by Alan Lee
“Today.”
“Today? Go to hell this instant, that absolutely cannot be.”
“Must be,” said Marcus.
“Damn you, sir,” said the tailor. “I was going to wrap this woman in a couture bandage dress so taut the men would be coming at her with scissors.”
Veronica watched him with eyes wide and hopeful, to the extent the tailor thought about kissing her on the lips.
“No time,” said Marcus. “Tight schedule.”
“I need a jacket,” said Manny. “To hide, ahhh, weaponry.”
The man scoffed and waved his hand. “Obviously, beautiful boy. Okay. If it absolutely must be today…”
“Must.”
The tailor’s assistant returned, pen and pad ready.
The haberdasher said, “Off-the-rack it is, and I shall not sleep again. Never in my life have I had such bodies wander innocently into my jaws. Small modifications are a necessity and you cannot, cannot, deny me that. Here’s what I propose.” He waved at Carlos in the doorway. “Pierre Balmain for the muscle, nothing fancy, stretchy distressed jeans and two tees. Trendy enough to pass the muster. Her Majesty preserve us, those biceps. For you well-heeled boys…” He sucked at his front teeth. “You look good in black. Tom Ford all the way for the South African, then, and for you…” He unbuttoned Manny’s shirt far enough to place his hand flat on Manny’s chest. “You’re a boxer? I am overcome. Nothing but form-fitting Armani and Cucinelli, or I’m not worth my needles. Yes? Yes. You’ll both need two casual shirts, two pairs of slacks, and a jacket. Tuxedos are not good enough for you, understand?”
Marcus wondered if he’d be required to expend more resources than he wished on clothes, but the tailor seemed to read his mind.
“This is all covered, black beauty. Never fret. You gods and goddess simply tell the wealthy aristocrats and their whores where you got the fabrics and we’re even, yes? Yes. And now you, my blonde girl,” he said and he started unbuttoning Veronica’s shirt with deft fingers. “So slim and yet so bouncy. How do you feel about Gucci and our pal Valentino and plunging necklines and slip dresses?”
“I think I might cry,” she said.
“Good. I want to watch. Now let’s get you naked.”
28
Later, Manny strode into a gun shop named Lo Sparatutto Felice. The heady bite of fired gunpowder hung thick and the air was pleasantly greased with expensive oil. The floor was polished cement and weaponry decorated every inch of the walls. Mostly small arms, but a display column on the right contained backlit handheld surface-to-air missile launchers and anti-personnel RPGs.
Two bald and elderly gentlemen were bent over a disassembled assault rifle, lovingly polishing and oiling every inch.
They looked up and said, “Benvenuto e buon giorno, giovane signore.”
Manny grinned. “Habla español?”
One of the old men (they were interchangeable and indistinguishable, possibly twins) winced and shrugged, his motions slow.
“Speak English?” asked Manny.
“Ah, yes sir.”
Manny set his heavy .357 magnum on the steel counter and said, “This is the love of my life, señors. But for the next few days I need smaller.”
The man smiled, crinkling his eyes. He had a gentle grandfatherly way of speaking. “Very good. Of course, sir. For what occasion?”
“An indoor party. Party-goers will be wearing vests, my guess.”
“Guards. How many?”
“Mucho.”
The gunsmith affectionately set down the stock he’d been holding. “Here to watch the tournament, then.”
“Here for a friend. Save a life.”
“Not to take?”
“Only when necessary. But, friendly old man, it will be necessary.”
“You are a professional, sir?”
Manny shrugged and waffled his hand. “More than amateur. And I need to blend in.”
“A handgun.”
“Two, por favor.”
“Preference?” the elderly man asked.
“You have Beretta M9?”
“Of course, sir. The Polizia di Stato use the Beretta 92FS.”
“From Italy.”
“Yes, but if I may make a suggestion?” the man said. He and his counterpart spoke briefly in Italian, and he wiped his hands on a white cloth. “The new Beretta A3…how do you say in English…update? The update has a seventeen-round magazine and a thinner grip. Easier to conceal, sir.”
“Perfecto.”
“And your other choice?”
Manny said, “Something quiet.”
“Suppressed.”
“Sí.”
“How many rounds will be fired suppressed?”
Manny made a happy humming noise. “Good question. Not many. One magazine?”
“Indoor.”
“Probably.”
“Your aim is good?”
Manny grinned. “Better than good.”
“Subsonic ammunition, then. I have specially made cartridges for the HK-23 and I think you’ll be pleased. Would you care to try them on our range, sir?”
“We both would,” said Marcus Morgan, walking in with a new gray shirt and black sports jacket combo by Tom Ford. Though unwilling to admit it, he thought he looked sexy as hell. Especially with the silver Versace aviator sunglasses. He laid a stack of euros and a red-tipped aurum next to Manny’s .357.
The old man’s face relaxed and brightened at the same time. “Ah. I see. Very good, sirs.”
Manny said, “Where’s Ronnie?”
“Trying on every damn outfit in Italy. Carlos on duty.”
“I bet he enjoying that show.”
“We both were. S’why I had to leave. My head about explode,” said Marcus.
“My señorita heats up the room.”
“Ain’t particularly modest, neither. Your señorita?”
“Mack’s. But I call dibs, he gets killed. You know, because of Kix.”
Manny and Marcus followed the gunsmith behind the wall to a padded firing range. He tottered into a cage of shelves to find the promised handguns.
Marcus picked up a heavy set of protective earmuffs. “Can’t believe I’m buying illegal handguns with a fucking federal marshal.”
“Right? Life is beautiful, mijo. How many diamonds you think that bazooka cost?”
29
The tailor finished bringing Veronica clothes and marking alterations. He set two assistants to sewing, and he sat beside her on a straight-backed Benetti chair while she tried on necklaces. He drank whiskey and languidly gushed compliments, like a man basking in post-coital afterglow.
He said, “You say you’re from Switzerland, darling.”
She arched an eyebrow at him but didn’t answer.
“But I bet,” he said and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “You’re here to root for the American.”
She shrugged a shoulder, a move she knew drove the boys wild. The tailor, forty years her elder and deeply gay, admired the motion.
He said, “Surely you were there last night, at the drawing.”
“I wasn’t. We only just landed.”
“Good hell, my bosomy plaything, but you heard what he did?”
Veronica’s pulse quickened. She turned her gaze back to the mirror and mastered her emotions. Something she was good at.
She said, “I haven’t heard. Tell me?”
“I did not attend, you understand. I hear second hand. But apparently the American is aggressively handsome and monstrous. He insulted the infamous Ferrari, who is the master of ceremonies, of course. He threatened to kill all the guests and destroy the hotel. Refused to be tattooed. And drove a fork into the eye socket of the Yakuza champion. So the story goes, four guards are not enough to subdue him, the sexy animal.”
Veronica peered hard into the mirror, forcing back a smile and a flood of tears.
“And,” said the tailor. “He did it all without breaking a sweat, they say. Very James Bond.”
&n
bsp; Veronica bit her lip and closed her eyes.
The tailor’s story was the most Mackenzie August thing she’d ever heard and her heart threatened to burst.
He said, “You are here for the American.”
“If what you say is true, who wouldn’t be?”
“If he wins tonight, perhaps you should bid on him. Could be the most unforgettable hour of your life.”
“Bid on him?” asked Veronica. “You mean, for sex? You’re joking.”
“Oh my love,” chuckled the tailor. “Welcome to Naples.”
She returned to the palazzo at the pre-determined time for a late lunch. She carried five bags and the promise the rest of the group’s clothing would be ready by dinner.
Marcus sat beside her and drank coffee, checking his phone in a state of discontent.
“Where’s Carlos?” he said.
“Poor Carlos was bored to tears so I released him. Any news on a room at the Teatro di Montagna?”
“Still waiting. Apparently this year is less bloody than usual so far.”
“If there’s no room available for us by dinner, I’ll get myself invited and wait for you inside,” she said. She examined the menu without an appetite, her thoughts entirely occupied by her husband, locked away in the impenetrable fortress. “What time is the fight?”
“Dunno. Tonight. How you gonna get yourself invited?”
“Promiscuity. Or at least the promise of it. Men are idiots, Marcus,” she said.
“I’m aware.”
Veronica related the story about Mackenzie at last night’s drawing. Marcus listened without comment but she noted the muscles flexing and bunching in his arms on the table. At the end, finally, he said, “Fucking Duane Chambers. Not happy with that man.”
Carlos returned an hour later, looking like a new species in his thousand-dollar outfit. Muscle but with style. “The city? I have been learning. It is a war zone,” he said.
“A war zone.”
“The Camorra. They are angry. But at each other.”
Veronica said, “Infighting within the ranks?”
“The Camorra ain’t like the Kings,” said Marcus. “No hierarchy, strict or loose. Buncha clans, buncha shifting alliances. Whoever got the most power? He’s in charge till someone pops him.”
“Man name Rossi,” said Carlos. “He in charge. Today. But the man, he is hated. Will be war soon, señor. Already the fighters talk.”
“Talk to you?”
“Sí. I know people here. Worked in Naples ten years ago. I say I hate Rossi. They ask me to fight.” He held up his burner cellphone, vibrating incessantly with incoming texts. “I’m on group message. Ay dios mio.”
“Handy contacts,” mused Marcus.
Manny reappeared an hour later. He wore designer jeans and a cashmere sports jacket with Givenchy metal sunglasses. Nearby men and women gaped at him as he ordered a coffee and sat down.
Veronica caught the flash of a pistol carried in a shoulder holster. The tailor would weep if he saw the Armani shirt worn under a gun.
He stirred his fancy powder into the coffee, sipped, and said, “We got a room at the mountain hotel.”
“The theater on the mountain,” corrected Veronica. “How do you know?”
“Have it on good authority a room opened.”
Marcus grinned. “Good authority.”
He took more coffee. “A Japanese man staying there, he died. Nasty coño, needed killing.” Though he’d been living in America most of his life, Manny still stumbled through words beginning with an S and another consonant. He pronounced it, “estaying.”
Veronica said, “Needed killing? You shot him?”
“Found him abusing a whore, mamasita. Had to. Best of all, hombre had three diamonds in his pocket,” he said and he held up a small pouch dangling from his pointer finger. “The red kind.”
“Stealing aurum,” said Marcus. “A much bigger offense than killing a man.”
“So maybe I don’t tell nobody. No way to track them, sí?”
“Correct. Decentralized. You got’em, they yours. Like bearer bonds.”
“I sent his body to the hotel, because manners make the man. S’what Mack says.”
“Sound like the profoundly stupid shit he says.” Marcus stood. “Can’t believe it, but I miss him. Almost dinner. Let’s go.”
30
Although the Teatro di Montagna’s lobby was mostly deserted, Veronica and Manny caused a quiet and dignified stir as they entered. Manny walked with the casual swagger that originates from confidence and athleticism and carelessness. Veronica moved with a sensuous cat-walk that comes from strong long legs and heels. She wore an embroidered silk mini-shift dress, the color of ivory, perfect for a lady of leisure walking in from shopping. She wished her legs were a little darker to offset the ivory, but it was November and the sun had been poor in Virginia. Carlos and valet boys carried their luggage.
She did her best to act as if twenty-thousand-dollar brocade sofas and soaring cathedral ceilings with travertine arches was nothing special. The tiger lounging near the three-tiered fountain was a little much, though.
She and Manny washed their hands with lemongrass-scented warm towels and accepted champagne aperitifs from the concierge’s assistant.
Manny checked in at the marble reception desk and declared he would be taking the room that just opened. The severe reception clerk examined him and Veronica, and Marcus, and then Carlos.
“It’s a small room, I’m afraid, Señor Garcia,” he said, using the name from Manny’s passport. “Not a suite. A mere two beds.”
Veronica set her crystal champagne flute on the counter. “È un onore soggiornare in qualsiasi stanza disponibile nel tuo hotel di lusso. E inoltre, sono più intraprendente di quanto sembri, signore.”
It’s an honor to stay in any available room at your fine hotel. And also, I am more adaptable than I appear, sir.
The man, undone by Veronica’s wink and her perfect Italian, blushed and nodded his head. He said, “Sì signora, molto bene. E ti avviserò se si apre una stanza più adatta.”
Veronica translated for Manny. “We’re taking it, and he’ll notify us if a more suitable room opens.”
Manny said, “Tell him that’s perfect.”
“He speaks English, doll.”
“Oh yes.”
Ronnie told the attendant, “Anche se vengo dalla Svizzera, mi piacerebbe incontrare il campione americano. È possibile? Dove rimane?”
Although I am from Switzerland, I would like to meet the American champion. Is that possible? Where does he stay?
He replied, “Mi dispiace, signorina. I campioni sono nascosti dietro le porte sorvegliate. Una visita è impossibile.”
I am sorry, miss. The champions are hidden behind guarded doors. A visit is impossible.
Manny caught the gist. He thought about pulling a gun and making demands, but the lobby was well guarded and dozens more could be called for. The time for war was later.
Veronica began a polite plea but he interrupted her, insisting, “Se ti sbrighi puoi ordinare la cena, cambiare e avere ancora tempo per guardare il combattimento. Ma devi essere veloce. L'ora si avvicina!”
If you hurry you can order dinner, change, and still have time to watch the fight. But you must be quick. The hour approaches.
31
Finding Mackenzie before the first fight would be impossible. Veronica knew it immediately, as she got lost simply making their way to the room. Not all elevators went to all floors, random hallways were barred, and the lounges, salons, and restaurants seemed haphazardly thrown in with the guest quarters. She knew there must be a method to the madness but it felt like a jumbled ten-floor casino, much of which was hidden intentionally.
But oh, what a casino. For a woman who usually suppressed her delight in traveling, the Teatro di Montagna was methadone. She wanted to examine the teak floors and oriental rugs, and try the furniture in every nook they passed, each with steaming samovars. Such perfect settee
and jardiniere arrangements were impossible.
Their room was clearly one of those the architect shoehorned in to maximize income—an awkward and inefficient space. Honeymooners might call it cozy and romantic.
Veronica said, “It’s darling and quaint.”
Marcus grumbled, “Fucking tiny.”
The porters hung up bags full of clothing delivered by the tailor and they left.
“We here,” said Marcus, looking at the solemn group. “Anybody got a bright idea?”
“We can’t release Mackenzie before the first fight,” said Veronica. “This is much more sophisticated and elaborate than I imagined.”
“Could try,” said Marcus. “But got no real chance. We all be dead. And I ain’t about that.”
Manny nodded. “Agree. Mack, he wins tonight. We bust him out tomorrow.”
“You think he will?” asked Veronica.
“I know it, mamita.”
“Me too,” she said. “He can be a shockingly terrifying man, when he chooses.”
“An issue,” said Marcus, holding up two golden slips of paper. “This room provides two tickets to tonight’s festivities. But we got four people here.”
“I’m going,” said Veronica. “Full disclosure.”
“Obvious. Manny?”
“Hashtag me too, señor.”
“Carlos and me, we’ll get drinks at a bar. Maybe tag along behind the fighters as they come back,” said Marcus.
“Perfect. In the meantime, I’m commandeering the lady’s room for the next sixty minutes. Minimum.”
Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “Us fine gentlemen, we’ll scout the other women’s attire.” He pronounced it, “ehscout,” a mispronunciation that somehow sounded sensuous out of his lips, Ronnie thought. “Report on how formal the women dressing.”
“Sometimes, Manny, you’re surprisingly thoughtful.”
“Yeah, it’s weird,” said Marcus. “I seen you shoving your gun into kids’ mouths before, but then you got this sensitive side.”
