Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  My knees buckled. I was sliding to the floor.

  “Guards?” she called. “Some help, s'il vous plaît.”

  “Why’d you come back?” My tongue felt thick.

  “Sheer jealousy, my love. I came to watch.”

  “I like Aurora.” My words slurred. Kneeling on the floor. “Way more than you.”

  “Then maybe she needs to die?”

  A guard arrived. A man with dark skin, I think, but everything went fuzzy.

  He said, “What is…what is happening to him? What’d you do?”

  “I have taken back what’s mine.”

  Behind me, Aurora said, “Mackenzie?”

  More guards. Suddenly the hallway was swarming with them.

  13

  The following day, a tailor and I put our heads together and decided on a midnight blue tuxedo with peak lapels and double-buttons. Only slim-fitted couture for me, obviously, because I’m not a savage. In fact, the tailor winked at me and called me a “guappo.” A compliment, I assume.

  I dressed under strict scrutiny. While putting on my shirt and jacket, my ankles were shackled. While putting on pants and socks, my wrists were shackled.

  So untrusting, these German bounty hunters.

  Ernst clearly had a concussion. He’d come to, groggy and dazed. Duane threatened to have Ernst drowned if he sought revenge.

  “I don’t need you fucking up my prize stallion, Ernst, you understand me?” Duane had said in a rasp. “Guys like you, I can buy two of you for ten grand. I need my champion unmolested.”

  Because I hadn’t been successful, and because it generated even more buzz for him, Duane wasn’t angry about my escape attempt. He’d affectionately slapped my cheek and said he liked my spirit.

  Said it was hard to kill a Gurkha, a reference I didn’t understand.

  The one negative consequence of my escapade was that the chief of security bolted a second chain into the floor, across the room. One chain for each hand, limiting my range of motion and stretching my arms wide so that even if I got a key my hands couldn’t reach one another. He oversaw the installation himself, Bluetooth headsets flashing in each ear, and when Duane wasn’t watching he threw me two good kidney punches. While I gasped, he got in my ear and said, “Discipline.”

  So it was with sore ribs that I finished donning the tuxedo. Duane and Emile and Tattoo Neck and two guards came to escort Ernst, Meg, and me to a party they jokingly referred to as a Bunga Bunga. Duane scrutinized me and tried adjusting his tux to look as svelte and debonair as moi. But a man snorting cocaine and cheeseburgers and bourbon arrived to the fashion table at a distinct disadvantage.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Time for the party. I won’t wait for you, Moneybags.”

  Meg and Emile tried not to smile. Duane hated it when I issued orders he had no choice but to obey. It’s the little things in life.

  We rode an elevator to the top floor. I wore chains on wrists and ankles, further precautions for Mackenzie August, the Houdini of private investigators. Before the doors dinged, Emile sighed and said, “Another party full of young women to please the old men. En avoir ras le bol.”

  “You don’t like it, go back to the got’damn room,” said Duane.

  The elevator opened.

  We stepped into a party on the roof. One of those without a central point, no spot of gravity, so everyone floated and tried too hard. Speakers blared, women in sequin bikinis served drinks, the younger adults swam fully clothed (or not fully clothed) in a flashing pool, and their elders sipped cocktails and watched. Spotlights created flares in my vision, blocking the celestial beyond.

  Party-goers spotted and cheered for us. A cartoonish but significant subset wore vests and cowboy hats and boots, complete with revolvers in tooled leather holsters. Some of the girls wore cheerleader uniforms.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Cowboys and cheerleaders are the recognized international avatar for America?”

  “Avatar,” said Duane. “Sounds right. You claim you’re here for a woman, you destroy the Mexican, refused to kill him, win anyway, then almost escape yesterday…you’re a legend, August. You got fans.”

  “This makes me tired,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  Duane wiped some sweat from his forehead. “I heard Rossi himself might be here. He’s been absent, ’til tonight. Don’t screw this up. You hear?”

  We plunged into the jungle.

  “The Mexicans went home,” called Duane above the throbbing hum and rattle. He shrugged and indicated the party with his thumb. “Otherwise, this place’d be a zoo. I think most Colombians are leaving, also.”

  Armed guards galore. Mostly Italians but also Yakuza and Russian soldiers, standing with arms crossed. Constant vigilance. Duane told Tattoo Neck that next year they needed to bring more guys.

  There won’t be a next year, Duane, I get my way.

  Whining electric drones with cameras hovered in the air, sending a feed to scattered televisions. Some of the mini helicopters ferried bottles. Others toted cash cannons, raining money.

  Above one of the bars a vast digital screen displayed betting lines. I tried to make sense of the Italian and failed.

  Two girls dressed in sheer gowns came for Duane, followed by a man clearly operating as an interpreter. He asked Duane to follow him to the higher table.

  Emile was not invited.

  Duane left without a backwards glance.

  We were all still kids hoping for an invitation to the popular lunch table, I thought. What a mess, we humans.

  The head of security stood nearby, watching me, his Bluetooth earpieces flashing.

  Emile took me by the arm and steered me into the heaving masses. She put her mouth near my ear and said, “This is still very much a man’s world, Mackenzie. What is the English phrase?”

  “The underworld is a patriarchal society.”

  “The wives, we are expected to smile and look the other way while the men gamble and grope and screw in private salons. It is an insult.”

  “I concur, that’s insulting. But you haven’t earned the right to be offended by the exploitive zeitgeist of the Camorra tournament, Emile,” I said.

  “I don’t know the word, zeitgeist.”

  “You participate and profit in the underworld. Yet you think pimps should treat marriage as holy? The oppressors should be progressive in their treatment of the oppressed?”

  Her grip on my bicep tightened. “I think a woman with an unfaithful husband should feel no reason to remain loyal, Mackenzie. And that the husband shouldn’t be surprised at the lack of loyalty.”

  “Maybe the wife should remain loyal to herself. And to her promises, even if not to the man.”

  “To herself? What does that mean? Why should she do that?”

  I said, “Because she has to live with herself. She has to sleep at night. Because revenge and hedonism will not calm the storm.”

  “But it might make the storm bearable, Mackenzie.”

  “Not in my experience, though I claim to be a steward of no one except myself.”

  We stopped. Her hand released my arm.

  “Wait, I have a son,” I said. “I need to restate my jurisdiction.”

  “We are here,” she said. “Another chance for you to be judged and shine.”

  We stood on the edge of the enormous pool. It was lit on all sides by alternating submerged lights and the colors pulsated. Men and women in various states of undress splashed and cackled.

  A floating barge drifted our way. The platform was large, roomy enough to hold four chairs. Three of the chairs were occupied.

  I recognized the occupants—the three remaining mafia champions.

  Ernst clipped a small microphone onto my lapel and slapped me on the shoulder. Hard.

  The barge stopped at my feet and guards pushed me onto the platform. I had to either sit in the open chair or fall. The barge returned to drift in the middle of the pool, guided by swimmers. Cones of brilliance followed us, blasted by
spotlights on towers.

  “And then there were four,” I said.

  “Ah, the American Yankee,” said a darkly handsome man. O Principe, the local favorite. “Good of you to join.”

  “The hell is going on?”

  With leonine indifference, he indicated the microphone on my lapel with his martini glass. “We are the entertainment, of course. We are being recorded and broadcast. Look and see. Many partiers, they sit with headphones, listening. Deciding where to place their money. Even in other parts of the hotel, they listen. The rest will read transcripts in the morning when headaches wear off.”

  The Prince and I sat opposite each other on the floating barge. To my right, the Russian. To my left, the enormous Yakuza champion. The barge tilted his direction.

  The Russian was not a tall man, but solidly built, like an Armata tank. His left ear had been cut off. His left eye was swollen shut. His other eye was lifeless, like a ball bearing. His right arm rested prolapsed in a sling.

  I told him, “Here’s hoping I get to fight you next.”

  The Russian did not smile.

  He said, “My fight, almost fifteen minutes. Battle with weapons. The Colombian, he died well.”

  The Prince smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “Died slow and messy, is what I heard. You want a drink, American?”

  “I do. Beer.”

  The man leaned down to an attendant swimming in the water and said, “Birra per l’Americano. Grazie.”

  A swimmer brought me a Peroni in a glass. I drank some. Perhaps the most delicious thing I’d ever consumed.

  “Why do you wear those?” asked the Prince, indicating my chains.

  “They aren’t worn volitionally.”

  “Which is why you must, no? A shame, American. You are unable to enjoy the tournament.”

  “I enjoy my life. Looking forward to returning to it.”

  He said, “You will win the Gabbia Cremisi?”

  “Or leave it.”

  The Prince laughed, good-natured and rich. He wore a tux, similar to mine, but his shirt was black. His right leg was draped over his left. He raised his martini glass to me. “I admire the courage. But how?”

  “I’ll pave the streets with the dead, if I have to.”

  “But you are religious, I hear, no?”

  “I’m not good at it.”

  “The first you must kill…” He nodded at the sumo wrestler. “Riku. The Yakuza champion.”

  Riku had come out of his fight unscathed, other than a few contusions on his neck. Riku did not deign to look at me.

  “Opponents have already been drawn?” I said.

  “Yes. And your opponent…” He nodded again at the Japanese man. “In the opening round, he killed the Triad by squeezing him to death.”

  “What do the rules say about bringing a fork?”

  The hardscrabble Russian victor sniffed. Some would call it derisive. “I fight O Principe. I will not last first round. I accept death.”

  “Shame on you for not ending the Colombian more quickly. Most money is placed on the third minute,” said the Prince and he shrugged one shoulder. Almost a feminine movement. “But maybe you live until the fourth?”

  The Russian spit at him.

  “Minute means nothing. World knows you cheat,” he said. “The Russian Brotherhood is not dishonored by you.”

  “Or maybe the first minute.” The Prince leaned forward to me, conspiratorially. “Do you see? Look at their faces. Around the pool with headphones. Millions in betting. Maybe billions. On which minute the Russian will die. How do you not enjoy this?”

  “My soul is still in one piece. That’s how.” I turned to the giant sumo wrestler. “You and me?”

  The colossus made a grunting noise.

  “I accept your surrender,” I said.

  He grunted again.

  “It was your brother I stabbed in the eye? You guys look the same. Is that racist? Tell him I’m sorry.”

  “Riku cannot speak, Yankee. Like his twin, the man whose life you saved with a fork, Riku’s tongue was removed by the Yakuza.”

  “That’s disturbing,” I said. “I am disturbed.”

  “But look here.” Our barge was slowly rotating and the Prince had to point over his shoulder. “You are the favorite at the moment. Two-to-one, over the giant.”

  I drank some beer. “Even though I didn’t kill my previous opponent? Seems aspirational.”

  “Do you still refuse to fight, American? Be careful how you answer. The world listens.”

  “I won’t kill him, no. Hopefully he’s smart enough to realize that we don’t need to die. Ferrari and the Executioner would never kill us both if we refuse.”

  He released another good-natured laugh. “Still looking for a loophole, eh? You Americans can be so—”

  “Handsome? Endearing? Muscular?”

  “Falsely virtuous. It is cute.”

  “It’s not virtue. It’s pragmatism. Also, one day, when I write my first book, I’ll entitle it ‘Ferrari and the Executioner.’ It’s a romance.”

  “Speaking of stories, are the tales about you true, Yankee? Did you kill the Gurkha with his own knife? Did you pull a man’s throat out of his chest in an American card game?”

  The Prince was the second man to mention me killing a Gurkha, one of the world’s most fearsome fighters, and Duane said I did it last night, in the hallway. Figure that’d be something I’d recall.

  I shrugged. “About the Gurkha, I don’t remember. Duane Chambers seems to think I did. About the throat, I think that’s impossible. But it wasn’t fun for either of us.”

  More and more partiers were losing their clothes and leaping into the pool. The naked and elite milieu gathered around us to listen and scream. In an open-aired lounge above the bar, Duane reclined at a table with other dignitaries. A girl sat beside him, rubbing his shoulders.

  I scanned the rest of the audience. Unlike the crowd in the arena, here the throng individuated into persons. The man or woman who slipped me the handcuff key, was he or she here? Watching? Could I expect further help?

  It was a mystery.

  The Prince grinned and called to the swimmers. They responded with delirious gaiety.

  “Why’d you return?” I asked him. “One trip through this madhouse would be enough for me.”

  “The life I lead is lavish. One week here and I’m wealthy again. Simple as that. Besides, with or without the tournament, I’m not long for this world, as you say in America. Dead meat, no?”

  “Don’t have to be. I got a spare bedroom. After we get out, come for a visit. We’ll grill steaks and not stab one another and talk about life.”

  He appeared genuinely surprised. “You’re inviting me to your home?”

  “Sure. I think you and my roommate might be soul mates.”

  “You have roommates.”

  “Sometimes I have a lot of them,” I said.

  “I wonder if your hospitality is genuine. But it wouldn’t work. You see, I play the game. The clash of clans, as it were, with the other Camorristi. But, alas, it is a loser’s game.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I’ve played too long. There are very few elderly in the mafia. My time is up soon, I think. Finish off Riku here and perhaps you can do the honors,” he said, slapping the giant affectionately on the hand.

  The sumo wrestler did not return the affection.

  “I’m not killing either one of you,” I said.

  There came a murmur from our audience of listeners.

  “Then it is you who are playing the loser’s game, my American friend.”

  14

  Like a pregame ritual, I stood at my window looking over Vomero while Meg slathered my tattoo with ointment. She wore her scrubs, I wore my patriotic fighting shorts.

  “Civil unrest has escalated,” I noted.

  She looked past me, through the glass.

  I watched her reflection. Her short blond hair was pinned back with pink clips and she wore
no jewelry of any kind, giving her the appearance of a child. Time hadn’t begun to etch lines into her face but a frown pushed a furrow between her plucked eyebrows.

  The city teemed like an anthill. Up here the denizens walked more often than drove, scuttling to and fro with groceries and children. Their steps were hurried.

  “I can’t hear it. But I see it. The people are agitated.”

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  “I’m a trained investigator. I’m deeply shrewd. And three fires are burning today, whereas previously I only saw one. Most of the laundry has been taken off the lines. Look at that woman there, in the hat. She is frantic. Tugging her children, looking over her shoulder.”

  Meg pointed to the north, almost out of our line of sight. “That fire looks close.”

  “It started here on the mountain, not below. As I said before, in my sagest voice, civil unrest has accumulated.”

  “You said escalated.”

  “Whatever, shut up. Point is, Meg the vile physician, the Camorra clans are warring.”

  “It’s worse this year, I heard. And I am not vile.”

  I wanted to scratch my nose but I was at the limit of the two chains, my hands stretched to either side. I said, “Something to do with the Prince. He was Rossi’s pick for champion, which angered Di Contini’s disciples.”

  “I think it has to do with you, too. You’ve made a bigger impression than most champions.”

  “Obviously.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “This is madness. I can’t believe I’m in a hotel dedicated to a blood sport, run by the mafia, on a mountain in Naples, surrounded by protestors starting fires.”

  “This wasn’t covered in your Organic Chemistry class?”

  “I can’t help you escape, Mackenzie. I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

  “I haven’t asked you to.”

  Could it have been Meg who slipped me the handcuff key? It was hard to peer under her glassine carapace, but I suspected I’d find treachery beneath. Not sugar and spice and everything nice.

  “I know. But…” She finished with the ointment, screwed the lid back on, and stood beside me to watch the city revolt. I didn’t worry about the fire or protests reaching us. With enough money you can do anything. And the people inside the Theater on the Mountain had enough.