by Alan Lee
“The fuck they doing,” said Marcus.
Manny laid his .357 sideways across his lap. “Losing your deposit, amigo.”
Veronica translated as best she could. “Something about crime and a man named Rossi…and the tournament. I don’t understand some of the local lingo.”
“It’s the Camorra and their amateurish clan wars. You want criminals running the city? No you don’t. They make a mess.”
Due to frequent stops and reroutes, their trip up Vomero mountain took three hours. Even with Siri constantly correcting them they got lost in the maze of tight streets.
“All these buildings, they look the same,” complained Manny. “Cities in America way better than this.”
They arrived at the underwhelming hotel at midnight, local time. Went to bed exhausted.
27
They woke up the same way—exhausted. Veronica had no idea what time it was on the East Coast.
Coffee o’clock, she knew that.
They drank caffè and ate fette biscottate in a shady palazzo in front of their hotel. This high in Vomero the air no longer stank of sewage. They listened to competing minstrels on the far street corners and inhaled the scent of sizzling sausages.
“According to my sources,” said Marcus Morgan, reading off his phone. “This part of the city is called Magliari. Means cheating merchants. It’s a kangaroo court for the Camorristi. Summers, what the hell is a kangaroo court?”
“Means anything goes,” she said, dipping a corner of her bread into a mug of coffee. “No one is really in charge, and those who try are incompetent clowns.”
Manny nodded appreciatively.
Marcus continued, “No police in this part of the city. It’s the wild west. And that is the Teatro di Montagna.”
He pointed down their street. At the far end, seven blocks removed, an enormous structure glimmered in unbroken sunlight.
“That’s the hotel?” said Veronica. “I thought it was a royal palace. It looks as though the Artist formerly known as Prince designed it on a Bill Gates budget.”
Carlos said, “The tournament. It used to be different. In Secondigilano.”
“That hotel, ay caramba,” said Manny, nodding his head down the street. “We can walk in?”
“Not recommended. One of the most heavily guarded places on planet Earth at the moment,” said Marcus. “By eight powerful mafias. Without a reservation? We be escorted out pronto.”
“No rooms have come available?” said Veronica.
“Not yet.”
“Soon,” said Manny and he finished his coffee, drunk with heavy whipping cream and butter. “I got a good feeling, migos.”
“First things first,” said Marcus. “We need to look the part.”
“Clothes,” said Ronnie. “Yes. I brought nothing befitting that hotel.”
They navigated the crowds on Pavone Vicolo, which Veronica told them translated as Peacock Alley. They passed wine shops, bakeries, upper crust cocaine dealers, small grocers, brothels, casinos, banks, and everything else.
Veronica made a small gasping sound and hurried to the glass display window of a couture boutique. “Omigosh. It’s a Lela Rose.”
Manny followed her, hands in his pocket. “Huh?”
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Veronica reverently, resisting the urge to place her fingers on the glass between her and the blue evening gown.
“It’s a blue dress, señorita. You have at least one, I seen you wear it.”
“This is a Lela Rose, Manny. Just look. Off the shoulder neckline, a-line cut, fold-over bodice, and—”
“And Italian materials, my love,” said a man hurrying from the storefront’s open door. He looked maybe seventy, a hard etched face, wore a vest, and sported a gorgeous head of silver hair. He took Veronica’s hand and kissed it twice. He smelled like whiskey. “You two are the most beautiful people I have ever witnessed. Did Valentino send you?”
Veronica smiled. “Only in my fondest dreams would I be sent by Valentino. We’re mere patrons. You’re English!”
“I am, and with Her Majesty’s blessing I would arrange a ménage à trios with both of you two ravishing creatures if I had time. You need clothes.”
“We do.”
“Come into my store this instant so I can get my hands on you. You must,” he said. He took Manny’s hand too and drew them into his place of commerce, called Sa Majesté.
Veronica was breathless at the designers she saw waiting on mannequins.
“Who are you, I must know,” said the proprietor and haberdasher. He ran his hands around Manny’s neck and then across the shoulders, whispering to himself. Then he did the same to Veronica’s waist and bust. The tailor’s young assistant listened attentively to the man’s mutterings and made notes on a pad. “I must know, tell me everything, and I will dress you like the Maharaja and concubine you are.”
“We…ah…” said Manny. He screwed up his face in thought. “I forget. I’m from South Africa, maybe.”
The tailor smiled a wicked smile and said, “That, my love, is balderdash.”
Their voices sounded hushed, the noise soaked by the stacks of cloth.
Marcus, standing at the doorway, uncrossed his arms. He made a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. He set two stacks of Euros on the marble counter, and then deliberately placed a red-tipped diamond on top. “We need to look good,” he said. “And we from nowhere. This the place for us?”
“Indeed, indeed.” The tailor gave them a slow nod. “Say no more, my black pillar of strength and sex. I dress the champions myself, for the second fight, so I can handle you.” His assistant whisked away the money and diamond, and vanished into the back room. “Are you remaining for the entirety of the week?”
“Hope not.”
“What a bizarre answer! You four are trouble and I love it,” said the man. He was rubbing his thumb and forefinger across his chin, pinching at it. “You won’t blend in, even if I dress you in rags. What’s your story?”
“Manny, he’s rich and here to bet on the fights. From the Caribbean. I be equally rich, from South Africa. Carlos, behind me, the muscle.”
Veronica said, “And I am sexual recreation.”
“My god, and you’re an absolute Lamborghini, I’m positive.” He clucked his tongue a few times, running his eyes around the store, cluttered with fashion, dripping with excess. “Okay. How soon?”
“Today.”
“Today? Go to hell this instant, that absolutely cannot be.”
“Must be,” said Marcus.
“Damn you, sir,” said the tailor. “I was going to wrap this woman in a couture bandage dress so taut the men would be coming at her with scissors.”
Veronica watched him with eyes wide and hopeful, to the extent the tailor thought about kissing her on the lips.
“No time,” said Marcus. “Tight schedule.”
“I need a jacket,” said Manny. “To hide, ahhh, weaponry.”
The man scoffed and waved his hand. “Obviously, beautiful boy. Okay. If it absolutely must be today…”
“Must.”
The tailor’s assistant returned, pen and pad ready.
The haberdasher said, “Off-the-rack it is, and I shall not sleep again. Never in my life have I had such bodies wander innocently into my jaws. Small modifications are a necessity and you cannot, cannot, deny me that. Here’s what I propose.” He waved at Carlos in the doorway. “Pierre Balmain for the muscle, nothing fancy, stretchy distressed jeans and two tees. Trendy enough to pass the muster. Her Majesty preserve us, those biceps. For you well-heeled boys…” He sucked at his front teeth. “You look good in black. Tom Ford all the way for the South African, then, and for you…” He unbuttoned Manny’s shirt far enough to place his hand flat on Manny’s chest. “You’re a boxer? I am overcome. Nothing but form-fitting Armani and Cucinelli, or I’m not worth my needles. Yes? Yes. You’ll both need two casual shirts, two pairs of slacks, and a jacket. Tuxedos ar
e not good enough for you, understand?”
Marcus wondered if he’d be required to expend more resources than he wished on clothes, but the tailor seemed to read his mind.
“This is all covered, black beauty. Never fret. You gods and goddess simply tell the wealthy aristocrats and their whores where you got the fabrics and we’re even, yes? Yes. And now you, my blonde girl,” he said and he started unbuttoning Veronica’s shirt with deft fingers. “So slim and yet so bouncy. How do you feel about Gucci and our pal Valentino and plunging necklines and slip dresses?”
“I think I might cry,” she said.
“Good. I want to watch. Now let’s get you naked.”
28
Later, Manny strode into a gun shop named Lo Sparatutto Felice. The heady bite of fired gunpowder hung thick and the air was pleasantly greased with expensive oil. The floor was polished cement and weaponry decorated every inch of the walls. Mostly small arms, but a display column on the right contained backlit handheld surface-to-air missile launchers and anti-personnel RPGs.
Two bald and elderly gentlemen were bent over a disassembled assault rifle, lovingly polishing and oiling every inch.
They looked up and said, “Benvenuto e buon giorno, giovane signore.”
Manny grinned. “Habla español?”
One of the old men (they were interchangeable and indistinguishable, possibly twins) winced and shrugged, his motions slow.
“Speak English?” asked Manny.
“Ah, yes sir.”
Manny set his heavy .357 magnum on the steel counter and said, “This is the love of my life, señors. But for the next few days I need smaller.”
The man smiled, crinkling his eyes. He had a gentle grandfatherly way of speaking. “Very good. Of course, sir. For what occasion?”
“An indoor party. Party-goers will be wearing vests, my guess.”
“Guards. How many?”
“Mucho.”
The gunsmith affectionately set down the stock he’d been holding. “Here to watch the tournament, then.”
“Here for a friend. Save a life.”
“Not to take?”
“Only when necessary. But, friendly old man, it will be necessary.”
“You are a professional, sir?”
Manny shrugged and waffled his hand. “More than amateur. And I need to blend in.”
“A handgun.”
“Two, por favor.”
“Preference?” the elderly man asked.
“You have Beretta M9?”
“Of course, sir. The Polizia di Stato use the Beretta 92FS.”
“From Italy.”
“Yes, but if I may make a suggestion?” the man said. He and his counterpart spoke briefly in Italian, and he wiped his hands on a white cloth. “The new Beretta A3…how do you say in English…update? The update has a seventeen-round magazine and a thinner grip. Easier to conceal, sir.”
“Perfecto.”
“And your other choice?”
Manny said, “Something quiet.”
“Suppressed.”
“Sí.”
“How many rounds will be fired suppressed?”
Manny made a happy humming noise. “Good question. Not many. One magazine?”
“Indoor.”
“Probably.”
“Your aim is good?”
Manny grinned. “Better than good.”
“Subsonic ammunition, then. I have specially made cartridges for the HK-23 and I think you’ll be pleased. Would you care to try them on our range, sir?”
“We both would,” said Marcus Morgan, walking in with a new gray shirt and black sports jacket combo by Tom Ford. Though unwilling to admit it, he thought he looked sexy as hell. Especially with the silver Versace aviator sunglasses. He laid a stack of euros and a red-tipped aurum next to Manny’s .357.
The old man’s face relaxed and brightened at the same time. “Ah. I see. Very good, sirs.”
Manny said, “Where’s Ronnie?”
“Trying on every damn outfit in Italy. Carlos on duty.”
“I bet he enjoying that show.”
“We both were. S’why I had to leave. My head about explode,” said Marcus.
“My señorita heats up the room.”
“Ain’t particularly modest, neither. Your señorita?”
“Mack’s. But I call dibs, he gets killed. You know, because of Kix.”
Manny and Marcus followed the gunsmith behind the wall to a padded firing range. He tottered into a cage of shelves to find the promised handguns.
Marcus picked up a heavy set of protective earmuffs. “Can’t believe I’m buying illegal handguns with a fucking federal marshal.”
“Right? Life is beautiful, mijo. How many diamonds you think that bazooka cost?”
29
The tailor finished bringing Veronica clothes and marking alterations. He set two assistants to sewing, and he sat beside her on a straight-backed Benetti chair while she tried on necklaces. He drank whiskey and languidly gushed compliments, like a man basking in post-coital afterglow.
He said, “You say you’re from Switzerland, darling.”
She arched an eyebrow at him but didn’t answer.
“But I bet,” he said and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “You’re here to root for the American.”
She shrugged a shoulder, a move she knew drove the boys wild. The tailor, forty years her elder and deeply gay, admired the motion.
He said, “Surely you were there last night, at the drawing.”
“I wasn’t. We only just landed.”
“Good hell, my bosomy plaything, but you heard what he did?”
Veronica’s pulse quickened. She turned her gaze back to the mirror and mastered her emotions. Something she was good at.
She said, “I haven’t heard. Tell me?”
“I did not attend, you understand. I hear second hand. But apparently the American is aggressively handsome and monstrous. He insulted the infamous Ferrari, who is the master of ceremonies, of course. He threatened to kill all the guests and destroy the hotel. Refused to be tattooed. And drove a fork into the eye socket of the Yakuza champion. So the story goes, four guards are not enough to subdue him, the sexy animal.”
Veronica peered hard into the mirror, forcing back a smile and a flood of tears.
“And,” said the tailor. “He did it all without breaking a sweat, they say. Very James Bond.”
Veronica bit her lip and closed her eyes.
The tailor’s story was the most Mackenzie August thing she’d ever heard and her heart threatened to burst.
He said, “You are here for the American.”
“If what you say is true, who wouldn’t be?”
“If he wins tonight, perhaps you should bid on him. Could be the most unforgettable hour of your life.”
“Bid on him?” asked Veronica. “You mean, for sex? You’re joking.”
“Oh my love,” chuckled the tailor. “Welcome to Naples.”
She returned to the palazzo at the pre-determined time for a late lunch. She carried five bags and the promise that the rest of the group’s clothing would be ready by dinner.
Marcus sat beside her and drank coffee, checking his phone in a state of discontent.
“Where’s Carlos?” he said.
“Poor Carlos was bored to tears so I released him. Any news on a room at the Teatro di Montagna?”
“Still waiting. Apparently this year is less bloody than usual so far.”
“If there’s no room available for us by dinner, I’ll get myself invited and wait for you inside,” she said. She examined the menu without an appetite, her thoughts entirely occupied by her husband, locked away in the impenetrable fortress. “What time is the fight?”
“Dunno. Tonight. How you gonna get yourself invited?”
“Promiscuity. Or at least the promise of it. Men are idiots, Marcus,” she said.
“I’m aware.”
Veronica related the story about Mackenzie at las
t night’s drawing. Marcus listened without comment but she noted the muscles flexing and bunching in his arms on the table. At the end, finally, he said, “Fucking Duane Chambers. Not happy with that man.”
Carlos returned an hour later, looking like a new species in his thousand-dollar outfit. Muscle but with style. “The city? I have been learning. It is a war zone,” he said.
“A war zone.”
“The Camorra. They are angry. But at each other.”
Veronica said, “Infighting within the ranks?”
“The Camorra ain’t like the Kings,” said Marcus. “No hierarchy, strict or loose. Buncha clans, buncha shifting alliances. Whoever got the most power? He’s in charge till someone pops him.”
“Man name Rossi,” said Carlos. “He in charge. Today. But the man, he is hated. Will be war soon, señor. Already the fighters talk.”
“Talk to you?”
“Sí. I know people here. Worked in Naples ten years ago. I say I hate Rossi. They ask me to fight.” He held up his burner cellphone, vibrating incessantly with incoming texts. “I’m on group message. Ay dios mio.”
“Handy contacts,” mused Marcus.
Manny reappeared an hour later. He wore designer jeans and a cashmere sports jacket with Givenchy metal sunglasses. Nearby men and women gaped at him as he ordered a coffee and sat down.
Veronica caught the flash of a pistol carried in a shoulder holster. The tailor would weep if he saw the Armani shirt worn under a gun.
He stirred his fancy powder into the coffee, sipped, and said, “We got a room at the mountain hotel.”
“The theater on the mountain,” corrected Veronica. “How do you know?”
“Have it on good authority a room opened.”
Marcus grinned. “Good authority.”
He took more coffee. “A Japanese man staying there, he died. Nasty coño, needed killing.” Though he’d been living in America most of his life, Manny still stumbled through words beginning with an S and another consonant. He pronounced it, “estaying.”
Veronica said, “Needed killing? You shot him?”
