Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  I turned in a circle, fighting against a drowning sensation. The crowd was mostly blinded out and to my eyes it acted like a single entity. The throng breathed and heaved and roared as one. In the front row, the same elderly couple cheered and waved their arms.

  At the top of the stadium, the halo of private boxes kept an imperial watch. I glared against the spotlight, searching until I found the American suite. Duane looked tiny from the distance. He’d taken off his jacket and stood with hands on his hips, ignoring the others with him.

  I raised my gloved hand. Gave him a thumbs up.

  It seemed like one of those moments frozen in time. Thousands of onlookers watched and wondered at it, and I felt I was having an out-of-body experience.

  What was the American champion doing?

  Duane shook his head.

  I shrugged.

  Ferrari said things I didn’t listen to.

  I jumped and paced my side of the cage.

  Dear God. Let me live. Keep both of us alive.

  Reduce this temple to a junkyard.

  An electronic bell rang and the crowd roared.

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee.

  The strap around the Mexican’s chest released and he bolted forward. I dropped into a shallow squat, a forward stance.

  He halted just beyond my reach and shouted. Jumped up and down and smacked his forehead with the palms of his hand. His body was crisscrossed with scars and his face bore burn marks.

  “Take it easy,” I shouted. “I got an idea. And we both get to live.”

  He frothed at the mouth and drool dribbled down his chin. What had Meg told me? He was probably insane, and had mostly dithered during his interview. And now he was bursting with narcotics, I bet.

  He snapped a few kicks at me, easily blocked. Circled and backed away again.

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee.

  Jorge jumped and punched at nothing.

  He was mentally unstable, no doubt about it. He’d been brought to die, not to win—a condenado, condemned to die by the cartel. Kinda like me.

  “Jorge,” I shouted. “Get over here. Trust me.” I crept closer to him, staying defensive.

  He danced away.

  “What’s Spanish for—stop acting like a dervish?” I asked.

  I got too close and one of his kicks connected. Caught me in the temple and I staggered.

  He saw an opportunity and leapt. We collided and toppled, me underneath. He threw punches and elbows faster than I thought possible.

  Meg was screaming to get up.

  “So listen,” I told him, dodging and blocking and getting hit in the ears. Had he been a professional fighter, I’d be dead. “Here’s my idea. It’s called a non-violent protest.”

  Jorge screamed and tried biting my neck.

  That was a little much. I shoved him hard enough to toss his body to the side. I rolled to my feet.

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee.

  But now the crowd wondered if I was a wimp. Were they rooting for a foregone loser? Their tone sounded less confident.

  My ears hurt. That was the longest sixty seconds of my life.

  I glanced at the American suite. Flashed Duane a thumb pointed skyward.

  He didn’t respond. Only watched, fists clenched in his hair.

  By now the crowd knew something was up. They glanced back and forth between Duane and me. I’d announced that Duane planned to have me executed even if I won, which reduced some of his bargaining power.

  Some of the audience raised their thumbs.

  Hah.

  Ernst shouted, “Kill him, American! Now!”

  I needed to cause Duane more pain. Keep up the public negotiation. The Mexican presented no true danger, not until round three. But I could act.

  I resumed the stance and crept closer to Jorge, who danced and backpedaled cautiously. His eyes looked wild in every direction.

  “New plan,” I called to Jorge. “Kick me again. That worked great.”

  The Mexican bicycled beyond my reach. Would he run for the next nine minutes until he got a weapon?

  No es bueno.

  I lowered to my knees, kneeling in the middle of the ring. Jorge paused. Glared suspiciously. The audience’s volume lowered a notch.

  “C’mon, Jorge. I need a solid kick.” My words came out slurred because of the mouth guard. “I need some blood. Duane’ll hate that.”

  The Mexican’s trainers screamed at him, but their fighter refused to approach.

  “Fine.” I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. “Now Jorge, come kick me before—”

  He didn’t kick me. He landed like a jaguar from a tree. Drove his knees into my back and his strong right arm wrapped around my neck. He bent me backwards, my spinal column arched.

  A choke hold. Hadn’t expected this. Zero oxygen flowed.

  Meg and Ernst shrieked.

  From my position, I could see Duane’s box. It was inverted, far far below me.

  I held out my hand. Thumbs up.

  What’ll it be, Duane? I can only hold this for twenty seconds or so.

  The crowd erupted. Ten thousand people stuck up their thumbs.

  Yan-kee! Yan-kee!

  Duane jumped up and down and fumed. His wife swatted him with her clutch purse. Marital drama acted out in miniature.

  Jorge’s grip tightened. My spine cracked and popped painfully.

  Starting to panic. No air.

  My hands went to the arm around my throat. Like I was in trouble. Which I was.

  The crowd watched me. Watched Duane. Watched me. Frantically pumped their thumbs. Watched Duane.

  Finally…

  Duane raised a fist.

  Stuck his thump upwards and waved it desperately.

  You win! Now get up, August, you idiot, he shouted.

  I assumed.

  Jorge’s hold, while effective and dramatic, was not executed well. The man had never received training. I twisted and rolled, enough to get my elbow into his face. Hammered him once, twice, and he released. Busted nose.

  I got up. Gasping sweet delicious oxygen.

  How much time left? Maybe a minute and a half? I didn’t want to reach round two.

  I closed, strafing right and left to pen him in.

  “Don’t take this personally.” I coughed, a little light-headed. “You’re going to lose. But at least this way you’ll wake up.”

  He tried to stay away but couldn’t. I boxed in him, got him in a corner. Smaller and untrained and scared, he had no chance. I blocked a kick and punch, and put a major league uppercut into his jaw. Followed with a hard left into his cheek. A combination Mike Tyson would be proud of.

  He dropped. Knocked clean out. No movement, other than twitching fingers.

  The throng, which had been on its feet, jumped and roared loud enough to rattle my ears.

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee!

  I went to my side of the cage and lowered into a crisscross sitting position. Spit out the mouth guard.

  Ernst shouted, “You must kill him!”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” I said. Tugged off my gloves. “Fight’s over.”

  I panted and sweated and rubbed at my neck.

  It became clear that Jorge wasn’t going to move soon.

  The electronic bell rang. Round over. Niccolo Ferrari’s unctuous voice filled the stadium. In his box, Duane made emphatic gestures.

  The Executioner opened the cage door. He lumbered in, followed by Ferrari. The silver-haired master of ceremonies shouted happily into the microphone and I understood: I was declared the winner. And no one had died.

  A commotion stirred the stands, somewhere on the border of the Kings’s section. A fight was breaking out. A big one, dozens involved. Guards swarmed that direction, including the head of security. He was easy to spot, with the flashing Bluetooth headsets.

  “Ignore them,” shouted Ernst through the cage. “Happens all the time. Twenty thousand criminals? There will be fights. You did well, American.”

  Meg came int
o the cage. Knelt beside me to examine my ears and neck. She said, “Your tattoo is bleeding. So stupid.”

  Ferrari smiled and indicated me, and his voice kept droning on.

  “I was so scared,” said Meg, her breath hot on my ear. “That stunt of yours was bullshit.”

  Ferrari lowered the microphone long enough to clap for me. Everyone else did too.

  I raised my fist and pumped it.

  That’s when I noticed the Executioner standing over Jorge. His double-bladed axe dropped—a sick thunk.

  Jorge’s head neatly rolled free.

  12

  “Pop, bam!” Duane threw a faux punch combination at me, ducking and weaving. “Upper cut, right cross. Lights out for the Mexican.”

  “Left cross.”

  “Whatever. It was gorgeous. I could kiss you on the mouth,” said Duane in a soft rasp.

  I sat on my bed. Meg kneeled on the bed behind me, toweling my hair dry, while Duane, Emile, Ernst, and Tattoo Neck watched—a weird celebratory post-fight debriefing.

  It was almost midnight. The adrenaline had worn off and was souring my stomach. Sounds of a raging party throbbed through the walls. Or maybe it was a rave. I never knew the difference.

  “How is he, doc? How’s our cash cow?” asked Duane.

  “Without injury and almost entirely unhurt. And this is the freshest he’s smelled in days.”

  “First of all,” I politely corrected her. “My natural scent is divine. Secondly, my neck is sore. Third, I don’t love the cash cow nickname.”

  “You’re a monster, August. An absolute monster. Can’t believe how quickly you dismantled the Mexican.” He grinned so broad that his eyes disappeared inside puffy cheeks. He wasn’t fat, just swollen. “You played me; I know you did. Faked the fight to get your release. But it worked. I caved, August. You won, fair and square. And I’ll keep my promise.”

  An Italian boy wheeled in a large cart of food, including a thick white china plate stacked with cannoli. He rolled it to a stop along the wall.

  “Thanks, Gennaro,” I said, the lone avuncular adult.

  He grinned, shot me a thumbs up, and left.

  “How about that, August. All the cannoli you can eat. The chef out there doesn’t make it, so I ordered some. You’re welcome. That’s what you get. I’m cashing maybe a million tonight. How about that? I need to make a call. What time is it in DC? Got’damn, I’m in a good mood.”

  “I can tell. You won’t shut up.”

  “I did you another favor. Immediately after the fight, I put you up for bidding. You’re gonna get laid tonight, August. You’re welcome for that, too,” he said.

  “I decline.”

  “You decline. Hah. That’s good. Girls bidding good money for you. If she’s ugly? Well, close your eyes. Or maybe it’s a guy? I dunno. Emile, you know?”

  Emile was watching me. A predatory gleam in her eye. I tried not to shiver. She said, “A silent auction was held for each of the four victors. Bidding closed twenty minutes ago, and the results were delivered to our door. Mackenzie fetched…a surprisingly high amount.”

  “Surprising?” I frowned.

  “Oh yeah? A big number? Good for you, August. You survive this thing and I gotta share some of the winnings with you. Maybe I should kill you myself, then.” Duane kept smiling, drunk on his good fortune. And his powerful narcotics. “You know who won the auction?”

  Emile nodded slowly. “I do. She will be here soon."

  “Here soon. Good. August, you get laid and I get paid. Hah. What a life this is. To the victor go the spoils, am I right?”

  “Duane,” I said. “I suggest you snort less cocaine. Also, send the girl away.”

  He didn’t pay attention.

  “Good thing I put the bed back in. C’mon, let’s go. There’s a party on every level of the Teatro di Montagna tonight. I hear the Colombians are furious. Gonna be half a dozen fights. Girls so thick you could walk on them.” He stopped at the door. “Meg, take the night off. Ernst, stick around. Mackenzie tries to escape? He hurts the girl or uses her as a hostage? Zap him. Got it?”

  Ernst glowered at me, like his job was my fault.

  Meg said, “I’m going to bed. This was brutal.”

  Emile remained the longest, watching me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. At last she said, “I entered the auction too. For you. And lost, obviously. Despite bidding a record amount.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You should be.”

  “A fool and her money.”

  “If I’d won, and Duane found out…”

  She left the sentence unfinished.

  My date for the evening arrived at 12:15am. She was preceded into my bedroom by Ernst and also a Camorra praetorian, hand on his sidearm.

  All three looked at me, curiously. I was lying on the floor, stretching the chain and my legs as far as they could go, trying to get my toes under the food cart.

  “The hell are you doing?” asked Ernst.

  Zee hell.

  “You selfish nitwits didn’t push my food close enough,” I said. “So I’m getting it myself. Obviously. I’m so close.”

  “So that’s what you were shouting about.”

  My date wore a clingy strapless red dress that reached the middle of her calves. Her heels glinted a metallic gold, and her gloves were gold too. Her brown hair fell in curls around a pretty face. If I judged women on their looks, which I would never do, I’d say her face was a little too thin, as though she dieted to the extreme. Maybe forty years old? Forty-five?

  “Here,” she said, a little breathless. “Allow me.”

  She laid her hands on the cart and wheeled it into my circle of freedom, and quickly retreated.

  “See how easy that was, Ernst?” I said.

  The guard said something in Italian. “Lo vuoi immobilizzato?”

  She cleared her throat and spoke in a soft quaver. “No, I don’t think…that won’t be necessary. Mackenzie said he’s here because of a women. He won’t hurt me.”

  Ernst said, “You have one hour. We’ll be in the next room. The door stays open.”

  They left and the girl’s face paled.

  Ahh, alone at last.

  And not the least bit incredibly awkward.

  I got to my feet, chain clinking, and said, “Do you mind? I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Oh! No, um, please.”

  “What did he ask you?” I said.

  “He asked if I wanted you, ah…immobilized.”

  She stayed near the wall, leaning against it, unsure what to do with her hands.

  I removed the lid from a plate—sausage and cheese.

  “What is it with the Italians and their different types of sausages?”

  Her anxious face relaxed into a smile. “That’s Ciauscolo and Cotechino. I could…feed it to you, no?”

  “Your accent is Italian,” I said and I fed myself. Like all good heroes do.

  “I was born in Rome. This is my second time at the Gabbia Cremisi. My husband, he…he works with the Sicilians, importing…I don’t know how you say it in English. Fake brands?”

  Her English wasn’t bad. She pronounced The as De, and the vowels sounded similar.

  “Counterfeit goods. Does your husband know you’re here?”

  “Yes.” She exhaled a shaky, embarrassed breath. “You’re his gift to me. And his apology.”

  “Good for him. A stiff apology is a second insult.” I finished another sausage and tried the artichoke.

  “I thought you might die in the fight,” she said.

  “Me too, briefly. My ruse nearly backfired.”

  “Because your owner, the man from the Kings, wouldn’t let you live, no? It’s all we talked about at the feste.”

  “Duane is not my owner. In fact, I’m going to kill him soon. But otherwise, you’re correct.”

  She pushed from the wall and dared to scoot an inch closer. About her was an air of delicacy. Way too breakable to be tossed into a room with g
uys like me. These people were lunatics. “You’re here for punishment. Not for glory?”

  I indicated my food tray. “Cannoli? I can’t eat that much. Or. Let me rephrase. I shouldn’t eat that much. My son said I put on a few pounds.”

  “If…if you like, I will.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m being friendly. You’re hungry or you’re not,” I said.

  She toed the circle on the carpet.

  “You will…you will not hurt me, no?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Aurora.”

  “Aurora, I will absolutely not hurt you. I didn’t even want to hurt Jorge, the guy in the ring.”

  She scooted a little closer. Tentatively took a cannoli. Held it gingerly in her hands.

  She’d paid a lot of money for this?

  She said, “And your name is Mackenzie. Mackenzie the American King.”

  “Well…that’s a bit much. But yes. Mackenzie the American King, you can call me that.”

  Might teach that nickname to Manny, my roommate.

  She said, “Tonight you fought so well. So big and strong and fast. Everyone says so. You are here because of a woman, no? Tell me about her.”

  I said, “Ronnie. She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.”

  “I do not understand, Mackenzie.”

  “She’s cute.”

  “You miss her,” she said.

  “Very much.”

  “Tonight,” she said and she replaced the cannoli. “You can have me instead, Mackenzie. To forget.”

  “Aurora,” I said.

  “The wives tell two stories. One, that you are gentle and compassionate. The other, a wild and dangerous animal.”

  “In bed?”

  “Sì.”

  “Don’t trust your sources,” I said. “I never dated a mobster’s wife.”

  “Maybe the woman, Ronnie, she tells stories.”

  “We haven’t.”

  Her brown eyes widened. “You and she…have not?”

  “No, but don’t spread that around. It’ll hurt my reputation. I prefer wild and dangerous to abstinent.”

  She was trying to be seductive but the hand-wringing ruined it. “I think you will be both, Mackenzie. Can I come to…your bed?”