Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  “No names,” muttered Marcus. “Just in case.”

  “I must fly!” cried the tailor, glancing at his watch. “Already I am late.”

  “Tell the American I’m here,” said Veronica, and her voice betrayed her, choking with emotion. “And that I love him. And that I will release him. Tomorrow.”

  41

  That night, Carlos flipped the lights on, the harsh unwelcome glare.

  Veronica woke with the awareness that it wasn’t time. She checked her phone and groaned. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. What’s wrong?”

  “The Camorra clans,” said Carlos, breathing heavy, tight red t-shirt threatening to rip at the seams. “They come now. There will be fighting.”

  The other bedroom light snapped on and Marcus appeared, rubbing his eyes. “Supposed to be eighteen hours from now.”

  “I show them the video. They are a mob ready to fight. Thousands,” said Carlos. “They come to kill Rossi and they come to watch the final match.”

  “Watch Mackenzie?”

  “Half love Señor Mackenzie. Half love the Prince.”

  “Look like I didn’t need to buy suitcases full of cocaine,” said Marcus.

  “They are coming now.” Carlos went to the mini fridge and snatched a bottle of water. Twisted the top and guzzled half. “We cannot stop them.”

  Manny rolled out of bed and bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, awake and fresh immediately. “Where?”

  “Coming up Tangenziale di Napoli.”

  Manny whistled. “The main gate.”

  “I snuck up the side. Rossi’s police are at the barricade. The Camorra clans want to attack at three, Señor Martinez, and then move up Via Frencesco Cilea.”

  “Well then.” Manny grinned and reached for a pair of pants. “We don’t have a minute to lose. Carlos and I, we will crack open the door to Vomero.”

  Marcus nodded. “Summers and I stay here. The mob attacks? We might bust down August’s door. Stay in phone contact with me.”

  Yanking on pants and shoving feet into sneakers, Manny laughed, flushed and gorgeous with energy and enthusiasm. “The game is afoot, amigos! This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

  42

  Vomero, the small town on the hill in the middle of Naples, essentially had one point of ingress—the four-lane ramp looping up the side of the mountain off highway A56. On either side of the incoming ramp the land fell away precipitously. The ramp intersected Via Frencesco Cilea on the brow of the hill. If you wanted to get a car into Vomero or if you wanted to move a lot of people into Vomero in a hurry, you had to go through that intersection, making it a natural chokepoint for the polizia and Rossi’s forces to barricade.

  Hundreds of glistening black uniforms waited with shields and gas canisters and firearms.

  Up the long ramp came a small cavalcade of trucks and SUVs, occupying all four lanes. Marching boldly behind, in the middle of the highway, thousands of soldiers from the angry clans. The police used powerful spotlights from above to keep the soldiers in sight and to blind them.

  Manny and Carlos emerged onto the roof of the closest residential building—a modern seven-story, pale blue structure set with glass balconies and windows. Two police nests had been hastily erected here, set around two of the powerful spotlights. Carlos quietly surprised the southern nest with his heavy shotgun, holding the barrel at their eye level and stumbling through his Italian; the police got the gist and they didn’t move. Manny wrapped used elasticuffs to tie the hands of the officers, men relieved to be taken out of the fight.

  The two insurgents moved through the darkness to the northern police nest and repeated the drill. Only one man resisted and Manny shot him in the forehead with his silenced HK.

  Carlos turned off the radios and double checked the bindings while Manny crouched beside one of the spotlights. He unslung the rocket launcher from his shoulders and removed one of four RPGs from his backpack.

  “This is so beautiful I could cry,” he said, fondling the steel tube with affection. He had a recent Italian variant of the Russian RPG-7 launcher with a single-stage HEAT warhead, good for making a mess.

  The eyes of the nearest subdued police officers widened at the weapon.

  Carlos typed into his phone, communicating with his contacts in the Camorra mob.

  Manny carefully slid the projectile into the launcher until the display beeped and turned green. He stood, weapon perched on his shoulder, and peered down at the dramatic diorama below.

  Carlos said, “You ever fired one of those, Señor marshal?”

  “First time for everything, Señor outlaw. Tell your amigos, I’m ready.”

  Carlos typed into his phone and hit send.

  A minute later, the Camorra trucks and SUVs ascending the ramp accelerated to five miles per hour. The ranks of soldiers behind kept up. A quarter mile from the bristling barricade, coming around the final turn, the vehicles kicked it up to ten.

  Manny aimed, one eye screwed shut.

  He asked, “So lovely up here, you noticed?”

  “I notice. Good temperature. Smells like cooking sausage. You doing that right?”

  “Hope so.” Manny’s finger snaked around the trigger. “Bendita madre, guía mi furia.”

  The unguided rocket roared and leapt away, so quick and hot it was like magic. The next instant, the cluster of cruisers and cement roadblocks on the outbound lanes burst. Blacktop and tires were flung into the air, followed closely by the sound of a detonation.

  “Touchdown!” laughed Manny, already loading another RPG into the tube. “I’m so happy."

  The Camorra militias released a war cry and sped up, emboldened by the allied show of force.

  The police and guards suddenly found themselves confused and surrounded. Discipline and resolve melted.

  Manny aimed again…and fired.

  Nothing happened.

  Carlos reached up and shoved the projectile further into the launcher, and the display beeped green.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  Squeezed the trigger…and fired.

  A hot blast and the second salvo punctured the barricade. The police turned and ran from the invisible foe raining death. Onward came the Camorra, their enemies dissolving.

  “Mischief, take thou what course thou wilt,” said Manny.

  “Que? What?”

  “I’m quoting Mack. But making a mess of it. Text Marcus, tell him the army is on the way. And let’s me and you, vamos.”

  43

  Veronica waited by the door, wearing the closest thing she had to battle gear - flats, loose palazzo pants, and a wraparound black linen shirt. She looked ready to attend a private runway showing of next Spring’s fashion trends, except for the .380 pistol she slipped into her clutch purse.

  Marcus stood at the mirror, examining the way his jacket covered the HK pistol in his shoulder holster. He hated those things, meant for the damn police, not him.

  The first angry Camorra soldiers were already in the hotel—they’d witnessed the arrival from their window. Time was ripe to free Mackenzie.

  Someone knocked at the door. Veronica froze. So did Marcus. They weren’t expecting visitors.

  The lock was activated with a master key and the door swung open. In stepped two security personnel that Veronica recognized—Rossi’s men.

  The first man saw her and released a long breath. He said, “Sei una donna difficile da trovare.”

  You are a hard woman to find.

  “Ti ci è voluto abbastanza tempo. Cominciavo a pensare che Rossi avesse perso interesse,” she replied.

  Took you long enough. I was beginning to think Rossi had lost interest in me.

  The guard, a tall and brooding Italian with thick eyebrows, didn’t smile. In Italian, he replied, “Follow me, please. I will escort you to Signore Rossi’s private box.”

  “His private box?”

  “For the fight,” the man said.

  “But…the fight is
not for eighteen hours. And we heard the hotel was being stormed by local thugs.”

  “It is. Those loyal to Di Contini, they are here to protest Signori Rossi.”

  “Rossi, your boss.”

  “Yes,” said the man, and he looked unhappy about it. “Signori Rossi has decided the fight will happen immediately.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “It is the middle of the night.”

  “Let me speak openly, ma’am,” said the man. “It has not been pleasant since you left Signore Rossi’s side. He blames us for being unable to find you. If you do not follow me willingly, you will be taken. Our lives are at stake.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you alone?” he asked, frowning at the two beds.

  “Yes. Except for…” Veronica snapped her fingers. Marcus, listening out of view, stepped forward. “Except for my body guard, Marcus. If I join Rossi in his private suite, he will accompany us.”

  “Signori Rossi did not mention a body guard.”

  “I am ready to follow. But if I go, Marcus goes.”

  The two sentries exchanged a glance. The second man shrugged.

  “Very well. Follow me,” said the lead guard. “The fight begins soon.”

  The two sentries bracketed Veronica in the passage and walked for the elevator. Sounds of shouting came from down distant hallways. Marcus took out his phone. While they walked, he sent a text to Manny.

  >> Ronnie and I, taken to Rossi’s box. Fight starting soon. Get ready to cut power. Wait for signal.

  44

  Timothy August and Sheriff Stackhouse sat at a dim booth at Blue 5 restaurant in Roanoke, Virginia, eating dinner and listening to the live band—soft jazz tonight. Long past his bedtime, Kix stared vacantly at the sax player. Uneaten pieces of mac and cheese were held but forgotten inside Kix’s tiny fists, and his eyelids drooped.

  Timothy August set down his martini and said for the third time that evening, “You think the kids are okay?”

  Stackhouse smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’m sure of it, babe. That’s a dangerous crew we sent over there. We’ll get a text soon with a picture of them sipping drinks on an Italian beach. Try not to worry. Mack is fine.”

  Timothy nodded to himself. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  45

  Manny and Carlos bounced in the bed of a truck fishtailing through town near Castel Sant’Elmo. Such a ruckus was being raised by the invaders that Manny couldn’t help joining in.

  “Free the woman!” he cried.

  Carlos fired his pistol in the air.

  Manny continued, “Especially the fine señoritas!”

  The phone in his pocket buzzed. With one hand on the truck’s cab, he steadied himself. With the other, he retrieved the phone. Opened. Read the message from Marcus. Get ready to cut the power, it said.

  “Time for more fun, amigo!” He pounded the roof of the cab and shouted in the window, “To Teatro di Montagna!”

  46

  Veronica’s escorts were forced to take multiple detours to reach the top of the arena. The incoming Camorra soldiers clotting the passages weren’t dressed in sharp uniforms like the hotel’s security force, and they weren’t powerful Gurkhas like Rossi’s private detail. They were a motley crew in ratty jeans and soccer jerseys. Boots and ball caps. They carried old rifles, revolvers, and bottles of whiskey. Many were mere boys. But they were overwhelming in number, they were passionate about the Gabbia Cremisi, and they hated Rossi.

  The higher they climbed, the faster Veronica’s heart raced. All was coming to a head.

  The two sentries led them into a final unadorned hallway and to a door marked with, “Suite Numero Uno. Solo Personale Autorizzato.” He pushed it open, stepped inside, and closed it. A moment later, it opened and the man beckoned them in with a jerk of his head.

  They entered into the lounge of an opulent private suite high above the stadium floor. The lounge was furnished with divans and settees and short tables; a portion of the lounge’s floor was thick glass, looking down on the cage. Beyond the lounge, only reached by walking over the glass floor, was an open-aired seating for watching the match below. The farthest part of the suite, to the right of the entrance, was a bar and serving area—attendants were bringing out platters of food and the bartender was pouring a dark cocktail into an highball glass.

  Rossi was at the bar by himself, half-sitting on a stool. A corpulent and darkly pink man, every inch an Italian, dressed in white linens and moccasins. His short gray hair was pushed back and held with product. His eyes were partially pinched closed between his cheeks and heavy brow, and his neck spilled over the collar, hiding much of a gold chain.

  Mackenzie, Veronica thought, would crack a joke about him being one of the Sopranos.

  Next to Rossi stood a soldier Marcus recognized as a Gurkha—no mere hotel security guard, but Rossi’s private mercenary. He held a Beretta ARX crosswise across his abdomen and a scowl on his granite face. His head was shaved.

  Making a subtle motion with his thick arms and short fingers, Rossi beckoned them over. In Italian he told Veronica, “You disappeared.”

  A slow phlegmy voice.

  Veronica replied, “That night, over the bar, the meeting with your rich friends was boring. I am a girl who likes action.”

  “Did you find some?”

  “No. I was hoping you would come after me,” she said. She eased onto the bar stool next to him, somehow invading his personal space while looking like she belonged there. She crossed her legs and took a proprietary sip of his drink, all calculated moves signaling she belonged to him.

  Without looking at Marcus, he said, “Who’s this.”

  “My bodyguard. I’d like him to remain.”

  Rossi shrugged. “You think I can’t protect you here? Look at my sentries. They displease me? I feed them to tigers.”

  Marcus, acting his part, took up station next to the door with two other hotel security guards. This wasn’t going according to plan, he thought. Trapped in the suite with Rossi, a fucking Gurkha, and two hotel sentries. Not ideal.

  Through the glass floor he monitored the arena. The stadium was filling with both the wealthy and the violent. The master of ceremonies, Ferrari, identifiable because of his shock of white hair, was running everywhere. Soon his voice issued from a thousand speakers and the orchestra began to play, the strange combination of electric guitar and cello and violin.

  Rossi made a wince and a shrugging motion. “It’s a shame, this thing happening in the middle of the night. We’re all tired. Won’t be as good a show. Not even hungry.”

  “Are you worried about the division in the Camorra clans?” asked Veronica.

  “There’s always division. Part of life, part of the system, division. Good for business. The buildings in Vomero get damaged, we rebuild. You know who gets a piece of reconstruction?” He pointed at himself with his thumb. “More guns bought. Who profits? Me. War is an engine making me wealthy.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Some.” He shrugged again and drank his Negroni, a dark and swirly cocktail. “My helicopter, it’s on the roof, ready. After the fight, we’ll slaughter some of these kids. Enough to scare the leaders. Send them back home to their mamas. I’ll be gone. We’ll be gone. That’s how it is.”

  Veronica made no discernible changes to her face, yet somehow she looked smoky and inviting. “That’s how it is.”

  Rossi’s right hand snatched at her blouse. The wraparound design came halfway loose, revealing her red bra underneath. Veronica didn’t flinch.

  “Red,” he said. A heavy grunt caught in his throat. “I like red.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “I get bored later? I tell you to take it off? You do as you’re told,” he said.

  “Yes Rossi.”

  Standing by the door, one of the hotel’s security guards next to Marcus released a faint snort. Shook his head slightly and stared at the floor. Sensing disgust, Marcus whi
spered to him, “What happens she don’t wanna undress?”

  The guard whispered back, “My English? Bad. Rossi asshole. Rossi kills her.”

  “Damn.”

  “Kills you too. Feed the tigers.”

  Soon the arena was far over capacity, the energy like a wave ready to crash. Chants caromed off the walls and flags began burning. Ferrari worked them into a frenzy and introduced the champions. The Prince came first, his entourage shoving back the rabble. Rossi and Veronica and went to the glass window to watch, while the sentries stayed put.

  In Italian, Rossi said, “The Prince. One of my finest soldiers.”

  “He is loyal to you?”

  “He loses? I kill his whole family. Smart people, they stay loyal.”

  “The American is strong, though.”

  “You root for the American?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “I am from Switzerland. I root for a good time.”

  “The only reason you’re alive, after running away from me, is that we’re going to have a good time. You please me? I’ll make you rich.”

  Veronica took his hand. “You are in good hands. We’ll have the best time of your life.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll make you the happiest man alive. So happy you’ll beg me to stop.”

  For the first time, Rossi smiled. “Begging you to stop.”

  “Yes.”

  “Girls from Switzerland look like you, I might send for some more.”

  Ferrari’s voice changed pitch and he introduced Mackenzie. The crowd ramped up the volume. Camorra soldiers began firing guns into the air, punching out the lights. More flags were set on fire and waved.

  “Look at them, shooting up my hotel.” Rossi spoke to one of the hotel security guards behind him. “Gun. Give me your gun.”

  The man obediently opened his crimson jacket with his left hand and retrieved a black pistol with his right. He placed it in Rossi’s meaty palm. Rossi waddled into the open-aired seating and his face tightened with concentration and he aimed from the hip. He squeezed. Paused and emitted an indignant snort.