laughed mirthlessly.

He shook his head empathetically, bringing his right hand to stroke her hair. "No, n-not at all. I just thought you had a shitty day, to be honest. That's hardly insane."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, wiping them with her sleeve. "Yeah, something like that."

Luigi paused for a moment, then replied in a mangled, baritone Philly accent, "Yo, Daisy, it's me, Luigi ... I don't know what to say, 'cause I ain't never talked to no door before, ya know... Yo, Daisy, you know, it's me again, you know. Listen, uh, I know you ain't too happy at this moment, ya know. But could ya do me a favor, ya know, I ain't got nobody to spend Saturday with, ya know? So, uh, how about maybe you and I, I mean, we'll go out together and get somethin' to eat, I don't know, maybe laugh a little bit, who knows, ya know?"

The auburn-haired woman burst out laughing in surprise and confusion. "What?" she asked, a chuckle caught in her throat behind a sniffle.

He smiled weakly while drawing his thumb across her cheek. "It's my best Sly Stallone impression. Sucks, I know."

Daisy grinned and nodded her head. "Yeah, it does, but it's wonderfully bad."

Luigi shrugged, then shifting his weight like a boxer, "Ah, yo, y'know, I just want to say hi to my girlfriend, OK? Yo, Daisy!" It's me, Lou!" Several passersby paused to look quizzically at the weird Italian bouncing around from one foot to another, shadowboxing, and closing one eye as though it had been swollen shut. Daisy, however, giggled aloud, even as a few more tears irrepressibly outlined the curve of her cheeks. Luigi started to jump up and down, hands held in the air victoriously, and she sank to her knees, unable to contain herself. A few seconds later, a strong pair of hands lifted her to a standing position and a pair of masculine lips touched hers. She broke the kiss and brought his frame into an embrace.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The plumber did not respond, instead nuzzling her neck and molding his body to hers. They enjoyed the embrace for several minutes before Luigi gently pulled away to face her. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "C-Can we continue? I mean, the game?"

He chuckled. "Sure, no problem. Only I have a better idea." Grabbing only one club, Luigi handed it to the confused Daisy and moved to stand behind her, gripping the club over her hands. Allowing his lips to inch toward her ear, he purred, "Two is better than one."

She beamed in delight.

Luigi and Daisy easily vanquished the next sixteen holes, switching positions halfway to lead the swing. Some of the other players snickered at the smaller Daisy trying to contort the six-foot muscular plumber from behind, but Luigi just leaned back against her curves contentedly. On the final hole, they arrived at a large and darkened bluish-purple room with grey clouds painted on the walls. LCD lights illuminated several plastic palm trees at the entrance, a metal anchor to the side of them, and finally, a wooden platform-like projection from the wall.

"Do you see the hole?" asked Luigi nervously.

As Daisy shook her head, they both noticed a neon arrow on their left pointing to an old eighteenth-century era metal bell. She approached and rang it; as the bells rang, a mysterious, empty brown ship covered in skulls drew closer to the pair and, after a minute, parked at the platform. Their eyes both widened at the ominous howling wind over the speakers. An evil chortle precipitated the appearance of a large, eye-patched, white shark face from the bowels of the ship; its mouth opened, closed, and then opened again to reveal the final hole.

"There's the hole," he deadpanned. "Inside a goddamn shark."

Daisy blew out a puff of air and turned to him in the darkness. "Well," she began with her right hand on her hips, "that doesn't seem so tough. It's about timing." She planted the ball and took the club, stepping behind her boyfriend who was still staring at the chortling shark face. "Swing on three," she commanded. Laying her cheek on his warm back, she murmured, "One…two…three!" Their swing connected with the ball which rolled linearly toward the shark which had just opened its mouth anew. The ball bounced off its right incisor and the face cackled again.

"Fuck!" yelled Daisy as she ran toward the direction of the ricochet. "I can't see the ball."

Luigi squinted and put his hand above his eyes to control the amount of perceptible light. Abruptly, he walked toward a position roughly two feet to Daisy's right and retrieved the ball. "Let's try this again," he announced. Switching positions with Luigi in the rear, they again counted to three and again hit the shark's teeth. Again, they heard the audible cackle.

Daisy angrily pointed at the shark and growled, "I hate that shark!" Changing positions yielded the same result.

"Okay," said Luigi, "let's try going on five instead of three." Muttering various obscenities in Portuguese and Judeo-Spanish, she nodded and stepped in front of Luigi. "Okay-dokey, one…two…three," he called out while watching the opening and closing of the shark's mouth, "four…five!" The ball moved steadily into the shark's mouth, resulting in a victorious yelp from both Daisy and Luigi, until they heard a sound of the shark hocking a loogie and spitting it back.

"You're gonna die, shark!" shouted Daisy crossly. She whacked the ball at the eyepatch which ripped into the shark's face and allowed the ball to fall into the golf hole. The overhead speakers proclaimed, "Congratulations, you've won!"

Luigi, who leaned against the small club, burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Daisy glared briefly at the Italian, who was trying to cover his mouth and mirth with his left hand, but soon followed in joining him.

He offered his arm to the irate princess. "Fuck that shark," the plumber said, giggling a little.


From across their shared wooden table, Luigi observed Daisy poking at her cheese pizza nervously. Since leaving the mini gold course, the anxiety and turbulent emotions had seemingly returned, and she barely touched her food. He popped a mac and cheese bite into his mouth and took a sip of his Lager. "So," he began, "everything okay?"

After swallowing her small morsel of cheese and tomato sauce, Daisy visibly sank a little at the question. "Yeah, it's…fine. It's nothing that you did. It's me. I'm…I'm just thinking that I'm not in a headspace to date anyone right now."

Upon hearing Daisy's reply, Luigi's body started to vibrate with anger, disappointment, sadness, and confusion. Choking on his last mac and cheese, he coughed audibly into his napkin, which caused Daisy to reach out with her hand in concern. He batted it away and spat the masticated pasta into the napkin. Once his narrowing nasal-phalangeal was clear enough to breathe and speak, Luigi stared at her with tormented eyes. "Why?" he whispered. "I mean, when a girl says, 'It's me, not you,' it's always the guy. So what did I do?"

"Luigi," she began, her voice cracking, "it really isn't you. I really, really like you. But if you get to know me, you won't."

"How do you know that?" he asked in a tight voice. "Don't I get a say in that? I already do like you. I have since I noticed you in the bodega a few months back. Nothing will ever change me liking you."

Daisy huffed in frustration, pushing the pizza away from her. "You don't know me! We've spent all of a week together. I know you're a plumber from Bensonhurst, you…you have friends at Columbia, you have a large Italian family – I mean, large compared to mine – and …" She trailed off at his raised eyebrow.

"You're right," he interrupted quietly, his blue eyes never leaving hers. "I don't know you, but I'd like to, at least more, anyway. I know what you've told me, but I know more than that. You like to take a bite of your bagel even before you've paid, probably because you're starving from your morning workout, be it football or tennis. It's the best part of your morning because you've always got that bounce in your step, ready to conquer the world." Luigi inhaled to control his warring emotions and pounding heart, then continued despite her shocked expression, "I don't know about anyone else, but I like that. I like that confidence. What I can't figure out, though, is why you're afraid of me. Why do I inspire such a lack of certainty?"

Daisy gazed downward, ostensibly to her pizza, but the direction was blank in reality. "Luigi, you're the first man I've dated – I mean dated dated – in a very long time. And by long time, I mean more than five years. And that … wasn't exactly a pleasant experience. I'd rather, for both of our sakes, not get into details, but there was a man at Oxford, and it's embarrassing." She wistfully looked through the windows into the night. "Perhaps those men sensed that about me. Anyway, I don't know where to go or how to act. Sports are easier," she mumbled. "You have a defined role to play."

Although his insides still ached, Luigi laid his hand atop hers. "Daisy…I won't ask what happened in England. Not unless you wanna tell me sometime. And I understand being scared of the unknown. Believe me, I'm scared, too. That's why I wore that mask. I don't want to be rejected for the millionth time because I'm not a tough guy like my bro or a rich prick from the City. But it's what you told me at the club: you're a grown woman and, well, I'm a grown man. We all got skeletons in the closet and our crosses to bear." He gulped loudly, then entwined his fingers with hers. "I would like a chance to know, court you. Not because I'm trying to play you or get into your pants, but 'cause I want to know you.There's no role to play other than being you, who I already find interesting, intelligent, and a bit feisty."

The auburn-haired woman quietened at her plumber's sincere speech. Ever since her last serious relationship – if she could call it that – back in England, Daisy studiously cultivated a hardened exterior of boredom and indifference around men of all backgrounds, who easily moved on to more undemanding and attentive girls. It was fine by her, as a lack of a dating life gave her more time to train and see the world. She lived a carefree life of wealth and adventure, from spending two years in the Peace Corps to working for the United Nations in the summers and making the right connections to get into Stanford Law School. Finding a man was at the bottom of her list of priorities. She was not supposed to fall in love now, much less with an Italian Catholic plumber from Brooklyn. In a year's time, Daisy would return to California for three years' worth of blood, sweat, and tears followed by two, possibly three years of corporate practice, which would no doubt require an eighty-hour workweek and leave little time for sports, much less romance. She could hear her father's voice chastise her for entertaining an impossible relationship.

It was the age-old question of work-life balance. Yet as her brown eyes connected with his blue ones, Daisy felt a sense of calm and longing permeate her body. Refusing to look away, she slid over to allow Luigi to arrange his chair next to hers. Now side by side, he wrapped his left arm around the chair and soft feminine body, gently kissing the top of her crown of auburn hair.