Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  “Next time you take the safety off,” he said and did it himself. He held the pistol belly-height and jerked the trigger five times, shooting down into the crowd in what he considered the direction of the rabble breaking his lights. Veronica flinched each time.

  Marcus and the other guard at the door each shook their head slightly, marveling at the violent and entitled stupidity.

  “Who do you fire at?” asked Veronica.

  “The fuckers shooting up my hotel.” Rossi handed back the pistol and told him, “You, go find them. Any still alive, kill them. Quickly. No peasants get to shoot at my ceiling until I say it’s time.”

  “What if you missed?” asked Veronica.

  “I don’t miss. Trust me.”

  The man left, speaking into a radio. One guard down, thought Marcus. Now only the second hotel security guy and the Gurkha remained.

  Still not great odds. But they’d gotten better.

  Rossi indicated the bar. “Get a drink.”

  But Veronica only had eyes for Mackenzie, making his way through the throng. He looked healthy and energized, a king. He was taller than most, his shoulders heavier, his neck thicker. The people loved him, the security team feared him, that was obvious.

  Mackenzie’s cuffs were taken off and for a brief moment he paused. As if she could read his mind, she knew—he was debating breaking free. It was chaos down there and his handlers weren’t paying enough attention.

  “Run Mackenzie,” she whispered. Yet she knew something else—he wouldn’t. He wasn’t a man who backed down from a challenge. He wasn’t a man who ran away from trouble, but towards it. In the midst of his incarceration he would’ve found a way to remain autonomous and independent, and running now would admit he’d been helpless. She didn’t know him well but well enough to understand he’d rather die standing up to cruelty than die running from it.

  He leaped into the ring and her stomach twisted in a knot.

  There came a knock and the security guard cracked the suite’s door, nodded, and threw it wide.

  A man and a women entered.

  The man looked like a younger and less fat American version of Rossi, and the woman was stunning, thought Veronica.

  Duane and Emile Chambers. Marcus recognized them, Veronica didn’t, not immediately.

  The man stopped in the doorway and exclaimed in a raspy voice, “Marcus! The hell are you doing here? Got’damn.”

  Marcus shook the man’s hand, somewhat caught between his role of bodyguard and his true identity, which Duane knew. He grinned and said, “Here with Veronica. Don’t think you know her. We heard about the American, so we figured we needed a vacation.”

  Duane was more animated than Marcus’d ever seen him, hopped up on cocaine. “The American. Mackenzie, you mean. Listen, Marcus, I should have talked with you about that. About him, you understand. It’s my call, but…”

  Rossi, watching the interaction and understanding half the English, made a grunting noise. Veronica squeezed his hand and redirected him in Italian, “The fight is about to start, my dear.”

  “Those two,” said Rossi. “Know each other?”

  “They’ve worked together before, I think. My bodyguard is well known. I don’t know the second man.”

  “Duane Chambers, a King from the States. He brought the American, and he’s about to owe me three million euros,” Rossi informed her.

  Marcus was telling Duane, “Forget it, Chambers. All good. We came to watch August. Win or die, we having a good time.”

  “I’ll be honest, Marcus,” said Duane, taking him by the hand again and squeezing with genuine enthusiasm. “It’s damn good to see another American. These fucking wops? Everywhere. You picked a helluva night to join, though. This got’damn place is in the middle of an uprising.”

  Emile Chambers came to stand next to Veronica, her chin held high. She was an inch shorter and she made Veronica feel underdressed. Veronica hadn’t known she’d be hobnobbing with criminal royalty. Emile eyed her blouse, still open where Rossi had twitched it, and said, “You’re the topless woman from the pool.”

  Her accent was French.

  “That, and more,” said Veronica.

  “You’re a whore.”

  “I’m a good time.”

  “I don’t hate many people, but I hate you, my love. Effortless beauty and those legs. A rare combination.”

  “It only required ten million lunges.”

  “I didn’t know Marcus Morgan took up with whores.”

  “Just the best ones.”

  “Rossi invited you here?” asked Emile.

  “Of course. The man has taste.”

  “You’re quite lovely. Enjoy it while you can, darling. You’ve got a few more years, no? Before you’re too old and you’re forgotten,” said Emile with a tight smile.

  “Nonsense. In another decade I’ll simply buy a new face, like yours,” replied Veronica and the two women laughed, a tight and forced sound.

  Rossi went to the bar. He returned with twelve large bricks of euros, wrapped with cellophane.

  “Duane Chambers,” said Rossi, and he set the stacks onto a cushioned chair. Another trip to the bar and he came back with a white velvet pouch, cinched with string. He upended it onto the stacks of cash and six red-tipped diamonds spilled out. “Il mio lato del patto.”

  Duane paled. He nodded to himself and gulped. “Good, yeah. A bargain is a bargain.”

  Rossi smiled without humor, his eyes almost disappearing, and raised his hands, palms up—and?

  Duane went into the hallway and took a suitcase and a pouch from a man with tattoos up his neck. He returned and closed the door. Set the hard-shell briefcase onto the adjacent seat. Popped the two locks, opened it.

  Barely, Veronica managed to not gasp. She’d never seen so many hundreds. Green for days.

  Sweating, Duane carefully upended his own pouch. Six aurum. If he lost the bet, it’d set him back five years.

  “Three million and six,” he said.

  “Buona,” said Rossi. “Good.”

  “Good.” Duane wiped his forehead. “Yeah, good.”

  The speakers blasted, beginning the fight. Duane grabbed Marcus by the jacket sleeve and dragged him into the outdoor seating area. They stood against the railing.

  “Think August can win this thing?” Duane asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “Can’t believe I let that fat bastard talk me into this.”

  Rossi went to the bar and came back with another Negroni and watched the fight with pale eyes.

  The Gurkha stood at the entrance to the open-aired seating—even he watched the combatants.

  Veronica had a hard time breathing. To her, the fight looked like high-speed gymnastics. The Prince was nimbler, quicker, but he looked like a teenager next to a full grown man. A rapier versus a broadsword. If Mackenzie connected once with all his strength, it’d be over.

  The third round, Mackenzie. Survive until the third round.

  “They are beautiful,” said Emile. “Beautiful violent men.”

  “You enjoy the violence,” Veronica replied and it wasn’t a question.

  “Look at the American. Look at the shoulders, the chest, the blood on his back.”

  “I see.”

  “The other fighters, they are criminals. Cruel but undisciplined. They are hitmen and used to easy victories. But the American, he is like a god, no? He fights not to hurt, but to win. He has people he loves, to get home to, and it makes him…what is the word in English, impervious? Such a man. Like a thoroughbred horse. I cannot break his spirit,” said Emile.

  “You’ve tried?”

  Despite her best efforts, Veronica’s fingers began to tremble.

  “Of course.” Emile’s smile was proud and mean. “The man has been in my possession for a week, chained. A bridled stallion in my pasture.”

  Veronica cleared her throat. “Chained? I like mine to run free.”

  Rossi, admiring Veronica and her deep breaths, asked, “Voi due e il vos
tro stupido inglese. Che cos’è?"

  You two and your stupid English. What is it?

  Veronica answered, “Lei sta ammirando gli uomini.”

  She is ogling the men.

  The fat man grunted.

  His Gurkha chuckled.

  Veronica asked him in Italian, “Do you always watch the fights alone?”

  “Who is worth watching with? Who deserves the best seats? Only me.”

  The buzzer sounded and the two men separated, each moving a little slower and gasping for air. Maniacs attacked the fence and Ferrari sounded delirious. Mackenzie’s body shone with sweat and his corona of dark hair was mussed.

  “And now,” said Emile slowly. Her skin was flushed. “For electricity.”

  “You’re twisted, Mrs. Chambers.”

  Emile turned to face her, away from Duane. “Without danger, life is nothing, no? If my husband knew what I have done to the American, he would kill me.”

  “What…” Veronica stopped and took the drink out of Rossi’s hands and finished it. The man looked pleased and signaled for another. “What have you done to the American?”

  “His arms were stretched wide, in chains,” said Emile in a hushed tone, oblivious to Veronica’s wide eyes and trembling lip. “Unable to move. Unable to resist.”

  “And?”

  “And I molested him,” whispered Emile.

  “You raped him?”

  “Not to my entire satisfaction. Yet. But I have it arranged, after this fight. A room specially prepared. With enough money you can buy anything, you know. Or maybe you don’t. He will be taken there and chained. If he wins, of course. Do you not envy me? That muscular monster under my control. I’m weak, thinking about it. And he will enjoy it too, I’m sure, in the end.”

  “You plan on subduing Mackenzie and having sex,” Ronnie heard herself say.

  “Quiet, my love,” said Emile with a wicked smile. “Our secret.”

  “Of course."

  “You think he’ll enjoy? I hope so. My lovers always do. But who cares about the whore, yes?” she asked with a smirk.

  Veronica nodded to herself, as if making a decision. Went to the bar and asked for a white wine. Picked up her clutch purse and walked back.

  Marcus was texting. He looked up from the phone, eyed her, eyed the Gurkha, eyed the purse, and shook his head slightly at her.

  Not yet.

  47

  A member of the security team, just a boy in peach fuzz, sat unmoving against the cinderblock wall under the threat of Carlos’s heavy shotgun.

  “You don’t move,” said Carlos.

  The boy shook his head.

  Manny carefully guided his penultimate rocket into the launching tube until the display beeped and turned green.

  “Ay dios mio,” he said. “Such a sexy sound.”

  In the surrounding neighborhoods, gunfire crackled, but no one bothered them in the dark behind the hotel.

  His phone buzzed. A text from Marcus.

  >> August doing well

  >> Almost time. Get ready to light this shit up.

  Manny grinned.

  48

  The Prince was injured. Even Veronica, a newcomer to blood sports, could see it. Mackenzie had him pinned to the mat with his knees, and the man writhed. Rossi hurled his cocktail glass from the balcony into the crowd below and shouted, “Prendi il cazzo!”

  “Finish him!” Duane sounded like a man dying of tuberculosis. He pounded on the balcony’s parapet. “Kill that wop!”

  Yan-kee, Yan-kee, chanted the crowd.

  The Prince got a sucker punch into Mackenzie’s throat and he fell near the fence. His metal bracelet burst and he staggered, electrocuted and disoriented, but the Prince couldn’t take advantage. His shoulder was out of socket.

  Rossi’s face was deep red with displeasure.

  “Look at the American,” said Duane, hoarse. “That’s what you can do with freedom and democracy and steroids and grass-fed beef. Makes me wish I had a son. God, I can’t take this. This shit is rough on me.”

  “Maybe don’t bet the farm, next time,” said Marcus, arms crossed, eyes on the fight. His right hand, tucked under his left arm, was pressed against the reassuring bulk of his pistol.

  “Fucking Rossi goaded me. Man’s a pig.”

  The round ended and the fighters went for more water. Again the fanatics attacked the fence and the security team responded. The cellos and electric guitar played louder.

  The third round, thought Veronica. Finally, after an eternity, it’s time. She and Marcus exchanged a glance. He nodded and punched a message into his phone.

  “You are rooting for the American,” said Emile.

  “If I had to choose,” replied Veronica. “I would pick him, yes.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high, love. He’s a dead man. As assassin awaits. After I’m through with him, of course.”

  “Who is the assassin?”

  “We don’t know. It’s too bad,” said Emile as a small table rose from the cage floor for the fighters. Metal weapons, barbaric tools. Mackenzie’s mouth was bleeding. “Because I may wish to keep the American as my sexual toy.”

  Duane had been listening. He cocked his head and stared at his wife. “The fuck you just say? Sexual toy? The American? What do you mean, sexual toy?”

  Emile Chambers’s breath caught, the cruel smile frozen on her lips. She didn’t respond.

  Rossi’s hand slid between the folds of Veronica’s blouse and he said in Italian, “Me and you, we’re leaving. Without your African bodyguard.”

  “As soon as the fight ends?”

  The buzzer rattled from the speakers like an alarm.

  Round three began.

  The crowd raged.

  Veronica dropped her wine glass. No one noticed, so fixated they became on the two men in the cage. The fighters weren’t moving. Rossi shouted at the Prince. So did the Gurkha.

  Veronica’s hand slipped into her clutch purse and wrapped around the pistol grip.

  And that was when the power in the Teatro di Montagna went out.

  Part III

  49

  Carlos and Manny watched the transformers blaze and spark, the launcher still on Manny’s shoulder but empty, their faces dancing with firelight.

  “That worked,” said Carlos.

  “So pretty, right? Something magical about Naples at night.”

  “Señor August, we need to find him.”

  “Let’s go, amigo."

  50

  The powerful lights and speakers inside the stadium snapped off. The sudden dark hit me like a physical thing. There was a hush, ten thousand throats closing in surprise and wonderment. Even I, an intrepid investigator with seemingly preternatural insight into the future, was caught off guard.

  Meg cried, “Mackenzie!”

  The Prince waggled his nasty hammer at me. I barely saw it.

  He said, “I honor my promise. You survived and even worse you beat me.”

  “Neat trick, with the lights.”

  “You have committed allies,” he said.

  “Do I.”

  “We have only seconds. Your plan?”

  “To escape,” I said. “And go down in a blaze of glory and derring-do with verve and élan.”

  He grinned. Looked like it took a lot out of him, poor guy. “You know I cannot understand your American words.”

  “Get one of those calendars, a new word every day, you know the kind? People will like you more.”

  “The power is out, but even if the cage is still on? The gate never is,” he said. He turned suddenly and, using his good arm, he swung the hammer and smashed the locking mechanism. Once, twice, and it broke off.

  “That’s precisely what I was going to do,” I said.

  He dropped the hammer and picked up the heavy short sword. Cut himself deeply across the chest, wincing.

  I winced too and sucked at my teeth.

  Mackenzie August, vicious monster, weak stomach.

>   “Go,” he said as blood spilled down his abdomen. “And be worthy of her.”

  “Her who?”

  Members of the mob, driven to their mammalian instincts, were ascending the cages, trying to climb over top. And then? They hadn’t thought that far ahead, I bet.

  The Prince laid down on the mat and released a fake groan, like an Italian soccer player would do. The stain of red spread beneath him.

  The power snapped back on, backup generators kicking in, the lights dim.

  All was chaos.

  But I was already gone.

  51

  The power snapped back on, backup generators kicking in, the lights dim.

  All was chaos.

  The Prince lay on the mat, bleeding heavily and barely moving.

  Of Mackenzie there was no sign.

  “Hah!” cried Duane. “The Prince is dead. Or close to it. I win your got’damn bet, Rossi.”

  Rossi’s face looked nearly purple. “Il tuo combattente è fuggito!”

  Moving smoothly, Veronica withdrew her little .380 pistol and pressed the barrel into the soft underbelly of Emile’s jaw.

  “My husband’s not a horse. I need therapy, I know, bitch, but I don’t handle competition well,” said Veronica. She closed her eyes and flexed her entire hand, squeezing every finger muscle. She fired twice, wet muffled blasts. Emile went over backwards into Duane’s arms.

  Marcus removed the HK from his shoulder holster, forced to admit the easy reach was handy. Duane was close enough that he couldn’t straighten his arm. He set the barrel at the base of Duane’s skull and fired once. For good measure, twice more into the spine.

  He and Veronica both turned their guns on the Gurkha but the hotel’s security guard gunned him down first. He shot the Gurkha at the base of his spine, beneath the ballistic vest, and then three more blasts in the head.

  “What the hell,” said Marcus. His ears rang.