by Alan Lee
“Found him abusing a whore, mamasita. Had to. Best of all, hombre had three diamonds in his pocket,” he said and he held up a small pouch dangling from his pointer finger. “The red kind.”
“Stealing aurum,” said Marcus. “A much bigger offense than killing a man.”
“So maybe I don’t tell nobody. No way to track them, sí?”
“Correct. Decentralized. You got’em, they yours. Like bearer bonds.”
“I sent his body to the hotel, because manners make the man. S’what Mack says.”
“Sound like the profoundly stupid shit he says.” Marcus stood. “Can’t believe it, but I miss him. Almost dinner. Let’s go.”
30
Although the Teatro di Montagna’s lobby was mostly deserted, Veronica and Manny caused a quiet and dignified stir as they entered. Manny walked with the casual swagger that originates from confidence and athleticism and carelessness. Veronica moved with a sensuous cat-walk that comes from strong long legs and heels. She wore an embroidered silk mini-shift dress, the color of ivory, perfect for a lady of leisure walking in from shopping. She wished her legs were a little darker to offset the ivory, but it was November and the sun had been poor in Virginia. Carlos and valet boys carried their luggage.
She did her best to act as if twenty-thousand-dollar brocade sofas and soaring cathedral ceilings with travertine arches was nothing special. The tiger lounging near the three-tiered fountain was a little much, though.
She and Manny washed their hands with lemongrass-scented warm towels and accepted champagne aperitifs from the concierge’s assistant.
Manny checked in at the marble reception desk and declared he would be taking the room that just opened. The severe reception clerk examined him and Veronica, and Marcus, and then Carlos.
“It’s a small room, I’m afraid, Señor Garcia,” he said, using the name from Manny’s passport. “Not a suite. A mere two beds.”
Veronica set her crystal champagne flute on the counter. “È un onore soggiornare in qualsiasi stanza disponibile nel tuo hotel di lusso. E inoltre, sono più intraprendente di quanto sembri, signore.”
It’s an honor to stay in any available room at your fine hotel. And also, I am more adaptable than I appear, sir.
The man, undone by Veronica’s wink and her perfect Italian, blushed and nodded his head. He said, “Sì signora, molto bene. E ti avviserò se si apre una stanza più adatta.”
Veronica translated for Manny. “We’re taking it, and he’ll notify us if a more suitable room opens.”
Manny said, “Tell him that’s perfect.”
“He speaks English, doll.”
“Oh yes.”
Ronnie told the attendant, “Anche se vengo dalla Svizzera, mi piacerebbe incontrare il campione americano. È possibile? Dove rimane?”
Although I am from Switzerland, I would like to meet the American champion. Is that possible? Where does he stay?
He replied, “Mi dispiace, signorina. I campioni sono nascosti dietro le porte sorvegliate. Una visita è impossibile.”
I am sorry, miss. The champions are hidden behind guarded doors. A visit is impossible.
Manny caught the gist. He thought about pulling a gun and making demands, but the lobby was well guarded and dozens more could be called for. The time for war was later.
Veronica began a polite plea but he interrupted her, insisting, “Se ti sbrighi puoi ordinare la cena, cambiare e avere ancora tempo per guardare il combattimento. Ma devi essere veloce. L'ora si avvicina!”
If you hurry you can order dinner, change, and still have time to watch the fight. But you must be quick. The hour approaches.
31
Finding Mackenzie before the first fight would be impossible. Veronica knew it immediately, as she got lost simply making their way to the room. Not all elevators went to all floors, random hallways were barred, and the lounges, salons, and restaurants seemed haphazardly thrown in with the guest quarters. She knew there must be a method to the madness but it felt like a jumbled ten-floor casino, much of which was hidden intentionally.
But oh, what a casino. For a woman who usually suppressed her delight in traveling, the Teatro di Montagna was methadone. She wanted to examine the teak floors and oriental rugs, and try the furniture in every nook they passed, each with steaming samovars. Such perfect settee and jardiniere arrangements were impossible.
Their room was clearly one of those the architect shoehorned in to maximize income—an awkward and inefficient space. Honeymooners might call it cozy and romantic.
Veronica said, “It’s darling and quaint.”
Marcus grumbled, “Fucking tiny.”
The porters hung up bags full of clothing delivered by the tailor and they left.
“We here,” said Marcus, looking at the solemn group. “Anybody got a bright idea?”
“We can’t release Mackenzie before the first fight,” said Veronica. “This is much more sophisticated and elaborate than I imagined.”
“Could try,” said Marcus. “But got no real chance. We all be dead. And I ain’t about that.”
Manny nodded. “Agree. Mack, he wins tonight. We bust him out tomorrow.”
“You think he will?” asked Veronica.
“I know it, mamita.”
“Me too,” she said. “He can be a shockingly terrifying man, when he chooses.”
“An issue,” said Marcus, holding up two golden slips of paper. “This room provides two tickets to tonight’s festivities. But we got four people here.”
“I’m going,” said Veronica. “Full disclosure.”
“Obvious. Manny?”
“Hashtag me too, señor.”
“Carlos and me, we’ll get drinks at a bar. Maybe tag along behind the fighters as they come back,” said Marcus.
“Perfect. In the meantime, I’m commandeering the lady’s room for the next sixty minutes. Minimum.”
Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “Us fine gentlemen, we’ll scout the other women’s attire.” He pronounced it, “ehscout,” a mispronunciation that somehow sounded sensuous out of his lips, Ronnie thought. “Report on how formal the women are dressing.”
“Sometimes, Manny, you’re surprisingly thoughtful.”
“Yeah, it’s weird,” said Marcus. “I seen you shoving your gun into kids’ mouths before, but then you got this sensitive side.”
“Not a kid, hombre,” said Manny. “He was a teenager. Big difference. Vamos!”
Despite Veronica’s best efforts they still missed the first fight. It had been a slaughter under five minutes.
An usher escorted them to their seats, high above the cage, near the cupola. The cheap section, though that was a relative term. The higher they went, the louder and more bloodthirsty the fans. An eclectic mix of the crazy rich below, closer to the action, and the bourgeoisie above. The nosebleeds were for the merely rich, not the wealthy. And high over all, the ring of honor. The suites had open-air seating and glass floors, letting the mafia bosses and the billionaires look directly down on the action.
Manny and Veronica had seats next to the aisle. One of the servers bowed politely and asked, “Vorresti una bevanda?”
Would you care for a beverage?
Veronica said, “No. Grazie.”
He smiled and placed a small radio in their hands. The radio had two dials—one for volume and the other for channels. Manny inserted the earpiece and toyed with it.
He told Veronica, “Translations. English, and Italian, and Spanish, and…others that don’t matter.”
The announcer’s voice boomed out of speakers, drowning out the violins and cellos.
Veronica gripped Manny’s hand and shut her eyes.
The next fight was between the Russian and Colombian. Veronica kept her eyes closed during the first round, but a burst of electricity announced the second and she couldn’t help herself. Would these men actually hurl each other into the cage?
“This is barbaric,” she told Manny but no one heard. Manny was
cheering as loudly as the rest.
For the final round, weapons raised from the floor. Short sword and a shield for each.
The combatants began losing body parts and Veronica placed a trembling hand over her mouth and shut her eyes again.
Poor sweet Mackenzie.
She would kill Darren Robbins herself.
Finally, after an eternity, the crowd roared. The Colombian had given up the ghost. The Russians helped their champion limp away and the dead Colombian was dragged off to the tune of a mournful dirge.
“Holy fuck,” she moaned. “Where are the vomit bags.”
The voice came over the speakers again, rattling her teeth. She heard the name Mackenzie and she gripped Manny harder to keep from falling.
The crowd began a chant.
“Yan-kee! Yan-kee!”
Mackenzie appeared, walking within a guarded retinue. He wore red, white, and blue fighting shorts; no shirt. He moved around easily, loose and ready.
“There he is, Manny, do you see?” she cried.
He towered over his opponent, a fighter from the Zetas. The Mexican looked strong and wiry but Mackenzie was a weapon of war. His shoulders were beefy, his chest thick, arms made of rock. He wore muscle like armor.
Veronica never loved anyone or anything as much as she loved him in that moment. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
“What’ll he do?” she shouted into Manny’s ear. “I know Mackenzie, he would never kill that tiny man.”
Manny shook his head. His eyes were hard and muscles in his jaw kept bunching.
Mackenzie did something that caught the attention of the entire arena. He looked at the suites above and stuck up his thumb.
“What is that, what’s he doing,” Veronica asked no one in particular. Then, “What’s that on his back? Is that…did he get a tattoo?”
“Simon, looks like.”
“What’s it say? King? …I kinda like it.”
The round began and Mackenzie played defense. So did the Mexican.
Veronica joined in the cheers.
After a minute, the Mexican kicked Mackenzie in the head and they both went to the mat. Veronica couldn’t see over the raging fans so she stepped into the aisle.
“The Mexican is biting him!” she shouted, going up even higher on her tiptoes. “That little piece of shit is insane!”
Mackenzie threw him off and stood. It looked to Veronica like Mackenzie was trying to talk to the Zeta champion.
A server was ascending the stairs and Veronica grabbed him for support. The young man took a second glance at Veronica, stunning in her strapless red minidress, and decided he liked the arrangement.
Within the cage, Mackenzie stuck his thumb up again.
“What is that?” she called. “What’s he doing with his hand?”
The young man she clung to didn’t know.
A lady in front of them, a classy Chinese woman wearing a cheongsam the color of midnight, turned and explained in her best English, “He fight for the Kings. The American, he been told he be killed even if he win. We think he refuse to fight!”
“Oh my god,” said Veronica.
“Yes we think too!”
“He’s pointing his fist at the suites,” Veronica shouted at Manny. “At Duane, I bet, that asshole.”
Manny said, “Makes sense. Mack is bartering with Duane. Maybe won’t fight until Duane give him thumbs up?”
Half of the audience was now pumping their thumbs into the air.
The pretty Chinese woman said, “I love you dress. Where did get it?”
Below, Mackenzie got to his knees and closed his eyes.
“Oh shit,” said Veronica. “What the hell’s he doing?”
The man (Indonesian maybe?) in front of Manny had been casting a leery eye at Veronica. He turned and politely whispered to Manny, “She is with you?”
“Yes, my…I forget. Girlfriend, maybe?”
“She is for sale?”
Manny laughed and clapped the man on the shoulder. “You can try. But also I might shoot you in the…groin, I think, is the English word, sí? You know the word groin?”
The Mexican suddenly leapt on Mackenzie and began choking him. The crowd roared as Mackenzie was bent backwards.
“Oh merda,” Manny groaned. He laced his hands into his hair.
“What’s he doing!”
“He dying,” said the Chinese woman, still fingering Veronica’s dress.
Veronica screamed until she and Mackenzie were both red in the face. The server holding onto her joined the screaming.
“Get up!”
Yan-kee, yan-kee!
Mackenzie kept pumping his fist, thumb upwards. So did the rest of the crowd.
There! She found the American suite, above the red, white and blue section. A man paced back and forth. She didn’t know what Duane looked like, but she assumed that was him. A woman swatted at him with her clutch purse. Most of the crowd was waving their thumb at him. She and Manny were in the seats dominated by the Triads, across the stadium.
Finally, as Veronica ran short on oxygen, Duane stuck his thumb into the air.
Quick as a wink, Mackenzie escaped and regained his feet.
“I’m going to pass out,” said Veronica, who genuinely felt lightheaded. The young server put his arm around her waist.
Time was almost up in the round.
Mackenzie cornered the Mexican and threw a vicious combination of punches and the man fell. Every section except the Zeta’s erupted. Mackenzie returned to his corner and sat down.
“What he do,” shouted the Chinese woman. “Kill him!”
He won’t, thought Veronica.
No chance, not Mackenzie.
The voice came through the speakers again, declaring the American the winner. Veronica’s eyes widened as the Executioner hefted his axe and entered the cage.
“But you tell me,” said the pretty Chinese woman. “Where you get dress?”
32
Twenty minutes later, they met at a bar called Sangue e Tonico on the fourth floor. The fights had been broadcast on flat screens for those without tickets, and Marcus Morgan had watched with professional concern and Carlos had left finger print indentions in the standing wooden table.
Manny and Veronica joined them, a bit shell-shocked, and called for drinks.
“I cannot believe such a brutal and savage spectacle exists. Is the Italian court system non-existent?” said Veronica, and she drained half her white wine.
“Exists. And on the take.”
She said, “Our gang of renegades should invade Darren Robbins’s house and take turns shooting him.”
Manny raised his glass to her. “My kinda woman.”
“Mack was taken to the second floor,” reported Marcus. “Into an unmarked and guarded hallway. Couldn’t follow past.”
“He see you?”
“Nope.”
Carlos set down his beer, still sweating from watching Mackenzie. “Hard to fight our way in.”
“More like impossible,” said Marcus. “Dunno where in the hallway they took him. Take time. We find him, be hard to fight back out. Need more information.”
“Imma get into that hallway,” said Manny. “Do some reconnaissance.”
“How?”
“The hotel employees.” He indicated two guys passing the bar. Young men wearing black shirts and crimson vests. “Some be Hispanic. Imma take the uniform and wear it with pride, migos.”
Manny’s phone was laying flat on the table and it beeped. Incoming text message. He glanced at it and grinned.
“Just made fifty grand. Drinks on your favorite Spic.”
Marcus said, “Fifty grand ain’t chump change. How you manage that?”
“I bet on big Mack. He was getting great odds yesterday.” He shrugged and waggled the phone proudly. “Bet twenty, my entire savings, end up with fifty. So easy even a Puerto Rican can do it.”
Veronica finished the wine and set the glass down with conviction.
“You just reminded me. I was told we could bid on the winners.”
“Bid on them?”
“The winners are put up for auction. Like a stud horse. For one hour.” She stood. “I’m going to win Mackenzie.”
Marcus stood. “I’ll help you bid.”
“Duane might be there, and he’ll recognize you,” she said.
“Hm.”
“I got this.”
Manny tossed back his gin and tonic. Wiped his mouth. “Imma get my hands on a uniform. Break into the hallway.”
“Me and Carlos,” said Marcus. “We’ll be nearby, case we gotta shoot our way out. Carlos is ready to die, need be.”
He grinned. Carlos nodded.
Veronica followed a crowd of glamorous women and their wealthy bloated husbands to the fifth floor, where she discovered something of a betting hub. A central bar formed the eye of the hurricane, serving drinks in all directions. The patrons gossiped and pointed at screens over the bar and on the outside wall.
Four umbrella pine trees rose above the bar in travertine planters, fed sunlight from a system of mirrors and skylights. Historic Gabbia Cremisi weapons were displayed in glimmering vitrines. The bar’s color theme was rose and ivory.
Two hotel staff members walked past, carrying a man on a stretcher, and two others were quickly cleaning up blood from the carpet. A stern man wearing two flashing Bluetooth earpieces stood with a cadre of guards, dispersing the angry clans.
Clearly the man on the stretcher had just been shot and killed. Veronica tried to shrug it off, because the rest of the room struck her as nonplussed. The juxtaposition between the sudden cruel violence and the laissez-faire attitude of the patrons was disorienting.
Just another day in the life of a mafia boss.
The pretty Chinese woman from earlier hurried to her and said, “It you!”
Two of her friends joined, huddled around Veronica.
“You see,” said the woman. “Look right here. This the dress I told you.”
The women, lovely and beautiful all of them, their dark hair luxurious beyond belief, caressed Veronica and her red minidress.
“Thank you. I adore your cheongsam,” said Veronica, indicating their traditional high-necked, short-sleeved formal dresses. “Where did—”
