Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  I asked, “How much are you being paid for babysitting services?”

  No response.

  “Last month I paid mine twenty bucks an hour,” I said. “That seems high, but Kix isn’t potty trained yet.”

  Up here there was no stench of sewage. The residential buildings, newer and the facades less august, crowded over head. Music played from open windows and hundreds of spectators spectated our passing. Men and women hawked wares from stores—fresh cheeses and wine and meats.

  Duane accepted a phone handed to him by Tattoo Neck and spoke softly into it.

  Ernst told Meg, “This section of the city is called Magliari. Means cheating merchants. These stores on Pavone, for many blocks, they cater to the Camorristi. Police do not travel here. Look, do you see?”

  He pointed at a gun shop. Black pistols and rifles and shotguns were on display in the window—the proprietors were polishing and cleaning weapons at marble benches out front.

  We passed a store offering luxury tailoring. Another that sold wine and alcohol and cocaine and heroin. Then a lewd brothel, models available for purchase posing in the windows. Two impressive banks carved from stone—banks which Ernst claimed operated solely to exchange currencies for black market use.

  I asked, “Could you trade in your diamonds there, Ernst?”

  He chuckled. “You mean the aurum. Yes, I could barter away aurum. But I would be a fool. And I am not.”

  I said, “The aurum is an underworld currency. The diamonds are accepted by all major criminals, aren’t they.”

  “Ja. Anyone can make money. But the diamonds? Priceless. The penalty for counterfeit aurum is death. Penalty for stealing aurum? Death. Not to be taken lightly.”

  We passed a stately stone church that Meg admired, but Ernst said, “The priests inside, they will burn in hell. They condone and pardon sin. For a price.”

  We also strolled by rowdy gambling halls, a counterfeit goods wholesaler, a store that produced fraudulent identification, another which advertised for protection.

  “All declared illegal by state of Italy,” said Ernst. “But where is the polizia? Below, where it is safe.”

  Meg, carrying a backpack of medicine high on her shoulders, looked a little shell-shocked. Her face was white and she held herself by the elbows. Duane and Emile paused to fill grocery bags with wine and bread and cheese and olive oil and cocaine. Servants carted most of their purchases, but Duane insisted on carrying a bag. Like a real citizen would.

  “The war between Camorra clans is big business. It’s gotten worse recently, though…” Ernst trailed off, not finishing his thought.

  “When I get out of these chains, I’m robbing the gun store,” I said. “When I do, if you’re smart, you two will get the hell out of Dodge.”

  It was such a ludicrous statement by a man so thoroughly ensnared that no one bothered to reply. Or else they didn’t know how.

  Children trailed us, shouting things in Italian and pointing at me. Probably gesticulating to one another that I would look good in a beard.

  “There,” said Ernst, pointing up the street into a clearing of light. “Teatro di Montagna.”

  Meg translated, “Theater on the Mountain?”

  The hotel stood at the center of a piazza. Had to be the largest piazza in Naples because the hotel was monumentally huge. And graceless; it looked exaggerated, like a Baz Luhrmann movie, like the Coliseum mated with the Sydney Opera house. It was ornately adorned with towering columns on all corners and glinting domes and theatrical windows. Buses could be driven through the front entrances. Limousines ferried patrons to the waiting army of bellhops and a helicopter lifted off from the roof and swung north.

  “I think we’re neighbors with Nick Carraway,” I said.

  Ernst looked like a confused German bounty hunter.

  Confused and stupid.

  Meg explained, “It’s from literature. Your captive reads books.”

  “Is it a hotel or a theater?” I asked.

  He said, “Both. Because it is current home of Gabbia Cremisi. The tournament. And your death, Herr August.”

  “Swell.”

  A concierge greeted Duane in the shadow of the Montagna. One man caught my eye—short hair, tight suit, businesslike, one of those great lantern jaws. Probably former Alpini, Italian special forces. They always stuck out. Men accustomed to chewing rocks and killing others who did the same. Head of security, I bet. He wore a flashing Bluetooth headset in both ears. Seemed excessive.

  An elderly and pompously mustached man welcomed and gripped Duane by the shoulders and simpered and said ingratiating things.

  I thought about making an escape. I didn’t know how many chances I’d have. But the circumstances—wearing the bracelets of death and surrounded by fifteen guys with guns—didn’t seem optimal. Plus, the man in flashing headsets was watching me and I had a healthy respect for him. I nodded at him. He looked unhappy about it.

  Duane made a motion. Ernst dragged me to the entrance, and the concierge placed room cards in his hand.

  “Signore,” said the pompous man with a pompous mustache. “Champions on the second floor. You will follow Gennaro, per favore.”

  Gennaro was a boy of no more than ten and he wore a porter outfit, including cap. He led us through a blast of city air and into the lobby decorated with garish paintings and extravagant chandeliers. The ceilings were high and the floors polished flagstone and thick rugs, pillars connecting with arches. Fashionable men and women paused to inspect me.

  Wish I’d worn my slim-fitted shirt, the salmon one. I’d cut a more dashing figure.

  In the reflection of a mirror I saw Bluetooth Man following close behind. The healthy respect was mutual.

  A woman reclined on a leather couch, her feet drawn underneath her. Her neck glittered with millions worth of jewels. In her left hand she held a glittering leash, connected to the collar of the young tiger lying prone on the floor.

  “Guys, there’s a tiger,” I said. My entourage stayed cool. “Are we going to pretend that lady doesn’t have a pet tiger? If so, a little warning next time be nice.”

  The Italian boy led us upstairs to a labyrinth of grand hallways with heavy carpet and warm lighting coming from chandeliers and wall sconces. We stopped at 207. The boy keyed the wall and the reinforced door whooshed upwards and disappeared into the ceiling. One of our armed escorts preceded us in.

  The first room was an immaculate sitting area. The walls were bright beige, the oil paintings original, the bar fully stocked with libations, the leather furniture buttery—Meg ran a hand along a chair and gasped. The exterior wall was a floor to ceiling reinforced window. The floor was carpet, a dark wine color.

  The corner of the room was a professional kitchen, complete with a chop block counter, tile floors, magnetic knife rack on the wall, and stainless steel appliances. A stoic Italian man stood there, dressed in standard chef’s whites and a toque blanche. My own chef? Behind him, a large aquarium bubbled. Inside the aquarium, pink crabs waved their claws and looked delicious.

  The second room contained a bed, the piled blankets a dark red color. The exterior wall in here was also a monolithic window, double-paned, looked out at a neighboring residential building and the city below.

  A heavy chain sat coiled on the carpet, one end bolted into the subfloor.

  Kinda ruined the luxury motif.

  Ernst connected my handcuffs to the chain.

  Escape, at this moment, became impossible.

  The Italian boy smiled at me and departed. With no more words, the guards and Meg and Ernst left the room. I heard sounds of the door being locked.

  My chain provided enough freedom to reach the toilet and the bed. I climbed under the red covers, the clinking shackles proving cumbersome but manageable.

  Exhausted again, I closed my eyes.

  “And that,” I yawned. “Was how Mackenzie’s absurd adventure began.”

  Asleep in seconds.

  6

  Ho
w to escape.

  The most significant obstacle would be the electronic bracelet. That’s what I decided. I didn’t doubt its effects—I’d felt them. A cunning and sinister gadget making getaway unlikely.

  For lesser private inspectors.

  The device formed a tight circle. Two seams—the hinge and the clasp. One button and one display. When the button was toggled, the screen indicated battery power and appeared ready to pair via Bluetooth to a handler. By pressing my wrist firmly against the interior of the band I was able to detect pinpricks from the patches. Tiny needles hidden in the band, ready to be activated.

  After a thorough examination I lowered my wrists back to the blanket. Stymied yet undaunted.

  Two security cameras watched all this from the upper corners of my luxury suite.

  I had napped a few hours and was contemplating my shackles and planning my valiant escape when the door popped open. In wafted the scent and sounds of sizzling sausages. Ernst entered, looking like a stupid German bounty hunter who wished his rest had lasted longer.

  Duane followed. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

  “How’s our champion,” he said in a rasp.

  “Disoriented. Handsome. And displeased.”

  “You’re a late entrant, August. The Ndrangheta had their guy bumped. But who cares. With the Cosa Nostra and Camorra, Italy already had two entrants. Three is too many anyway, so the American Kings took the Ndrangheta’s spot.” Duane grinned, still rubbing his palms back and forth. “Fucking wops.”

  Ernst scratched irritably at his beard. “Ndrangheta are upset. There will be trouble.”

  “Meh, there always is. Forget about it. We need to focus on winning. How you feeling, August.”

  “Disoriented and displeased, yet satisfied with my appearance. We covered this.”

  “You’re big news, kid. The city is buzzing, what I hear. Who’s the new guy.”

  I noticed a gray line on the dark carpet. The line went around the room like the diameter of a circle. At the center of the circle (near the foot of my bed) was a steel plate to which my chain was bolted. The gray line represented a boundary between the safe zone (outside of my reach) and unsafe zone (within my reach). Duane set a chair outside the line and sat in it. What a wimp.

  Mackenzie August, given the Hannibal Lecter treatment.

  Duane said, “We got a chance to make some noise, August. Could be good for the Kings. I feel good about this.”

  “Allow me to deflate your balloon, Moneybags. I will not kill people for you.”

  “Why not.”

  “Why would I.”

  “You’ll be dead otherwise,” said Duane.

  “What I hear, you’re planning to execute me anyway. Heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  Duane shrugged, his go-to move.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You’re the horse. Did you understand that?”

  “I do not approve, August. Of your lack of gratitude. You should be dead the last twenty-four hours. But you aren’t. I spent twenty-five grand on you.”

  “A bargain.”

  “A bargain. My fighter, he says he won’t fight and that’s a bargain. A real man, he shows some respect.”

  “Poor Duane. Your largesse goes unappreciated. What a sad situation for you. It’s breaking my heart,” I said.

  The Italian boy from earlier wheeled in a cart of food.

  I thought I smelled sausage. The grease still sputtered.

  Easy, August. Never let them see you drool.

  I hadn’t eaten since…what time was it…a while.

  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 fucking 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.”