by Alan Lee
“Seriously. I’d like to wear these shoes in heaven,” I said.
19
Ferrari announced us into the area. The majority of the stadium seating had been removed, making way for formal table and chair settings. Instead of thundering music and lights, polite applause pitter-pattered from the stands. Tonight wasn’t about blood, tonight was about money.
Not everyone had received an invitation to the elite dinner, only the most well-heeled. Those in the stands sat around tables with white cloths, waited on by reverent servers. They ate caviar and lobster and drank thousand-dollar bottles of champagne.
Meg had told me tonight was for the billionaires. Italian royalty, Persian sheiks, oil sultans, Singapore gods, and the mafia bosses. Wealthy beyond comprehension.
The cage stood like a tomb at the center. Inside was set another table, heaped with candles and bottles and plates.
While Ferrari chattered, Ernst released my cuffs.
“Don’t try it, August,” said Duane. “I’ll tell’em to use bullets, not electroshock.”
Ernst smiled, lips pulling back from white teeth like a skeleton. “Try, Herr August. You’d be foolish not to. I want to watch you die.”
I vant to vatch.
“Mackenzie cannot get far,” said Emile. Always watching. “He wears the bracelet. He belongs to us.”
Ernst clipped a microphone to my jacket.
Duane whacked me on the back. His party moved to a table near the base of the seating.
I walked up the stairs. Into the cage.
Ferrari stopped chattering. The stadium echoed into stillness, like holding its breath.
The Prince sat at the table, leg crossed. His suit was blue and crisp. He sipped a martini and stared at nothing.
Two specimen under a microscope.
“Why do you wear the black bracelet? You volunteered,” I said. My voice felt small. A marble bouncing in an airplane hanger.
My favorite elderly couple sat in the front, their hands clamped around their ears. Food forgotten. They leaned forward, listening and pondering and weighing.
The Prince sucked at his teeth a moment. Said, “A tradition. In the past, all champions wore chains. Now, we wear only the bracelet. Except for the reluctant, such as yourself. The arrogant and the foolish and the prisoners.”
He wouldn’t look at me. His gregarious smile was absent.
I poured myself a glass of water. The inconsiderate hosts had neglected beer, and champagne tasted like the Executioner looked.
I drank some water and tried a pasta dish. Noodles tossed with white wine and bacon and eggs. A worse combination was unimaginable. And yet…zounds. It tasted as good as my Berluti shoes felt.
“Everyone is listening,” I said.
He nodded. Eyes distant. He appeared to have skipped to the stage of the meal where one becomes philosophical.
“Deciding on whom to invest a fortune,” I said.
This time his head didn’t bother to budge.
“What’s the betting line?”
He took a breath. Held it. Slowly released. “Even. We are a coin flip.”
“I accept your surrender.”
“Never in life,” he said and he finished his drink. Wiped his mouth with a thumb and forefinger. Set the martini glass down and refilled it from a stainless steel shaker. Inside, the ice tinkled. The pale green liquid leaked out in oily swirls. “Never in life have I wanted to kill someone as much as I want to kill you, American.”
An audible inhalation from the audience. Millions in money swinging to his side. Abhorrence and moral superiority counted for a lot.
I would’ve bet on him.
“Such sudden hate,” I said. “I’m out of touch with the news. Is this about Trump? What’d he do?”
“It is not your President. Italy is in no place to judge a chaotic government.” He carefully selected a link of sizzling chorizo and cut it with his fork. Hot juice squirted onto the tablecloth. “Tell me. Do you still think you will escape your captivity?”
“I will.”
More noise from our host of onlookers. Murmurs and grumbling.
“You were nearly successful after your fight with the Mexican.”
“Nearly.”
“You killed the Gurkha, which is hard.”
“I’ve been told that, but I don’t remember it.”
“Why do you resist?” he asked.
“That answer is obvious.”
The chorizo sat on his fork, forgotten. “Yes, but why. You are a man of violence. You have the scars. You have the face. The ability. The skill. The anger. The different…mafias, they bring their champion or their prisoners. But you are more than a mere prisoner. Do you understand what I say? I want to know why. You are more.”
“Maybe if I wasn’t actively resisting, I wouldn’t be.”
“Say that again. But elaborate. This might be your last conversation before I kill you tomorrow.”
I made a small twirling motion with my finger. “All of this? It’s a sad pastiche of former Roman might. I don’t buy it. The Camorra and the Kings and the others, they’re a supercilious bunch of lost souls pretending they aren’t. Pretending they aren’t leading lives of quiet desperation. Consider me an iconoclast. I reject this diorama. And so I resist.”
“You intentionally use words I cannot follow. Because you are a proud and obnoxious American.”
“I did. You’re right. Let me try again. I think this thing is a joke. It’s beneath me. If I quit resisting then something inside of me is damaged,” I said.
“Damaged if you surrender to this lifestyle.”
“Yes.”
He scoffed. “You become like me, you mean.”
“Maybe. But with better cheekbones.”
He did not smile. Which was weird.
The crowd chuckled, listening to a translation.
They got me.
“Perhaps you’re right.” He swirled his cocktail, a subdued motion. He stared into its emerald depths, no longer the larger-than-life crowd favorite. For a moment, he looked like a boy. “Being an, ahh, opportunist so far has meant that I am alone in the world. And you are not.”
Radios squawked simultaneously around the arena. Like an echo. On the belt of every guard who hadn’t cranked down the volume. Ferrari’s stern security chief put a hand to his ear, listened, and jogged out of the stadium.
“The rabble,” said the Prince. “The peasants of Naples are angry. Something lurking beneath has outraged them. They nearly broke through last night.”
“How?”
“I do not know. I only listen to the whispers of my attendants. They suspect a saboteur from within. I am weary of it all.”
“You weren’t this forlorn two days ago.”
“Things change, American.” He growled the word. “The game has lost its shine.”
“This isn’t a game and it never had a luster.”
“That is why you resist,” he said. “You do not see the tournament for the opportunity that it is.”
“I refuse to become inured to crime.”
“Crime leads the way. Crime is life.”
“Not to all.”
“You have a family.”
“I do.”
“A son,” he said.
“I have one of those.”
“You have a wife?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?” he said.
“It’s complex. But she’s lovely.”
“You do not deserve her, stupid American.”
“Hurtful. But possibly correct.”
“This meal is over. I will not sit with you at this table one minute longer. The betters will be disappointed, I know, but I can no longer look at your face.”
“Yet it’s such a nice one.”
He smacked the stainless steel cocktail shaker off the table. It hit the mesh metal cage and broke apart. He stood, got his fingers under the nearest tray of food, and flung it upwards in a spray of gory repast.
&n
bsp; “Ti odio, americano. Domani muori,” he said. His face had gone red.
I picked up a plate of cannoli before he could destroy them.
“I dunno what that means, Prince.”
He plucked off his small microphone and dropped it into the carafe of ice water. The speakers crackled and buzzed. Then he took the mic off my jacket and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger until it broke.
Our hedonistic audience gasped and winced as their headsets issued feedback.
“I hate you, American.”
“I deduced,” I said.
Ferrari called, “Signori, per favore! Il pubblico deve ascoltare!”
The Prince leaned down, his face close to mine. I heard his teeth grinding. “Tomorrow. If you survive until the third round, I will help you escape. Do you understand?”
“Not at all.”
“The first two rounds, I show no mercy. I will kill you. But somehow, if I cannot, then you have earned the reward.”
The crowd grew agitated. Ferrari’s voice blared from everywhere. We were breaking the rules.
I said, “The reward?”
“Freedom. Your life. Your…wife…and child.”
“Why would you help me escape?”
Praetorian guards hurried to the cage.
Ferrari’s voice blared in English. “Gentleman, please. Honorable tradition must be observed.”
The Prince said, “Because, American, I promised.”
He stood and wiped tears from his eyes. Composed himself. Turned and left the cage, marching through the dumbstruck guards.
Ferrari cried, “Principe, dove stai andando?”
The Prince stopped. Set his fist over his heart and spoke in a stentorian voice. “Mala via masta ne.”
It was a salute. Most of the audience repeated the phrase by rote.
I could see half of his face from my angle. He smiled and wiped his eyes again. Said, “No. Sei stupido criminale. L'amore apre la strada.”
L’amore.
Something about love.
He left the arena. His footsteps echoing.
I grew more and more confused the longer I stayed in Naples.
I took a bite of cannoli.
20
I woke up with an awareness that it wasn’t time. I’d only slept a few hours, on the carpet, my arms stretched to either side. Not comfortable.
Ernst released the chains and shackled my wrists together. Guards stood nearby, their electroshock weapons held ready. I watched bleary-eyed.
“What time is it,” I said.
“Four in the morning. You will fight now.”
“Now?”
He nodded. Indicated I get up. “Yes.”
“Go’way, Ernst. Come back in three hours. With coffee.”
The four praetorian guards glanced at one another. Should they haul the sleepy and sinfully handsome man to his feet?
In barged Duane. It was too early for barging. He threw fighting shorts at me and started working on his cufflinks. He looked rough, like a cocaine snorter at the end of a bender.
“Get up, August. We’re doing this.”
“Go’way, Duane Moneybags. Come back in three hours. With coffee. Fight’s not ’til tonight.”
“Yeah, well, plans change. Rossi says we’re doing it now,” he said.
“Rossi the Camorra lord.”
“Right. Says we’re sitting on dynamite. All of Naples about to erupt, but especially the clans. We do the fight now and get the hell out of here. Something’s got them spooked. They broke into Vomero. Impossible but they did it. They’re here.”
“Who is?” I said. Stupidly. I looked out the window. Vomero was dark except for fires burning nearby.
“Mobs. Angry people. Thousands.”
“Trouble in paradise. So weird, like people don’t enjoy being oppressed.”
“Get the fuck up. You got an Italian prince to kill, hear me? I’m betting a lot on you.”
I stood. Stretched. Said, “Coffee and breakfast, Duane.”
“Not a bad got’damn idea.” He stuck his head into the next room. “Someone! Get the chef. Coffee and breakfast. For me and the champion, here.”
“You said the Prince is not a man who loses. Now you’re betting on me?”
Duane finished with the cufflinks. Pulled at his collar and belt. “I met Rossi last night. Bastard goaded me into it. So don’t lose.”
“You met Rossi? What’d you think?”
“I hate that son of a bitch.”
The Teatro di Montagna was in a state of tumult. That was obvious to people who weren’t even keen detectives. Guards stood at every corner. Cries down the hall. The more furtive residents hurrying to the exits, dragging luggage themselves instead of waiting on porters.
“Everyone leaving?” I said.
“Only the cowards,” said Duane with a scoff. “The arena will be full. Trust me.”
Our usual procession had swollen. We walked with eight guards, some of which looked antsy—hands at their holster, scanning the hallways, glancing at one another. Emile had lost her patina of confidence. Guests watched us pass. Some of the hotel staff shot me a thumbs up.
“Look, August,” said Duane. “You told me you’ll get revenge if I don’t release you. Kill me. Forget about that. You win this thing, we’re both rich. Afterwards I’ll get us out of here and we go our separate ways. Alright?”
“Alright? Expound on your proposal.”
“I mean, we’re square. You win. I get you out of Naples. You keep the money. Live and let live,” said Duane.
“Release the cuffs now and we’re square.”
His raspy voice made a growl. “Can’t do it. I let you go, I lose the money. You and me, we need a truce.”
“I go into that ring, your life is forfeit.”
“Why?” he said. A low scrape of anger. “Tell me that. Why can’t we strike a deal? That’s how these things work.”
“What things? Deals struck by human traffickers? Professional criminals trying to make a fortune? I’m not part of your world, Duane. You shouldn’t have brought me here. Our animosity is mortal.”
“Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. The first ungrateful champion and I gotta bring him. Fine. Forget you, August. We’re through.” He rubbed his hands together, like cleaning them. “Win or lose, don’t look for me afterwards. I’ll keep my word and I won’t come looking for you. But if you come after me, I’ll bury your ass.”
“You’re tiptoeing on the edge of oblivion, Duane, you just don’t know it. Last chance.”
He didn’t respond. Kept walking.
Something cold and unyielding pressed into my back, forced me to keep marching. Ernst’s SIG pistol.
We neared the indoor arena and the halls became congested. Hundreds of Neopolitans clotted the passages, surging towards the stadium. These weren’t residents of Teatro di Montagna. These weren’t billionaires. These were Camorra clansmen. Local soldiers and fighters who’d burst their way into Vomero and then into the Holy of Holies, the Theater on the Mountain itself.
Ernst growled in my ear, “They watch the fights online. Streaming on their phones from the underground. Now they come to watch you die.”
The heat and stench of compacted humanity intensified.
A man in khakis and no shirt was the first to notice us. He lowered a clear bottle of liquor from his lips. Gaped, like we were aliens.
“È l'americano! Guarda, è il King! Yankee!”
I knew a little of that. He recognized me.
His friend turns to watch. Then so did others.
“Lo Yankee! Vieni ad uccidere il Camorrista!”
More took up the cry.
Yankee!
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
Ernst was wrong. They hadn’t come to watch me die. They’d come to cheer for me.
The mass of bodies parted and we passed between the cheering rabble.
“I am Moses,” I said.
Duane, wincing against the noise, looked at me. Shouted
, “What?”
“You missed your chance, Moneybags. The end draws nigh.”
I put my head down and plowed forward. Kinda fun. Fun and terrifying. The men slapped me on the shoulders. Unseen villains showered us with alcohol. Smelled like Sambuca. The noise and light and heat inclined upwards.
A man wearing a radio found us. Breathless.
“Signori, please! Follow. It is time!” he cried.
The Neapolitan men smashed the lamps and bulbs over our head. The hallway grew dark except for a red glow ahead.
Why do mobs smash things? What inner dam broke inside these lunatics? And why?
Ferrari’s voice boomed from everywhere. His normal sensuous and unctuous tone now sounded urgent.
“Ora abbiamo l'evento finale! L'ultimo combattimento. Per favore prendi i tuoi posti!”
We bypassed the small waiting rooms. The horizontally rotating door was up and our river of bodies surged into the arena.
Into hell.
The size of the audience had tripled. Stadium seating overflowed. The floor of the arena was standing room only. Many of the powerful overhead lights were out, and it was obvious why—spectators in the throng fired guns at them. Molten flares were lit and thrown intermittently. Some shot upwards, pausing, and arcing into the unsuspecting crowd below. In the northern seats, an Italian flag was burning and being waved. In the southern seats, so was an American flag.
Italians on both sides were chanting and singing a dirge. It rattled my ears.
“Good Christ,” said Duane. “We’re going to die.”
Ernst laughed. The kind where one’s head falls back and the mouth opens wide. A true guffaw. “No. We will not die. You have not been to the European football games? Is always madness.”
Somewhere unseen, Ferrari was shouting into his wireless. His head of security charged our way with a cadre of armed guards. They administered powerful electroshocks seemingly at random, winnowing the crowd.
The man with blue flashing devices in his ears glared like this was my fault.
He shouted in Italian.
Meg translated. “Follow him! Mackenzie’s fight is about to start!”
“Okay,” said Duane. He licked his lips. His eyes were a fraction too wide. “Okay. Ernst, Meg, take Mackenzie. I’m going to the box. These Italian Guidos stink of piss. August, maybe it’s not too late. Win this thing and maybe we’ll talk.”
