Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  “Ferrari,” I said. Kind of a snicker. “He’s a car. AmIright?”

  The man beamed good-naturedly at me. “Here he is. The American champion?”

  “Yeah,” said Duane. “Sorry about that. He’s—”

  “No apology necessary. Of course he is sedated.”

  “Right.”

  I said, “Ferrari, anyone ever say you look like Johnny Carson? But an Italian one. What is it about you guys that marks you? The gold chains? Casual arrogance and pinkish skin? You talk with your hands a lot."

  Mr. Ferrari tapped his chin thoughtfully and told Duane, “He is large. Looks like you’re betting on size and brute strength. A courageous gamble. The recent champions have been smaller and quick.”

  I debated insisting on how quick I was, but I felt too tired. I needed to sit down.

  Mental note to Mackenzie—being medicated doesn’t mean you should act like a jackass. To thine own self be true.

  So exhausted.

  “This guy,” said Duane. “Mackenzie. He’s been like a freight train in the States. Killing a buncha our guys. Good men, too. You know Toby Moreno? Anyway. Darren Robbins, you may not know him, puts out a contract. Hundred grand. I see an opportunity so I buy him first.”

  “What is your saying in America—two birds with a single rock, Signore Chambers?”

  Duane Chambers looked pleased with Ferrari’s approval. Must be a powerful mobster. He said, “Exactly. Get rid of the headache and also I get a champion.”

  “There’s another phrase originating here in the Mediterranean, Mr. Ferrari,” I said, my eyes closed, concentrating hard on the words. “Like Icarus, on waxen wings you’ve flown too close to the sun. Duane made a mistake bringing me here. I’m the quietus you brought on yourself. I’ll leave the jongleur alive but that’s it.”

  My eyes stayed closed despite the sudden stillness in the lobby. I focused on not falling over.

  “Sorry about that, got’damn,” said Duane after an uncomfortable silence. “Like I said, the medicine.”

  “No apology necessary, I assure you. He is as a combattente should be. Feisty. We in Italy honor this quality, Signore Chambers. He gives me chills. But, I confess, the word jongleur escapes me.”

  Duane chuckled. “Yeah, got no idea.”

  Meg’s voice. “An archaic word for musician.”

  “Elite,” I said. “Elite word for musician, you mean.”

  Mr. Ferrari laughed. Sounded like he clapped his hands. “Your champion will kill us all but preserve the minstrel! How perfect. A devil who enjoys the arts. I am so pleased you came, Signore Chambers—this will be a slaughter to remember! I wish you the best of luck. My servants are ready to receive you.” He placed a fist over his heart. “Mala via masta ne.”

  Duane returned the salute and stumbled through the phrase.

  A funicular is a small train car that climbs upwards, along the rise of a mountain. What a fascinating and modern age we live in. Duane and his inner circle boarded one and us another, along with the luggage carted by men in suits and sunglasses.

  I laid prone on the cushions and fought off dizziness. Ernst and Meg and our guards/attendants sat on the other side. Our car lurched forward.

  “Herr August, I commend you,” said Ernst. “It is not so easy to be dangerous while drugged and in chains.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I try.”

  “Who was that man?” asked Meg.

  “Niccolo Ferrari. The spokesman for a Camorra lord named Rossi, currently the most powerful man in Italy. Rossi cannot come out of hiding, so he sends Ferrari to represent him.”

  “That means Ferrari is Rossi’s fugleman,” I helpfully contributed.

  No one cared.

  “Pearls before swine.”

  Meg asked, “Where are we going?”

  A man wearing black Ray-Bans answered in an Italian lilt, “Vomero. The city on a hill. Many of Naples’s wealthier residents live on the top.”

  “Police are helpless in Naples,” said Ernst. “But on Vomero? Nonexistent. Camorra rules all.”

  Halfway up, the sedative lessened its tentacles. I sat up and looked out with clearer eyes. The German bounty hunter eased his black SIG from the holster, in case I decided to go Jason Bourne on them.

  Which I wouldn’t, still far closer to a nap than I was to decisive action.

  Meg sat on her knees, pressed against the window and gazing at the unfolding city.

  “The colors! What a striking place. So many structures shoved into a small area.”

  She was cute in the way young, short-haired, energetic blondes often were, and one of our guards openly admired her.

  Don’t be fooled, I wanted to warn him.

  She’s a fake doctor. Or at least a nasty one.

  A wolf in kitten’s clothing.

  We ascended higher and hazy Mount Vesuvius thrust into view, looming over the city. Soon the Mediterranean glittered and winked on the horizon.

  She said, “Even the rooftops are painted. Such an optimistic presentation. It’s hard to believe these people live under oppression.”

  “It is not oppression, Fräulein,” said Ernst. “It is a second level of government. The government taxes and so does the Camorra. The government protects and so does the Camorra. Play by their rules and you do not notice them. One benefit, you can get anything at any time. Girl. Boy. Coke. Money. The gambling. Anywhere.”

  The spire to which we rose looked like a dense collection of ritzy condominiums. A shocking amount clustered on the brow of the mountain.

  Meg asked, “The rich live here? Not much space.”

  “Maybe fifty thousand persons on the mountain. In Naples, the rich do not have single-unit houses. They live in luxury apartments or…townhouses, ja?” Ernst waved his gun, searching for the right words. “Private space and personal area is not as prized as in your country. Inspector August’s house and yard would make him one of the richest in Naples.”

  He’d been to my home, I thought.

  Our funicular came to rest in the corresponding station and a third entourage waited to receive us. This high, much of Naples was a bright tapestry below.

  Duane waved off the waiting sedans. Said he wanted to stretch his legs. Men loaded his luggage into a black car, promising it would be ready for us.

  We struck out into the city on the hill. Meg and Ernst pinned me in. She held a device in her left hand that would pump enough syrup into my wrist to render me null and void. Ernst let me walk freely, but his right hand remained on his sidearm. One of our escorts had been clearly been assigned to me, almost stepping on my heels.

  I asked, “How much are you being paid for babysitting services?”

  No response.

  “Last month I paid mine twenty bucks an hour,” I said. “That seems high, but Kix isn’t potty trained yet.”

  Up here there was no stench of sewage. The residential buildings, newer and the facades less august, crowded over head. Music played from open windows and hundreds of spectators spectated our passing. Men and women hawked wares from stores—fresh cheeses and wine and meats.

  Duane accepted a phone handed to him by Tattoo Neck and spoke softly into it.

  Ernst told Meg, “This section of the city is called Magliari. Means cheating merchants. These stores on Pavone, for many blocks, they cater to the Camorristi. Police do not travel here. Look, do you see?”

  He pointed at a gun shop. Black pistols and rifles and shotguns were on display in the window—the proprietors were polishing and cleaning weapons at marble benches out front.

  We passed a store offering luxury tailoring. Another that sold wine and alcohol and cocaine and heroin. Then a lewd brothel, models available for purchase posing in the windows. Two impressive banks carved from stone—banks which Ernst claimed operated solely to exchange currencies for black market use.

  I asked, “Could you trade in your diamonds there, Ernst?”

  He chuckled. “You mean the aurum. Yes, I could barter away aurum. Bu
t I would be a fool. And I am not.”

  I said, “The aurum is an underworld currency. The diamonds are accepted by all major criminals, aren’t they.”

  “Ja. Anyone can make money. But the diamonds? Priceless. The penalty for counterfeit aurum is death. Penalty for stealing aurum? Death. Not to be taken lightly.”

  We passed a stately stone church that Meg admired, but Ernst said, “The priests inside, they will burn in hell. They condone and pardon sin. For a price.”

  We also strolled by rowdy gambling halls, a counterfeit goods wholesaler, a store that produced fraudulent identification, another which advertised for protection.

  “All declared illegal by state of Italy,” said Ernst. “But where is the polizia? Below, where it is safe.”

  Meg, carrying a backpack of medicine high on her shoulders, looked a little shell-shocked. Her face was white and she held herself by the elbows. Duane and Emile paused to fill grocery bags with wine and bread and cheese and olive oil and cocaine. Servants carted most of their purchases, but Duane insisted on carrying a bag. Like a real citizen would.

  “The war between Camorra clans is big business. It’s gotten worse recently, though…” Ernst trailed off, not finishing his thought.

  “When I get out of these chains, I’m robbing the gun store,” I said. “When I do, if you’re smart, you two will get the hell out of Dodge.”

  It was such a ludicrous statement by a man so thoroughly ensnared that no one bothered to reply. Or else they didn’t know how.

  Children trailed us, shouting things in Italian and pointing at me. Probably gesticulating to one another that I would look good in a beard.

  “There,” said Ernst, pointing up the street into a clearing of light. “Teatro di Montagna.”

  Meg translated, “Theater on the Mountain?”

  The hotel stood at the center of a piazza. Had to be the largest piazza in Naples because the hotel was monumentally huge. And graceless; it looked exaggerated, like a Baz Luhrmann movie, like the Coliseum mated with the Sydney Opera house. It was ornately adorned with towering columns on all corners and glinting domes and theatrical windows. Buses could be driven through the front entrances. Limousines ferried patrons to the waiting army of bellhops and a helicopter lifted off from the roof and swung north.

  “I think we’re neighbors with Nick Carraway,” I said.

  Ernst looked like a confused German bounty hunter.

  Confused and stupid.

  Meg explained, “It’s from literature. Your captive reads books.”

  “Is it a hotel or a theater?” I asked.

  He said, “Both. Because it is current home of Gabbia Cremisi. The tournament. And your death, Herr August.”

  “Swell.”

  A concierge greeted Duane in the shadow of the Montagna. One man caught my eye—short hair, tight suit, businesslike, one of those great lantern jaws. Probably former Alpini, Italian special forces. They always stuck out. Men accustomed to chewing rocks and killing others who did the same. Head of security, I bet. He wore a flashing Bluetooth headset in both ears. Seemed excessive.

  An elderly and pompously mustached man welcomed and gripped Duane by the shoulders and simpered and said ingratiating things.

  I thought about making an escape. I didn’t know how many chances I’d have. But the circumstances—wearing the bracelets of death and surrounded by fifteen guys with guns—didn’t seem optimal. Plus, the man in flashing headsets was watching me and I had a healthy respect for him. I nodded at him. He looked unhappy about it.

  Duane made a motion. Ernst dragged me to the entrance, and the concierge placed room cards in his hand.

  “Signore,” said the pompous man with a pompous mustache. “Champions on the second floor. You will follow Gennaro, per favore.”

  Gennaro was a boy of no more than ten and he wore a porter outfit, including cap. He led us through a blast of city air and into the lobby decorated with garish paintings and extravagant chandeliers. The ceilings were high and the floors polished flagstone and thick rugs, pillars connecting with arches. Fashionable men and women paused to inspect me.

  Wish I’d worn my slim-fitted shirt, the salmon one. I’d cut a more dashing figure.

  In the reflection of a mirror I saw Bluetooth Man following close behind. The healthy respect was mutual.

  A woman reclined on a leather couch, her feet drawn underneath her. Her neck glittered with millions worth of jewels. In her left hand she held a glittering leash, connected to the collar of the young tiger lying prone on the floor.

  “Guys, there’s a tiger,” I said. My entourage stayed cool. “Are we going to pretend that lady doesn’t have a pet tiger? If so, a little warning next time be nice.”

  The Italian boy led us upstairs to a labyrinth of grand hallways with heavy carpet and warm lighting coming from chandeliers and wall sconces. We stopped at 207. The boy keyed the wall and the reinforced door whooshed upwards and disappeared into the ceiling. One of our armed escorts preceded us in.

  The first room was an immaculate sitting area. The walls were bright beige, the oil paintings original, the bar fully stocked with libations, the leather furniture buttery—Meg ran a hand along a chair and gasped. The exterior wall was a floor to ceiling reinforced window. The floor was carpet, a dark wine color.

  The corner of the room was a professional kitchen, complete with a chop block counter, tile floors, magnetic knife rack on the wall, and stainless steel appliances. A stoic Italian man stood there, dressed in standard chef’s whites and a toque blanche. My own chef? Behind him, a large aquarium bubbled. Inside the aquarium, pink crabs waved their claws and looked delicious.

  The second room contained a bed, the piled blankets a dark red color. The exterior wall in here was also a monolithic window, double-paned, looked out at a neighboring residential building and the city below.

  A heavy chain sat coiled on the carpet, one end bolted into the subfloor.

  Kinda ruined the luxury motif.

  Ernst connected my handcuffs to the chain.

  Escape, at this moment, became impossible.

  The Italian boy smiled at me and departed. With no more words, the guards and Meg and Ernst left the room. I heard sounds of the door being locked.

  My chain provided enough freedom to reach the toilet and the bed. I climbed under the red covers, the clinking shackles proving cumbersome but manageable.

  Exhausted again, I closed my eyes.

  “And that,” I yawned. “Was how Mackenzie’s absurd adventure began.”

  Asleep in seconds.

  6

  How to escape.

  The most significant obstacle would be the electronic bracelet. That’s what I decided. I didn’t doubt its effects—I’d felt them. A cunning and sinister gadget making getaway unlikely.

  For lesser private inspectors.

  The device formed a tight circle. Two seams—the hinge and the clasp. One button and one display. When the button was toggled, the screen indicated battery power and appeared ready to pair via Bluetooth to a handler. By pressing my wrist firmly against the interior of the band I was able to detect pinpricks from the patches. Tiny needles hidden in the band, ready to be activated.

  After a thorough examination I lowered my wrists back to the blanket. Stymied yet undaunted.

  Two security cameras watched all this from the upper corners of my luxury suite.

  I had napped a few hours and was contemplating my shackles and planning my valiant escape when the door popped open. In wafted the scent and sounds of sizzling sausages. Ernst entered, looking like a stupid German bounty hunter who wished his rest had lasted longer.

  Duane followed. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

  “How’s our champion,” he said in a rasp.

  “Disoriented. Handsome. And displeased.”

  “You’re a late entrant, August. The Ndrangheta had their guy bumped. But who cares. With the Cosa Nostra and Camorra, Italy already had two entrants. Three is
too many anyway, so the American Kings took the Ndrangheta’s spot.” Duane grinned, still rubbing his palms back and forth. “Fucking wops.”

  Ernst scratched irritably at his beard. “Ndrangheta are upset. There will be trouble.”

  “Meh, there always is. Forget about it. We need to focus on winning. How you feeling, August.”

  “Disoriented and displeased, yet satisfied with my appearance. We covered this.”

  “You’re big news, kid. The city is buzzing, what I hear. Who’s the new guy.”

  I noticed a gray line on the dark carpet. The line went around the room like the diameter of a circle. At the center of the circle (near the foot of my bed) was a steel plate to which my chain was bolted. The gray line represented a boundary between the safe zone (outside of my reach) and unsafe zone (within my reach). Duane set a chair outside the line and sat in it. What a wimp.

  Mackenzie August, given the Hannibal Lecter treatment.

  Duane said, “We got a chance to make some noise, August. Could be good for the Kings. I feel good about this.”

  “Allow me to deflate your balloon, Moneybags. I will not kill people for you.”

  “Why not.”

  “Why would I.”

  “You’ll be dead otherwise,” said Duane.

  “What I hear, you’re planning to execute me anyway. Heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  Duane shrugged, his go-to move.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You’re the horse. Did you understand that?”

  “I do not approve, August. Of your lack of gratitude. You should be dead the last twenty-four hours. But you aren’t. I spent twenty-five grand on you.”

  “A bargain.”

  “A bargain. My fighter, he says he won’t fight and that’s a bargain. A real man, he shows some respect.”

  “Poor Duane. Your largesse goes unappreciated. What a sad situation for you. It’s breaking my heart,” I said.

  The Italian boy from earlier wheeled in a cart of food.

  I thought I smelled sausage. The grease still sputtered.

  Easy, August. Never let them see you drool.

  I hadn’t eaten since…what time was it…a while.