These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  “Did Darren sit on the Kings’ board of directors?”

  Marcus stood. Left the kitchen to check on his wife, and he came back. “You know about the mob, August.”

  “The Sicilians?”

  “Yeah. They be running things in New York City and Philly and Chicago for a century. Came from Italy, set up rackets. You see The Godfather, you get the idea. They’re still around. Their leadership used to be called The Five Families, now go by The Commission. The heads of the families coordinate, talk things through, mediate, oversee the whole damn enterprise. But you don’t hear about them much.”

  “I don’t,” I said to be helpful.

  “Know why? Cause they be a bunch of old white guys and their kids fighting over ancient family rights and traditions. They shrinking, not expanding. Unlike the Kings.”

  “Because in the Kings there are no clashing family trees.”

  “Cause there ain’t no clashing family trees. The Kings are businessmen. And women. Not a bunch of uncles and aunts at a damn family reunion, shouting at each other. You ask about a board of directors? We got one, but also we don’t. It’s more informal than that. Think of it like a football team. We know who’s on the team. We know who’s good. We know our positions, mostly. We know who’s making the all-stars. But there ain’t no coach.”

  “A fascinating analogy. You must not be on defense, using your brain like that. Is there a quarterback?”

  He grinned. “Must not be on defense—I like that. Yeah, there’s a quarterback. Even a backup quarterback, and a middle linebacker calling the defense.”

  “You’re the starting tight end?”

  He raised his hands, palms up. “Sure.”

  “Darren was a defensive safety?” I said.

  “Darren wishes. Darren was the damn kicker. Trouble is, kicker was running his mouth about he should be the running back.”

  “Darren’s no running back.”

  “Hell no Darren’s not a running back. But maybe we’re getting carried away with the analogy. You white guys get so excited. Anyway. Darren was about to get cut from the team, I heard.”

  “Executed? At the discretion of the quarterback?”

  “Maybe executed, I don’t know. Didn’t sit in on that huddle.”

  Courtney came into the kitchen and got a box of Goldfish crackers for Kix. “You two talking business?”

  “Football, at the moment,” I said. “And it’s the most fun I’ve ever had.”

  She made a, “Mmmhm,” noise and left.

  “I like her,” I said.

  “Not as much as I do.”

  “Does she like me?”

  “Courtney prefers Ronnie and Kix to you.”

  “Ah well. Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said.

  “Don’t forget it.”

  “I bet Darren Robbins discovered he was getting cut from the team.”

  “Look that way.”

  “What was the final straw?”

  “You, probably.” Marcus took a sip of tea. Smugly, I thought, considering the gravity of his statement.

  “I’m just the water boy on the sidelines. I don’t play.”

  “No, you…” He set his cup down and drummed his fingers. “Know who you are? You’re Rudy.”

  “I hope you’re joking. From the movie Rudy?”

  He grinned, bright and pearlescent. “That’s you.”

  “That little guy everyone picks on.”

  “Short white dude, yeah.”

  “I’m not short.” I said it with the dignity of a wounded Abraham Lincoln.

  “Remember the end of the movie? Little guy gets to play one game for Notre Dame and everyone cheers for him? Picks him up on they shoulders?”

  “They were honoring the courage of the shrimp,” I said. “It was almost patronizing.”

  “Yeah. Same thing here.”

  I jerked a thumb at myself. “You’re looking at the reigning champ of the Gabbia Cremisi.”

  “Exactly. Everyone still be cheering for you, the underdog who won.”

  “I hate this analogy,” I said. “Rudy.”

  “Makes you feel better, lotta respect for you too, killing Silva and Sergeant Sanders and Calvin and Toby and the other guys. Plus, you banging the hottest cheerleader. Respect.”

  “Well. There’s that.”

  “We digressed. Darren let it be known, he’s gonna kill you.”

  “But I’m Rudy.”

  “You see my point. Can’t kill Rudy. Plus I let it be known, he probably couldn't anyway. Your boy Manny the marshal, man’s a terror of the criminal underworld. Can’t kill you without dealing with him. Can’t kill him without dealing with you. Everyone wanted you left alone, especially after the tournament, you making the Kings rich. Plus you aced Rossi. But Darren wouldn’t let it be. That was the last straw, my guess. Gotta cut him.” He drained his cup of tea.

  “I didn’t kill Rossi. You killed Rossi.”

  “But everyone thinks you did, and I see no need to set the record straight. We good,” said Marcus.

  “You think Darren would fake his death, claim the insurance money, and bolt?”

  “I would, everyone hated me.”

  “I think there’s more,” I said. “People are never simple.”

  “Gotta be more. He wouldn’t kill Fat Susie otherwise.”

  “Perhaps he’s trying for revenge. On the Kings, for cutting him.”

  “How?” he said.

  “Dunno. But it fits.”

  “Can you find his ex-wife?”

  “Probably. But I want to know what he’s doing and what part she plays.”

  “What’cho want me to do? Call folks?”

  “No,” I said. “Manny’s gonna knock on Rocky Rickard’s door tomorrow. Might be better if he didn’t know Manny was coming.”

  Marcus chuckled, mirthless and somber. I liked his chuckle. “Manny knocking on Rocky’s door? Got’damn, August. You about to rattle a hornet nest.”

  “The kicker just stole the cheerleader from me, Marcus.”

  “I get it. Kicker’s gotta die.”

  “The cheerleader’s coming home and the kicker’s getting aced. Even if it’s Rudy who does it.”

  Saturday Evening

  Ronnie

  Ronnie discovered a gown and a casual outfit in her closet, tailored to her size. She selected the gown, a long-sleeve wrap skirt-dress in white by Michael Kors, and dark blue mule shoes by Gucci, compliments of the Palace.

  Just how much did this place cost per night?

  She eschewed jewelry and left her hair damp from the shower. She’d be damned if Darren got her best.

  Gazing into the mirror, she steeled herself with mental exercises familiar and helpful from her past. This was prison, though a posh one. She hadn’t been mistreated the past few days, but she couldn’t expect that to last. It’d been a while since she was subjected to abuse, yet history taught her to anticipate it. Mackenzie was perfect but the rest of the world was hell—she’d always supposed she’d run into abuse again, and she was ready. This wouldn’t break her. Not even if Darren killed her; she’d die unbroken.

  A knock at her door.

  She glared at her reflection a final time.

  “You can do this. For Mackenzie. And for you.”

  The waiting sentry did his best not to gawk. He was male, though, and driven by millennia-old instincts and he failed. He walked her to dinner, sweating the duration and wishing he was taller.

  A double-door entrance opened into the grand dining room, deep within the palace. The chamber was lit by candles and a warm chandelier. Four oaken tables were arranged around the room. Two were occupied by couples she didn’t know. Darren and Mario waited at the third.

  Mario looked sacrilegious, still wearing the long-sleeved t-shirts. They didn’t stand. Hubert arrived to pull her chair.

  “Welcome to dinner, Mrs. August. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Hey guy. Her name’s Ron Summers.” He nodded at her damp hair. “W
hat’s this? You’re trying to make me look bad?”

  “I don’t need to try, Darren. Also your Windsor is off center.”

  His face darkened with a rush of blood. “It’d be a good idea—trust me, Ron—while you’re here to work on your manners.”

  “I’m more than happy to eat in my room.”

  “Sit down.”

  She did, unwilling to make a scene for a fight she couldn’t win.

  Hubert laid white cloth napkins in their laps. Water was poured, white wine brought, and fresh bread set beside golden honey butter.

  “Tonight we have seafood on the menu. Unless there are allergies or aversions, I’ll bring your first course.”

  He returned to the kitchen. Ronnie picked up a hot slice of bread but couldn’t make herself eat.

  “Nice place, isn’t it. Guess how much it cost me,” said Darren.

  She set the bread down. “Your soul?”

  Mario watched through eyes hidden in his thick face. He was almost a caricature of a Bond villain. She’d spent her life with twisted men and she knew one when she saw it—his features didn’t work in concert and his eyes fixated on things they shouldn’t. The MS-13 tattoos, a gang notoriously cruel to women, didn’t help.

  “I don’t care how much it cost, Darren. I’d prefer to leave,” she said.

  “You can’t. So make the most of it. We leave Monday morning.”

  “For?”

  “You and Mario take a plane for a holding house where you’ll stay until August finds my wife. My ex-wife. I’m going back to Roanoke, talk things through with your faux husband,” said Darren.

  “Why are you looking for your ex-wife? We spent months together and you never mentioned her.”

  “Things change.” He raised his glass of wine. “But they don’t have to. You can join me in my infinite future. I always enjoyed your company.”

  “It wasn’t company. It was servitude.”

  “The offer stands.”

  “Fuck your offer.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Well. That’s dispositive. Never mind. Instead you’ll stay at the house with Mario. Misbehave and he’ll discipline you. August betrays us and Mario will kill you. August delivers my ex-wife and Mario will release you. It’s simple and you have no part to play, so relax. The only thing you can do is keep that pretty mouth shut.”

  Salad bowls were brought. Hubert enlightened them, “A reimagined caesar salad, with pancetta, anchovies, and house-made parmesan crisps.”

  Ronnie sipped her wine and glanced about the room. Guests at the two other tables were being served the same salad.

  A few bites and Darren set his fork down.

  “Damn. This could be served at Le Diplomate, in the District. It’s that good. Eat the salad, Ron. Trust me.”

  She gave her wine a swirl and didn’t reach for the fork.

  He said, “Mario here, he used to be an underground luchador in El Salvador before immigrating. Look at those biceps, yeah? I read about the wrestlers. They eat up to twenty thousand calories a day. Twenty thousand. Me and you, we scrape by on two or three.”

  She pointed at him with the hand holding her wine. “A few more than three, recently? The protruding gut is new.”

  He wiped his mouth. Set the napkin down with enough force to rattle his silverware. “I’m making polite conversation. Or attempting to. Try and keep up, babe.”

  Their salad bowls were replaced.

  Hubert said, “Your second course, a watermelon rind and fish roe soup, with sea bass and jicama dumplings.”

  “Hubert, my friend, compliments to our cook.”

  “Thank you, sir, and I’ll pass your praise along. The current head of our kitchen is the retired sous chef at a restaurant in Tokyo known as Den, one of the world’s finest.”

  Darren repeated the same process as before. He ate several bites, closed his eyes, set his spoon down to savor the taste, and said, “Eat the food, Veronica.”

  “I’ll stick with wine.”

  “You’re too good for this? A whore is too good for Michelin star food?”

  “It’s not the food, it’s the company.”

  “Fine.” He grabbed his utensil again. “Fine. That doesn’t bother me. Miss out on the nice things in life. More for me and Mario. Your loss, Ron. God, what a bitch.”

  Ronnie’s mouth watered at the scent, the soup a thick amber color. Juicy hunks of dumpling and fish.

  Darren didn’t attempt further conversation.

  He and Mario had finished when Hubert arrived again, whisking new plates onto the table.

  “Your main course. Kimmedai, a fish usually eaten in Japan, with saffron, curry powder, and nutmeg. Served in ghee, with pickles and cured catfish eggs.”He smiled at Ronnie. “Not hungry, ma’am?”

  “Starving and nauseated at the same time. The food is a work of art, Hubert.”

  “Eat the got’damn food, Ron. I’m paying a fortune.”

  “Why are you so upset, Darren? I would think you’d be accustomed to a woman’s disappointment."

  Darren stood, his jaw set, his face red again.

  Mario didn’t move quickly but his arm weighed as much as a large tire, so when he struck Ronnie the force carried her out of the chair. She landed on her knees, her cheek hot.

  Darren grabbed a fistful of her hair. Tilted her head back. “That’s it. That’s fucking it. Pick her up and carry her to my room.”

  Mario rose. Reached for her.

  “Gentlemen,” said Hubert. His tone held a new dangerous glint. “You are in a public place. I insist you stop this instant.”

  “You insist?” said Darren. Said it with a sneer but the expression faded. He found himself in the middle of four guards, hands on Glock pistols. He knew they were former special ops soldiers, dishonorably discharged, some American and some not. Mercenaries willing to kill on Hubert’s word.

  “There will be no more violence in the dining room. It’s uncivil, impolite, and you’re upsetting our guests,” said Hubert. “Do not test the rules again.”

  Darren straightened and fixed his shirt. To preserve his dignity, he gave each guard in turn a dismissive inspection. He offered a half shrug.

  “You’re right, Hubert. She’s not worth the fuss. My fault, a rookie mistake. Sit back down, Mario.”

  “Perhaps you two gentlemen will enjoy the final courses of your meal alone while I escort Mrs. August to her room,” said Hubert.

  He presented his hand to Ronnie, still on her knees and wincing.

  Darren returned to his chair and sat. “You mean Ms. Summers. Sure, go ahead. Get the whore out. Food’s wasted on her anyway.”

  Ronnie accepted the proffered hand and stood.

  Darren found himself in the unfortunate position of looking up at Ronnie. The room’s disapproval of his temper weighed on him then. The truth hung in the air and scalded Darren—he was petty, an uncouth ass, in light of Ronnie’s poise.

  Hubert walked her from the room. Not like a parent with a bratty child, but as a groom would his bride. In the hallway, he offered his handkerchief at the tears she couldn’t prevent.

  He didn’t foist awkward and unnecessary conversation; they walked in silence.

  Their paths crossed with a servant boy and Hubert said, “Hurry to the kitchen, Frederick. Have a bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc sent to Mrs. August’s room, plus an ice bag and Ibuprofen.”

  The boy watched Ronnie, shy. “Yes sir.”

  At her room, she said in a strong voice, “Thank you, Hubert. But you’ve only delayed him. I know Darren—he’ll be here soon.”

  “I’m arranging alternate entertainment for Mr. Robbins. Excuse me, Mr. Jefferson. I believe he’ll be amenable. Keep ice on the cheek and lip, Mrs. August, and good night.” He shut her safely into the room. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the door until the boy returned with a cart, bearing wine, an ice bag, Ibuprofen, and a tureen of hot soup.

  Despite her poise, she gasped at the delicious aroma.

 
The boy lingered a moment in the door and gulped.

  Ronnie noticed. “I’m sorry, my purse was taken from me. I have nothing to tip you with. But if I get it back—”

  “No ma’am, it’s only…” He gulped again and looked down both directions of the hall. “We think you’re the prettiest lady that’s ever been here.”

  He closed the door in a rushed and happy humiliation and hurried down the hall.

  Saturday Night

  Mackenzie

  The night was damp and cool, a void with no stars, but Courtney’s curry chicken still warmed me from the inside.

  I sat on the front porch with Manny Martinez. We both thought about Ronnie. At least I assumed he did. He better be.

  Kix was wrapped up in winter clothes and a heavy blanket, asleep in my lap. He should’ve been in his crib two hours ago, but I needed the comfort.

  I said, “Tell me how witness security works.”

  “You already know,” said Manny.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “It’s run by the marshals, and we’re good at it. Obviously. If someone is willing testify, but it puts their life in danger, the marshals are called. The witness and the family go to a safe house outside DC for orientation and counseling. Starting a new life is hard, amigo. They stay a few weeks and decide where they want to move; we give them options. Marshals and the FBI set up a convincing story and credentials. We call it backstopping. They move and the government pays for six months of housing and helps them get new jobs. After that, they’re on their own, kinda.”

  “Who qualifies?” I said.

  “You already know.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Anyone in danger who’s helping the government with a criminal case. My guess, Darren gave proof his job was putting his family at risk, the pendejo. He would only continue if they got accepted into WITSEC.”

  “That strikes me as too benevolent for him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I bet there’s a secondary reason he sent her away.”

  “Maybe.”

  Neither of us had a drink. Some tacit concession to the severity of the night. Men in trenches on the front line didn’t drink margaritas. And neither would men worried about Veronica Summers.