by Alan Lee
Her grip on my bicep tightened. “I think a woman with an unfaithful husband should feel no reason to remain loyal, Mackenzie. And that the husband shouldn’t be surprised at the lack of loyalty.”
“Maybe the wife should remain loyal to herself. And to her promises, even if not to the man.”
“To herself? What does that mean? Why should she do that?”
I said, “Because she has to live with herself. She has to sleep at night. Because revenge and hedonism will not calm the storm.”
“But it might make the storm bearable, Mackenzie.”
“Not in my experience, though I claim to be a steward of no one except myself.”
We stopped. Her hand released my arm.
“Wait, I have a son,” I said. “I need to restate my jurisdiction.”
“We are here,” she said. “Another chance for you to be judged and shine.”
We stood on the edge of the enormous pool. It was lit on all sides by alternating submerged lights and the colors pulsated. Men and women in various states of undress splashed and cackled.
A floating barge drifted our way. The platform was large, roomy enough to hold four chairs. Three of the chairs were occupied.
I recognized the occupants—the three remaining mafia champions.
Ernst clipped a small microphone onto my lapel and slapped me on the shoulder. Hard.
The barge stopped at my feet and guards pushed me onto the platform. I had to either sit in the open chair or fall. The barge returned to drift in the middle of the pool, guided by swimmers. Cones of brilliance followed us, blasted by spotlights on towers.
“And then there were four,” I said.
“Ah, the American Yankee,” said a darkly handsome man. O Principe, the local favorite. “Good of you to join.”
“The hell is going on?”
With leonine indifference, he indicated the microphone on my lapel with his martini glass. “We are the entertainment, of course. We are being recorded and broadcast. Look and see. Many partiers, they sit with headphones, listening. Deciding where to place their money. Even in other parts of the hotel, they listen. The rest will read transcripts in the morning when headaches wear off.”
The Prince and I sat opposite each other on the floating barge. To my right, the Russian. To my left, the enormous Yakuza champion. The barge tilted his direction.
The Russian was not a tall man, but solidly built, like an Armata tank. His left ear had been cut off. His left eye was swollen shut. His other eye was lifeless, like a ball bearing. His right arm rested prolapsed in a sling.
I told him, “Here’s hoping I get to fight you next.”
The Russian did not smile.
He said, “My fight, almost fifteen minutes. Battle with weapons. The Colombian, he died well.”
The Prince smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “Died slow and messy, is what I heard. You want a drink, American?”
“I do. Beer.”
The man leaned down to an attendant swimming in the water and said, “Birra per l’Americano. Grazie.”
A swimmer brought me a Peroni in a glass. I drank some. Perhaps the most delicious thing I’d ever consumed.
“Why do you wear those?” asked the Prince, indicating my chains.
“They aren’t worn volitionally.”
“Which is why you must, no? A shame, American. You are unable to enjoy the tournament.”
“I enjoy my life. Looking forward to returning to it.”
He said, “You will win the Gabbia Cremisi?”
“Or leave it.”
The Prince laughed, good-natured and rich. He wore a tux, similar to mine, but his shirt was black. His right leg was draped over his left. He raised his martini glass to me. “I admire the courage. But how?”
“I’ll pave the streets with the dead, if I have to.”
“But you are religious, I hear, no?”
“I’m not good at it.”
“The first you must kill…” He nodded at the sumo wrestler. “Riku. The Yakuza champion.”
Riku had come out of his fight unscathed, other than a few contusions on his neck. Riku did not deign to look at me.
“Opponents have already been drawn?” I said.
“Yes. And your opponent…” He nodded again at the Japanese man. “In the opening round, he killed the Triad by squeezing him to death.”
“What do the rules say about bringing a fork?”
The hardscrabble Russian victor sniffed. Some would call it derisive. “I fight O Principe. I will not last first round. I accept death.”
“Shame on you for not ending the Colombian more quickly. Most money is placed on the third minute,” said the Prince and he shrugged one shoulder. Almost a feminine movement. “But maybe you live until the fourth?”
The Russian spit at him.
“Minute means nothing. World knows you cheat,” he said. “The Russian Brotherhood is not dishonored by you.”
“Or maybe the first minute.” The Prince leaned forward to me, conspiratorially. “Do you see? Look at their faces. Around the pool with headphones. Millions in betting. Maybe billions. On which minute the Russian will die. How do you not enjoy this?”
“My soul is still in one piece. That’s how.” I turned to the giant sumo wrestler. “You and me?”
The colossus made a grunting noise.
“I accept your surrender,” I said.
He grunted again.
“It was your brother I stabbed in the eye? You guys look the same. Is that racist? Tell him I’m sorry.”
“Riku cannot speak, Yankee. Like his twin, the man whose life you saved with a fork, Riku’s tongue was removed by the Yakuza.”
“That’s disturbing,” I said. “I am disturbed.”
“But look here.” Our barge was slowly rotating and the Prince had to point over his shoulder. “You are the favorite at the moment. Two-to-one, over the giant.”
I drank some beer. “Even though I didn’t kill my previous opponent? Seems aspirational.”
“Do you still refuse to fight, American? Be careful how you answer. The world listens.”
“I won’t kill him, no. Hopefully he’s smart enough to realize that we don’t need to die. Ferrari and the Executioner would never kill us both if we refuse.”
He released another good-natured laugh. “Still looking for a loophole, eh? You Americans can be so—”
“Handsome? Endearing? Muscular?”
“Falsely virtuous. It is cute.”
“It’s not virtue. It’s pragmatism. Also, one day, when I write my first book, I’ll entitle it ‘Ferrari and the Executioner.’ It’s a romance.”
“Speaking of stories, are the tales about you true, Yankee? Did you kill the Gurkha with his own knife? Did you pull a man’s throat out of his chest in an American card game?”
The Prince was the second man to mention me killing a Gurkha, one of the world’s most fearsome fighters, and Duane said I did it last night, in the hallway. Figure that’d be something I’d recall.
I shrugged. “About the Gurkha, I don’t remember. Duane Chambers seems to think I did. About the throat, I think that’s impossible. But it wasn’t fun for either of us.”
More and more partiers were losing their clothes and leaping into the pool. The naked and elite milieu gathered around us to listen and scream. In an open-aired lounge above the bar, Duane reclined at a table with other dignitaries. A girl sat beside him, rubbing his shoulders.
I scanned the rest of the audience. Unlike the crowd in the arena, here the throng individuated into persons. The man or woman who slipped me the handcuff key, was he or she here? Watching? Could I expect further help?
It was a mystery.
The Prince grinned and called to the swimmers. They responded with delirious gaiety.
“Why’d you return?” I asked him. “One trip through this madhouse would be enough for me.”
“The life I lead is lavish. One week here and I’m wealthy again. Simple as th
at. Besides, with or without the tournament, I’m not long for this world, as you say in America. Dead meat, no?”
“Don’t have to be. I got a spare bedroom. After we get out, come for a visit. We’ll grill steaks and not stab one another and talk about life.”
He appeared genuinely surprised. “You’re inviting me to your home?”
“Sure. I think you and my roommate might be soul mates.”
“You have roommates.”
“Sometimes I have a lot of them,” I said.
“I wonder if your hospitality is genuine. But it wouldn’t work. You see, I play the game. The clash of clans, as it were, with the other Camorristi. But, alas, it is a loser’s game.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’ve played too long. There are very few elderly in the mafia. My time is up soon, I think. Finish off Riku here and perhaps you can do the honors,” he said, slapping the giant affectionately on the hand.
The sumo wrestler did not return the affection.
“I’m not killing either one of you,” I said.
There came a murmur from our audience of listeners.
“Then it is you who are playing the loser’s game, my American friend.”
14
Like a pregame ritual, I stood at my window looking over Vomero while Meg slathered my tattoo with ointment. She wore her scrubs, I wore my patriotic fighting shorts.
“Civil unrest has escalated,” I noted.
She looked past me, through the glass.
I watched her reflection. Her short blond hair was pinned back with pink clips and she wore no jewelry of any kind, giving her the appearance of a child. Time hadn’t begun to etch lines into her face but a frown pushed a furrow between her plucked eyebrows.
The city teemed like an anthill. Up here the denizens walked more often than drove, scuttling to and fro with groceries and children. Their steps were hurried.
“I can’t hear it. But I see it. The people are agitated.”
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“I’m a trained investigator. I’m deeply shrewd. And three fires are burning today, whereas previously I only saw one. Most of the laundry has been taken off the lines. Look at that woman there, in the hat. She is frantic. Tugging her children, looking over her shoulder.”
Meg pointed to the north, almost out of our line of sight. “That fire looks close.”
“It started here on the mountain, not below. As I said before, in my sagest voice, civil unrest has accumulated.”
“You said escalated.”
“Whatever, shut up. Point is, Meg the vile physician, the Camorra clans are warring.”
“It’s worse this year, I heard. And I am not vile.”
I wanted to scratch my nose but I was at the limit of the two chains, my hands stretched to either side. I said, “Something to do with the Prince. He was Rossi’s pick for champion, which angered Di Contini’s disciples.”
“I think it has to do with you, too. You’ve made a bigger impression than most champions.”
“Obviously.”
She drew a shaky breath. “This is madness. I can’t believe I’m in a hotel dedicated to a blood sport, run by the mafia, on a mountain in Naples, surrounded by protestors starting fires.”
“This wasn’t covered in your Organic Chemistry class?”
“I can’t help you escape, Mackenzie. I can’t. They’ll kill me.”
“I haven’t asked you to.”
Could it have been Meg who slipped me the handcuff key? It was hard to peer under her glassine carapace, but I suspected I’d find treachery beneath. Not sugar and spice and everything nice.
“I know. But…” She finished with the ointment, screwed the lid back on, and stood beside me to watch the city revolt. I didn’t worry about the fire or protests reaching us. With enough money you can do anything. And the people inside the Theater on the Mountain had enough.
She asked, “In the cage, will you fight?”
“Artfully phrased.”
“I know you’re fighting Mr. Chambers and Ferrari outside of it, as best you can, but what about the Yakuza champion?”
“I won’t kill him,” I said. “Even if he’ll never taste pizza again, he shouldn’t be thrown into a cage to die.”
“What will you do?”
“I have a plan. It’s the best plan.”
“Tell me.”
“Under no circumstances, foul physician. You are party to miscreants.”
She groaned and elbowed me. “I’m in your corner, Mackenzie. Literally. You can’t win if you won’t kill him.”
“I can try. And that’s almost important as the outcome.”
“In what universe is trying and failing almost as important as living?”
“Don’t get me wrong, the outcome concerns me. But I’m equally concerned with how I handle adversity. What would it profit me to win the tournament but lose my soul. Write that down.”
She rubbed at the furrows between her eyes and sighed. “Let’s deal with facts and imminent realities, Mackenzie. Blood, sweat, bones, and injuries, not philosophy. What will you do when he attacks? He’s immense.”
“Duck.”
“Duck?”
“I’ll duck.”
“You’re an ass,” she said. “How can you be so intelligent and use the sophisticated vocabulary that you do, and say duck? Be serious. This terrifies me.”
“Me too.”
“Maybe you need cocaine. I might snort a line myself.”
“No thanks. Clear eyes, full heart.”
“You’re quoting that football show.”
“Friday Night Lights? I’ll never tell.”
She stomped her foot. “Why are you so maddening? This is not the time to be eccentric.”
“On the contrary, this is the best time.”
“I hope you win,” she said. “But maybe the giant could smack you first. A good bell ringing might be what the doctor ordered.”
15
Duane’s retinue escorted me to the same white room as before. The number of guards had tripled, Duane said, “Because I don’t trust those fucking Japs.” Above and around us, it sounded like the Rose Bowl was gearing up for kick off.
Duane’s nerves had got the best of him again. He paced and sweated and swore. Beneath his nose, flecks of a white powder had embedded into stubble follicles.
“August, the Italian Prince, you know the guy?”
“I do. Handsome fellow. Excellent manners.”
“Excellent manners. Whatever. He’s going to win tonight. Quick. You hear me? He’ll go into the final fight without a scratch,” said Duane.
“Which means,” said his wife Emile, wearing what looked like a luxury bathrobe made out of silk. She also wore heels. Her eyes drifted over me. Like a predator examining a meal. “You should defeat your opponent quickly. With all body parts intact and functional.”
“The other night at the pool, Rossi was there but I didn’t talk to him. Bastard hung in the shadows with his new girlfriend. But Ferrari mentioned to me,” said Duane, and he wiped his forehead. “Ferrari told me, Rossi has taken note of the American. The head of the Camorra, talking about August. Hear that? I knew this trip was a good idea.”
“Release me,” I said. “And you may yet still live, Duane.”
“Christ almighty. Maybe you should focus on killing the Jap.”
“I won’t kill him.”
He made a shrug. “Yeah. Whatever. Choke him out, let the Executioner do his thing. I don’t care, long as you don’t die.” He shook his finger at me. “I’m letting all the winnings ride tonight. Understand?”
“A fool and his money.”
“Stop saying that. It irritates me.” He paused, looked like he wanted to say more, but changed his mind. He straightened his tuxedo and shifted uncomfortably.
“You’re dismissed, Duane,” I said.
“You don’t tell me what to do.”
“I dismiss you. Leave.”
&nbs
p; His face did a glower. “I’m going. But not because you say to.”
“Take Emile with you. Hold the door for her. Treat her well.”
“I do that anyway,” he said and she scoffed.
They left, looking strained and uncomfortable.
Ernst pulled a German KM military knife from his belt and pressed the point into my throat. The four guards tensed and their hands went to their electroshock sidearms.
Meg squeaked. “Ernst, what! Knock it off.”
“I wish to gut you, Herr August,” said Ernst. His nose was almost touching mine. This close, his face and eyes looked swollen and liverish. I bet he’d put on five pounds in the four days we’d been in Naples. “But I am not allowed. Yet. You try to escape again? I open your windpipe. And enjoy it.”
I whispered. “Gross.”
“The noise. It makes the concussion worse.”
Zee concussion vorse.
“Tylenol, German bounty hunter. Works wonders.”
“The Yakuza giant,” said Ernst, backing up and sheathing his knife. “He squeezes you. I will laugh as you die.”
“What an ugly thing to say. Does this mean we aren’t friends anymore? You know, Ernst, if we aren’t friends, I don’t think I could bear it.”
Meg said, “That’s another quote isn’t it.”
“Yes but I’m botching it.”
Ferrari’s voice filled the world and the tumult above our heads increased. The wall sconce shook and the light vibrated.
At 9:30, judging by sounds, the Prince and the Russian joined in combat.
At 9:32, judging by sounds, the Russian lost.
My guess, the Prince bet on himself through a shell investor for the second minute. Long enough to land a few punches, get position on his severely wounded opponent, choke him out, and make a fortune.
Two guards near the door bumped fists.
The man wearing a radio and mic arrived in a huff and beckoned us follow. We trudged through the dark hallways, chasing the chants, and into the same little holding cell as before. The roof rattled from footsteps above and dust filtered down.
My praetorian guards drew their electroshock weapons. Ernst jammed a key into my ankle and wrist shackles, setting me loose.
