by Alan Lee
The woman beside him was a knockout. Her imperial eyebrow arched higher with each of my guesses.
I said, “You’re mad because while in Virginia Beach I talked to Sergio and—”
“Okay, Jesus Christ, shut the hell up. Only now remembering this. What a pain in my ass you are,” he said.
“That was all the past eighteen months too.”
The blonde physician stood beside me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “The medicine is still in his system, Mr. Chambers. He’s loopy.”
“You didn’t kill those people,” Duane told me.
“Calvin and Toby and Angelo? I helped. I was in the area. Maybe credit me with an assist.”
“This man.” Ernst the bounty hunter indicated me with the barrel of his pistol. “Talks too much.”
“Mackenzie August thinks he’s funny,” said Duane with a flat smile. “I’ll tell you why you’re here. You’re here because I respect you.”
“Well,” I said, tugging against the seat restraint. “That’s apparent.”
“That’s apparent,” repeated Duane. “A contract was put on your head. A hundred grand.”
“A hundred thousand? That’s it?”
“Hits are usually twenty-five. Maybe forty. You should be pleased.”
“A hundred is, like, two Mercedes SUVs. I’m worth more than that. Besides, everyone knows,” I told Ernst, “German cars suck.”
The beautiful woman beside Duane smiled. Realized she probably shouldn’t. So she covered it with her fingers.
Duane shrugged and exhaled through his nose again. “Anyway. I intercepted the contract. Tacked on twenty-five more if you were brought back alive. So here you are.”
“Thanks, Duane. A real pal. Best buds.”
“Real pal,” he said. “You’re being farcical. But that’s why you’re alive, August. Because of some respect.”
“Where are we?”
“Ronald Reagan airport. Washington,” he said.
“Where we going? If it’s not Disney, I’m out.”
“We are flying to Naples.”
That was sobering.
Naples. How about that. On my wedding day.
I said, “Can I bring someone?”
The woman smiled again. Her eyes sparkled, matching her diamond princess necklace.
Duane looked at the blonde physician standing behind me. “Meg, get this man some water. Something to eat.”
“Ernst insists he doesn’t eat.”
“Ernst.” Duane said his name but didn’t look at the German bounty hunter. “Have I paid you for this man?”
“You paid me.”
“How much.”
“One hundred twenty-five,” said Ernst.
“He belongs to me now. We understand?”
“He is yours, Mr. Chambers,” said Ernst. “But still I’m waiting.”
“Yes. That’s right.” Duane snapped his fingers. Tattoo Neck materialized and placed a small metallic box in Duane’s outstretched hand.
I wondered what would happen if I snapped my fingers.
Duane used his thumbprint to unlock the box. The lid lifted on silent hinges. He took out a small cloth pouch, bright white. From it he extracted a diamond. Returned the pouch, closed the box, which beeped, and gave the box to Tattoo Neck.
I tried snapping my fingers but couldn’t. Oh well.
Duane placed the diamond on the bounty hunter’s outstretched palm. The diamond’s culet had been dyed a bright red. Only a pinprick of color but noticeable.
“You did good, Ernst.”
Ernst nodded his thanks. Dropped the diamond into a black leather pouch and zipped it in a vest pocket.
“Well,” I said. “He did well.”
No one cared about the lapse in grammar, the savages.
Duane said, “You stick around, Ernst. For the agreed handling fees. But I make the decisions. We understand?”
Ernst snapped a nod. “We do.”
Vee do.
“Meg.” Duane sighed, world-weary crime boss. “Now that’s done, food and water.”
Meg the physician acquiesced to playing the role of stewardess.
Someone else stepped onto the plane, blocking some of the engine’s noise.
My least favorite person—Darren Robbins. Big handsome guy, great hair. Once a quarterback, always a quarterback. He wore a black wool overcoat, a dark suit underneath, Ray-Bans, and leather Armani shoes.
He looked me over.
I looked him over. Deprecatorily.
Duane stood and shook his hand.
“I wanted this man dead,” said Darren Robbins. He hadn’t taken off his leather gloves.
“Yeah, well. I wanted him not dead.”
“You have the right to intercept the contract, Duane, I know the code. But this is a sensitive issue. The whole enterprise benefits if this rookie thug is gone.”
“He will be.” Duane shrugged, something he did with frequency. “It’ll happen. But first, maybe he buys us some credibility. Makes me some money. Who knows.”
“It’s important he doesn’t escape, Duane. You know this?”
“You scared of August?”
“I’m wary of any uncaged rabid dog.”
“He’s wearing the bracelet. Stop the fucking whining. What’s he gonna do? We’re good here. Go back to your desk and stamp stuff, huh? Tom, he’s in some shit, right? He needs his lawyer. Go help Tom.”
Darren removed his Ray-Bans and used them to point at me. “Does Marcus Morgan know? About this?”
“No, Marcus doesn’t know,” said Duane. “He’ll find out and it’ll be too late, and he’ll complain and it’ll be done. Okay?”
Darren walked farther into the plane. Sat on the seat across from mine. I leaned forward as far as I could. He inclined his head towards me. Raised his glasses and tapped me on the nose with them.
“I warned you, August,” he said softly. “Did I not? I told you there’s a world you couldn’t imagine. A reality beyond yours, and that you shouldn’t stick your nose into it. But you made an amateurish mistake. Punched out of your weight class. Tangled with what belongs to me, and now there are consequences. You cannot possibly imagine what’s about to happen to you.”
“You’re forcing me to attend a Justin Bieber concert?”
“I wish I could go to Naples. To watch realization dawn on your pug-like face. To witness your regret. But I can’t. I have a life, you see. Whereas yours? About to end.”
“Pug-like? Perhaps you confused canines.”
“What’s today, Monday? I’ll have Veronica Summers in my employ by Thursday. On her back, forcing a smile.”
“Hey. Enough,” said Duane. “I’m going to Naples and August is too. Get your ass off my plane, Robbins. Unless you wanna fly to Italy.”
“Yes. He does,” I said. “Untie me. We’ll sit together.”
Despite himself, Duane grinned.
“Look’it the bastard. Even tied up, he’s running his mouth. I like our chances.”
Darren Robbins stood. His eyes, an ugly brown mud color, locked onto Meg. “And you are?”
“In the employ of Mr. Chambers,” she said.
He slightly curled his lips inward and pinched them between his teeth. A subtle mannerism many humans do in deep thought. But Darren Robbins, doing it while inspecting Meg the cute blonde physician, made it look cheap and seedy.
She cleared her throat and looked away.
Still looking at her, he addressed Duane. “You paid the hitman?”
Duane nodded. “Ernst, yeah, I paid him.”
Robbins reached into his jacket pocket. Took out a leather folding envelope, like a wallet. Withdrew something sparkly. Another diamond, red dot at the base. He tossed it to Ernst, who caught it and put with the other.
“Ernst,” said Darren. “Make sure August doesn’t escape.”
Ernst nodded. “Yah. If the prisoner tries, I will kill him.”
If zee prisoner tries, I vill kill him.
“Move,
kid,” said Duane. He nodded towards the door. “I wanna to take off. You hear me?”
Darren continued, talking over Duane’s shoulder. “I mean it, Ernst. August tries to escape, don’t attempt to recapture. Duane here, he’s a softy. You kill August. Bang, one to the temple.”
“Enough,” said Duane. “Go. Off my Gulfstream.”
Darren turned and left, quickly replaced by a beaming stewardess. She didn’t look surprised at my predicament. She closed the hatch, sealing off the noise, and started mixing cocktails.
The jet eased forward, moving to the runways.
“Layers upon layers,” I said to no one. “Of villainy.”
The beautiful brunette woman in the seat nearby crossed her legs and stared steadily at me.
3
The jet surged down the runway, tilted upwards, and banked east into the purpling dusk.
My head remained foggy but I felt confident my day didn’t seem to be going as planned. I wondered if I still had forthcoming matrimonial bliss.
Twenty minutes passed in silence as we shot farther over the Atlantic. Duane had mentioned a bracelet. Sure enough, I wore a thick black clunky band on my left wrist. It had a dark digital display and flashing green light.
Meg the physician was sitting across the aisle, running her finger on the screen of an iPad. Everyone else was forward.
I said, “Tell me about the bracelet.”
Without glancing up, she replied, “Don’t try to take it off.”
“That’s not an explanation. That’s a warning and an imperative.”
She smiled, still not looking at me. “It contains two transdermal patches. Essentially tiny needles capable of delivering medicine rapidly—a cocktail similar to B52. The patches can be activated by this iPad.” She raised the tablet and waved it. “And by a device on my keychain. Mr. Chambers has similar devices. A patch will trigger if you attempt to take the band off, or if you get too far away from the device on our keychains, or if the battery dies.”
“The patches will pump a sedative into my wrist,” I guessed.
“Bingo. It’s an ingenious device. Cost a fortune.”
“You’re not a physician.”
“I have the framed diploma to prove it,” she said. “Georgetown.”
“You skipped the day concerning the Hippocratic Oath, doctor.”
“Have I harmed you?”
“Profoundly,” I said.
“How?”
“It’s my wedding day.”
She winced. “Fair point. Don’t think about it that way, though. Instead, see that working for Ernst and Mr. Chambers has already paid off half my student loans.”
“That’s nice. Debt from education can be crushing.”
She nodded, frowning at her screen. “It totally is. Almost criminal. It’ll be gone soon, though. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy the private jet lifestyle. Can you believe how decadent this is? I think the Kings own several.”
“Play your cards right, get hired on full time?”
She grinned. “Dare to dream.”
Ernst came back. He said, “You are hungry?”
“If you insist.”
He pulled his pistol from the holster. A black SIG P210. He pressed the barrel into the soft fleshy part under my jaw. “You do not move.”
You do not moof.
Even I, brave stalwart and fearless warrior, begin sweating with a gun shoved under my chin.
The stewardess bounced our way, beaming politely.
“Who’s hungry?” she cooed. “I have salmon!”
The pistol remained until she swiveled my tray into place, deposited the steaming plate of food, and retreated. Only then did Ernst remove the barrel.
“Unless the customer service improves,” I said, “our republic is doomed.”
“Eat.”
“Ja,” I said. “It’s German for yes.”
Know what’s difficult? Eating with cuffed wrists, elbows pinned back, fastened upright to a chair. I bet I looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a fork. My fourth bite fell off the utensil and smeared a little butter on my shirt.
I sighed. “I’m not an alpha predator, I don’t think.”
Meg the aspirant mafia physician said, “Pardon?”
“Do you think dinosaurs ever drank smoothies? With a long straw? You know, because of the short arms.”
She examined me like an anesthesiologist would if she was concerned about over-medication.
Duane himself came back to the rear seating area about the time I gave up on eating. He sat down opposite me and twitched at his tight clothing until satisfied and comfortable.
“You have questions,” he said in a rasp. “Ask.”
“What’d you think about the finale of The Sopranos? Surely you’ve got an opinion.”
He responded with a stony glare.
I tried again. “When’s the last time you used the phrase ‘Going to the mattresses’?”
“I won’t offer again. I’ll go up front and you’ll know nothing.”
“What’s with the diamonds?” I said.
“Think of them as a credit. Not to be given lightly.”
“Decentralized currency. Used only within the underworld?”
“Decentralized currency,” he said. “Yes.”
“There’s only so many diamonds thusly marked in existence.”
“Correct. The more you have, the more powerful you are. Essentially.”
“Does Marcus Morgan have any?” I asked.
“A few. Though he wasted some on you, no offense.”
“Offense taken. Why are we going to Naples?”
He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. Watched me with the heavy eyes. “You heard of the Camorra?”
“Part of the mafia.”
“No. Not part of the mafia. Well, maybe. The term mafia, it’s too general. It used to mean the Sicilians.”
“What I meant, Duane,” I said, witheringly. “Was that the Camorra is an organized crime syndicate. It operates in Italy. Even the hoi polloi such as myself know that. I used the lowercase mafia to indicate the general underworld, not the uppercase Mafia to refer to the Sicilians.”
“Whatever. The Camorra is a system of interlinked clans in the southern part of Italy. Not as hierarchal as the Sicilian Mafia, so there’s often unrest. You get the idea, they’re corrupt. Anyway. The Camorra lords host an annual event. Called the Gabbia Cremisi.”
“Sounds spooky,” I said.
“Spooky. Yeah, it’s spooky. The Gabbia Cremisi is a tournament. They invite eight of the biggest players to participate.”
“When you say players, do you mean lowercase mafias?”
“Yes. Got’damn it. You called them, ahh, organized crime syndicates. The Triads, and Cosa Nostra, and the Yakuza…who else, the Camorra of course, and the Brothers Circle from Russia…who am I forgetting? Doesn’t matter. And the Kings, we’re invited. Eight total. To the Gabbia Cremisi. Means red death, or something.”
Without looking up from her iPad, Meg said, “Crimson Cage.”
“Right. Crimson Cage. It’s a week-long tournament. Each of the mafias submits a single entrant into the tournament. They fight it out. The winner brings glory to his tribe. So to speak.”
“To summarize,” I said. “Eight of the most wicked criminal organizations on earth gather once a year to see whose champion is the toughest. That it?”
“Sure. Yeah. Though sometimes the mafias bring political prisoners; have fun watching them die, you know. Been going on fifty years or more.”
“And you want me to be your plus one, to watch?”
“The Kings, we get invited every year. And we decline. I’ve gone and watched, but never had an entrant before. Now? Now we got a fighter,” he said.
“Me.”
“You.”
“You want me to fight and kill people and bring you glory,” I said.
“Yeah. That’d be good, don’t you think? Or at least some entertainment.”
&nb
sp; “That’s lunacy, Duane Moneybags.”
“You should be dead now. But I purchased you from the bounty hunter. And from Darren Robbins. Now you can go out with some honor.”
“I won’t fight.”
He did a kind of disinterested shrug. “Maybe.”
“What happens to the winners of these events?”
“You won’t win. These guys, they’re assassins. You’d have to kill…what, three of them? There’s eight total. A single elimination thing. I’m hoping you get one victory. Bring the Kings some credibility.”
“Some of the fighters are champions and assassins, and some are prisoners?” I said.
“Most volunteer. It’s a great honor.”
I indicated the cuffs and chair restraint. “I don’t feel so honored.”
“Because you’re a walking dead man. I release your chains, you cooperate?”
“Hell no. I’ll pitch a fit.”
“See.”
“Duane. Is this a joke? This feels pranky.”
“A joke,” he said. “I shoulda let the bounty hunter ace you. You’d rather be dead? I didn’t have to intercept the contract. But I wanted a fighter. Paid twenty-five grand for you.”
“You think a humble private detective is your best bet for a Kings champion.”
“Big guy. Big muscles. I hear the stories. Everyone around you dies. Why not you?”
“For starters, it’s football season. I’d like to watch the Cowboys. Secondly, I miss my wife. Third…wait, I have a son. He should be first. I’ll start over.”
“Your wife,” he said.
“She’s a humdinger, too. Turn the jet around. I’ll try to forget this happened.”
“You’re already dead, August. Your only hope? Fight your way out the other side.”
“I win and I’m free.”
“We’ll see. The contract makes it tricky. I hope you win. They don’t take us as seriously as they should. Part of the reason? We’re newer. We don’t have the great name. The other guys, they got names with clout. Camorra. Cosa Nostra. Yakuza. Us? Not many Americans know it. Call us the mob or some stupid shit. Kings don’t strike fear into the international heart."
“Duane. I’m getting out of these chains. You understand? With or without your help. You need to decide, is this worth dying over?”
He gathered his feet and stood with a soft grunt. Adjusted his belt. “Because you’ll kill me.”
