by Alan Lee
The boy pushed the cart to Duane, smiled shyly at me, and fled.
“Thanks Gennaro,” I called.
Duane raised a lid. Some form of pasta with hunks of meat. I also saw coffee and wine. “You need nourishment, August. In case you decide not to be a lamb for the slaughter.”
I didn’t go for the food.
“Mr. Ferrari providing all this?” I asked.
“Ferrari works for Rossi. This is Rossi’s tournament. Hosting the Gabbia Cremisi, it’s a great honor. He’ll make a fortune in betting. Eat the food.”
“What’s with the unrest in Naples?” I said.
Duane leaned back. Exhaled through his nostrils and adjusted the corners of his belt. “Been this way for three years. Rossi deposed the most beloved Camorra lord in a century. There’d been peace for a decade or more thanks to…Ernst, what’s the man’s name?”
“Di Contini.”
“Di Contini. That’s it. Di Contini took over in 1997 or something like that. He put an end to the protection racket. Demanded the Camorristi obey the commandments. You know the commandments? The code? Anyway. He gentrified the System. The people loved him. Peace and prosperity for years. Safety in the streets. No more wars. But then?”
“Rossi killed Di Contini and seized control,” I said.
“You’re close. Police been after Di Contini for years and Rossi tipped them off. The federal police, you know, not the locals. Now Di Contini sits in prison and Rossi tries to hold the warring clans together. But the man, he can’t do it. Made too many mistakes, like re-instituting the protection racket. Like moving the tournament away from their beloved Secondigliano. So there’s war again. What’s worse? Last two years, Rossi didn’t pick a champion from Di Contini’s clan. First time in decades. The people, they’re furious.”
“Heavens.”
“Guy you met, Ferrari, the man you threatened to kill? You called him Johnny Carson. He acts as the master of ceremonies, has for over a decade. Rossi probably won’t show his face.”
I said, “The tournament is public knowledge?”
“Sure. Even the police place bets. August, eat the food. Got a big night ahead.”
“The fight starts tonight?”
“No. Tomorrow. But tonight is big. You’ll see. You’ll be interviewed. Meet the other fighters. The drawing. Shit like that.”
I said, “I’m not dancing to the music, Duane. And I’m not killing people for you.”
“Only shot you got is to win.”
“Does this not strike you as strangely similar to the movie Gladiator, Duane? I mean…”
Duane’s face, which had been an ugly frown, broke into a smile. “Gladiator. Maximus? One of my favorites. Yeah, Russell Crowe died in that one. Don’t get your hopes up, August.”
“I’ll do my best.” I snapped my fingers. “Food. Now.”
He stood. Said, “You don’t give me orders. Hear me?”
“Food, Duane. Hear me? Do as you’re told.”
“Weird game you’re playing, August.” He didn’t want to, but he didn’t have much of a choice—he rolled the cart into my circle of reach. “Don’t be an idiot, August. Eat the food. You need strength. Believe me.”
7
Later that day, my door opened again and Meg entered. She wore a blue dress and she was attaching diamond pendent earrings.
“You look cute,” I said.
She finished with an earring and smoothed the dress over her hips. “It’s Oscar de la Renta. Made here in Italy. I get to borrow it tonight. It costs three thousand. Can you imagine.”
“A good length. I like the split V neckline.”
She affixed the other earring. “What’s your name?”
“My name is gladiator.”
She pursed her lips. “Do you know what day it is?”
“One of Duane’s last.”
“Did you eat? How do you feel? Any out of body experience? Any strong surges of emotion?”
“You’re checking me for some kind of shock,” I said.
“Psychological shock, yes. You’d have to possess a super human mental constitution not to. Do you feel disoriented?”
“Sure. It’s been a disorienting day.”
“You’re handling this well, Mackenzie. May I check your pulse and blood pressure?”
“Nah. Trust me, both are gorgeous.”
“I’m curious. How are you coping so well?”
I said, “An old trick I learned on homicide detail in the rougher parts of Los Angeles.”
“What’s the trick?”
“Keep your goal in mind and parse everything you see into one of two options—obstacle or tool. This bracelet? An obstacle. Ernst’s gun? A potential tool. It simplifies the world. Brings clarity to chaos. Later, during a moment of peace, you can release the restrained emotions.”
“You’re remarkably level headed.”
“Cogency is a tool. Panic is an obstacle. Get it?”
She frowned thoughtfully. Fiddled with her dress.
Two Italian men entered, each carrying a Beretta ARX. Such a heavy assault rifle wasn’t necessary for little ol’ me so I assumed they formed part of the pageantry. The men dressed in red sports jackets with a fancy crest.
Duane and Emile followed. Duane wore a black tuxedo, a trendy outfit with silk lapel and stripes. Emile wore a high-necked royal blue evening gown that grazed the floor.
The two men with assault rifles paused beyond the circle.
Emile did not. She kept her eyes on me and strode into the circle.
The men tensed. What if I ate her?
“Emile, Jesus, careful,” said Duane.
She deliberately laid clothes on my bed and smoothed them out. Her hand brushed my foot under the covers.
“He is a man in chains,” said Emile in her slow French accent. “And he is not stupid. I do not fear him.”
“Yeah, well, whatever, maybe you should. August, it’s time for the Colloquio."
I asked, “Which means?”
“Got no idea.”
“The Interview,” responded Emile. “Undress please.”
Ernst the German bounty hunter walked in. He crossed his arms and leaned against the frame. Unlike the others, he hadn’t dressed for a formal occasion. Still in tactical gear.
“Duane, pass a message for me,” I said. I got up and stood on the bed, towering above them. Bounced lightly on the balls of my feet. Emile stepped backwards, closer to the safe zone. “A message to Signore Ferrari. Tell him I enjoy my room so I’m skipping the Colloquio.”
“Skipping the Colloquio,” repeated Duane. “No. You aren’t. We can do this the easy way, August. Or the hard way.”
“The hard way.”
“Why.”
“Because I think you need me sensate and sensational for this thing tonight. You don’t want me sedated, which reduces the power of the bracelet. So in order for me to cooperate, you’ll have to manhandle me. And Duane, I’m in the mood for you to try.”
The two men with assault rifles glanced at each other.
Who was this idiot in handcuffs?
And why was he so devilishly attractive?
“Meg,” called Duane. Softly. “How quickly do the sedatives wear off?”
“Depends on the dosage, Mr. Chambers. Thirty minutes, at least,” she replied.
“Shit.”
I bounced on the bed, my chain clinking.
“Enter the circle, Duane.”
“Why you doing this, August. You know you can’t win,” he said.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t try. Besides, I’m grouchy.”
“Good. Save the anger for your opponent.”
“Those poor men in the tournament? They are not my enemy.”
Duane sighed and rubbed his eyes. “The other bosses, I bet they aren’t having this issue. Christ. Ernst, what do you suggest?”
“Electroshock. Wears off quicker than medicine,” said the German, still leaning casually at the door.
Electroshock s
ounded nasty.
No thanks.
I leapt into the air. Straight at them, no warning. The chain caught my wrists and jerked my flight to a halt, but I’d planned on it. My feet whipped forward and caught the closest guard in the chest.
They hadn’t anticipated the extra length my outstretched legs provided.
The man made a sound like, “Huuffggg!” and collapsed backwards, dropping his assault rifle.
Meg screamed.
Duane swore. Ernst went for his pistol.
I landed heavily on my butt. Used my heels to pull the discarded Beretta close.
Got it. Hellishly awkward to hold in cuffs. But I’d caught them arrogant and unprepared.
I tried to rise but the second guard struck with the butt of his rifle—a crisp blow to my temple that staggered me.
I rolled away from him, the chain snaking around my left ankle.
Got to my knees, one hand on the assault rifle’s grip.
The upright guard froze.
First things first—Ernst and the guard.
Before I could squeeze, my arms sagged. Finger refused to contract. A sudden heaviness.
“Oh Meg,” I said. More of a groan. “Not cool.”
Meg was hiding around the corner but she held her sinister device out like a shield, her finger on the button. The bracelet on my wrist was flashing.
She’d moved quickly, activating a patch. The transdermal injection got into the bloodstream quick thanks to the accelerant she mentioned.
My limbs were jello. Sinking.
Duane’s face was purple. “Motherfuckers! You let him get a gun!”
Emile was pressed flat against the wall, her hand at her throat. Unlike Duane, the blood had drained from her face.
The upright guard approached me again.
“Don’t hit him,” said Duane. “I need him undamaged.”
He hit me anyway.
Ernst’s words were a little fuzzy and not just because of the accent. Took me a moment to sort through the fog.
“You are quick, Herr August,” he said. “I am impressed.”
Our procession walked down a long hallway. My feet moved on autopilot. I wore black silk pants and a red and blue silk kimono.
How had that happened?
Good thing I looked great in silk.
Ernst and a guard each had hold of an arm. Otherwise my legs would’ve collapsed.
“Aren’t you embarrassed,” I said. A little thickly. “That it takes all of you? For only one of me.”
“Good,” said Duane. “The bastard can talk again.”
From behind me, I heard Emile’s voice. “Your outfit. I chose the colors. Do you approve?”
“Listen quick, August. This Colloquio, it’s like the kick off for the Gabbia Cremisi. The opening ceremony. You follow?” said Duane. “It’s important. Billionaires thick on the ground. Persian Gulf sheiks, oil sultans, European royalty, Singapore gods so rich I can’t imagine. Renting rooms for ten grand a night.”
Emile purred, “They are here for you. Indulging a guilty pleasure.”
“And this is the outfit you picked out? A kimono?” I said.
“A joke. You still think this is a joke,” he said.
“I am unimpressed, Duane, by things which impress you.”
“Unimpressed. We’ll see. You get weighed. Interviewed. Eat dinner with the other contestants. Tattooed. Then there’s the drawing. That kind of thing.”
I blinked. Intelligently.
Did he say tattooed? Probably not. Just the medicine.
“Do a good job. Don’t embarrass the Kings. Then we’ll talk about what happens after the tournament. You follow me?”
A little. Maybe. Or maybe I was dreaming.
My handlers walked us to a large door. Duane and Emile and Meg departed to join their wealthy peerage.
It was dark. Strangers stood nearby. I heard noises, a hot hum out of sight. Ernst and the other guy smelled like sweat.
We waited.
I swayed.
“What’s going on?” A ball of pain knotted in my head, near the spot struck by the guard.
“You will be introduced,” said the German. “Is almost our turn.”
“How do I look?”
“Bad. Like you are stupid and a man had to hit you in the temple. Twice.”
I said, “You’re unkind, Ernst.”
The wall in front of us rotated upwards. Like magic. Noise and light rushed in at our feet, then rose to our knees, our waist.
Ernst pushed me forward.
Despite being a stolid and unflappable gentleman, I felt a little shocked. This room was gigantic, like a big top circus venue or an NBA basketball arena. The central area/floor was as big as a skating rink and surrounded by a high wall on all sides, and above that stadium seating rose to the rafters. A live orchestra played violins and cellos and a piano in the corner on a silver stage. Spotlights swiveled. Thousands of people watched and cheered in the stands.
Theater on the Mountain.
A theater in the round.
A preposterously large stained-glass dome capped off the ceiling. Lions eating prisoners.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Ernst.”
“What?”
I heard my name blared over speakers. Nicollo Ferrari stood in the middle, beaming and talking into a microphone. His teeth and jewelry flashed, and his voice echoed. Were people cheering for me?
Noises and lights boomed omnipresently. My medicinal fog was evaporating but that allowed my sensorium to flood.
Ernst helped me navigate to the center. The arena’s floor was empty and clean except a hefty baronial table at the center, sitting on a rug of sheepskins. The table was set with a white table cloth, red cloth napkins, candles, goblets of wine, focaccia and olive oil. Other men sat around the table.
Ernst got his mouth close to my ear.
“Sit. Behave.”
“Meh.”
“There are dozens of guards. And we can still sedate you again. Do not be a fool.”
“No promises.”
I sat on an ornate high-backed and polished wooden chair. Because I was disoriented, not because I was told.
I listened as other men were introduced.
The world reordered itself slowly.
Eight of us sat at the table. Around and above us, ten thousand watched. Maybe fifteen or twenty thousand—hard to make out details.
All eight entrants wore a kimono in the colors of their country. All eight wore the electronic bracelet. Five men were without shackles. Three, including me, wore handcuffs.
The stadium appeared to be divided by entrant. By comparing the flags and symbols and the appearance of the entrant, I was able to differentiate the attending “mafias.”
I represented the Kings. Our section of the stadium was only half occupied. Embarrassing.
The Cosa Nostra’s (or Sicilian Mafia’s) cheering section overflowed deliriously.
Next to me sat a giant the size of a sumo wrestler. Yakuza, from Japan. I glanced over his shoulder—his section was half full too.
A Mexican cartel was here. Not only did their entrant wear cuffs, he was also chained to his chair like a wild man. I couldn’t identify which cartel.
The Colombian had a large following.
The Russian Brothers Circle’s section was half full.
The Triads’s entrant set solemnly, wearing handcuffs.
The biggest cheering section was for the Camorra, obviously. Their entrant sat across from me, a fit and darkly attractive man.
I counted on my fingers.
Kings, Cosa Nostra, Yakuza, Mexican cartel, Colombians, Russian Brother’s Circle, Triads, and Camorra.
That was eight.
“This is deeply abnormal,” I told myself.
I was right.
The man across from me, the Camorra’s handsome champion, smirked. He lazily dipped focaccia into the oil. Ate it. Wiped his mouth and replaced the napkin on his lap. His posture erect, his motions
deliberate.
“You Americans,” he said. “Like an animal stuck in the headlights.”
“You Italians,” I replied. “With your outlandish coliseums and fights to the death.”
“You do not wish to be here.”
“Given the choice,” I said, “I’d rather be golfing.”
“In your country there is no system. No…corruption. Here, the rules are different. We take great pride in the Gabbia Cremisi.”
“We have corruption,” I said, talking loudly to be heard over the booming voice and violins. “For example, major league baseball doesn’t have a salary cap.”
“You are jesting.”
“In America, we do our best to disempower and usurp the corrupt. Not throw pageants for them,” I said.
Without turning, the man pointed behind his chair at the cheering section beyond.
“The leader of Naples. What is the word in English? Mayor? And chief of polizia. And judges. They all watch and bet. As I said, pride.”
I took a moment to inspect the congregation.
Hundreds of beautiful women in skimpy sequined outfits moved up and down the stairs, bringing refreshments to the crowd. An elderly couple near the front row raised their hands and were brought a bottle of champagne. Near the top, private luxury boxes were alight and occupied by the wealthiest of the wealthy. Some of the most powerful persons on earth were in there. I bet behind me, in the Kings section, Duane and Emile watched from a luxury box.
The giant sumo wrestler to my left reached over and took my bread, jostling me in the process.
Rude.
The handsome man across from me said, “Do you know the Gabbia Cremisi?”
“I do not.”
“It is great fun. The most important part is the betting. Money will be placed based on your answers. So do not get the Colloquio wrong, American,” he said.
“Are you betting on yourself?”
“Of course!”
“Of course!” I shouted back. “Roma victa!”
Servants dressed in white brought us platters of food. Slices of salami and prosciutto and pepperoni and culatello, with chunks of mascarpone and parmigiana and gorgonzola, plus bowls of fresh fruit. Also the best looking tiramisu and cannoli I’d ever seen.
The sumo wrestler tucked in. Eating his food while eyeing mine.
I slid my plate of desserts slightly farther away.