Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  Meg was on her knees, applying cream to my blistered right hand.

  “Am I crying?” I asked.

  “Hello sleepy head,” she said. “Crying is common for a victim of electroshock. Energy overwhelmed your nervous system.”

  “Am I naked?”

  “You are.” To Meg’s credit, she blushed. As one should. “Mr. Chambers is angry with you.”

  “You’re got’damn right I am,” Duane said. From somewhere. “You electrocuted the Executioner. The Executioner, August. The hell were you thinking.”

  “Was thinking it might prevent a beheading.”

  “Your heart went into arrhythmia. I restarted it, to be safe,” she said.

  That is a hell of a thing for one human being to casually say to another. I shook my head, tried to dislodge cobwebs.

  “You can’t attack the Executioner, August.”

  “The heck I can’t. He cuts people’s heads off, Moneybags. What happened with Riku?”

  “Riku? The Yakuza champion? Got no idea. Who cares,” he said.

  “Me. Obviously. Did they kill him?”

  “No,” said Emile. She stood at the door, rubbing her thumb across the screen of her phone. “I saw him walking away.”

  Duane said, “He lost. Should be dead. They won’t kill him?”

  Emile shrugged. Sighed. “I don’t know, my love.”

  “The back of my head,” I observed. “Feels unhealthy.”

  “I sewed up a small gash,” said Meg. “The subcutaneous fat and fibrous tissue are pulverized. It’ll hurt for a week, at least.”

  “Hurts less than the Yakuza’s face, though. Or at least it better.”

  “A nice trick, August.” Duane shook his head and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “You knew. Knew the Camorra wouldn’t punish us now, even if you zapped the Executioner. They’d have no final fight, if they did.”

  “I leveraged my popularity, yes.”

  “Speaking of popularity,” said Emile in a purr. “Mackenzie set a tournament record.”

  Tattoo Neck stepped into the room. Handed Duane a phone. He read a message and handed it back. Said in an aside, “I don’t wanna talk. Not now. I’ll call tomorrow.” Then, to his wife, “Record? What record?”

  “A woman bid a large amount of money for Mackenzie.”

  “Oh yeah. Good. A record? Jesus, that smoothes things over. Hear that, August? You’re getting laid again. Aren’t I generous.”

  “Send her away. I reject your largesse.”

  Emile kept purring. “Mackenzie was not intimate with the previous woman, my love. His sexual frustration must be…significant.”

  “Instead of a woman, I’ll accept food. I’m jonesing for an aprés-fight snack.”

  “A snack,” said Duane. “Whatever. The girl isn’t gonna get her money’s worth, anyway. I won’t release his chains. She’ll have to do her best with a date that can’t move.”

  I said, “There’s a moral allegory in there somewhere.”

  “Mackenzie needs calories, Mr. Chambers,” said Meg, my villainous caretaker. “Nutrition.”

  “The chef’s got him some food prepared. Maybe you feed him.”

  Meg muttered about her medical degree.

  “I’m going to Rossi’s party,” said Duane. “Don’t wait up. Nice job, tonight, August. Kinda. Get some sleep. After you’ve had your fun.”

  He left. Without a backwards glance. Emile arched an eyebrow and watched him leave.

  Meg cut up some fish and an apple with quick strokes that made me think she’d done a surgical rotation. She fed me, talking about the unrest in Naples, and then she went to bed.

  My boy Gennaro brought more champagne but Emile ordered it left in the adjoining room. He shot me a thumbs up before going.

  I sat and ignored the burning in my right hand and the dull throb in my head. Wondered what day it was. Wondered who the Cowboys would play this Sunday. Wondered if my grass needed to be cut again before the winter set in.

  I refused to think about Kix or Ronnie. Not yet. I’d get out soon. And then…

  Voices in the other room. Emile forcing Ernst and the other guards to wait outside.

  She appeared at my doorway with another woman. A young girl, maybe twenty. Japanese, dressed in a gossamer white dress.

  I said, “Send her away, Emile. Not interested.”

  Hard to give orders convincingly, arms pinned out and backwards.

  Emile smiled lazily. “This is Himari. She bid a fortune for you, Mackenzie.”

  “Offer a refund. I’m sleepy.”

  “Himari, please wait in the next room. Do not leave until I return.” She spoke to the girl but kept her eyes on me.

  Mackenzie August, experiencing trepidation.

  Himari made a small bowing motion and left. Emile closed my bedroom door, sealing us in.

  She said, “The average champion earns twenty thousand dollars for an hour with a woman. Two years ago, the Prince earned forty. Tonight, an unknown woman bid fifty for you. Fifty thousand, Mackenzie. In order for Himari to win, she was forced to bid fifty-five.”

  “Aren’t the auctions silent?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “You gave Himari the funds,” I guessed. “She’s a surrogate bidder for you.”

  “Yes. A way to bid anonymously. Do you know what my husband is doing? Going to an old man party where he’ll pick from provided woman and have fun.”

  “This is revenge.”

  “Indeed,” she said. She stepped out of her heels.

  “It won’t help.”

  “Duane thinks he’s making a fortune off you tonight. Little does he know, the arrogant and limp old man, he’ll be paid with his own money. So tonight I have double the pleasure.”

  “I have serious doubts about the stability and longevity of your marriage, Emile. You’re less chatelaine and more courtesan.”

  “It was I who suggested you not be given clothes.” She lowered to her knees in front of my chair. Placed her hands on my thighs. “As punishment.”

  “You’re a pretty lady. You could go upstairs and find a willing partner.”

  “Here’s some information my husband hasn’t told you. Darren Robbins, the American attorney, heard that you were pardoned. He heard that, should you win, you’ll be a free man.”

  Damn it. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t learn until I returned to the States.

  She slid her hand between my thighs. “You are naive, Mackenzie, if you don’t think Darren’s already hired someone else to do the job. He is terrified of you.”

  “As he should be.”

  “Even if you win, an assassin is waiting to kill you.” She smiled, tight and cruel. “You want me.”

  “I do not.”

  “But your body says you do.”

  “If I had more say-so with my body, I would’ve made better grades in high school. I don’t always get my way.”

  “Like I said, Mackenzie, some women enjoy having a man under her complete control.”

  “Cute terminology for rape.”

  “Don’t use ugly language. If I free you, do you promise to please me?” she said.

  “I do not. I will throw you through the window.”

  “So you stay in your chains. Entirely immobile. But do not fret. By the end, you will be won over.”

  “I’m not entirely immobile, Emile.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’m going to head butt you.”

  She frowned and blinked, her sadistic seduction routine hitting unexpected turbulence. “You would not.”

  “And, if I try hard enough, possibly kick your shin.”

  “Do not try to resist, American. You belong to me, and your pathetic squirming will be unmanly.”

  “There’ll be nothing pathetic about it. I’m going to head butt you super hard. Possibly render you insensate.”

  Her hands retracted and rested on my knees. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Would and gonna.”

  �
�Why would you do this?”

  “I have a theory. You think you like having men under your thumb. Controlling them against your will. But I think you crave like the positive feedback to which you’re accustomed. It’s a sick game you play, seducing men. Exerting your sex appeal until you get your way. Trying to fill the gaping hole in your ego made by your husband. It makes you feel better to win men over. Prove you still got it. But I’m rejecting you, Emile. No games. And I will hurt you to substantiate it, if you try.”

  She stuck her hands between my thighs again. The smile returned. “I do not believe you. Even now, as you are being molested against your will, you enjoy it. Your sexual longings must be enormous.”

  “Perhaps, but not for you.”

  She stood and slapped me. It was a slow movement and I saw it coming, but I thought it wise to let the crazy lady vent some steam.

  “I will use the bracelet.”

  “Then my body will be no good to you,” I said.

  “Then I will use shock.”

  “Could try, but you don’t know how, and your husband might find out from the guards.”

  She said, “Mackenzie, stop being an ass. I get what I want. You are…what is the word, a poker term, in English?”

  “Bluffing.”

  “You are bluffing.”

  “I’m not bluffing.”

  She undid the belt at her waist and the robe dress fell in silky waves onto the red carpet. “Look at me.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “Nice work. You’re the poster child for liposuction.”

  “You want me with every part of your entire body.”

  “I admit, some part of my mammalian biological instinct is thrilled by you, but I’m telling you No.”

  “You are scared.”

  “Mostly I’m tired.”

  “Enough games.” She sat on my lap, maintaining the unwelcome eye contact. She moved the way a lap dancer or prostitute would—enticing and inviting, daring me to resist.

  I thumped her on her right cheekbone with my forehead. Hard enough to produce a gasp, and she fell off. Landed hard on the carpet.

  Very unladylike, in my opinion.

  “That was a warning,” I said. “Also my head really hurts and I’d rather not do it harder.”

  “You hit me!” she cried, holding her face.

  “Kinda, yes.”

  “That will bruise.”

  “Hope so. Be good for you. Maybe rub some dirt on it.”

  “I will tell my husband!”

  “Do. And he’ll wonder how I got close enough, chained like this.”

  She stood and smacked me again.

  It had really been a long day.

  “You think we’re finished, American? We are not. I will have you and you will regret this.” She snatched her robe off the floor.

  “Wait.”

  “Changing your mind, yes? Too late, American. You must beg.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. If there’s a cannoli out there, could you wheel it in?”

  17

  The tailor returned the following day to discuss dinner attire. He was maybe seventy and moved with exaggerated dramatic flourishes, until he wanted to measure me. Then his deft fingers moved quick and precise. He wore a white button-down shirt under a black vest, and he smelled like whiskey.

  I said, “You have a gorgeous head of hair. What product should I use to look like you when I’m your age?”

  The tailor, whose face looked more etched instead of wrinkled, laughed and winked. “It’s all about the breeding, young man. And clearly you have some. But, if you want advice, don’t purchase cheap products. Splurge. You’re worth it. So is your hair.”

  “You’re British?”

  “English. Do not insult me or I’ll lampoon you with my needle. Innuendo intended.” He held up a pair of leather loafers with severe reference. “I brought Berlutis. Try on these wicked temptresses.”

  I slipped my bare feet into the soft shoes. Like decadent chocolate for my toes.

  Jiminy Christmas.

  I said, “I didn’t know my feet could be this happy.”

  Watching from the corner, Ernst snorted.

  The tailor said, “As I told you, Berluti. One piece leather, blake stitched by hand. This pair cost three thousand American dollars. The top is alligator, dear boy.”

  A lesser man would’ve felt a little woozy.

  He said, “Wait until you try on the Valentino jacket I selected for you. You’ll simply die. Tapered waist to emphasize these big beautiful shoulders. Like the shoes, handmade here in Italy. Come to think of it, Valentino might be in attendance tomorrow night, the animal.”

  “Are you the Prince’s haberdasher?”

  “Of course, O Principe is a dear friend. Sinfully handsome, like yourself, a dream to dress. He only wears Tom Ford.”

  “Ah. These petty proletarians and their rags.”

  “His outfit tonight will cost over ten thousand, young man.”

  “Lipstick on a pig. Am I right?” I said.

  “No, Mr. August. You are not. If O Principe was a barn animal, he’d be a stallion.”

  “Who will you be rooting for?”

  “I do not root,” he said airily.

  “Who will you bet on?”

  “Not you, I’m afraid. O Principe is lethal.”

  He stepped closer. Made motions like measuring me. Got his mouth next to my ear and whispered. Not only did he smell like whisky, he sounded like it.

  “Listen quick. The blonde girl asked me to pass you this message in secret. Do not give up. She’s working to free you.”

  I moved not a muscle.

  The blonde girl…

  I wanted to reply but didn’t know how.

  No words emerged.

  …working to free you.

  Watching from the corner, Ernst frowned.

  The tailor stepped back and said, “That’ll do it, beautiful boy. The clothes will be ready soon. And if you’re lucky, I’ll find something luxurious for your hair.”

  18

  I strode down the posh hallway like a boss, dressed to the nines. Maybe even nine and a half. Did my shackles ruin the effect? I liked to think of them as a fashion statement. In a few months all the cool kids would be wearing them.

  I said, “How was partying with Rossi?”

  Duane did a shrug. “Rossi. Man never showed. Supposedly hanging out with his new hooker. Just an excuse, though, to hide. Sees assassins around every corner, you know?”

  “Try not to let it ruin your vacation.”

  “Ruin my vacation? I’m making a fortune off you. Just bought this Franck Mueller watch. You had a good time last night?”

  “The fight?”

  “No. Not the fight. The girl after.”

  “I already forgot her. I suppose not.”

  Emile walked behind us, along side Meg. I heard her steps falter.

  Small victories.

  Meg stayed quiet.

  The blonde girl passes you this message. She’s working to free you.

  My head spun.

  Duane was talking. “You guess not. Some Japanese girl, I heard?”

  I said, “My date last night, whatever country she’s from, was desperate and lonely and broken and she needs a husband who loves her.”

  Duane laughed through his nose, a soft raspy sound. “Enough sermonizing. Maybe just screw the girl and shut up.”

  “You like my jacket?”

  “Don’t give a damn about your jacket, August. Tonight’s the last time you gotta play nice. Understand? Get through the meal. Answer the questions. Then you’re done. Tomorrow you’ll kill the Prince or he’ll kill you and it’s over. You’re free or you’re dead. Got it?”

  “You and I, Duane. We’re in similar situations.”

  “Similar situations. Me and you. Explain,” he said.

  “You’re running out of time to do the right thing. You’ve got one more day to take off the chains. If you do, I won’t kill you. If you don’t, if I
have to fight my way to freedom, Duane? I’m going to kill everyone. Including you.”

  He grabbed my arm and jerked me to a halt. I thought about killing him then. I could break his neck before Ernst shot me. Before Meg could activate the black wrist band. We were inches apart. Child’s play to get my wrists around his neck.

  But.

  It wasn’t time yet. My mission wasn’t to kill Duane. It was to get home.

  I had a son.

  I had a wife.

  Kinda.

  Tools and obstacles.

  He held out his hand. Spoke softly. “Ernst, gimme your gun.”

  Ernst shoved his black SIG into Duane’s grip.

  Duane raised the pistol and pushed the barrel into my cheekbone. Got his face close to mine.

  “You’re threatening me,” he said.

  “I been threatening you all week, Duane. What’s new.”

  “Why should I let you live?”

  “Because if you shoot me you’re the asshole who killed his own champion. The final fight doesn’t happen. The Kings are humiliated.”

  “You think I care.”

  “I think you desperately care,” I said.

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “Your gun isn’t scaring me, Duane.” That was dishonest. Huge lie. His gun terrified me. “Put it away before you hurt yourself.”

  He pushed the muzzle harder into my cheek. “Doesn’t scare you. Maybe. Makes me happy to do this, though, August. You know? Having the time of my got’damn life.”

  “Good for you. Follow your bliss.”

  Over his shoulder I saw Ernst’s lips part to reveal his teeth. He chuckled. Meg whacked him on the arm.

  I’m a riot.

  A riot about to be shot in the face if I didn’t shut up.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Duane. “You can’t win. The Prince, he’s not a man who loses. You’re dead tomorrow.”

  “One way or the other?” I said.

  “I won’t kill you, August.” He lowered the pistol. “Gave you my word. But yeah. You’re dead. One way or the other.”

  “I’m despondent, Duane, at my eminent demise. Can this be my sepulchral attire? I’m bespoke as heck right now.”

  He didn’t answer. Turned and kept walking, pistol in his fist pointed down.