Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  “Not a kid, hombre,” said Manny. “He was a teenager. Big difference. Vamos!”

  Despite Veronica’s best efforts they still missed the first fight. It had been a slaughter under five minutes.

  An usher escorted them to their seats, high above the cage, near the cupola. The cheap section, though that was a relative term. The higher they went, the louder and more bloodthirsty the fans. An eclectic mix of the crazy rich below, closer to the action, and the bourgeoisie above. The nosebleeds were for the merely rich, not the wealthy. And high over all, the ring of honor. The suites had open-air seating and glass floors, letting the mafia bosses and the billionaires look directly down on the action.

  Manny and Veronica had seats next to the aisle. One of the servers bowed politely and asked, “Vorresti una bevanda?”

  Would you care for a beverage?

  Veronica said, “No. Grazie.”

  He smiled and placed a small radio in their hands. The radio had two dials—one for volume and the other for channels. Manny inserted the earpiece and toyed with it.

  He told Veronica, “Translations. English, and Italian, and Spanish, and…others that don’t matter.”

  The announcer’s voice boomed out of speakers, drowning out the violins and cellos.

  Veronica gripped Manny’s hand and shut her eyes.

  The next fight was between the Russian and Colombian. Veronica kept her eyes closed during the first round, but a burst of electricity announced the second and she couldn’t help herself. Would these men actually hurl each other into the cage?

  “This is barbaric,” she told Manny but no one heard. Manny was cheering as loudly as the rest.

  For the final round, weapons raised from the floor. Short sword and a shield for each.

  The combatants began losing body parts and Veronica placed a trembling hand over her mouth and shut her eyes again.

  Poor sweet Mackenzie.

  She would kill Darren Robbins herself.

  Finally, after an eternity, the crowd roared. The Colombian had given up the ghost. The Russians helped their champion limp away and the dead Colombian was dragged off to the tune of a mournful dirge.

  “Holy fuck,” she moaned. “Where are the vomit bags.”

  The voice came over the speakers again, rattling her teeth. She heard the name Mackenzie and she gripped Manny harder to keep from falling.

  The crowd began a chant.

  “Yan-kee! Yan-kee!”

  Mackenzie appeared, walking within a guarded retinue. He wore red, white, and blue fighting shorts; no shirt. He moved around easily, loose and ready.

  “There he is, Manny, do you see?” she cried.

  He towered over his opponent, a fighter from the Zetas. The Mexican looked strong and wiry but Mackenzie was a weapon of war. His shoulders were beefy, his chest thick, arms made of rock. He wore muscle like armor.

  Veronica never loved anyone or anything as much as she loved him in that moment. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

  “What’ll he do?” she shouted into Manny’s ear. “I know Mackenzie, he would never kill that tiny man.”

  Manny shook his head. His eyes were hard and muscles in his jaw kept bunching.

  Mackenzie did something that caught the attention of the entire arena. He looked at the suites above and stuck up his thumb.

  “What is that, what’s he doing,” Veronica asked no one in particular. Then, “What’s that on his back? Is that…did he get a tattoo?”

  “Simon, looks like.”

  “What’s it say? King? …I kinda like it.”

  The round began and Mackenzie played defense. So did the Mexican.

  Veronica joined in the cheers.

  After a minute, the Mexican kicked Mackenzie in the head and they both went to the mat. Veronica couldn’t see over the raging fans so she stepped into the aisle.

  “The Mexican is biting him!” she shouted, going up even higher on her tiptoes. “That little piece of shit is insane!”

  Mackenzie threw him off and stood. It looked to Veronica like Mackenzie was trying to talk to the Zeta champion.

  A server was ascending the stairs and Veronica grabbed him for support. The young man took a second glance at Veronica, stunning in her strapless red minidress, and decided he liked the arrangement.

  Within the cage, Mackenzie stuck his thumb up again.

  “What is that?” she called. “What’s he doing with his hand?”

  The young man she clung to didn’t know.

  A lady in front of them, a classy Chinese woman wearing a cheongsam the color of midnight, turned and explained in her best English, “He fight for the Kings. The American, he been told he be killed even if he win. We think he refuse to fight!”

  “Oh my god,” said Veronica.

  “Yes we think too!”

  “He’s pointing his fist at the suites,” Veronica shouted at Manny. “At Duane, I bet, that asshole.”

  Manny said, “Makes sense. Mack is bartering with Duane. Maybe won’t fight until Duane give him thumbs up?”

  Half of the audience was now pumping their thumbs into the air.

  The pretty Chinese woman said, “I love you dress. Where did get it?”

  Below, Mackenzie got to his knees and closed his eyes.

  “Oh shit,” said Veronica. “What the hell’s he doing?”

  The man (Indonesian maybe?) in front of Manny had been casting a leery eye at Veronica. He turned and politely whispered to Manny, “She is with you?”

  “Yes, my…I forget. Girlfriend, maybe?”

  “She is for sale?”

  Manny laughed and clapped the man on the shoulder. “You can try. But also I might shoot you in the…groin, I think, is the English word, sí? You know the word groin?”

  The Mexican suddenly leapt on Mackenzie and began choking him. The crowd roared as Mackenzie was bent backwards.

  “Oh merda,” Manny groaned. He laced his hands into his hair.

  “What’s he doing!”

  “He dying,” said the Chinese woman, still fingering Veronica’s dress.

  Veronica screamed until she and Mackenzie were both red in the face. The server holding onto her joined the screaming.

  “Get up!”

  Yan-kee, yan-kee!

  Mackenzie kept pumping his fist, thumb upwards. So did the rest of the crowd.

  There! She found the American suite, above the red, white and blue section. A man paced back and forth. She didn’t know what Duane looked like, but she assumed that was him. A woman swatted at him with her clutch purse. Most of the crowd was waving their thumb at him. She and Manny were in the seats dominated by the Triads, across the stadium.

  Finally, as Veronica ran short on oxygen, Duane stuck his thumb into the air.

  Quick as a wink, Mackenzie escaped and regained his feet.

  “I’m going to pass out,” said Veronica, who genuinely felt lightheaded. The young server put his arm around her waist.

  Time was almost up in the round.

  Mackenzie cornered the Mexican and threw a vicious combination of punches and the man fell. Every section except the Zeta’s erupted. Mackenzie returned to his corner and sat down.

  “What he do,” shouted the Chinese woman. “Kill him!”

  He won’t, thought Veronica.

  No chance, not Mackenzie.

  The voice came through the speakers again, declaring the American the winner. Veronica’s eyes widened as the Executioner hefted his axe and entered the cage.

  “But you tell me,” said the pretty Chinese woman. “Where you get dress?”

  32

  Twenty minutes later, they met at a bar called Sangue e Tonico on the fourth floor. The fights had been broadcast on flat screens for those without tickets, and Marcus Morgan had watched with professional concern and Carlos had left finger print indentions in the standing wooden table.

  Manny and Veronica joined them, a bit shell-shocked, and called for drinks.

  “I cannot believe su
ch a brutal and savage spectacle exists. Is the Italian court system non-existent?” said Veronica, and she drained half her white wine.

  “Exists. And on the take.”

  She said, “Our gang of renegades should invade Darren Robbins’s house and take turns shooting him.”

  Manny raised his glass to her. “My kinda woman.”

  “Mack was taken to the second floor,” reported Marcus. “Into an unmarked and guarded hallway. Couldn’t follow past.”

  “He see you?”

  “Nope.”

  Carlos set down his beer, still sweating from watching Mackenzie. “Hard to fight our way in.”

  “More like impossible,” said Marcus. “Dunno where in the fucking hallway they took him. Take time. We find him, be hard to fight back out. Need more information.”

  “Imma get into that hallway,” said Manny. “Do some reconnaissance.”

  “How?”

  “The hotel employees.” He indicated two guys passing the bar. Young men wearing black shirts and crimson vests. “Some be Hispanic. Imma take the uniform and wear it with pride, migos.”

  Manny’s phone was laying flat on the table and it beeped. Incoming next message. He glanced at it and grinned.

  “Just made fifty grand. Drinks on your favorite Spic.”

  Marcus said, “Fifty grand ain’t chump change. How you manage that?”

  “I bet on big Mack. He was getting great odds yesterday.” He shrugged and waggled the phone proudly. “Bet twenty, my entire savings, end up with fifty. So easy even a Puerto Rican can do it.”

  Veronica finished the wine and set the glass down with conviction. “You just reminded me. I was told we could bid on the winners.”

  “Bid on them?”

  “The winners are put up for auction. Like a stud horse. For one hour.” She stood. “I’m going to win Mackenzie.”

  Marcus stood. “I’ll help you bid.”

  “Duane might be there, and he’ll recognize you,” she said.

  “Hm.”

  “I got this.”

  Manny tossed back his gin and tonic. Wiped his mouth. “Imma get my hands on a uniform. Break into the hallway.”

  “Me and Carlos,” said Marcus. “We’ll be nearby, case we gotta shoot our way out. Carlos is ready to die, need be.”

  He grinned. Carlos nodded.

  Veronica followed a crowd of glamorous women and their wealthy bloated husbands to the fifth floor, where she discovered something of a betting hub. A central bar formed the eye of the hurricane, serving drinks in all directions. The patrons gossiped and pointed at screens over the bar and on the outside wall.

  Four umbrella pine trees rose above the bar in travertine planters, fed sunlight from a system of mirrors and skylights. Historic Gabbia Cremisi weapons were displayed in glimmering vitrines. The bar’s color theme was rose and ivory.

  Two hotel staff members walked past, carrying a man on a stretcher, and two others were quickly cleaning up blood from the carpet. A stern man wearing two flashing Bluetooth earpieces stood with a cadre of guards, dispersing the angry clans.

  Clearly the man on the stretcher had just been shot and killed. Veronica tried to shrug it off, because the rest of the room struck her as nonplussed. The juxtaposition between the sudden cruel violence and the laissez-faire attitude of the patrons was disorienting.

  Just another day in the life of a mafia boss.

  The pretty Chinese woman from earlier hurried to her and said, “It you!”

  Two of her friends joined, huddled around Veronica.

  “You see,” said the woman. “Look right here. This the dress I told you.”

  The women, lovely and beautiful all of them, their dark hair luxurious beyond belief, caressed Veronica and her red minidress.

  “Thank you. I adore your cheongsam,” said Veronica, indicating their traditional high-necked, short-sleeved formal dresses. “Where did—”

  “You know we did?” said the woman. “We call him. We call the man, you say.”

  “You did? The tailor at Sa Majesté a few blocks away? That was fast.”

  “You know we did? We ask for it all!” She laughed and so did her friends, an unusual high cackling. “We say we take everything!”

  She pronounced it, “errytheeen!”

  Veronica, a sucker for enthusiasm and gorgeous dresses, laughed with them. If they practiced law, these women would be her sisters.

  She asked, “I’d like to bid on the winners. Do you know how? Is that horrible of me?”

  “No, not horrible,” said one of the lady’s friends. “We fuck too! Don’ bid on Riku! He Japan!”

  “We bid America! We love him also!”

  Veronica nodded, flustered. Said, “How do I—”

  “Phone number on screen! We love you, so pretty!”

  Then, like the winds shifted, they turned and hurried back to the bar. Short-stepping in heels, cackling.

  “Phone number,” said Veronica, walking around the bar. She found a screen with Mackenzie’s photograph and video from tonight’s fight. There was a phone number with instructions. She had to text in her bid.

  She looked at her phone and a blush burned her cheeks.

  Considering her history, she thought, how on earth could this embarrass her?

  As she toggled her phone, someone across the bar screamed. She jumped and automatically clutched her purse and phone to her chest.

  A man (maybe Russian?) lay on the ground, a knife protruding from his shoulder. Above him stood another man (maybe Colombian?).

  The angry man with flashing Bluetooth headsets swooped in with his cadre of enforcers to intercept the violence.

  Veronica didn’t get to see the conclusion because a gentleman (maybe Italian?) in a tuxedo placed himself directly in her line of sight. A handsome guy, if a bit on the heavy and puckered side. Too much gel in the hair, too much entitlement in the smirk.

  He held a drink out to her. “Too many criminals in the room, no?”

  She stared at the drink but didn’t take it. “Too many criminals, not enough lawyers.”

  “You are bidding on a champion?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m Antonio,” he said, still offering the drink. “And you need not bid for me. I am here, mi amore, and I am yours.”

  “Oh…” she said, trying to see around him. The Russians and Colombians seemed exceptionally unhappy with each other, shouting with guns drawn.

  “From the moment I saw you,” he said.

  “Thank you, Antonio. But I decline.”

  Another man (Chinese? With the Triads?) joined Antonio, also offering a drink to Veronica, and made essentially the same proposal, irking the Italian gentlemen. Veronica maneuvered enough to get a glimpse of the phone number for Mackenzie. She backed away from the bar, entering the number as quickly as she could as her two suitors argued.

  She pressed Send and received a text response immediately.

  >> BID AMOUNT FOR MACKENZIE AUGUST - AMERICAN CHAMPION

  “Shit,” she said to herself. How much? Not the foggiest. A grand? Two grand? Three?

  “Bid high,” said a voice at her ear. She turned. Another Italian man, this one older and losing his hair. Smelled good, though.

  “You think?”

  “The recent average? Twenty thousand euros,” he said.

  Veronica’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

  “Not to a woman as bellissimo as you.” He was also offering a drink, but Veronica didn’t notice.

  “I never charged a fourth that much,” she muttered to herself.

  She punched in a number.

  30,000

  And gulped.

  Mackenzie was worth it.

  Or, she thought, he better be.

  >> GRAZIE. BID RECEIVED.

  The gentleman was standing so close to her that his pelvis rubbed against her hip, and he did his best to look down her dress.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “We could talk in my room, no?”


  “Flattering, but my heart is set on a champion.”

  “I saw your bid. I can pay that much.”

  “For me.”

  “For you,” he said.

  “Damn it, I’ve been undercharging. You mob guys are loaded. Good for you.”

  “So—”

  “Also, no. Hell no,” said Veronica. She moved away, finding a spot at the bar. Caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

  No wonder the sweaty mafia men were after her—she looked perfect, in her professional and critical opinion. Amazing what money can do. She wished Mackenzie could see her…

  Should she bid more? Maybe. He seemed a crowd favorite.

  She punched more numbers into her phone.

  35,000

  >> GRAZIE. BID RECEIVED.

  There was a digital clock counting down on the screen. Three more minutes.

  Ugh. Forever.

  She ordered a sauvignon blanc. The swarthy bartender set a wine glass in front of her and said, “For the lady? Free.”

  “Thank you.” She sipped. Exquisite. The Teatro di Montagna was serving bottles of wine in the hundreds. Maybe higher. “How much do you think I should bid on a popular champion?”

  The man, perhaps a few years younger than her, winked. “Signorina, for me? You pay nothing.”

  “Never mind, god,” she said with a groan.

  The Colombians and Russians were still shouting on the far side of the bar. Her favorite Chinese ladies cackled at their phones, punching numbers and sloshing champagne. Girls across the room, girls she recognized as prostitutes, were capturing the drunk and hungry men like shooting prurient fish in a barrel. She spied more men being carried on stretchers through a salon down the hall.

  “This place better have excellent in-house counsel,” she muttered into her glass. “Unless those are judges walking away with the girls.”

  At 11:40, the timer hit zero and her phone buzzed.

  >> THANK YOU FOR BIDDING ON THE AMERICAN CHAMPION. UNFORTUNATELY YOU WERE OUTBID. GRAZIE.

  She stared. And stared. Couldn’t move. “Fuck.”

  Someone wealthier than her had just bid an astronomical amount for the right to have sex with her husband.

  The woman had good taste. And if Veronica ever found out who she was, she’d drown the slut.

  She drank half her wine, hoping Manny was having better luck.