Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  “Some of the English phrases I do not understand. I insist you take this seriously, Signore Mackenzie, as a fortune will be won or lost during the fights.”

  “The amount of money spent on this macabre slaughter is breath-taking. Are mafia lords really this well heeled and bored? I can recommend some great non-profits,” I said.

  “In the audience today are former champions of this great tournament. Returned home as deities. This is a great honor for your master. You continue the tradition dating almost a century,” he said. “Surely you want to represent your country with dignity.”

  “My country is home of the Whopper and Jersey Shore. Not so much dignity.”

  Ferrari did not think me funny. Poor breeding, I bet.

  “Are you still medicated, American?”

  “Probably.”

  “You are new to the Gabbia Cremisi so some confusion can be forgiven,” he said. “I attended a boxing match in Las Vegas. Floyd Mayweather. You remember? Before the match, the fighters perform…promotions, I think. You have already missed some of the promotion, Mackenzie. You’d be wise to catch up quickly. For your survival and for the honor of the Kings. Let us continue. Fighting styles and experience are extremely important to our event. Many fighters train for months. Some of our patrons hire professional fighters to evaluate competition, but little is known about you. What is your preferred fighting style?”

  “Rope a dope.”

  “Tell us about your experience in the MMA.”

  “I hurt people. They hurt me back. I did well.”

  He sucked lightly at his lower lip, dissatisfied. “Is there video?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “You wear handcuffs. What crime did you commit?”

  I said, “I fell in love with the wrong woman.”

  There came a gasp from the audience. Great gallons of air being sucked in.

  Ferrari nodded understanding. His earring glinted. So did his smile.

  “The commandments. You broke one. Never involve yourself with the wife of a fellow Camorrista. Or King, I mean to say.”

  I said, “Ah but for the right woman a man will break them all.”

  Another gasp. A feminine sound.

  “For her, your beloved, you must fight and win, yes? A combattente with something to live for, that is a dangerous man.”

  “Well, Mr. Sports Car, there’s a contract on my head. The jackass who brought me here doesn’t know whether I get to live, even if I win. Be easier for him if I don’t.”

  “You misunderstand, American. The winner goes free. And keeps a portion of his winnings. A hero for all time.”

  I said, “You misunderstand, Ferrari. I’ve upset many grouchy and ugly Americans. They brought me here to die. Even if I win.”

  “Not possible. That goes against the commandments.”

  “Not possible? I was abducted, shipped to Italy, and forced to fight other guys to the death at the Entitlement Olympics. Maybe you aren’t the people to act outraged at broken rules,” I said. “Also, that photograph on screen? That’s my Facebook profile from three years ago. I’ve put on at least four pounds of muscle since then. Bet accordingly.”

  More of the audience laughed.

  The man who laughed the loudest was the Camorra Prince, the handsome Italian champion.

  Ferrari said, “I think the betters will be confused, Signore Mackenzie. I cannot remember an interview quite like this. The men who arrive in cuffs, they die quickest. But you? I am not so sure. Thank you, American.”

  I leaned forward to the mic.

  “When I break free, you should run. Also I’m not getting a tattoo,” I said.

  Ferrari looked thunderstruck, his mouth ajar.

  I stood, ducked the guards, and made my way back to the table.

  The audience reacted like they loved the drama. Laughter and cheers and boos. The men with assault rifles didn’t know whether to wrestle me to the tattoo chair or fetch the next contestant to interview.

  I sat down.

  The big sumo wrestler had taken my cannoli. He was finishing his, about to start on mine.

  I slid my plate back and glared.

  More laughter from the audience. They were watching, apparently.

  Mackenzie August, compelling theater.

  I said, “Take all the meat and cheese you desire, enormous man. I want the dessert.”

  He glowered. I think. Most of his features were hidden in fat rolls.

  The Italian Prince watched and smugly ate bread.

  The sumo wrestler reached again for my dessert. I picked up my fork and slammed the tines into his hand, hard enough to puncture. Blood squirted from the bulging arteries.

  “Leggo,” I said.

  He roared like a bull and threw me from my chair. I slid face first across the sheepskin, which didn’t feel great.

  The audience erupted. Ferrari shouted into his microphone. “Gentlemen! Gentiluomini! Champions, please!”

  Guards swarmed.

  I sat up.

  The enraged sumo wrestler hauled me up into a bear hug, getting his blood on my silk kimono.

  “I realize it’s just dessert,” I wheezed, my feet kicking helplessly, suspended in the air. “But it’s my dessert. And I’ve had a rotten couple days. The cannoli is symbolic, you know?”

  He probably didn’t hear my last few words. He was squeezing me to death and I ran out of oxygen. My ribs verged on fracturing. He had four inches and a hundred pounds on me.

  I bet Duane wasn’t enjoying himself either.

  The guards shouted orders and haplessly whacked the giant’s shoulders with the butts of their rifles.

  Feckless nincompoops.

  So much blood pooled in my face I thought it might burst.

  If only my wrists weren’t still bound by handcuffs I wouldn’t be defenseless and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man wouldn’t be suffocating me.

  But they were.

  However, I still held the fork.

  Ah hah!

  “Sorry about this,” I gasped.

  I jammed the fork over my shoulder, driving it like a knife. The tines went straight into his right eyeball, burying deeply into iris tissue.

  His howl deafened me. He released and I fell to the floor with a thud.

  My wrist band beeped and the light turned green.

  “Dammit Meg,” I coughed. “I haven’t eaten my cannoli yet.”

  The sumo wrestler’s wrist band beeped too.

  We’d both been zapped with medication. A powerful dose. It hit me like a tidal wave.

  “Hope this improves my betting odds…” I slurred.

  Beside me, the giant collapsed into a medicinal coma, both hands clutching the silver fork protruding outwards from his face.

  8

  “A disgrace,” said Duane. “A disgrace and a fucking nightmare.”

  He paced back and forth across the red carpet of my bedroom.

  I couldn’t see him but I imagined his hands were on his hips. I lay face first on the floor, trying not to move. The knot of pain in my head had increased tenfold.

  “Right?” I said. “He tried to take my dessert.”

  “Shut up, August. Shut the fuck up. I’m this close to putting one in the back of your head and being done with this charade. Hear me? This close.”

  “Are you making a gesture where your thumb and pointer finger are only an inch apart?” I asked.

  “An inch apart. Yeah I am. You wish, an inch. Lucky for you the Yakuza brought a second fighter. Otherwise…I don’t know. I’d let the Japs take the reparations out your ass, August. Even still, the Kings’s first ever contestant and we’re already under sanctions. You screw up again and we’re out.”

  “Be a real shame.”

  “You’d be executed.”

  “Oh.”

  His anger and animation had increased the rasp of his voice to a full scrape. “I googled that thing you said. About the pillars of the temple and dying with the Philistines. You’re quoting the Old Te
stament. I read the chapter. Samson, he was brought to the temple in chains and then he killed everyone. The balls on you, August. That’s the second time you threatened to kill Niccolo Ferrari, the spokesperson for Rossi.”

  “Not just Ferrari. Everyone else too.”

  He kept pacing. “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.”

  “Includes you, Duane Moneybags. Unless you release me of your own volition, you’re going to die.”

  “If this costs me, I won’t be happy. I put money on you to clear round one. The odds of you winning the whole damn thing are fifty-to-one, but you were four-to-one to survive tomorrow. If the others get you at a better price? If I start getting less payout because of your bullshit, August…”

  He didn’t finish the thought.

  I said, “A fool and his money.”

  “Shut up. Stop being smart and maybe you get your bed back.”

  “I hope so,” I said, speaking into the carpet. The chain connected to my handcuffs had been reduced to four links, effectively pinning me to the floor. The room looked huge without the queen-sized bed. “That mattress was elite.”

  “Serves you right, being a pain in my ass. Win tomorrow and I’ll return it.”

  Meg sat crisscross on the floor near my hands, still wearing the blue cocktail dress. Smelled like expensive perfume. She attached a new metal wrist band to my other hand and removed the old band. The new one beeped as it paired to her devices. Then she rubbed antiseptic on my wrist where the patches had pricked.

  “I can’t believe how fast you drained the sedatives in the bracelet,” she said through a yawn. “I bet you have quite the headache.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Hold still, please. I’d like to dab Neosporin on your forehead and stronger anti-bacterial cream on your back.”

  “Since you insist, I’ll remain in genuflection.”

  “You won’t try to escape?”

  “Not till tomorrow.”

  She smeared cream on my face, where the thin-skinned guard had popped me with his rifle. Still loopy from medicine, I barely noticed. She said, “Would you like to see your back? I can take a photo.”

  “That’d be super.”

  She rose to her knees and scooted beside me. I heard the sound of an artificial shutter click. Then she held her phone screen in front of my face.

  I squinted at the close up of my shoulders.

  Tattooed in big letters across my back was the word KING.

  I sighed. “A humiliating way to get my first tattoo. No one will ever believe the origin narrative.”

  Duane grunted. “Origin narrative.”

  Meg said, “Invent a story about being an egomaniac in college and getting drunk on spring break. That’s more plausible than being forced into a blood sport.”

  Emile strode into the room and paused.

  “Where is his bed?”

  Duane said, “I had it removed. Teach him some manners.”

  “Duane, do not be an ass. Mackenzie was almost killed by a Japanese monster. He needs a bed.”

  “Don’t be an ass? He jammed a fork into that guy’s face. Meg says he’s blind for the rest of his life in that eye, no doubt about it.”

  Emile said, “That man was too fat. No woman wanted to be with him. And besides, my love, the monster would most likely be killed tomorrow anyway.”

  I didn’t want to move my head, so I could only see Emile’s dress and heels.

  Duane said, “Not the point. We got rules. What’d you find out?”

  “Betting is complete for the night. The odds have shifted,” she said.

  “I knew it. What’d he drop to? Five-to-one? If it’s six, I’ll kill myself.”

  Her voice held a tight smile. “The crowd loves him, as they ought. He is three-to-five.”

  Duane released a wheeze and clapped his hands.

  “You’re kidding me. How about that, August! The bastards love you. He’s the favorite now? Forget about it. Means we got our money in good.” He crouched and slapped me on the shoulder. Affectionately, I hoped. “August, you went from underdog to the favorite. All you got to do is kill that little Mexican guy in the chains. Got’damn, I could use a drink. Emile, walk me to the lounge. I want to rub our fortune into those stupid Italian faces.”

  Duane left, a storm of sudden goodwill.

  Emile’s dress and heels lingered a moment. Then she too left.

  I said, “What’d he mean, the little Mexican guy in chains?”

  “You were unconscious,” replied Meg. “During the drawing. You drew the entrant brought by the Los Zetas, the Mexican cartel. I forget his name, but he strikes me as criminally insane. A condenado, they said, brought for public execution. During his interview he mostly blithered. In America he wouldn’t be mentally fit to stand trial.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Instead I stayed quiet, absorbing and processing the reality in which I found myself. It was a disorienting and surreal reality and required significant digestion.

  Her hand, which had been applying lotion to the angry skin between my shoulder, paused.

  “What did you mean, you fell in love with the wrong woman?”

  “The guy who put the contract on me, Darren Robbins. His prized possession, a high-end lawyer and sexual toy, left him. He blames me.”

  “Should he?”

  “I was the impetus behind her departure from prostitution, yes. She’s the girl who married me.”

  “Wow. Okay, so,” she said. “You’re here…because he’s jealous?”

  “Also because he’s fraudulent and vindictive and petty. He abuses women and I think his eyes are the color of sewage.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Our looks are an accident, Meg.”

  “Not the eyes, you brat. About him sending you here out of spite.”

  “I’m learning just how far the scales are tipped in favor of those with money,” I said, my voice muffled by the carpet.

  “I didn’t realize you were here because of love.”

  “Also, to be fair, I cost Darren a lot of money.”

  Her words sounded small. “Do you miss your son?”

  “He’s one and a half. A fun age.”

  “Do you want me to pass a message to him, in the event that…I mean, you know. If you don’t make it home?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No? You’re sure?”

  “Not necessary. I’m going home.”

  She started applying the lotion again. I manfully decided against yelping.

  “Your confidence baffles me. You were bought as a slave, essentially. Escape is impossible.”

  “For lesser equipped Yankees,” I said.

  “You’re still doing the obstacle and tool trick?”

  “Not a trick. At the moment, many things are out of my control. But I’ll use what I have. Things like hope and confidence. I will not pass a message to Kix because that admits the possibility of failure. In my mind, failure is not one of the paths open to me.”

  “But,” she said slowly, like she was speaking to an exceptionally dimwitted child. “You admitted you won’t kill your opponents in the ring."

  “Makes it problematic.”

  Her hand had stopped applying the lotion. It felt like she was idly running her fingers up and down my spine.

  “You’re an enigma, Mackenzie.”

  “Probably because my stupid tattoo is sending mixed messages.”

  “You take yourself less seriously than the others. No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s that you take others less seriously than they take themselves?”

  I yawned.

  She continued, “I think you offend people because your opinion is important to them and they don’t know why. And you deal with facts and sometimes people don’t like the facts you notice so they take exception to your observations. To compensate they take themselves even more seriously, which doesn’t impress you. How accurate is my diagnosis?”

  “Maybe. I’m too tired for navel gaz
ing.”

  Her hand stopped moving. She rested it on the fleshy right side of my back between my hip bone and rib cage.

  She asked, “What is your opinion of me?”

  “Corrupt and conflicted.”

  “I can’t help you escape, Mackenzie. I can’t.”

  “Mmhm,” I said. “Going to sleep now.”

  “I’m nervous about tomorrow. I want you to survive. Okay?”

  “You’re pinching me. Quit it.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Are you nervous? …Mackenzie? Hello? I don’t understand you.”

  9

  After lunch the following day, I was led through the plush hallways back to the arena. Being a perspicacious detective meant I could deduce the arena occupied the middle of the Teatro di Montagna, with lounges and salons and restaurants and suites built along the outside. Today, inside the arena, instead of explosions of color and sound, I found echoes and empty seats.

  Two guards walked either side of me. Ernst carried a chain attached to my handcuffs; in his other hand, the remote to my wrist band. Meg strolled with Duane and Emile and they chatted about a soirée last night.

  A cage had been erected in the middle of the theater, in the space where last night we’d eaten. Like a grotesque shrine to violence. It was larger than the MMA fights I’d participated in, but the netting was a more open weave and the metal thinner.

  I said, “Who were the people cheering in the Kings sections yesterday?”

  “The Kings do not have many people here,” admitted Duane. “You happened last minute, you understand. Otherwise…who knows. Mostly they were Italians and Chinese who love America. They love American football and action movies starring The Rock and music by Frank Sinatra and Taylor Swift, all that shit. Seating isn’t assigned.”

  “Your cheering section will be larger this evening,” said Emile. “Trust me. The women are talking.”

  Ernst led me into the cage. The others appeared reluctant to enter, hovering outside instead, the sissies. The cage didn’t form a dome but the walls rose ten feet. Being inside made my chest tighten.

  “How it will work,” said Ernst. How it vill vork. His voice caromed off distant corners. “Three rounds. Five minutes each. First round is the classic fight. Like you have done before."