Thanks to everyone who voted! All of your suggestions were AWESOME, and I'd love to do a chapter on any or all of them. However, I ended up choosing two places which are not only recognizable in the games, but also easily adaptable to the plot that I've already storyboarded. Not to mention the potential for comedy gold ;)

Initially, this was going to be one or even two large chapters, but since I've already written 11,000 words, I am splitting this into THREE chapters. Consider this shorter chapter to be an appetizer for the two main courses, i.e., the two places from the contest. I will finish the second chapter by Thursday 26 May. The third chapter of this arc will come sometime next week.

A small remark: For the Maori translation, I used an old Maori-English dictionary in addition to what I know of Tahitian and Hawaiian, which are marginally related. I don't actually speak the language, so I apologize in advance for any mistake.

I hope you all enjoy. Again, a huge thanks for playing and reading!


Chapter 10: Threes and Trios

Daisy checked her soft auburn curls in the mirror for the fifth time in ten minutes. She was unaccustomed to the jitters that had been building in her stomach since morning. Earlier that Friday, she put in her earbuds and went for a jog while drowning out the Brooklyn traffic with Ofra Haza's album, Desert Wind, a favorite of hers and her father's. She ran along the riverfront, across the Brooklyn Bridge, into Battery Park, and back to Carroll Gardens. As they were going to see each other later in the evening, she and Luigi agreed to skip their breakfast dates at Sami's. Frankly, she needed the solid seven-mile run to manage her growing desire for a certain boy from Bensonhurst.

Having grown up in an insular Bay Area Sephardic community, with cousins in Boston, Tel Aviv, and São Paulo, Daisy had forlornly resigned herself to the statistical likelihood that she would marry a nice lawyer from the Community or be sent to Israel to marry a wealthy sabra with several years and connections in the IDF. In the past two months, when she was not at home to listen to the speeches in person, Yael routinely emailed her photos of a Shimon, two Avrams, and another Moshe who were in their thirties looking for a nice Yehudiya to keep Shabbat. She was getting old, said Yael, and men wanted to settle down and start families by their thirties. The mild-mannered Harry remained quiet, though over winter break during one of their daily one-on-one chats, he gently mentioned to his only daughter that a galantuómo would allow her to be less lonely, that studies and sports could not be everything in life. Like a good daughter, she nodded gratefully at him, then later retreated to the downstairs gym and kicked the bag so hard that it nearly detached from the hanging chain. The idea of staying at home, preparing jachnun and challah, and nagging her eldest son on his progress toward Bar Mitzvah made her physically ill.

The more they pushed, the more she stayed away from San Francisco. At eighteen, she scandalized her entire family by choosing Oxford instead of Stanford, where her father had attended law school, Berkeley, or even Claremont. The fiery Yael cried that if she wanted an 'international adventure,' she could have chosen the Technion or Hebrew University in Jerusalem after she served her two-year commitment to the IDF. The Army will protect her! You can't count on the goyim to protect the Jews! shouted her stepmother in Hebrew. Harry had objected to the latter, as he did not want his only child to spend two years in a potential war zone; the Second Intifada between the Palestinian Authority and Israel had "ended" a few years prior.

It turned out that Yael may have been right.

Shortly after arriving in England, she met an alluring and large-muscled bloke from New Zealand. He was in his second year of biochemistry and was a semi-professional player of rugby. His British father was a successful textile businessman in Auckland and his mother was half-Maori, half-Polynesian. Although his Anglo-Saxon name was Oliver, he went by his preferred name (or one of them) – Tatanga – which meant "a twist or bend." During the first couple months of their courtship, the young and naïve Daisy hung on his every word and promise of love and undying affection. They spent most weekends in her bed. Daisy never told Harry and Yael about her lover, knowing fully well that they would be on the next flight to London to bring her back to San Francisco. But the sweet and immature attention soon evolved into arguments, belittling, and ultimately, beatings. Desperate to hide the relationship as well as the accompanying shame, Daisy refused to come home during winter break between Michaelmas and Hilary terms, citing the workload and the need to revise her papers. He also began to frequent the pubs with his rugby mates day and night, resulting in constant drunkenness and violence. At the end of her first year, Daisy finally 'took out the human rubbish' with the help of her flatmate, Abeni, whom he always loathed.

It also did not hurt that Tatanga was warned to stay away from her. She heard from friends of friends that he was asked to leave by the rectory for a lackluster academic performance and returned to Auckland shortly thereafter. Thankfully, her marks were sufficient to continue to the second and third years, where she improved noticeably from a second, bordering on third-class to a 2:1 overall. As a result of her experience with Tatanga, she swore off men and instead poured her energy into what she called her 'personal development plan': first-class grades in physics, martial arts practice, refining her bullshit detector, and making the right connections to enter the Peace Corps. Although her tutors and parents begged her to stay at Oxford for a Master's program, she went to Africa for two years and then came back to the U.S. to prepare for entrance into a prestigious law school such as Stanford or Harvard.

She never told Harry or Yael about her harrowing first year.

Since the Tatanga Experience, Luigi Masciarelli was the first man whom she willingly dated. The tall, lanky dork of a New York Italian plumber was clumsy, awkward, and neurotic, yet intelligent, funny, and non-threatening. He also had a runner's body which she found extremely attractive. While Tatanga would have screamed and cajoled her into sex, Luigi took care not to push beyond established boundaries. Most importantly, Luigi seduced her not with his muscles but with his mind, challenging her to meet him tit for tat and go beyond his initial offer. In fact, he seemed almost eager for her to take charge, to dominate him. Though she was normally a staunch egalitarian between men and women, in the dark recesses of her psyche, Daisy was immensely turned on by the idea of tying the timid plumber to her bed and riding cowgirl until morning. Nonetheless, she had to keep a cool head and remember her priorities: graduate from Columbia, score at least a 170 on the LSAT, and get into an Ivy League law school. Higher education meant a higher-paying job and independence. Never again would she depend on a man.

Daisy stared nervously in the mirror at her sleeveless, 1950s-style yellow dress. She owned very few 'girly outfits,' preferring the ease and comfort of tank tops, tee-shirts, jeans, and yoga pants. On occasion, she wore frills for the pomp and circumstance of friends' afternoon tea or wedding breakfasts. This dress, however, was one of her favorites; aside from the fun cornflower blue flowers patterned on the yellow fabric, the A-line design fit her curvaceous body like a second skin, all the while remaining conservative and tasteful.

At seven o'clock sharp, she heard a rap at her door. Slipping on her matching yellow ballerina flats, the auburn-haired woman took a deep breath and went to the front door. Opening it, her amber eyes brightened at the sight of the tall Italian carrying several bags. Blinking several times in order not to drool on herself, she stepped aside to let the man inside. As the lanky man, who was dressed in Armani blue jeans and a shimmering forest green Oxford, walked in, he let his blue eyes trail over her face, then down her yellow-fabric bosom to her shapely legs. Shutting the door, they met halfway with a slightly-less-than chaste kiss.

"Boa noite," greeted Daisy once they broke apart for air.

"Bona sera," murmured Luigi against her lips. "I brought food and entertainment."

"Mmm," she hummed gratefully, "what did you bring?"

"Well," he began as he held up the delivery sack, "as Bensonhurst has more or less become one of the Chinatowns of New York City, I brought Szechwan. They're pretty good. I've had both their vegetarian and carnivore dishes, so you know."

They moved to the parlor where Luigi organized the takeout containers by tea, egg rolls, and entrées – steamed eggplant, spicy tofu and vegetables, and scallion pancakes. He ordered all vegetarian dishes to avoid confusion and make sharing easier. Handing her a set of wooden chopsticks and dropping a two-inch-thick wad of paper napkins on the table, he went to fetch two dinner plates from the kitchen. Returning to set the final pieces of dinnerware, Luigi gestured with his chopsticks and said, "Mangiu, sweetie."

Portioning out the streamed rice and spicy tofu, licking her fingers of the sauce, and taking her first bite, she replied, "Man-giu. I thought it was mangia. At least that's what I've seen on TV."

Luigi chewed, then chuckled lowly. "We say that, too. But mangiu is Sicilian – it's a dialect of Italian. Well, depends on who you ask. Some say it's an entirely different language. But it's what my mother used to say to my brother and me."

She nodded, humming contentedly with the Szechuan tofu. "You were right; this is good. So you speak Sicilian at home?"

He frowned, then gestured a 'sort of' with his free hand. Once he finished eating, he answered, "After my mother died, we kind of disconnected with the Sicilian side. My father's side is from Pescara in Abruzzo, so their Italian's different. My father was and my brother is a bit more fluent than I am, simply 'cause I was around more English-speaking people when I was growing up. Pops spoke Sicilian as well as Standard Italian and English. I keep up with it, though." He shot Daisy a conspiratorial grin and snorted, "Mario's girlfriend and he constantly bitch at each other in Italian. It's better than RAI."

Daisy giggled while wiping her nose. "Yeah, I think that describes most couples in a long-term relationship. Papai and Yael do the same thing in Hebrew. Or rather, Yael nags him and he pretends to agree with her."

He smirked. "Are you sure that Yael isn't Italian?"

Raising her eyebrows, she gave him a serious look. "Oh, I'm very sure that she's not. Not even close. She grew up in Netanya in northern Israel. Her father immigrated to Israel in the 1960s on a student visa, then said fuck it and refused to leave. He married a woman from Yemen and had four kids, Yael being the eldest. Then she became the Hellraiser of Netanya and found my father. He was visiting my grandparents in Tel Aviv who had made aliya several years prior, and they set him up with her."

Taking another bite, Luigi smiled slightly in amusement. "She sounds interesting. Where did her father come from and what's she do now?"

Grinning evilly, Daisy replied, "Besides bitch at me to," momentarily shifting her voice into an Israeli accent, "find a nice Yehudi, binti? She's a lawyer like my father. Israeli employment law. And her father was from Ethiopia."

Doing a double-take at his girlfriend and coughing a little on his tofu, he picked some of the tea and swallowed. "Wait," he finally said, "wait a minute. You mean she's b…?"

"Black? Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"No, no, not at all," Luigi quickly assured her. "I'm sorry; that came out really wrong. I just…I've never heard of African Jews before. Syrians, yeah, but not Africans."

"Yeah, they exist. Ethiopian Jews are more or less one of the original ten tribes of Israel. Most people think that Jews are all light-skinned Ashkenazim. We're not. Most of Israel isn't. My own forebearers were Portuguese, Chinese, and African."

Luigi's blue eyes twinkled in delight and lust. "Well, I've learned something new."

Daisy noticed his eyes darken and his facial expression become slack. "Hmm. Do you like that?"

"Yeah," he breathed in a low voice. "I do."

"Oh? Do you have some fetish about multicultural women?" asked Daisy hesitantly.

The plumber shrugged. "Well, I do have a fetish about you in particular. The rest of it is a nice bonus."

She grinned sexily, licking her lips, which she noticed had yet another effect on the man before her. "That's good to hear because … well … You better call Freud because I think I'm starting to develop a fetish for tall Italian plumbers."

As she calmly chewed on her egg roll, Daisy saw him turn a bright red in the face and his eyes melt into a deep blue sea of arousal, shock, and endearment. They ate in silence for several moments afterward, intermittently sneaking sly glances at each other. Setting his plate aside, Luigi moved to sit right next to Daisy. Snatching her half-eaten egg roll from her hand, he broke a piece off the uneaten end, ate it, and then returned the rest to the perplexed woman.

"Did you just steal part of my egg roll? There's another one over there?" she said incredulously, gesturing to the remaining hors d'oeuvre on the coffee table.

Laughing, he nodded. "Yeah, but yours is tastier."

Daisy shook her head. "You're…! You're a food thief!" At Luigi's uncontrolled mirth, she grumbled, "Food thief."

Wiping his mouth and mustache with one of the paper napkins, he watched his lioness glare warningly at him while finishing her meal. He continued to eye her tofu teasingly while dishing some of the eggplant onto his plate that he had moved closer to him.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "No. I mean it, plumber. You'll be sorry if you do." He raised his eyebrows at her as if to say challenge accepted.

Five minutes passed, and she finished the last of her tofu. There was one piece left on her plate; as she reached for the eggplant, she felt male lips on her neck, nose nuzzling the jawline. She moaned softly, forgetting the food as they worked their way to hers. Breathing heavily, she deepened the kiss and he grinned against her. Abruptly, he pulled away, chortling while chewing on the last piece of tofu.

"Que porra é essa?!" swore Daisy at Luigi's laughter. "You bastard." He shrugged and kissed his fingers. "You…" She jumped on him, forcing him into a supine position and pinning his hands next to his head.

He smirked up at her. "Daisy-flavored tofu. Best kind."

"Well, now you can't move your grubby little fingers. So, now what?"

A flushed Luigi gazed up at her and swallowed. "I can think of a few things."

Daisy felt her stomach tingle in both excitement and panic. It had only been a month and a half since their first "date." He was attractive, but she barely knew him. Daisy's friends of friends routinely bragged about their Tinder dates and hookups in Manhattan; aside from her unfortunate experience in England, she had little interest in hooking up or dating for attraction's sake.

"Daisy," interrupted Luigi. "I won't lie to you. I want you. I've wanted you since Valentine's Day. I'm more forward than I normally am because I am so … attracted to you. But please … don't feel like you have to … you know." He slowly engaged his core muscles to push himself up, and Daisy released his wrists to allow the motion. Now sitting in his lap, Luigi chastely enfolded her in his arms. She relaxed against his chest, basking in his comforting warmth and unique smell of spice and mandarin oranges. "I know what it's like to put one toe out, just to see," he whispered against her hair. "Sometimes, it's overwhelming, and you gotta retreat until you can handle more."

Breaking the embrace a little, she glanced at him in awe. "Yeah," she breathed.

"I'm still here. I will be here," he affirmed, his fingers threading through her medium-length auburn strands.

They finished dinner, cleaned the table, and put the leftovers in Daisy's refrigerator. Settling back down in opposite corners of the parlor couch, Luigi and Daisy nervously exchanged longing looks, all of a sudden unsure of each other. Despising the uncertainty and discomfort, Daisy huffed, crossed over to his side, and arranged herself in his arms. He did not protest, instead, stretching his long legs along the length of the couch and around the smaller, soft form. She reached up and traced his mustache and five o'clock shadow.

"What's with the mustache? It's pretty retro," she inquired. "Not that I dislike it."

Luigi paused to consider his answer. "That's a good question. I started growing it in my early twenties. My grandfather and father had mustaches, so does my brother. He … he had to shave it off during his first few years in the military. He was perpetually pissed off about it, too. Eventually, they allowed him the privilege with the increased rank. My Uncle Joe had one right when he married my aunt, or so I'm told. I don't remember him ever having one. I guess it's a family tradition."

"Is your brother an officer? Yael wasn't, though she wanted to send me to Israel to become one."

"Nah," he shook his head, squeezing Daisy tighter, anxiety building at the mere idea of her serving in the IDF. "Mario's enlisted – staff sergeant. He'll have been in the Army for thirteen years this coming November."

"So he enlisted right after September 11th," she concluded.

"Yeah," rasped Luigi, his eyes gazing over. "Anyway, the mustache is a family tradition. Guy thing, you know."

She hummed in response, keeping an outwardly calm appearance so as not to alarm him. Her eyes darted to his contemplative form which had become twitchier since she had mentioned that particular date. This was in itself inconclusive, as not a single New Yorker – to say nothing of the world – looked upon that day favorably. However, a thought, or rather a possibility, about his family shook her to the core. Absent-mindedly, she moved her fingers from his mustache to his mane of wavy brown hair and began to scratch it like a cat's fur. Closing his eyes, Luigi leaned into her nails and uttered a low, almost purr.

"I see you like that," she spoke throatily.

"Hmm," was Luigi's only response.

"You're very catlike."

Grinning, he moved to kiss the crown of her head. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Cat fan?"

"I like cats. I like dogs, too. All animals. But for different reasons. Dogs are loyal, good buddies. Cats, however, don't take shit and are honest. What about you?"

Daisy continued to scratch Luigi's scalp. "Team Cat here. We had a few Tonkinese and Himmies at home. They all passed of old age – one of them was twenty. My father's not quite ready yet for another kitty, as our last gatinho was particularly beloved. But yes, they're honest and independent. They also have their own personalities and like a good scratch."

"Lots of hair in the case of the Himmie," stated Luigi.

"Yep. That was one of my chores, actually. Brush the Princess three times a day and take her to the groomer's," reminisced Daisy. "I always wanted a job, earn my own money, but both Papai and Yael said no."

He looked down at her in shock. "When did you start working?"

"When I was twenty. And that was because I insisted. Papai thought I owed money to someone," she chuckled. "But no, I told him that if I wanted to go to the Peace Corps and become a lawyer, I needed some form of employment history."

"So two questions," began the plumber. "First, what was your first job? Second, Peace Corps?!"

She rolled onto her back while Luigi stroked her hair with his right hand. "My first job … I was a freelance tutor. I tutored French to rich kids in London and at Oxford because I went to a French-speaking high school. Ugh, never again. Some of the most snooty, stuck-up-their-butts toffs ever!" She heard and smiled at Luigi's sniggering at the latter remark, then continued, "Some Portuguese and Hebrew, too, for the few who were going to Brazil or were preparing for their b'nai mitzvah or aliya. But that was a side gig. My first real job was in the Peace Corps. I mean, you do get paid – not a lot, but still. Man, you should have seen Yael's pearl-clutching. It was right after I graduated from Oxford. I did a year in Kidal, Mali. It was such a great experience; I taught English and French at an elementary school. Some science, too, as you know, physics degree. Normally, it's a two-year contract, but Boko Haram decided to take over the eastern portion of the country, so all volunteers were evacuated. Much to my father and stepmother's horror, I signed up again and finished my second year in Rwanda doing pretty much the same thing. It's what pushed me to be a lawyer like my father. I mean, I'd do intellectual property law to pay the bills, but I'm into human rights. Make a difference when you can, you know?"

Luigi was eerily taciturn. Daisy felt him trembling and then tighten his arms around her. Thinking that he was uncomfortable, she tried to move away from him. His arms stiffened even more, keeping her in place. Spinning her body to face him, he forcefully latched his lips on hers. Although Daisy relaxed her lips, this kiss was a mixture of force, fretfulness, and fright. When he moved back, her once rose-colored lips were a deep red. His sparkling cerulean eyes were a vortex of light and dark blues. A moment later, Luigi seemed to return to his senses and gazed up at her in horror. "God … Jesus, I'm sorry!" As he attempted to get up and away, he felt himself pushed back on the couch.

"You didn't hurt me," she answered. "What happened? Tell me honestly."

Luigi stared at her, debating how much of the truth to give her. How quickly did he want to scare her away and leave him alone again? Her amber eyes pierced his insides, and his heart burned at the thought of hurting or lying to her. The choice made, he ran his palms along her bare thighs and steadied his voice. "Wow, where to start? I … I can't even imagine going to Mali, let alone when terrorists are in the area. You're so brave, so inspiring, Daisy. Yet … some … people are dangerous, and you never know it until it's too late. Being a hero has a price."

Daisy watched him quietly as she considered his last words. Was he afraid of an adventurous woman or was he afraid of her getting hurt? His blue eyes had resumed their normal blue, though containing streaks of fear, awe, and something else. She felt his warm hands casually stroking her bare thighs just above her knees. "Is that how you think of me? As someone with a hero complex?" she finally asked with an edge in her tone.

He shook his head. "No. As I said, you're brave. And I meant it as a compliment. I just … Daisy, I've lost or nearly lost most of my family. Daisy, I know that we've only known each other for a few months, but … I want you well. That's all."

She softened and brought her palm to his cheek which he accepted. "Okay," she relented, setting her chin on his chest. "Now, your turn. First job."

He chuckled in relief and looked up at the ceiling absent-mindedly while combing his hand through her hair again. "Let's see, first job? I was twelve. There was a pizza parlor on 18th Avenue that hired me as a delivery boy. Made good tip money. My Pops wanted Mario and I to learn the value of a dollar, so we were working a few hours per week by eleven and twelve. But my first real job was in a plumbing shop. I was sixteen and worked there until I was apprenticed by the union at eighteen. My first boss was a real ball-buster. If I missed a measurement by an eighth of an inch, he would dock my pay and make me redo the whole fuckin' thing, even into the night. When I tried to object that it was against union rules, he told me that both the union and I could go fuck ourselves in a three-ring circus using the pipe that I fucked up."

"Wow. Creative, but pretty mean. He sounds like the Boss from Hell."

Luigi started to laugh and snort. "Yeah, he was. For Christmas, one of the journeymen actually gifted him one of those wooden desk plates labeled 'The Ayatollah.' He has it on his desk to this day."

"Oh my God … And he's still in business?"

"Oh yeah," he replied with a grin. "The Ayatollah Giuseppe is still in business, aka my Uncle Joe Masciarelli. To be fair to the Ayatollah, if you're gonna do something, it should be done well. That was his point."

"Well, you can't argue with the message, though the means are a bit questionable," said Daisy.

"While I don't approve of them myself, it's the old school way, and it saved my ass in trade school when Slaughter was teaching. The guy was an incompetent jackass. He and Uncle Joe loathed each other, more than Mario and I hated him, and that's saying something. Apparently, Joe's teacher was even worse to him."

Her eyes narrowed. "Let me guess – your grandfather?"

"Bada-bing," chortled Luigi. "Nonno Mario was so authoritarian that several of the apprentices called him Il Duce behind his back, to which he did not take kindly. He was a partisan in World War II, so he was particularly offended at the reference to Mussolini. But as I said, he was old school Italian. He always had a soft spot for my brother."

"But not you?" she asked at his unspoken statement.

"Eh … Yes and no. Italians are pretty male-centric. Especially the firstborn males. And there was a lot of bad blood between my father and Nonno Mario, his father. They never got along. I think Nonno tried to make up for it with my brother. And Mario – my brother – was a lot like Nonno in many ways. I was the spare, so to speak."

"Families are weird," she nodded. "My grandparents never came out and said it, but they were disappointed that Papai's only child was a female and born to a non-Sephardic woman. The conversion never counted for much. I know because they never quite lavished the same attention on me as they did on some of my male cousins. I went to Oxford, but it didn't matter. Then there's the question of my mother's family. I have cousins, aunts, and uncles in Hong Kong who won't even acknowledge that I exist."

Luigi rubbed her back and planted a kiss atop her head. "That's even worse. I'm sorry that they treated you like that. It sounds like Yael and your Pap-ai really stepped in then."

Snuggling into the crook of his neck, she sighed contentedly. "Yeah. Like I said, Yael's a fucking pain in the ass. And Papai made it clear that he didn't give a shit what they thought."

"Neither do I," whispered Luigi. They kissed again beginning at their lips, then on every bare patch of each other's skin that was immediately available.


After their latest make-out session, Luigi and Daisy fell asleep on the couch for two hours. Then they woke up and made out some more until he was breathless and had to leave. At her front door, giddy and enamored, he kissed his Daisy's sweet lips and hands and promised that he would call her every day during his three-week absence which he explained as a 'special consultant project.' "You better," said Daisy seriously, "because April 21 is my birthday." Crushing her lips with his, he purred that he would be back for her birthday and have a special present from Arizona waiting. While on the road, Lucas texted him the location and time of the next morning's departing flight – John F. Kennedy International Airport to Phoenix, 9 am.

Luigi returned to Bensonhurst at a little past eleven in the evening. Sliding his key into the lock, he entered to find an annoyed Mario half-watching the local news in his Lazy-Boy. He shut the door quietly when his brother barked, "Must have been quite the date when your clothes are rumpled and you come back just in time to pack and leave."

He stared at him blankly. "You've been following me?"

Mario shrugged. "When we're not working? Yeah. I didn't get a good look at her face, but I know she exists. When were you going to tell me?"

"When you cease to be an asshole, so never," the younger brother bit out, turning to go upstairs to his room. Mario launched off the chair and quickly followed him. As Luigi tried to shut the door in his face, his older brother easily pushed it open and sat on the bed. Luigi rolled his eyes and chose to ignore him; instead, he fetched his small black suitcase, put it on the bed, and began it to fill two weeks' worth of street and nicer clothes as well as his Italian dress shoes.

Mario regarded the suitcase as if it were a poisonous snake and glared at his brother. "Answer me, goddamn it," he growled.

"I did," said Luigi.

"Okay, fine. Next question: what's her name and where are you going for three weeks?"

"That's two questions, bro," he retorted.

"Fine!" shouted Mario exasperatedly. "Answer them both!"

"Screw you, controlling prick. There – answered!" yelled Luigi.

"Fine," said the older brother, throwing up his hands. "I'll just go to the union and ask them to investigate how a New York journeyman – a fucking journeyman – mysteriously gets called to Toad Suck, Arkansas where he's not licensed."

A worried Luigi paused, then spoke in a shaky voice, "Y-you wouldn't dare. This was approved by Pichler himself."

Smirking, the Italian in a gray tee-shirt and black boxers replied, "I'm a prick, remember? As a loyal member of the UA 2, I could be persuaded to overlook the incident if you tell me where you're going."

The younger plumber took a deep, angry breath and zipped up his suitcase. "Arizona."

"And what time are you leaving tomorrow?"

"I gotta be at JFK by 8 am. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get some rest before my trip. Smamma!" he snarled, gesturing toward the open door with his thumb as he looked for one of his books.

Mario crossed his arms. "No, I don't think so. Arizona? To do what, exactly?"

Luigi's fists balled at his sides. "Goddamn it, Mario! You know where I'm going. As I said, I'll be back by Easter. Shit, don't you have your annual training coming up? It's not like you'll be here, either!"

The elder brother stood up from the bed and moved into the other man's personal space. "That's different, and you fucking know it! Mine's legit."

"Good night, bro. I'll see you in three weeks," said the younger brother deliberately. He walked into his bathroom and shut the door to shower and prepare for bed.


At six in the morning, Luigi got up from his bed to dress, brush his teeth, shave, and put his toiletries in a quart-sized plastic bag. After checking the weather report, he put on a black tee-shirt and a pair of jeans to remain cool in the warm Arizona climate. Putting on his Converses, he quietly carried the black suitcase down the stairs and set it at the entrance to the garage. As he walked into the kitchen, the lights flicked on to reveal a sleepy Mario who had thrown on a navy blue tee-shirt, jeans, and a pair of tennis shoes. He grabbed his car keys, put on a red coat, and said, "It's six-thirty, bro. If we leave now, we can get breakfast before you get on the plane to Arizona." Before Luigi could protest, the soldier spat, "Not negotiable. Either I drive you to JFK or I go to the union." Then he ambled heatedly to the suitcase and dragged it into the garage.

Fifteen minutes later, Mario was maneuvering his black Honda next to the 14th Street Burger King drive-through window. As he pulled up, a large man called out, "Yo, Mario, how you doin'? The usual?"

"Yo, Stevie!" greeted Mario. "Yeah. Plus," he turned to Luigi in the passenger seat, "whatcha want, little shit?" The younger plumber silently extended his left middle finger. "Make it a double, wouldya please? Little bro's hangry."

Stevie nodded and gave him the total. Mario reached into his inner coat pocket for his wallet. Unfolding it, he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the server who broke and returned the change. Stevie shut the window while Mario lifted the middle compartment and haphazardly dumped the assortment of coins inside it. They waited wordlessly until Stevie opened the window with a large bag of food, which Mario took and handed to Luigi, and a holder containing two regulars. Expressing his thanks and a see-you-later, the plumber in red drove the car with one hand and coffee holder in the other to the empty parking lot behind the restaurant and parked in the space directly in front of him. He placed the hot coffees on the dashboard, then reached for the paper bag, stuck his hand inside, and offered his brother one of the two sausage, egg, and cheese croissant sandwiches.

A few bites into his own sandwich, Mario began, "So, are ya gonna tell me her name?"

"Whose name?" asked Luigi while chewing.

"Ragazza Number Three," said Mario as he reached again into the bag for a ketchup packet.

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Cut the shit and tell me her name."

Luigi sighed dramatically. "Aight, aight. I gotta tell you, though, she's not Italian."

Spreading the ketchup on the meat and licking his fingers, Mario answered, "So? That doesn't surprise me. The first one – was it Éclair, I think – definitely wasn't Italian. By the way, who was the second one?"

The younger brother ignored his question and bit into the last half of his breakfast sandwich. "Do you want to know her name? Fine, I'll tell you her name. It's Nita."

Mario reached for his coffee and sipped the warm liquid. "Nita?! Jesus Christ, what's her last name?"

"Nita Hanjab."

The older plumber spewed the coffee all over the steering wheel. A smug Luigi watched as he grabbed a stack of napkins and wiped the dashboard and wheel, alternating between "fucker" and "real cute" several times under his breath. Thereafter, Mario and Luigi ate quietly; the former turned on ICN Radio New York, a local Italian-language channel. One of Tiziano Ferro's pop tunes from a few years back was playing. Normally, Mario listened to the ICN news at noon, but he urgently needed background noise to distract him from Luigi's refusal to share his girlfriend's name. He had not thought it possible, but this bothered him more than the business with Scott the Shitbucket. What if it became serious? Would Luigi just cut him off for this girl? Would he even see Luigi? Suddenly becoming depressed, he shoveled the rest of the breakfast sandwich into his mouth and then took out the hashbrown from the bag. The silence, save the next Italian pop song, continued in the Honda. Eventually, Mario put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking lot to make the forty-five-minute drive to John F. Kennedy International Airport.

They still remained silent for the next half hour. Mario focused on the "fucking shitty Queens fucks" on the Belt Parkway while Luigi gazed out of the passenger window at the various small hills and exit signs. After spotting the blue signs associated with JFK Airport and huffing multiple times, Mario finally blew up and cried, "Minchia! You don't tell me nothing anymore. Like a good fuckin' Italian – nah, like a good fuckin' Sicilian – don't see nothin', don't know nothin'. First, you decide to play double-o-seven and go to the fuckin' desert of all places and now, now, you got this ragazza that I don't even get to meet or know her name. Wha-What the fuck is this shit, bro? I remember when I used to take youse Guzy-cruisie. You remember? One foot out the window, blaring the Boss and freestyle. You used to sit there and tell me what happened in school, what you were doing, what youse – you and the Two Dipshits – were doin'. Now, I'm playing guess games. Why can't you tell me? You know, you givin' me fuckin' agita, you know that?"

Blue eyes shining, Luigi turned to his brother who stared angrily forward. "Bro, I …"

"What airline?" interrupted Mario harshly.

"It's a private jet. General Aviation Terminal, I think," he responded.

Mario nodded. "A private fuckin' flight. Even better!" he grumbled.

Following the signs, they arrived at the FBO and Port Authority. The older plumber threw the car in park and shut off the engine. Luigi checked his watch; it was 7:50 am. Wordlessly, he unbuckled his seat belt and leaned over to exit the car. A strong hand caught his left wrist, pulling him back into the seat. The younger man waited expectantly as Mario gazed out the windshield. Several minutes had passed when the latter spoke in an emotionless tone, "I don't like this. I don't like this one bit." He scoffed, "But you're gonna do it anyway. So you will call me – not a fucking text – but an actual fucking phone call every night at 10 pm sharp Eastern Time. If I do not get that call, Luigi, as God is my witness, I will be on the next plane to Phoenix. I don't care how many fuckin' Wyatt Earp cowboy asses I have to kick; you're coming home to me. And you know I will, even if I have to go AWOL to do it. Capisci quello sto dicendo?"

"Si. Capisco, fratello," replied Luigi solemnly.

Mario unfastened his seat belt, popped the trunk, and exited the car. Walking to the rear of the Honda, with Luigi shutting the passenger door and following closely behind him, the plumber removed the roller suitcase and closed the lid. He set it next to Luigi, wringing his hands.

"Bro, I'll be okay," said Luigi gently.

Reticent, the elder plumber scanned his brother's face with watery, anxious eyes. Luigi's lips parted to say something; instead, he enfolded Mario in a brief embrace. After a moment, he retreated and murmured, "Her name's Daisy." Then he pushed the button to access the handle of the suitcase and strode purposefully into the terminal.

Like one of Michelangelo's statues, a detached Mario remained frozen at the trunk.

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