Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  “Skipping the Colloquio,” repeated Duane. “No. You aren’t. We can do this the easy way, August. Or the hard way.”

  “The hard way.”

  “Why.”

  “Because I think you need me sensate and sensational for this thing tonight. You don’t want me sedated, which reduces the power of the bracelet. So in order for me to cooperate, you’ll have to manhandle me. And Duane, I’m in the mood for you to try.”

  The two men with assault rifles glanced at each other.

  Who was this idiot in handcuffs?

  And why was he so devilishly attractive?

  “Meg,” called Duane. Softly. “How quickly do the sedatives wear off?”

  “Depends on the dosage, Mr. Chambers. Thirty minutes, at least,” she replied.

  “Shit.”

  I bounced on the bed, my chain clinking.

  “Enter the circle, Duane.”

  “Why you doing this, August. You know you can’t win,” he said.

  “Doesn’t mean I won’t try. Besides, I’m grouchy.”

  “Good. Save the anger for your opponent.”

  “Those poor men in the tournament? They are not my enemy.”

  Duane sighed and rubbed his eyes. “The other bosses, I bet they aren’t having this issue. Christ. Ernst, what do you suggest?”

  “Electroshock. Wears off quicker than medicine,” said the German, still leaning casually at the door.

  Electroshock sounded nasty.

  No thanks.

  I leapt into the air. Straight at them, no warning. The chain caught my wrists and jerked my flight to a halt, but I’d planned on it. My feet whipped forward and caught the closest guard in the chest.

  They hadn’t anticipated the extra length my outstretched legs provided.

  The man made a sound like, “Huuffggg!” and collapsed backwards, dropping his assault rifle.

  Meg screamed.

  Duane swore. Ernst went for his pistol.

  I landed heavily on my butt. Used my heels to pull the discarded Beretta close.

  Got it. Hellishly awkward to hold in cuffs. But I’d caught them arrogant and unprepared.

  I tried to rise but the second guard struck with the butt of his rifle—a crisp blow to my temple that staggered me.

  I rolled away from him, the chain snaking around my left ankle.

  Got to my knees, one hand on the assault rifle’s grip.

  The upright guard froze.

  First things first—Ernst and the guard.

  Before I could squeeze, my arms sagged. Finger refused to contract. A sudden heaviness.

  “Oh Meg,” I said. More of a groan. “Not cool.”

  Meg was hiding around the corner but she held her sinister device out like a shield, her finger on the button. The bracelet on my wrist was flashing.

  She’d moved quickly, activating a patch. The transdermal injection got into the bloodstream quick thanks to the accelerant she mentioned.

  My limbs were jello. Sinking.

  Duane’s face was purple. “Motherfuckers! You let him get a gun!”

  Emile was pressed flat against the wall, her hand at her throat. Unlike Duane, the blood had drained from her face.

  The upright guard approached me again.

  “Don’t hit him,” said Duane. “I need him undamaged.”

  He hit me anyway.

  Ernst’s words were a little fuzzy and not just because of the accent. Took me a moment to sort through the fog.

  “You are quick, Herr August,” he said. “I am impressed.”

  Our procession walked down a long hallway. My feet moved on autopilot. I wore black silk pants and a red and blue silk kimono.

  How had that happened?

  Good thing I looked great in silk.

  Ernst and a guard each had hold of an arm. Otherwise my legs would’ve collapsed.

  “Aren’t you embarrassed,” I said. A little thickly. “That it takes all of you? For only one of me.”

  “Good,” said Duane. “The bastard can talk again.”

  From behind me, I heard Emile’s voice. “Your outfit. I chose the colors. Do you approve?”

  “Listen quick, August. This Colloquio, it’s like the kick off for the Gabbia Cremisi. The opening ceremony. You follow?” said Duane. “It’s important. Billionaires thick on the ground. Persian Gulf sheiks, oil sultans, European royalty, Singapore gods so rich I can’t imagine. Renting rooms for ten grand a night.”

  Emile purred, “They are here for you. Indulging a guilty pleasure.”

  “And this is the outfit you picked out? A kimono?” I said.

  “A joke. You still think this is a joke,” he said.

  “I am unimpressed, Duane, by things which impress you.”

  “Unimpressed. We’ll see. You get weighed. Interviewed. Eat dinner with the other contestants. Tattooed. Then there’s the drawing. That kind of thing.”

  I blinked. Intelligently.

  Did he say tattooed? Probably not. Just the medicine.

  “Do a good job. Don’t embarrass the Kings. Then we’ll talk about what happens after the tournament. You follow me?”

  A little. Maybe. Or maybe I was dreaming.

  My handlers walked us to a large door. Duane and Emile and Meg departed to join their wealthy peerage.

  It was dark. Strangers stood nearby. I heard noises, a hot hum out of sight. Ernst and the other guy smelled like sweat.

  We waited.

  I swayed.

  “What’s going on?” A ball of pain knotted in my head, near the spot struck by the guard.

  “You will be introduced,” said the German. “Is almost our turn.”

  “How do I look?”

  “Bad. Like you are stupid and a man had to hit you in the temple. Twice.”

  I said, “You’re unkind, Ernst.”

  The wall in front of us rotated upwards. Like magic. Noise and light rushed in at our feet, then rose to our knees, our waist.

  Ernst pushed me forward.

  Despite being a stolid and unflappable gentleman, I felt a little shocked. This room was gigantic, like a big top circus venue or an NBA basketball arena. The central area/floor was as big as a skating rink and surrounded by a high wall on all sides, and above that stadium seating rose to the rafters. A live orchestra played violins and cellos and a piano in the corner on a silver stage. Spotlights swiveled. Thousands of people watched and cheered in the stands.

  Theater on the Mountain.

  A theater in the round.

  A preposterously large stained-glass dome capped off the ceiling. Lions eating prisoners.

  “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Ernst.”

  “What?”

  I heard my name blared over speakers. Nicollo Ferrari stood in the middle, beaming and talking into a microphone. His teeth and jewelry flashed, and his voice echoed. Were people cheering for me?

  Noises and lights boomed omnipresently. My medicinal fog was evaporating but that allowed my sensorium to flood.

  Ernst helped me navigate to the center. The arena’s floor was empty and clean except a hefty baronial table at the center, sitting on a rug of sheepskins. The table was set with a white table cloth, red cloth napkins, candles, goblets of wine, focaccia and olive oil. Other men sat around the table.

  Ernst got his mouth close to my ear.

  “Sit. Behave.”

  “Meh.”

  “There are dozens of guards. And we can still sedate you again. Do not be a fool.”

  “No promises.”

  I sat on an ornate high-backed and polished wooden chair. Because I was disoriented, not because I was told.

  I listened as other men were introduced.

  The world reordered itself slowly.

  Eight of us sat at the table. Around and above us, ten thousand watched. Maybe fifteen or twenty thousand—hard to make out details.

  All eight entrants wore a kimono in the colors of their country. All eight wore the electronic bracelet. Five men were without sha
ckles. Three, including me, wore handcuffs.

  The stadium appeared to be divided by entrant. By comparing the flags and symbols and the appearance of the entrant, I was able to differentiate the attending “mafias.”

  I represented the Kings. Our section of the stadium was only half occupied. Embarrassing.

  The Cosa Nostra’s (or Sicilian Mafia’s) cheering section overflowed deliriously.

  Next to me sat a giant the size of a sumo wrestler. Yakuza, from Japan. I glanced over his shoulder—his section was half full too.

  A Mexican cartel was here. Not only did their entrant wear cuffs, he was also chained to his chair like a wild man. I couldn’t identify which cartel.

  The Colombian had a large following.

  The Russian Brothers Circle’s section was half full.

  The Triads’s entrant set solemnly, wearing handcuffs.

  The biggest cheering section was for the Camorra, obviously. Their entrant sat across from me, a fit and darkly attractive man.

  I counted on my fingers.

  Kings, Cosa Nostra, Yakuza, Mexican cartel, Colombians, Russian Brother’s Circle, Triads, and Camorra.

  That was eight.

  “This is deeply abnormal,” I told myself.

  I was right.

  The man across from me, the Camorra’s handsome champion, smirked. He lazily dipped focaccia into the oil. Ate it. Wiped his mouth and replaced the napkin on his lap. His posture erect, his motions deliberate.

  “You Americans,” he said. “Like an animal stuck in the headlights.”

  “You Italians,” I replied. “With your outlandish coliseums and fights to the death.”

  “You do not wish to be here.”

  “Given the choice,” I said, “I’d rather be golfing.”

  “In your country there is no system. No…corruption. Here, the rules are different. We take great pride in the Gabbia Cremisi.”

  “We have corruption,” I said, talking loudly to be heard over the booming voice and violins. “For example, major league baseball doesn’t have a salary cap.”

  “You are jesting.”

  “In America, we do our best to disempower and usurp the corrupt. Not throw pageants for them,” I said.

  Without turning, the man pointed behind his chair at the cheering section beyond.

  “The leader of Naples. What is the word in English? Mayor? And chief of polizia. And judges. They all watch and bet. As I said, pride.”

  I took a moment to inspect the congregation.

  Hundreds of beautiful women in skimpy sequined outfits moved up and down the stairs, bringing refreshments to the crowd. An elderly couple near the front row raised their hands and were brought a bottle of champagne. Near the top, private luxury boxes were alight and occupied by the wealthiest of the wealthy. Some of the most powerful persons on earth were in there. I bet behind me, in the Kings section, Duane and Emile watched from a luxury box.

  The giant sumo wrestler to my left reached over and took my bread, jostling me in the process.

  Rude.

  The handsome man across from me said, “Do you know the Gabbia Cremisi?”

  “I do not.”

  “It is great fun. The most important part is the betting. Money will be placed based on your answers. So do not get the Colloquio wrong, American,” he said.

  “Are you betting on yourself?”

  “Of course!”

  “Of course!” I shouted back. “Roma victa!”

  Servants dressed in white brought us platters of food. Slices of salami and prosciutto and pepperoni and culatello, with chunks of mascarpone and parmigiana and gorgonzola, plus bowls of fresh fruit. Also the best looking tiramisu and cannoli I’d ever seen.

  The sumo wrestler tucked in. Eating his food while eyeing mine.

  I slide my plate of desserts slightly farther away.

  “This is grotesque. Right?” I asked the giant. “Does this not strike your moral compass as absurd? Surreal? Like an elaborate hoax?”

  The sumo wrestler issued a soft growl.

  The Italian opposite me said, “I know this man. A famous fighter from Japan. He does not like Americans.”

  “How odd. We’re likable and benevolent and many of us have plastic surgery to look better.”

  “You think this is like, what did you say…an elaborate hoax?”

  “I think this is absurd.”

  “Think about history, American. Violence is part of life,” he said. “Down through the ages, humans have hunted human. Killed for sport. Tournaments like this are not uncommon.”

  “Yeah but now we have Netflix.”

  He smiled, which was a good look for him, and rolled his eyes. “You are too…what is the word? Peaceful?”

  “Gentrified. Docile. Striking.”

  “You believe any part of society outside your experience is inferior.”

  “I believe human trafficking and profit from the death of others should not be a part of any reality.”

  Photographs of the entrants were being displayed on an enormous screen above. All of mine were taken from social media.

  Betting lines were displayed on a separate screen and men circulated the audience, accepting money and returning receipts.

  “What are my odds?” I said. Out of curiosity. Not stubborn chauvinistic macho pride.

  “Not good,” answered the Italian gentleman.

  “Eight-to-one?”

  The man tilted his face upwards to inspect the screen. “More like fifty-to-one.”

  “Fifty,” I repeated. Maybe I’d heard him wrong—my head was pounding.

  He nodded. “Fifty.”

  I said, “I am outraged. You Italians, always backing the wrong horse. What are your odds?”

  “Four-to-one.”

  “I hate everything. You’re the favorite?”

  “Of course.”

  The next phase of the ceremony began.

  The Colombian, a wiry man with sinewy forearms, was taken by guards to talk with the master of ceremony, Niccolo Ferrari, on stools under a convergence of spotlights. He and Ferrari communicated through an interpreter. The section from Colombia cheered, a small sound in the big space.

  During the interview, the Colombian’s numbers dropped; the betters didn’t like what they heard. Too meek, perhaps.

  He was then led to what looked like a massage chair. He removed his kimono and sat. A woman drew a design on his back with marker and prepared her equipment.

  I realized, “She’s going to tattoo the word Colombia on his back.”

  The man across smirked darkly.

  I hated people who smirked.

  He said, “Indeed.”

  “Ferrari will be mad when I decline, I bet.”

  He laughed and sipped his wine until it was his turn to be interviewed. He stood and flourished his kimono like a cape. Bowed to the audience, ignoring his guardian escort. The crowd reacted as if he was Lebron James or Chris Pratt or someone else equally amazing.

  He sat with Ferrari and chatted. I didn’t understand the Italian, but clearly the man was a favorite.

  The Russian one seat down called, “American. O Principe, he is not friend.”

  I said, “O Principe?”

  The Russian, a solidly built man with dead brown eyes, jerked his thumb towards the handsome Italian talking with Ferrari. “The Prince. He will cheat. He will slit your throat.”

  “You know O Principe?”

  “O Principe was champion. Three years past. Do not think him friend.”

  “That Italian guy is nicknamed the Prince and he’s already won this tournament before?” I said, shouting to be heard. And also shouting because that was lunacy.

  The Russian nodded and said no more.

  The sumo wrestler took some greasy salami from my plate.

  I didn’t care.

  The universe had gone mad.

  Suddenly the spotlights swiveled my way and the world went ablaze. The guards came. Grabbed my arms and hauled me up.r />
  I passed the Prince en route. He had removed his kimono and bypassed the tattoo chair. I checked—he already had Italy scrawled between his shoulder blades. Underneath that was the word Principe.

  The amount of things that made no sense was accumulating.

  The guards shoved me onto a stool.

  Ferrari read off a note card and spoke into the wireless, using English.

  “Ladies and gentleman of the tournament, I present to you the American. The King’s champion, a Yankee named Mackenzie.”

  My section cheered behind me.

  His words repeated over the speaker in Italian. From a corner of the arena came the sound of booing.

  He wasn’t preening for the crowd, but instead acting like an auctioneer rattling through information. “A late entry into the Gabbia Cremisi. A soldier for the Kings, from the States. A police officer. A former MMA fighter. Now he works independently. Yes?” He looked up from the note card and held out the microphone.

  The Italian translation issued from the overhead speakers.

  I leaned forward until my lips touched the mic.

  My voice erupted everywhere. “Put me where I can feel the pillars that support the temple,” I said. “And let me die with the Philistines.”

  Ferrari looked stumped.

  The Italian translation drifted from the speakers and some of the audience chuckled.

  The lights were bright and blinded out most of the onlookers, but those I could see wore headphones, probably getting a real-time transliteration in their language.

  Ferrari said, “Are you quoting something?”

  “Yes. But botching it.”

  “Very well.” Ferrari cleared his throat and availed himself of another note card. “The stories are told, American, that you have been killing off the Kings one by one in the States. What brings you success in the fights? And what method will you use to kill your opponent in the cage?”

  Into the mic, I said, “I won’t kill any of these men. Except the sumo wrestler if he eats my dessert. The rest seem wholesome. Salt of the earth.”

  “You refuse to fight?”

  “This is not what I do. I’m a detective. I solve mysteries. Find lost children. Report romantic indiscretions. Serve court papers. Pretend to be an English teacher. Work with lawyers to undermine the justice system. You know, real Superman stuff.”