Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  “You’re kidding me. How about that, August! The bastards love you. He’s the favorite now? Forget about it. Means we got our money in good.” He crouched and slapped me on the shoulder. Affectionately, I hoped. “August, you went from underdog to the favorite. All you got to do is kill that little Mexican guy in the chains. Got’damn, I could use a drink. Emile, walk me to the lounge. I want to rub our fortune into those stupid Italian faces.”

  Duane left, a storm of sudden goodwill.

  Emile’s dress and heels lingered a moment. Then she too left.

  I said, “What’d he mean, the little Mexican guy in chains?”

  “You were unconscious,” replied Meg. “During the drawing. You drew the entrant brought by the Los Zetas, the Mexican cartel. I forget his name, but he strikes me as criminally insane. A condenado, they said, brought for public execution. During his interview he mostly blithered. In America he wouldn’t be mentally fit to stand trial.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Instead I stayed quiet, absorbing and processing the reality in which I found myself. It was a disorienting and surreal reality and required significant digestion.

  Her hand, which had been applying lotion to the angry skin between my shoulder, paused.

  “What did you mean, you fell in love with the wrong woman?”

  “The guy who put the contract on me, Darren Robbins. His prized possession, a high-end lawyer and sexual toy, left him. He blames me.”

  “Should he?”

  “I was the impetus behind her departure from prostitution, yes. She’s the girl who married me.”

  “Wow. Okay, so,” she said. “You’re here…because he’s jealous?”

  “Also because he’s fraudulent and vindictive and petty. He abuses women and I think his eyes are the color of sewage.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Our looks are an accident, Meg.”

  “Not the eyes, you brat. About him sending you here out of spite.”

  “I’m learning just how far the scales are tipped in favor of those with money,” I said, my voice muffled by the carpet.

  “I didn’t realize you were here because of love.”

  “Also, to be fair, I cost Darren a lot of money.”

  Her words sounded small. “Do you miss your son?”

  “He’s one and a half. A fun age.”

  “Do you want me to pass a message to him, in the event that…I mean, you know. If you don’t make it home?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No? You’re sure?”

  “Not necessary. I’m going home.”

  She started applying the lotion again. I manfully decided against yelping.

  “Your confidence baffles me. You were bought as a slave, essentially. Escape is impossible.”

  “For lesser equipped Yankees,” I said.

  “You’re still doing the obstacle and tool trick?”

  “Not a trick. At the moment, many things are out of my control. But I’ll use what I have. Things like hope and confidence. I will not pass a message to Kix because that admits the possibility of failure. In my mind, failure is not one of the paths open to me.”

  “But,” she said slowly, like she was speaking to an exceptionally dimwitted child. “You admitted you won’t kill your opponents in the ring."

  “Makes it problematic.”

  Her hand had stopped applying the lotion. It felt like she was idly running her fingers up and down my spine.

  “You’re an enigma, Mackenzie.”

  “Probably because my stupid tattoo is sending mixed messages.”

  “You take yourself less seriously than the others. No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s that you take others less seriously than they take themselves?”

  I yawned.

  She continued, “I think you offend people because your opinion is important to them and they don’t know why. And you deal with facts and sometimes people don’t like the facts you notice so they take exception to your observations. To compensate they take themselves even more seriously, which doesn’t impress you. How accurate is my diagnosis?”

  “Maybe. I’m too tired for navel gazing.”

  Her hand stopped moving. She rested it on the fleshy right side of my back between my hip bone and rib cage.

  She asked, “What is your opinion of me?”

  “Corrupt and conflicted.”

  “I can’t help you escape, Mackenzie. I can’t.”

  “Mmhm,” I said. “Going to sleep now.”

  “I’m nervous about tomorrow. I want you to survive. Okay?”

  “You’re pinching me. Quit it.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Are you nervous? …Mackenzie? Hello? I don’t understand you.”

  9

  After lunch the following day, I was led through the plush hallways back to the arena. Being a perspicacious detective meant I could deduce the arena occupied the middle of the Teatro di Montagna, with lounges and salons and restaurants and suites built along the outside. Today, inside the arena, instead of explosions of color and sound, I found echoes and empty seats.

  Two guards walked either side of me. Ernst carried a chain attached to my handcuffs; in his other hand, the remote to my wrist band. Meg strolled with Duane and Emile and they chatted about a soirée last night.

  A cage had been erected in the middle of the theater, in the space where last night we’d eaten. Like a grotesque shrine to violence. It was larger than the MMA fights I’d participated in, but the netting was a more open weave and the metal thinner.

  I said, “Who were the people cheering in the Kings sections yesterday?”

  “The Kings do not have many people here,” admitted Duane. “You happened last minute, you understand. Otherwise…who knows. Mostly they were Italians and Chinese who love America. They love American football and action movies starring The Rock and music by Frank Sinatra and Taylor Swift, all that shit. Seating isn’t assigned.”

  “Your cheering section will be larger this evening,” said Emile. “Trust me. The women are talking.”

  Ernst led me into the cage. The others appeared reluctant to enter, hovering outside instead, the sissies. The cage didn’t form a dome but the walls rose ten feet. Being inside made my chest tighten.

  “How it will work,” said Ernst. How it vill vork. His voice caromed off distant corners. “Three rounds. Five minutes each. First round is the classic fight. Like you have done before."

  “Classic fight. And if you’re smart,” said Duane, “You’ll kill him then. Because of your history, right? Your biggest advantage is in the first round. Break his neck. Choke him out. Whatever.”

  “I’m not killing anyone, Duane Moneybags.”

  “Second round, the cage becomes electrified,” said Ernst. Zee cage.

  “Electrified,” I hooted. “A shocking development.”

  “Yeah, the current won’t kill you, August. But might knock you out. First guy makes contact usually loses, you understand?”

  “Third round,” said Ernst. “Fighters are given weapons. The weapons always change. No way to predict. Third round is when fighters usually die.”

  “This Mexican guy. He’s a pro with knives, what I hear. He makes it to the third round? You’re dead.”

  Ernst nodded and made a grunt noise. “It’s true. I listened last night. The Mexican is crazy but they say he will fight smart. If he knows you are stronger, he will play the defense until third round and then use weapons.”

  I said, “Both fighters might still be alive after round three.”

  “Then another break for water,” said Ernst. “After that? No rounds. Just fight until one victor.”

  Emile removed a phone from her clutch purse and she ran her thumb across the screen. She wore a black bandage dress, a sexier outfit than last night’s formal blue. “It’s less romantic that way. Attrition is boring.”

  “Romantic. Gimme a break. You get how this works, August?”

  “Affirmative. Twas clearly adumbrated.”

/>   “Adumbrated. I dunno what that means. Whatever. Sometimes both fighters, they get zapped at the same time on the fence. Or both get too tired to go on, you know? Can’t finish the other off. That’s what the Executioner is for.”

  “Of course there’s an executioner. I deduced there must be.”

  Duane circled the cage, arms crossed. “Niccolo Ferrari, he’ll poll the audience and the Executioner will finish off the loser.”

  “Does he carry a large double-bladed headsman’s axe?”

  Emile nodded. “He does.”

  “I knew it. Anything less would be uncivilized.”

  “Won’t be so funny, it’s your head he’s loppin’ off.”

  “I’m not killing any contestant, Duane.”

  The two Italian guards with sports jackets and assault rifles were standing at the entrance to the cage and they glanced at each other.

  “The hell does that mean, August. Getting fed up with this. You just gonna lay down and die tonight?”

  “I’ll play defense,” I said. “Until the Hispanic gentleman and I work something out through diplomacy.”

  “Diplomacy, Christ,” said Duane and he continued pacing, but now he also rubbed his forehead. “You’re a dead man.”

  “Whether I win or not.”

  “What do you want me to do? Huh? Tell me that. The bounty hunter here was paid good money to ace you. Maybe he should’ve. But I intervened. You been dead for days. I release you, I’m betraying that asshole in Washington. Robbins.”

  “Then why should he fight, my love?” asked his wife.

  “Because of honor, that’s why. Some self-respect.”

  She watched me with eyes too large and luminous.

  “We need to release him, should he win. No chains.”

  “I release him, Emile, and I’m odd man out with the Kings. This is what I do for a living. So how about you let me talk, huh? August, maybe this—maybe you just knock the guy out.”

  “Render the Hispanic gentleman unconscious?” I asked.

  “Yeah, how about it. A compromise.”

  “Sure.”

  An energy seemed to light up his face.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, you give me your word of a release,” I said.

  He placed two hands on the cage meshing and leaned into it.

  “Damn it, August. Robbins got my word. He’s a colleague. What’s so difficult, you can’t understand that?”

  “I’m too dull and stubborn, Moneybags. What’s the deal with the Prince? Why’d he come back to fight again?”

  “O Principe,” said Emile. She replaced the phone into her purse. “That man. He is a legend. A god.”

  “Oooh, you gave me chills,” I said. “For real, something about your accent and reverence. Chill bumps. Look.”

  Duane said, “The Prince worked for a Camorra clan few years ago. He’d get hopped up on coke, pull on a skull mask, and ride the streets on his motorcycle. He sees guys from one of Di Contini’s clan, he shoots’em.”

  “Di Contini was the populist Camorra lord until a few years ago, when Rossi ratted him out to the police,” I said.

  “That’s right. You pay attention. So the Prince gets captured by Di Contini’s associates and forced into the Gabbia Cremisi, like you are now. But he wins the damn thing and goes free.”

  “Much to Di Contini’s chagrin, the poor man,” I said.

  “Right. Anyway. Rossi overthrows Di Contini soon after. The Prince, he’s a celebrity now. Like what’s-his-name. The fighter in America, you know the guy. MacGyver.”

  “Conor McGregor.”

  Duane shrugged. “Yeah, him.”

  “Prince still rides motorcycle with the mask,” said Ernst. “Even now. He will win again this year.”

  “He entered voluntarily?” I said.

  “That’s right, August. This tournament, it’s a big fucking deal. Money and fame and glory, you know? There’s only been one repeat champion, and he was from the sixties. People still talk about him. Man’s a myth. Whatever his name was. That’s why, tonight, be great if you’d kill the Spic. Bring the Kings respect.”

  “I need your word,” I said. “About my freedom. Otherwise tonight I’ll win through diplomacy, escape soon after, and then kill you.”

  Duane watched me a long time. The skin around his eyes were puffy from fatty foods and too much wine.

  “Bah.” He turned and snapped for his wife, signaling she follow. He headed for the exit. “You’ll change your mind. You get in the ring and that Mexican guy starts kicking your ass? You’ll change your mind.”

  10

  I stood at my window and watched rabble assembling below, in the Chiaia district. The mob was directly south of our perch on Vomero, perhaps a half mile distant. I couldn’t discern the details but it was obvious a fire had started in the streets.

  Trouble afoot.

  The designers of the Theater on the Mountain had built this window to be escape proof. And they hadn’t failed. Heavy glass, double paned, reinforced sill. Only a wrecking ball would remove it.

  Meg walked in, wearing pale blue scrubs, like an emergency room physician. Cheap, easy range of movement, simple disposal when soaked with blood.

  She arched an eyebrow. “I like your costume.”

  I looked down at my outfit. Stretchable fighting shorts in red, white, and blue. That was all. “Shut up. It’s cold.”

  She smeared cream on my back and said, “Where do all these muscles come from? The women are going to love you.”

  “Years of sports and training and steroids.”

  “Switch to HGH. I don’t recommend ongoing anabolic steroid use.”

  “I quit in my twenties.”

  “I’m going to give you some antibiotics. Your skin hasn’t healed and infection is possible. It’s asinine to tattoo fighters immediately before a match.”

  “You’re right. That’s what’s asinine about this.”

  She’d gotten too familiar with me. Too focused on the fight. She’d walked into the danger zone, into my circle on the carpet. I could kill her. Use her as a hostage.

  Ernst was in the next room, however. He had controls for the device. Plus I was still chained to the floor, and I didn’t think Duane cared much if Meg died. Ga’head, kill the broad, he’d say, like a true gangster.

  I nodded towards the window, indicating the mob and curl of smoke. “Are the protests about the tournament?”

  “Yes. Apparently the riots get worse today because all entrances to Vomero are sealed off with check points.”

  “The Haves are being separated from the Have Nots, and the Have Nots take umbrage. I can relate.”

  She held up a small vial.

  “Cocaine.”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Duane and Emile are coke heads. This is from their private supply. It will heighten performance in the ring.”

  “All good. I prefer clarity of mind.”

  “So. Here’s the thing. Duane told me to insist,” she said, lowering her voice. “And if you refuse, there’s a device to fit around your head like a gas mask.”

  “I’ve seen the kind. You light a crack rock, put it in the filter, and the wearer gets high, like it or not.”

  “Right.”

  “Give me the vial,” I said.

  “You’ll snort it?”

  “No. Tell them I did.”

  Meg the physician and drug pusher asked, “Are you nervous?”

  “Sure. You?”

  “Terrified.”

  11

  From the general hum, and because I was an adroit detective, I detected the swelling crowd. Noise came through as vibration in my feet.

  Four armed praetorian escorted me and Duane and his retinue to a holding cell set under the stadium seating, a square room with white walls and dark carpet and linoleum couches.

  The guards had swapped assault rifles for electroshock devices.

  Duane was in a black tux and bowtie and he watched me warily. The poo
r guy was on edge about backing a fighter who refused to throw a punch. A disastrous investment.

  Emile wore a green evening dress that would’ve been at home in the Playboy Mansion. Her breasts had a way of drawing the eye and she knew it and enjoyed it.

  Tattoo Neck sweated and refused to look at me.

  Duane conferenced with someone outside the room and came in. “August, you fight third. That’s the best slot, I’m told. First two rounds, the people are on cocktails and dessert. By round three, audience will be drunk. Got it?”

  His eyes were a little wild and he fidgeted. His normal rasp had grown to a grunt.

  “If you see a cannoli,” I said, “Save it.”

  “A cannoli.”

  I shrugged. “I have a predilection for them and a sumo wrestler ruined mine yesterday.”

  “You win, August, and I’ll get you a truckload of cannoli. I don’t need to tell you how big a victory tonight would be for me.”

  “I need your word,” I said. “I win the tournament, I go free.”

  “You won’t win. So who cares.”

  “Your word.”

  Duane huffed. Glanced at our four guards and at Ernst. Crossed his arms, which threatened the shoulder seams, and shook his head—like, the nerve of this guy!

  “My love,” said Emile. “Be reasonable.”

  “We’re going to our seats,” he said. “Just win. Win and we’ll talk.”

  “No deal.”

  “Got’damn you, August. Rossi might be here. The former champions are watching.”

  “Gimme that thumbs up, Moneybags.”

  He stomped to the door, a motion which looked goofy in a tuxedo. He stuck out his fist, thumb pointing at the ground. “Ga’head and die, August. I don’t care.”

  Emile followed him but paused at the door. Placed her hand on the jamb.

  “Win, Mackenzie,” she cooed in her French accent. “The rewards are worth it. Trust me.”

  “Herr August,” said Ernst after she and Tattoo Neck left. “You have probably an hour before the fight. Be better for you now without handcuffs.”

  “Was thinking the same thing, German bounty hunter.”

  “The doctor’s bracelet stays on. But I take the cuffs off. If you behave. You tell me so, I believe you.”