Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  I was on the verge of telling her ‘No thanks, this is the weirdest’ when Gennaro walked in again, pushing yet another cart.

  Not having a closed door was less than ideal for Aurora’s purposes.

  Gennaro rolled the cart to the line and gave me another thumbs up. “Un regalo dal Teatro.”

  “Oh!” cried Aurora. “Champagne!”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He says it’s a gift from the hotel. A drink is exactly what we need, Mackenzie.”

  Gennaro nodded towards the bottle and winked and left.

  A wink? Curious.

  “And it’s Salon Blanc de Blancs Le Mesnil-sur-Oger. The best for us, Mackenzie, no?” She took the large bottle from the silver bucket of ice and used a little towel to wipe it down. “You rest. I will pour us drinks. We will be happier.”

  She pronounced it hap-peer.

  I rubbed my forehead. This felt so goofy. Would I owe her a refund?

  She peeled off the foil and untwisted the wire cap.

  Pop!

  She laughed, high and throaty, and let the foam spill over her hand.

  “Aurora,” I said.

  “Yes Mackenzie?”

  She tipped the bottle up to fill a crystal flute. Underneath the bottom of the bottle, something silver flashed.

  Zounds. A clue.

  “Um,” I said.

  She filled the second flute, tipping the bottle slightly further and giving me a better view. Stuck to the underside of the champagne bottle was a universal handcuff key.

  I’ll be darned. Someone was sending me a gift.

  Gennaro? Someone working with the boy?

  She handed me a flute and we clinked.

  “Saluti, Mackenzie!” She tipped hers back and drained it. She covered her mouth and grinned. “Scusami!”

  I raised my glass and smiled, thinking about the key.

  “I need another, no?” she said.

  “Bring the bottle. I’ve never had Italian champagne before.”

  “Whatever you wish, American King.”

  She wheeled the cart to the bed and poured herself another.

  My brain, well-oiled machine that it was, spun. A handcuff key. What to do, what to do. Remove cuffs and then…subdue Aurora? I needed to incapacitate Ernst and get that damned triggering device. The handcuff key wouldn’t work on the black wrist band.

  I lifted the bottle awkwardly with the handcuffs. Held it by the base. Pretended to scrutinize the label and surreptitiously scrapped the bottom until the key fell into my palm.

  Smoother than Ethan Hunt, in my unbiased opinion.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked.

  I set the bottle down, picked up my flute, and drank half. Grinned.

  Disgusting. Like every other drop of champagne ever fermented.

  “Delicious. Must be expensive.”

  She said, “Yes. Just like you.” She finished her second flute and turned, her back to me. Gathered her long brown hair with both hands and said, “Mackenzie, my American King. Please help with my zipper, no?”

  Zip-peer, noh?

  I glanced at the two security cameras in the corners.

  “Sit on my lap,” I said.

  She scooted backwards.

  Using the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, I pinched the key and slipped it into my left handcuff and twisted. The lock popped free.

  She lowered onto my lap, still holding her hair up.

  I raised my arms to accommodate her, the chain clinking on her dress. As best I could, I acted in a nonchalant manner for the sake of the cameras. I transferred the key to my left hand and released the right cuff.

  Free.

  I lowered the shackles onto the bed in such a way that it looked as though I still wore them, and wrapped my arms around her waist. She shivered and made a giggling noise.

  “Mackenzie! My dress, please?”

  I squeezed her, which she enjoyed, and I got my lips next to her ear.

  “Aurora.”

  She returned the whisper. “Yes?”

  “I find you coquettish and alluring.”

  “Is…does that…that is good?”

  “Means you’re pretty.”

  She shivered again. “Grazie, Mackenzie.”

  My voice was low. “Any man would be lucky to have you.”

  “But I give myself to you, Mackenzie. Not to any man.”

  I twisted enough to reach past her to the cart. Picked up the champagne. Refilled her flute and mine, emptying the heavy bottle.

  “Unfortunately, Aurora, I have to go.”

  “Go?”

  “Yes.”

  “You…you are leaving?”

  “I am,” I whispered. “I’m already free. Don’t take it personally. I could kill you now. But I won’t, because I think you’re great. And you shouldn’t take this as a rejection.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m going into the next room to try and kill the guards. I probably will, because I’m great. If successful, I will remove the band on my wrist.”

  “And,” she said, her voice shaking. “Then sex?”

  “Then I’m going to kill everyone else too. Everyone but you.”

  “But…why?”

  “Be rude to kill you, after all the money you bid,” I said. “Plus I like your hair.”

  “No, I meant, why try to escape? You cannot. Teatro di Montagna, it is like a castle. Instead, Mackenzie, lie with me and win the Gabbia Cremisi. It is safer that way. The hallways are guarded.”

  “I have to try.”

  “Even though you know it is impossible?”

  Em-poss-seeble?

  “Even so,” I said. “If I don’t try, I lose part of myself. Resisting helps me maintain autonomy, even if it fails. That’s odd, I know, but trust me—I’m smarter than I look.”

  She turned her head far enough so that her lips brushed my skin. “But I want to tell the other wives. I want the glory of sex with a champion. It was a gift to me, Mackenzie. An expensive one.”

  “A bargain, really.”

  “Please.”

  “Tell the wives I think you’re beautiful.”

  “Mackenzie.” She pouted.

  “And that we had a nice time. And that we fell in love and you helped me escape,” I said, blubbering whatever ridiculous thing came to mind.

  “Oh?”

  “I was so enamored, my strength grew and I broke the chains so we could be together.”

  “Or instead,” she whispered. “We could have sex, no?”

  “I wish, Aurora. But I have to go.”

  “You wish?”

  “Tell them the story.”

  “Oh fine, Mackenzie. This story will make my husband just as jealous.”

  I nodded solemnly. “That’s what matters.”

  She didn’t seem in a hurry to get off my lap so I scooted from underneath. Raised my flute of champagne and drained it.

  So gross. Champagne drinkers are idiots.

  She clapped her hands and blurted, “Oh, you are free! But how did you take off the…the…?” She made a motion like locking her wrists.

  I held my forefinger to my lips. She copied the motion and shot me a thumbs up.

  Had to move quick, in case the camera watchers were diligent.

  I peeked around the door.

  My chef was gone. Aurora’s escort was reclining in a leather chair, feet up, ankles crossed, reading a novel, facing the outer door. Ernst laid prone on the couch, napping. Poor guy must be fatigued from watching me nearly perish.

  Neither had anything to worry about. Their prisoner wore shackles, right?

  Mackenzie August, never to be underestimated.

  I leapt into the room and threw the heavy champagne bottle like a tomahawk, the perfect projectile to shatter against the guard’s skull and render him insensate.

  Except I missed. The bottle connected with his stomach, rendering him merely astonished.

  Damn it. Looks so easy in Last
of the Mohicans.

  He made a “Huuuuuhg,” sound.

  I landed on him, feet first. We toppled the chair over backwards and my bare foot crushed his throat closed.

  He gasped and groaned and fumbled for his pistol.

  Ernst stirred.

  I retrieved the fallen champagne bottle and hit Ernst in the head. A solid connection, which sent painful frissons up my arm. The glass didn’t break but Ernst’s head nearly did.

  The guard successfully yanked his pistol free. Crouching on his chest and throat, I took the pistol barrel in one hand and hit him in the nose with the other until he released.

  I removed my foot from his neck. He curled into a ball, hacking and holding his nose. I cocked the gun.

  “Oh Mackenzie,” squeaked Aurora. “That was magnifico!”

  “Thanks. I went for a jog last week, so that helped.”

  “Kill them, kill them!” She hopped and clapped her hands again. “You said you would.”

  “Yeah but…look at them.” Ernst moved not. The guard coughed and crimson burst from his nose and he whimpered. “They’re pathetic.”

  “So?”

  “So I have a heart of gold,” I said. “Aurora, did you order the champagne?”

  “I did not. A gift from the hotel.”

  “Was there a note?”

  “No, my American King.”

  Who could the saboteur be?

  I went to Ernst and rifled his pockets for a phone. Found it. Used his thumb to unlock the screen. He moaned.

  “Oh nuts,” I said.

  “What? Tell me!” Aurora hurried over on short steps.

  “My wrist band is controlled by his phone. But he has a zillion apps.” I scrolled through. A lesser man would be thumbing the screen frantically. “Who needs this many apps? Freaking millennials. Check his pockets for a set of keys. Might be a remote on the chain.”

  “But Mackenzie, maybe we have sex first.”

  “I’m honored by your aspirations, Aurora, but focus.”

  I kept thumbing through apps and folders on screen. Most were in German. Argh.

  Aurora daintily stuck her hand into a pants pocket.

  “This is the most exciting thing in my life.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay, this is it. This one says Mackenzie.”

  The app opened. There were four buttons and an adjustment slider. Probably controlled the dosage? One of the buttons was large and green.

  Not that one, I bet.

  “Mackenzie,” she said.

  “I’m going to try one. I’ve got a one-in-three chance, because I can’t make sense of the symbols.”

  “Mackenzie?” She tapped my shoulder.

  “If this doesn’t work, it might knock me out. In which case you’ve been great and I appreciate your help.”

  “Yes, Mackenzie, but you are in trouble.”

  “Yes Mackenzie,” said a new voice. A sultry feminine and French timbre. “You are in trouble.”

  Emile. She stood at the open door leading to the hallway. Her eyes were arched and narrow, her mouth a tight angry smile. In her hands she held one of the triggers.

  “Oh shit,” I said. “Pardon my French.”

  I pressed a button on Ernst’s iPhone. Nothing happened—I guessed wrong.

  Emile made a tsk’ing sound.

  I leapt at her but I was across the room. Too far.

  Aurora released a scream.

  My wrist beeped. Pressure from the band.

  Emile smirked. I reached her and grabbed her by the throat, my other hand going around her wrist. I forced her backwards into the hallway.

  “You will kill me?” she asked calmly.

  “No.” My fingers squeezed her windpipe, not enough for damage. “But I’ll fantasize about it.”

  “You could do it. You are strong and I am not.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Too bad you are my slave, American.”

  Everything was going heavy.

  She tilted her head forward to kiss me on the mouth.

  “I own you,” she said softly. “You may not leave yet.”

  My knees buckled. I was sliding to the floor.

  “Guards?” she called. “Some help, s'il vous plaît.”

  “Why’d you come back?” My tongue felt thick.

  “Sheer jealousy, my love. I came to watch.”

  “I like Aurora.” My words slurred. Kneeling on the floor. “Way more than you.”

  “Then maybe she needs to die?”

  A guard arrived. A man with dark skin, I think, but everything went fuzzy.

  He said, “What is…what is happening to him? What’d you do?”

  “I have taken back what’s mine.”

  Behind me, Aurora said, “Mackenzie?”

  More guards. Suddenly the hallway was swarming with them.

  13

  The following day, a tailor and I put our heads together and decided on a midnight blue tuxedo with peak lapels and double-buttons. Only slim-fitted couture for me, obviously, because I’m not a savage. In fact, the tailor winked at me and called me a “guappo.” A compliment, I assume.

  I dressed under strict scrutiny. While putting on my shirt and jacket, my ankles were shackled. While putting on pants and socks, my wrists were shackled.

  So untrusting, these German bounty hunters.

  Ernst clearly had a concussion. He’d come to, groggy and dazed. Duane threatened to have Ernst drowned if he sought revenge.

  “I don’t need you fucking up my prize stallion, Ernst, you understand me?” Duane had said in a rasp. “Guys like you, I can buy two of you for ten grand. I need my champion unmolested.”

  Because I hadn’t been successful, and because it generated even more buzz for him, Duane wasn’t angry about my escape attempt. He’d affectionately slapped my cheek and said he liked my spirit.

  Said it was hard to kill a Gurkha, a reference I didn’t understand.

  The one negative consequence of my escapade was that the chief of security bolted a second chain into the floor, across the room. One chain for each hand, limiting my range of motion and stretching my arms wide so that even if I got a key my hands couldn’t reach one another. He oversaw the installation himself, Bluetooth headsets flashing in each ear, and when Duane wasn’t watching he threw me two good kidney punches. While I gasped, he got in my ear and said, “Discipline.”

  So it was with sore ribs that I finished donning the tuxedo. Duane and Emile and Tattoo Neck and two guards came to escort Ernst, Meg, and me to a party they jokingly referred to as a Bunga Bunga. Duane scrutinized me and tried adjusting his tux to look as svelte and debonair as moi. But a man snorting cocaine and cheeseburgers and bourbon arrived to the fashion table at a distinct disadvantage.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Time for the party. I won’t wait for you, Moneybags.”

  Meg and Emile tried not to smile. Duane hated it when I issued orders he had no choice but to obey. It’s the little things in life.

  We rode an elevator to the top floor. I wore chains on wrists and ankles, further precautions for Mackenzie August, the Houdini of private investigators. Before the doors dinged, Emile sighed and said, “Another party full of young women to please the old men. En avoir ras le bol.”

  “You don’t like it, go back to the got’damn room,” said Duane.

  The elevator opened.

  We stepped into a party on the roof. One of those without a central point, no spot of gravity, so everyone floated and tried too hard. Speakers blared, women in sequin bikinis served drinks, the younger adults swam fully clothed (or not fully clothed) in a flashing pool, and their elders sipped cocktails and watched. Spotlights created flares in my vision, blocking the celestial beyond.

  Party-goers spotted and cheered for us. A cartoonish but significant subset wore vests and cowboy hats and boots, complete with revolvers in tooled leather holsters. Some of the girls wore cheerleader uniforms.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Cowboys and
cheerleaders are the recognized international avatar for America?”

  “Avatar,” said Duane. “Sounds right. You claim you’re here for a woman, you destroy the Mexican, refused to kill him, win anyway, then almost escape yesterday…you’re a legend, August. You got fans.”

  “This makes me tired,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  Duane wiped some sweat from his forehead. “I heard Rossi himself might be here. He’s been absent, ’til tonight. Don’t screw this up. You hear?”

  We plunged into the jungle.

  “The Mexicans went home,” called Duane above the throbbing hum and rattle. He shrugged and indicated the party with his thumb. “Otherwise, this place’d be a zoo. I think most Colombians are leaving, also.”

  Armed guards galore. Mostly Italians but also Yakuza and Russian soldiers, standing with arms crossed. Constant vigilance. Duane told Tattoo Neck that next year they needed to bring more guys.

  There won’t be a next year, Duane, I get my way.

  Whining electric drones with cameras hovered in the air, sending a feed to scattered televisions. Some of the mini helicopters ferried bottles. Others toted cash cannons, raining money.

  Above one of the bars a vast digital screen displayed betting lines. I tried to make sense of the Italian and failed.

  Two girls dressed in sheer gowns came for Duane, followed by a man clearly operating as an interpreter. He asked Duane to follow him to the higher table.

  Emile was not invited.

  Duane left without a backwards glance.

  We were all still kids hoping for an invitation to the popular lunch table, I thought. What a mess, we humans.

  The head of security stood nearby, watching me, his Bluetooth earpieces flashing.

  Emile took me by the arm and steered me into the heaving masses. She put her mouth near my ear and said, “This is still very much a man’s world, Mackenzie. What is the English phrase?”

  “The underworld is a patriarchal society.”

  “The wives, we are expected to smile and look the other way while the men gamble and grope and screw in private salons. It is an insult.”

  “I concur, that’s insulting. But you haven’t earned the right to be offended by the exploitive zeitgeist of the Camorra tournament, Emile,” I said.

  “I don’t know the word, zeitgeist.”

  “You participate and profit in the underworld. Yet you think pimps should treat marriage as holy? The oppressors should be progressive in their treatment of the oppressed?”