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his hands together. “Bravo, Maddy. That’s just what you need. A hit man. Good idea.”
    “Do you know someone?” I ask. And it’s not an off-the-wall question. My brother knows some shady characters from his drug-running days. He used to work for a man named Snoop Santino, one of the most notorious drug kingpins in South Texas.
    “What about…” I hesitate. “What about Snoop?” I ask, finally.
    I’ve got Ronnie’s full attention now.
    “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he says, in a soft tone. When my brother is infuriated, he speaks in a hushed tone like this. It’s entirely frightening.
    “You don’t know what you’re messing with when you throw out a name like Snoop Santino,” Ronnie says.
    “Well, we’ve both known him since we were kids.”
    “Yeah, Maddy. That was back then. Before he got damaged. Before he decided to nose-dive into a life of thieving and drug dealing.”
    Then Ronnie does something that he rarely does, ever. He pulls up the side of his T-shirt, and points at the bullet wound. It’s on the left, near his rib cage. “Clean entry and exit” is what the surgeon told me that night. When Ronnie was fighting for his life.
    “Remember who I was with when I got shot, Maddy?”
    I’m quiet. Maybe bringing up Snoop Santino’s name wasn’t such a good idea. But deep down, people envy criminals, don’t they? Isn’t that why the Sopranos was so popular?
     
    After he got shot, my brother found God.
    Now that Ronnie’s on a mission to save every teenager from drugs, he sometimes meets up with street dealers and asks them to stay away from schools.
    “Leave the kids alone,” he’ll say to a small-time street dealer. Ronnie tries to reason with drug dealers. He travels to the periphery of the city, to streets where the cops don’t even go, and meets the dealers in person. And they respect him because he used to be in the trafficking business himself. He used to be in the employ of Snoop Santino, so Ronnie’s name is known around certain circles, as they say.
    My little brother meets with street dealers and lays out both a moral and logical argument for why they shouldn’t sell to minors. And after each meeting, he says, very sincerely, “Thank you for your time.”
    He’s got cojones, my brother.
    I’ve asked him how he gets the dealers to agree to stay away from schools. “What do you offer them, Ronnie? Besides a moral argument?” I ask.
    “I cut my own deals,” my brother says, simply. So I haven’t pressed the issue.
    The bartender shoves a milkshake in front of me. It’s good and thick. I can see pieces of Hershey bar stuck in the sweet sludge. I reach for the glass, but Ronnie swipes it away from me.
    “Hey!” I protest.
    “Not so fast, sister.”
    He takes a sip from the straw and smacks his lips, as if he’s just tasted heaven. He slides the glass toward me, because, for all his bark, my brother is really a big, fat softie.
    I take a sip from the straw, but nothing comes out. So I use a spoon instead.
    Delicious…
    “Let’s forget about Snoop, then. You know of anyone else with muscle for hire?” I say.
    Ronnie puts his cheeseburger down, licks his fingers. “You can’t be serious,” he says.
    I stare at him, with my plain-Jane hazel eyes.
    My brother shakes his head. “I’m gonna pray for you, Maddy,” he says. And just like that, he lowers his head, curls his fingers underneath his chin, and begins to pray.
    Ronnie prays a lot. But usually not in public. So he must think this is an emergency.
    The bartender sees my brother with his head bent low over his cheeseburger basket. He raises an eyebrow, and starts to walk over, a worried expression on his face.
    I hold up a single finger and mouth the words, “One minute.” The bartender considers me, and then turns back to his bottles. I sit quietly until Ronnie finishes. My shake is melting but I don’t touch it. My brother, by the way, does not take kindly to