by Alan Lee
“Because I’ll kill you. If I have to.”
He nodded. Patted me on my right cheek with the cup of his left hand. Turned and went forward.
Meg the physician finally looked up from her iPad. She watched Duane leave and then inspected me.
“It’s surprising to me that you’re threatening him while wearing restraints.”
“Not a threat. A promise.”
“You’re kinda scary, huh.”
“Not yet.”
4
The Gulfstream refueled in Portugal. Duane and his merry men and his wife deplaned to stretch their legs and consume cool fresh air. I was uninvited.
We had lifted from Washington at 6pm and flown for eight hours. Landed 9am local time in Lisbon. Forty minutes later, we were airborne and aimed at Naples.
I dozed, which was tricky upright. I didn’t do it well.
About the time I decided it wasn’t worth the effort, I opened my eyes to find Duane’s wife sitting across from me.
Duane was maybe fifty and he looked it.
His wife was maybe forty-five but she’d fooled Father Time. On a scale of Old Maid to Veronica Summers, she was an eight and a half. Which was hard to do. Especially since I never judged women on their appearance.
One had to peer closely enough to see that her face, a charming heart shape, was firm and youthful because of a lift. Something about the tight skin around the eyes. There were faint wrinkle indications in spots surgery couldn’t fix. She had the hands of forty-five, but the rest of her looked a peak thirty. Her brown hair was piled in an updo and her green eyes were enhanced with colored contacts. She wore black slacks and a strapless emerald satin top.
“I’ve heard the stories about you,” she said. “The mighty Mackenzie August.” Her accent wasn’t American. The R sound was more of an HRH roll and she sustained the E. Probably French.
“The stories of my might are greatly under reported.”
“I heard you pulled poor Dexter’s throat out of his chest.”
“I had to,” I said. Her eyebrow arched. “He kept setting his drink on the poker felt. Leaves moisture rings, you know?”
“Can you be witty at a time like this?”
“When better?”
“You do not lack for confidence, Inspector August.”
“Never had cause, Mrs. Moneybags.”
“The fabled Mackenzie August, in chains. I have been to the Gabbia Cremisi. Twice, once with Duane. My husband, he can make extra money by selling your services to the women,” she said. The level of eye contact she maintained was unrivaled. I didn’t know where to look while listening to her sensual way of framing words.
“Is that so.”
“Your sexual services, you understand. Some women, they are excited by caged monsters. A man in chains, who otherwise might kill her, but instead she gets to enjoy. What could be better?”
“Almost anything,” I said. “I'll enumerate them. Let’s start at the top. First, beer at a baseball game. Second… Wait, I have a son. I’ll start over.”
“Have you read the Bible, Inspector August?”
“I have.”
She said, “One of the curses at Eden, Eve will desire control over her husband. Did you know that? But the Bible says man will rule over her because she’s smaller. Less of a curse and more of a prediction, no? A man like you is big and strong, and women want to control that power. It gives the woman pleasure—manipulating the man against his will. Did you know this?”
I did my best not to gulp. Dirk Pitt never gulps.
“You’re neither politically correct nor woke, Mrs. Moneybags,” I said.
“Being politically correct has its purposes. But so does the truth. Here is some honesty, Inspector August—my husband will kill us both if he finds me with you.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” I said. “Get it? I’m in restraints.”
She stood, smiled down at me, and walked forward to return to her seat. I was like an animal at the zoo, visited occasionally by the aristocracy closer to the cocktail bar.
Meg the physician was reclining in her chair, eyes closed, cocooned in a blanket. She murmured, “I didn’t know you had a son when I agreed to medicate you.”
“His name’s Kix."
“I’d be careful if I were you,” she said. Almost a whisper. “With Emile Chambers. Duane’s wife. I’ve only been with them a few months but I can spot trouble.”
“Thanks.” My cuffs made a clinking sound. “I’d hate to get into trouble.”
“This blanket is a Givenchy throw. So soft. These people live like kings and queens. Can you believe it?”
“I’m trying.”
5
The Gulfstream landed north of Naples at a private strip in Giugliano in Campania. Judging by what I saw out the window, the small airport pushed up against a commercial section of the city.
The jet taxied to a waiting motorcade of black luxury sedans and stopped. The hatch swung open, sucking in thick warm air. Tattoo Neck went out first, followed by Duane.
Ernst the bounty hunter pushed a button on his phone and the black band on my wrist beeped. I felt a prickly pressure on my wrist and heaviness settled over me.
“Oh,” I said slowly. “Damn it. I’d prefer you not.”
He’d sedated me, the rascal.
Meg said, “I adjusted the dose. A mild sedative only, not the paralytic.”
“The medicine, it prevents the funny business,” he said. Zee funny business. He released the chair restraint and hauled me up. My thighs and back protested, but did Ernst care? No, no he did not. He patted his holster. “Try to escape and I kill you. Or the bracelet, it zaps you. More medicine. Understand, funny man?”
“No. Say it again,” I said. “But lose the accent this time. My head’s swimming.”
He hauled me forward and down the jet’s short staircase. Sun and humidity hit me. The same sun had hung above America but the interaction felt different. I enjoyed it from the distance created medicinally.
An entourage greeted Duane and Emile at the doors to the terminal. Men who looked like Italian diplomats and women with trays of iced drinks. Emile turned to watch me while Duane postured and shook hands.
Some of the men pointed at me, questioning Duane. They seemed pacified by his response. All esteemed parties raised glasses to one another and drank.
Duane and Emile and Tattoo Neck ducked into a Rolls-Royce Phantom.
Ernst and Meg and I settled for a black Audi A5, Meg up front. The driver wore sunglasses and did not remark on my shackles.
Nor did he welcome me to Italy.
The manners of these Neapolitans.
The lead black sedan rolled out, followed by Duane’s Rolls, and then us, a caravan of three.
“Guys,” I said. “Who’s tired and loopy? Just me?”
Meg yawned. “I’m jet-lagged. It’s the morning in Washington, I think, but I’ve barely slept.”
“You should try it on heavy sedatives.”
The driver’s head tilted up to his rearview.
“Keep talking,” said Ernst, “and I will give you more. Knock you out.”
“These are not FDA approved, I bet,” I said, lifting the black band. “You quacks.”
The medicine he’d given me was a good idea. Because I was very close to using my handcuffs to choke the driver. First an elbow to Ernst’s face, then the driver got the cuffs. It might work.
And yet…no way. I was barely sentient. Too enervated for heroic violence.
We drove south into the city of Naples on Via Miano. The city was flat and wide and multicolored, like a carpet. No skyscrapers in view. I felt disappointed because the steering wheel was on the left of the car, and traffic flowed on the right of the street. Same as America. I expressed my disillusionment and got no response.
Traffic teemed as we neared Naples’s more touristy areas.
Meg commented, “Look at the architecture. It’s as if Naples knew what Americans think Italy should l
ook like, and they built the city that way. It all feels…ancient. Somehow smaller but more permanent than Washington.”
Ernst grunted. “The streets are too narrow.”
“So many churches and palaces. I see both Renaissance and Baroque styles here. And the piazzas, look! I hope we have time to sample restaurants. Do you think?”
“I travel the world, to Naples many times. What you need to know about Naples is this—the Camorra runs it. The underworld does not even hide here. Police do nothing.”
“It cannot be all bad, Ernst,” she said.
I smiled sleepily.
He replied, “You know how the Camorra is called? The System. Crime is the way of life.”
The driver nodded his head, a reflexive motion.
We paused at a congested intersection, and saw the first indication of violence.
Protestors were on a street corner, shouting and waving signs. I couldn’t decipher the wording. Beyond them, a block away, a store was on fire and the mob danced.
We rolled on.
Meg asked, “Is the Camorra the source of the unrest?”
“Ja. Naples, for the past three years, tears itself apart during the tournament. Rioting and chaos.”
“Why?”
The driver glanced in his rearview at the German. Ernst steadily watched the bouncing mirror, answering the gaze. He rolled down his window.
“Breathe the air, Fräulein Doctor. What is it? What do you smell?”
She buzzed her window too. I tried but my fingers mutinied.
She said, “Smells like…sewage?”
“It is the garbage. The Camorra, it makes money off the trash. But Camorra is poorly run at this time. Too many warring clans. Chaos and division. So in many places, the trash is not collected. It piles.”
Meg glanced at the driver. “Is that true?”
He glanced at her but didn’t respond. Stoicism in shades.
“And there is toxic waste in the dumps,” said Ernst. “Unlike Germany. Germany is clean, precise. Naples? It is king of the hill.”
We approached a raised part of the fragrant city. The land here wasn’t level and part of Naples had been built on a low mountain range. I got glimpses of it as we wove through the thick tapestry of streets.
Our sedans stopped at something like a train station. Another entourage of swarthy gentlemen received us, like the Secret Service would. Tattoo Neck stayed near Duane, looking in all directions. Duane hung up his phone and helped Emile out of the car.
In the distance, sounds of chaos banged through alleys.
Duane pointed up the commercial mountain.
“Look at this. We’re taking a funicular. I love it.”
A man in a suit held the door for us into the station.
I groggily told him, “But really. Ya’ll should clean up the trash. It kinda stinks here.”
Ernst jerked me through by the arm.
The lobby was large with travertine floors and tinted glass walls. A minstrel played violin in the corner and the music echoed above our heads.
A handsome and well-tanned man stepped from the security detail and greeted Duane warmly. His sports jacket was white and so were his hair and teeth. He wore three gold rings and an earring. They half-embraced and then the ebullient man kissed Emile on both cheeks.
He said, “I am so pleased you came, Signore Chambers.”
Duane said, “Nah, pleasure’s mine, Mr. Ferrari. Finally the Kings get to contribute this year, huh?”
“Indeed! What fun we’ll have. And Signora Emile, my god, you are more ravishing than ever. How I wish your husband will be killed soon.”
General laughter among the wealthy idiots.
“You are too kind, Monsieur Ferrari,” she said.
“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.