by Alan Lee
“August teach you that?”
“Of course.”
Veronica smiled. “Sounds like him. Don’t you love watching his lips as he speaks?”
Manny and Marcus looked at her. Didn’t answer.
“Oh,” she said. “No? That’s just me?”
She and Manny found the pool on the roof of the eastern wing. Most of the patrons sat on chairs in the shade under a portico, their feet set in a shallow cool stream intended just for that. The younger and more athletic guests lay in the hot sun.
Veronica chose a chair near a small pool inlaid with smooth river pebbles, set on either side with tuberose planters. Manny tried to take the chair next to hers but she shooed him several chairs down.
“I need information,” she explained. “Which is easier to do when single.”
She slid Dior sunglasses into her hair and let the cover-up slip from her shoulders. She wore a string bikini, the color of saffron. The top was decorated with aqua blue polka dots and the bottom tied at the hips.
Wearing that, Manny thought, she’ll get all the information she needs. Looked too small.
Two pool attendants came running. They smoothed out the towel for her on the luxury chair bed, adjusted the chair’s reclining back, and opened her umbrella. Offered to help with suntan lotion. The more fortunate of the two was tasked with fetching her a chilled white wine at a bar inside the portico.
Manny laid out his own blanket and no one offered to get him a drink for several minutes.
Over the next hour, rich and powerful denizens of the Teatro di Montagna flowed by. So many men brought Veronica drinks that she began placing them behind her chair, barely touched.
She was good, Manny thought as he watched her charm all suitors. The way she smiled and used her hair and turned her body, you’d never guess she had a law degree from William & Mary, graduating Order of the Coif.
He’d learned from Mack that she’d been forced into prostitution by her father and fiancé. Witnessing the men salivate over her, he understood—what lonely man wouldn’t pay a fortune?
He ordered lunch, finished, grew bored, and got up to walk the shallow pool. The smooth river stones massaged his feet and he fondly reminisced over the previous night’s victories. Manny was a man unafraid to part fools from their money.
Veronica found herself alone, finally, and joined him. As she arrived, as if waiting, her favorite fabulous Chinese women came quick-stepping in her direction.
Veronica smiled at them but they were more interested in Manny. Each woman grabbed him by the ears and kissed him on the mouth.
“You know we did?” a woman asked Veronica between high-pitched bouts of laughter. “We go casino with Manuel!”
Somehow he managed to fit his arms around all three women and they walked up and down the wading pool, laughing and talking. Veronica bit her lip to keep from laughing when Manny caught her eye. It had been quite the night, and she blushed listening to the sordid details. When the party broke, they each kissed Manny again and petted Veronica.
“We love you, so pretty!”
Then they were gone, like a tornado evaporating.
“I like your friends,” she told Manny.
“Billionaires,” he said. “From Singapore. Three single señoritas who love watching men kill one another.”
“Billionaires? Really?”
“So they say. I took a fortune from them at the card table and they only laughed. They rented a room at the casino for their own private party. Some wild women.”
“Is Duane at the pool? Do you know what he looks like?”
“Never met the man. His wife isn’t here.”
“She’s the woman in the hallway who captured Mackenzie,” said Veronica.
“Yes.”
“I gleaned some information about the black bracelet. It’s activated by remote control, delivering a powerful sedative. High-tech handcuffs.”
“A handcuff from hell, ask me.”
“I’ve lost track of the human rights violations at this hotel. And another piece of juicy gossip…” She pointed surreptitiously at a saloon over the bar, a shady area with fans and gauzy flowing curtains. “That’s the VIP lounge. The holy of holies, home of the ‘It’ crowd. Well guarded. And I’m going up.”
“How you doing that?”
“Easy.” She smiled and reached a hand behind her back and undid the knot of her bikini top.
Manny gulped. “Don’t think this is a pool for nude sunbathing, mamí.”
“It is now.” She raised her arms and drew the strings over her head and laid the bikini top in Manny’s hand. “Be careful, please, Manny. This suit cost five hundred dollars.”
“Don’t see how,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her Dior sunglasses. “Like you’re wearing napkins. I think maybe you should start sporting one-pieces. Or scuba diving equipment.”
“Also.” She took off the glasses and gave them over. “These too.”
“Why?”
“Men are idiots. They get scared by women wearing them. Isn’t that silly. Wish me luck.” She slowly cat-walked to the deeper pool and waded in, up to her thighs.
“Simon,” Manny said to himself, his throat a little dry. “So silly.”
Veronica strolled topless through the water, letting her fingers graze the surface, moving her hips in a swiveling motion. She had all the subtly of fireworks. Poolside conversation died down and necks craned. Was this some angel descended from the sun? Sól herself, perhaps?
Manny wished he’d brought a gun—first gringo touches her gets shot.
He examined her waist and then his own. It wasn’t often someone else made him feel insecure about his midsection. Did she ever eat?
One of the beautiful Chinese women hurried to Manny and whispered in his ear.
“Pretty lady, she friend yours?”
Manny nodded. “Sí, we’re amigos.”
“She have surgery? How she look like that?”
“Surgery?”
“You know!”
“You mean…?”
“Yeah, you know? How she do? Real? Fake?”
Manny pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Made a sighing sound. This had grown weird. “I don’t know. You ask her, not me, mamasita.”
“No, can not! So pretty!”
It didn’t take Veronica long to get the attention she needed. Manny watched as the tournament’s ring master, Ferrari himself, silver hair glinting with sunlight, came down from the private lounge and beckoned for Veronica.
She shook her head and waved for him to get into the pool, a playful move.
Girl’s a pro.
Ferrari blushed and said something in Italian. He took off his loafers and waded down the ramp to his ankles, holding his linen pants up. He and Veronica spoke and laughed, and a moment later she was walking up the stairs to the private lounge.
Now that the sun goddess was out of sight, a few other girls followed her example, disrobing and getting into the water. If any rule about it had existed, it had been shattered by a woman daring them to resist.
Veronica Summers, trend setter.
Hopefully, thought Manny, not to her detriment.
35
That night, Manny, Carlos, and Marcus sat at the central hub on the fifth floor of Teatro di Montagna, alternating glances between the television and the updating betting lines. On screen was a live feed from the rooftop—Mackenzie was being forced to sit on a floating platform inside the pool on the roof with the other three remaining champions.
The throbbing music couldn’t be heard from inside the air-conditioned and cushy bar and the three men preferred it that way at the moment.
Marcus took a sip of Macallan scotch, and with his other hand he kept the radio’s earpiece firmly pressed into his ear. Manny drank limoncello.
Mackenzie pumped straight into their ear canals through the radio, saying, “And then there were four.”
Another voice replied in a thick Italian accent, �
�Ah, the American Yankee. Good of you to join.”
“The hell is going on?” asked Mackenzie.
Safe on his barstool, Marcus murmured, “That’s the Prince. Even I heard of him. International hitman for the Camorra. Does this shit for fun.”
Carlos made a humming noise somewhere deep in his thick chest. “The Prince. Killed El Salvador’s don, last year.”
“This is bullshit,” said Marcus. “Us sitting here. Hiding. And the man we came to get in the same damn building.”
“Sly like serpents, though,” said Manny.
The feed on the screen switched to a better view of Mackenzie drinking a beer, and Manny pointed at a bar in the background. “There. The lounge is above that bar. See? That’s where Veronica is.”
“By herself,” said Marcus. “With the richest and most dangerous perverts on the planet.”
“You’re angry tonight, amigo.”
“Tired of sitting.”
The four of them had hotly debated Veronica’s acceptance of Ferrari’s invitation for tonight’s Bunga Bunga party. She’d eventually resorted to aggressive profanity, insisting Mackenzie was worth the risk, and stormed out, carrying her high heels and wearing a leather skirt and a scandalously tiny top called a bralette that was “fashionable as fuck, you backwards idiots.”
Manny drained his glass and waved for another. Though it wasn’t hot, he wiped his forehead with a napkin.
Something happened to Veronica in that lounge, Mack would kill him. Maybe twice.
One of the bartenders set another glass of the lemon liquor in front of him and said, “You have the bar to yourselves, signori. You don’t fashion a dip?” He nodded at one of the screens where partiers were jumping into the pool, splashing the floating platform.
The truth was, they didn’t want to be seen by Duane or anyone with him, whom they knew would be in attendance.
Manny, acting as the frontman to their entourage said, “I do not swim with petty rabble-rousers, mijo.”
“Very good, signore. Any money on the line tomorrow night?” asked the man.
Manny drained half the glass. “Betting it all on the American.”
Marcus said, “You ain’t getting odds. Even money at the moment.”
“Easiest double up I ever made. The American, tough gringo. He won’t lose.”
The bartender bowed and moved to wash glasses.
On the bar, Carlos’s phone buzzed incessantly.
He glanced at it and said, “Gonna be trouble tomorrow, Señor Morgan. The clans say Rossi is here.”
“What’s their plan?”
“The clans, they’re too unorganized. They don’t have a plan. They love Mackenzie, though. Say he’s here to kill the Prince and then kill Rossi.”
“Hmmm,” said Marcus. “Maybe they’re right.”
In their ears, the Prince was addressing Mackenzie. He said, “Then it is you who are playing the loser’s game, my American friend.”
36
The three men were pacing their room when Veronica finally returned at midnight. She stepped quickly in and closed the door. Leaned against it and took a deep breath.
Smiled. “That was close.”
“Qué?” said Manny. “What was close?”
“Rossi sent men to follow me.”
Manny’s hand reflexively settled on the butt of his Beretta at his hip. “Why?”
“Because, Manny, he wants sexual congress and I slipped away when he wasn’t looking. He doesn’t know my name or my room number so he issued his stooges, but I eluded them, because I am mistress of sneakiness. There are very few cameras.”
Manny and Carlos and Marcus all glanced at one another.
Marcus spoke. “Ronnie—”
“I stayed with Rossi for two hours. He sat removed and mostly listened to the other heads of the mafia. He’s rigging the fight against Mackenzie tomorrow and betting a fortune on the champion from Japan.” She went into the bathroom long enough to change into her nightie. “The Executioner has been ordered not to stop the fight, especially if the Yakuza champion breaks the rules. Plus, the head of the Yakuza is a man named Haruto and he’s planting an assassin in the crowd from Japan to take shots at Mackenzie if he’s winning.”
Manny said, “But if—”
“There’s more,” said Veronica. She took the glass of white wine out of Manny’s hand and drained it. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, somehow making it look good. She went into the bathroom and the water started running. “I overheard the bosses talking. If Mackenzie wins the tournament, he’ll be killed anyway. Duane agreed not to, but Darren found out and hired an assassin to do the job. Supposedly the hitman is already here.”
Marcus took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Then we can’t let Mackenzie reach the fight tomorrow.”
“Intercept him as they walk to the arena,” agreed Manny, wondering if that meant he’d lose his bet. “Four of us should be enough.”
“Agree. Only had two guards, plus Duane’s crew. Even if they activate his medicine, Carlos carry him out.”
Manny poured himself another glass of wine from the small bar. “How did you learn all this?”
“Because.” Veronica took a few minutes to brush her teeth, floss, and wash her face. She came out and said, “I’m pretty and Rossi is malleable. He invited me to watch the fight from his private box, and afterwards return to his hotel room, though he’s not staying at the Teatro.”
“Are you—”
“Of course I’m not, don’t be an ass.” Veronica sat on the bed and slid her legs under the covers.“I recorded the conversation using the microphone and camera in my clutch purse. I caught him laughing about the Camorra clans. They’re angry with him because he moved the tournament two or three years ago to Vomero, away from Secondigliano in northern Naples. He’s doing it to intentionally infuriate the people every year. He wants strife because it’s good for business, and the lesser soldiers can’t break through his defenses.”
Carlos said, “They gonna try anyway.”
Veronica yawned and turned out the Tiffany lamp next to her bed. “I’ve had a long day, boys, and the Egyptian cotton sateen is calling my name. Talk in the other room please?”
37
Marcus and Carlos had stalked Mackenzie returning from the first fight two nights ago, so they knew the route—a hidden staircase and hallway skirting the hotel’s major thoroughfares. The four infiltrators took up positions at a four-way intersection near the top of the staircase.
The plan was simple.
Kill the two guards, plus Duane. And anyone else.
Return down the stairs with Mackenzie and exit through the emergency door at the base.
Hide in the neighboring casino until Manny returned with their Fiat.
Flee to the airport, where Marcus’s associate waited.
Fly home and execute Darren Robbins.
Easy.
When the staircase opened at 9pm, six guards walked through, each brandishing an assault rifle and radio, followed by Duane and Mackenzie, then a tall thin German dressed in tactical gear, Mrs. Chambers and a pretty blonde girl, and then four more guards. Mackenzie’s wrists were shackled and he wore a bizarre black band on his left wrist. Other than that, he wore only fighting shorts and he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet.
Marcus gave a little head shake and the four infiltrators turned away from the procession, hiding their faces around corners. Veronica wanted to scream—she was close enough to speak to Mackenzie. But there was no way to eliminate the entire contingent of guards before help was radioed. They hadn’t expected this many.
Duane was talking to Mackenzie in a low voice. “I don’t trust the fucking Japs. You know?”
Soon they’d marched around the bend of the passage, out of sight.
Veronica said, “Shit. Now what?”
“Gun them down from behind,” said Manny. “And die young?”
“Not yet,” said Marcus. “In this hallway, even ca
tching by surprise, we’d be toast. Need to find better odds.”
“So we’re going to let Mackenzie fight the giant Yakuza champion?” asked Veronica, an edge of panic in her syllables.
“He’ll win tonight,” said Manny. “Mack a badass hombre.”
“But the Yakuza have assassins in the crowd!”
Marcus said, “You two, get yo ass to the fight. The Japanese section. You see someone pull a gun, ace’em. Carlos and I stick around in case August comes back with a tiny guard detail.”
Manny and Veronica ran.
Manny kept his eyes on the Japanese spectators as he and Veronica prowled up and down the arena staircase, scanning for shooters. But there were hundreds of Japanese in the section, maybe thousands and the crowd was raging. It’d take a miracle for him to spot the assassins before they got a shot off.
Veronica tried to help him scan, but she kept sneaking glances at the cage. Mackenzie was winning, it appeared. He wouldn’t let the sumo wrestler get up.
Near the end of the first round, they heard gunfire. Two shots from the section above. The crowd screamed as one.
Manny charged, gun drawn.
“There!” cried Veronica, pointing. She whirled back to the cage, searching for Mackenzie. He hadn’t been hit, dancing away from the downed giant.
The two shooters stood in the front row of the uppermost section, long-barreled pistols held surreptitiously at chest level. Manny’s first round went through the closest assassin’s eye socket, and his next through his throat. The second assassin jumped in surprise and turned his gun on Manny, far too late. Manny fired his Beretta twice into the man’s chest, and then he was close enough to press the barrel directly into the guy’s forehead and squeeze the trigger. Loud and bright blasts in the darkness.
The speakers boomed as Ferrari, the master of ceremonies, called for order.
Most of the Yakuza crowd were screaming and recoiling away from the violence, but not all. Two accomplices behind the assassins went for pistols in their shoulder rigs.
