Tilting his bottle toward the screen, he said to Cohen, “Still can’t get used to saying Las Vegas Raiders. Why can’t teams just stay where they belong?”

“Guess if that were true, I’d still be rooting for the Oilers and not the Texans.”

And just like that, Nir was completely out of his depth. Who the heck are the Oilers? They weren’t on the list of league teams.

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Cohen continued. “Actually, wouldn’t mind having the Oilers again, especially in their heyday. I’d take a Glanville or a Bum Phillips over O’Brien any day.”

Nir was back on solid ground. He had no idea who the first two guys were, but he knew the last. “Too bad they couldn’t have fired O’Brien before he gave away DeAndre Hopkins.”

“Amen to that.” Cohen tilted his own Budweiser toward Nir, who tapped it with his.

They talked more football, and when Cohen finished his beer, Nir signaled for two more.

“By the way, my name is Nate Andres.” Nir stuck out his hand.

Cohen took it. “Tommy Cohen. Tomaso Cohen, in fact. But I’m guessing you already know that.”

Nir laughed—but only to mask the sinking feeling inside his chest. How had the man seen through him? “Why? Are you famous or something? Like a YouTube star? Tommy Talks Texans. That’s actually not bad. You can have it.” He chuckled and took a draw from his bottle to hide his concern.

Cohen was smiling—but not from Nir’s joke. “You know, I’ve been coming to this bar for two years. This is the first time any dude has bought me a beer.”

Nir was about to say something, but Cohen interrupted. “No, no, no. Wait. You know what else? And here’s the good part. When some guy does buy me a beer, he sounds exactly like my uncle Levy, who lives in Haifa.”

Nir was busted. There was no sense keeping up the ruse. But maybe he could still salvage this side mission. He had to.

Smiling, he leaned back on his stool. “Would it have helped if I’d said Get ’er done a few times?”