by Alan Lee
“Classic fight. And if you’re smart,” said Duane, “You’ll kill him then. Because of your history, right? Your biggest advantage is in the first round. Break his neck. Choke him out. Whatever.”
“I’m not killing anyone, Duane Moneybags.”
“Second round, the cage becomes electrified,” said Ernst. Zee cage.
“Electrified,” I hooted. “A shocking development.”
“Yeah, the current won’t kill you, August. But might knock you out. First guy makes contact usually loses, you understand?”
“Third round,” said Ernst. “Fighters are given weapons. The weapons always change. No way to predict. Third round is when fighters usually die.”
“This Mexican guy. He’s a pro with knives, what I hear. He makes it to the third round? You’re dead.”
Ernst nodded and made a grunt noise. “It’s true. I listened last night. The Mexican is crazy but they say he will fight smart. If he knows you are stronger, he will play the defense until third round and then use weapons.”
I said, “Both fighters might still be alive after round three.”
“Then another break for water,” said Ernst. “After that? No rounds. Just fight until one victor.”
Emile removed a phone from her clutch purse and she ran her thumb across the screen. She wore a black bandage dress, a sexier outfit than last night’s formal blue. “It’s less romantic that way. Attrition is boring.”
“Romantic. Gimme a break. You get how this works, August?”
“Affirmative. Twas clearly adumbrated.”
“Adumbrated. I dunno what that means. Whatever. Sometimes both fighters, they get zapped at the same time on the fence. Or both get too tired to go on, you know? Can’t finish the other off. That’s what the Executioner is for.”
“Of course there’s an executioner. I deduced there must be.”
Duane circled the cage, arms crossed. “Niccolo Ferrari, he’ll poll the audience and the Executioner will finish off the loser.”
“Does he carry a large double-bladed headsman’s axe?”
Emile nodded. “He does.”
“I knew it. Anything less would be uncivilized.”
“Won’t be so funny, it’s your head he’s loppin’ off.”
“I’m not killing any contestant, Duane.”
The two Italian guards with sports jackets and assault rifles were standing at the entrance to the cage and they glanced at each other.
“The hell does that mean, August. Getting fed up with this. You just gonna lay down and die tonight?”
“I’ll play defense,” I said. “Until the Hispanic gentleman and I work something out through diplomacy.”
“Diplomacy, Christ,” said Duane and he continued pacing, but now he also rubbed his forehead. “You’re a dead man.”
“Whether I win or not.”
“What do you want me to do? Huh? Tell me that. The bounty hunter here was paid good money to ace you. Maybe he should’ve. But I intervened. You been dead for days. I release you, I’m betraying that asshole in Washington. Robbins.”
“Then why should he fight, my love?” asked his wife.
“Because of honor, that’s why. Some self-respect.”
She watched me with eyes too large and luminous.
“We need to release him, should he win. No chains.”
“I release him, Emile, and I’m odd man out with the Kings. This is what I do for a living. So how about you let me talk, huh? August, maybe this—maybe you just knock the guy out.”
“Render the Hispanic gentleman unconscious?” I asked.
“Yeah, how about it. A compromise.”
“Sure.”
An energy seemed to light up his face.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, you give me your word of a release,” I said.
He placed two hands on the cage meshing and leaned into it.
“Damn it, August. Robbins got my word. He’s a colleague. What’s so difficult, you can’t understand that?”
“I’m too dull and stubborn, Moneybags. What’s the deal with the Prince? Why’d he come back to fight again?”
“O Principe,” said Emile. She replaced the phone into her purse. “That man. He is a legend. A god.”
“Oooh, you gave me chills,” I said. “For real, something about your accent and reverence. Chill bumps. Look.”
Duane said, “The Prince worked for a Camorra clan few years ago. He’d get hopped up on coke, pull on a skull mask, and ride the streets on his motorcycle. He sees guys from one of Di Contini’s clan, he shoots’em.”
“Di Contini was the populist Camorra lord until a few years ago, when Rossi ratted him out to the police,” I said.
“That’s right. You pay attention. So the Prince gets captured by Di Contini’s associates and forced into the Gabbia Cremisi, like you are now. But he wins the damn thing and goes free.”
“Much to Di Contini’s chagrin, the poor man,” I said.
“Right. Anyway. Rossi overthrows Di Contini soon after. The Prince, he’s a celebrity now. Like what’s-his-name. The fighter in America, you know the guy. MacGyver.”
“Conor McGregor.”
Duane shrugged. “Yeah, him.”
“Prince still rides motorcycle with the mask,” said Ernst. “Even now. He will win again this year.”
“He entered voluntarily?” I said.
“That’s right, August. This tournament, it’s a big fucking deal. Money and fame and glory, you know? There’s only been one repeat champion, and he was from the sixties. People still talk about him. Man’s a myth. Whatever his name was. That’s why, tonight, be great if you’d kill the Spic. Bring the Kings respect.”
“I need your word,” I said. “About my freedom. Otherwise tonight I’ll win through diplomacy, escape soon after, and then kill you.”
Duane watched me a long time. The skin around his eyes were puffy from fatty foods and too much wine.
“Bah.” He turned and snapped for his wife, signaling she follow. He headed for the exit. “You’ll change your mind. You get in the ring and that Mexican guy starts kicking your ass? You’ll change your mind.”
10
I stood at my window and watched rabble assembling below, in the Chiaia district. The mob was directly south of our perch on Vomero, perhaps a half mile distant. I couldn’t discern the details but it was obvious a fire had started in the streets.
Trouble afoot.
The designers of the Theater on the Mountain had built this window to be escape proof. And they hadn’t failed. Heavy glass, double paned, reinforced sill. Only a wrecking ball would remove it.
Meg walked in, wearing pale blue scrubs, like an emergency room physician. Cheap, easy range of movement, simple disposal when soaked with blood.
She arched an eyebrow. “I like your costume.”
I looked down at my outfit. Stretchable fighting shorts in red, white, and blue. That was all. “Shut up. It’s cold.”
She smeared cream on my back and said, “Where do all these muscles come from? The women are going to love you.”
“Years of sports and training and steroids.”
“Switch to HGH. I don’t recommend ongoing anabolic steroid use.”
“I quit in my twenties.”
“I’m going to give you some antibiotics. Your skin hasn’t healed and infection is possible. It’s asinine to tattoo fighters immediately before a match.”
“You’re right. That’s what’s asinine about this.”
She’d gotten too familiar with me. Too focused on the fight. She’d walked into the danger zone, into my circle on the carpet. I could kill her. Use her as a hostage.
Ernst was in the next room, however. He had controls for the device. Plus I was still chained to the floor, and I didn’t think Duane cared much if Meg died. Ga’head, kill the broad, he’d say, like a true gangster.
I nodded towards the window, indicating the mob and curl of smoke. “Are the protests about the tournament?”<
br />
“Yes. Apparently the riots get worse today because all entrances to Vomero are sealed off with check points.”
“The Haves are being separated from the Have Nots, and the Have Nots take umbrage. I can relate.”
She held up a small vial.
“Cocaine.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Duane and Emile are coke heads. This is from their private supply. It will heighten performance in the ring.”
“All good. I prefer clarity of mind.”
“So. Here’s the thing. Duane told me to insist,” she said, lowering her voice. “And if you refuse, there’s a device to fit around your head like a gas mask.”
“I’ve seen the kind. You light a crack rock, put it in the filter, and the wearer gets high, like it or not.”
“Right.”
“Give me the vial,” I said.
“You’ll snort it?”
“No. Tell them I did.”
Meg the physician and drug pusher asked, “Are you nervous?”
“Sure. You?”
“Terrified.”
11
From the general hum, and because I was an adroit detective, I detected the swelling crowd. Noise came through as vibration in my feet.
Four armed praetorian escorted me and Duane and his retinue to a holding cell set under the stadium seating, a square room with white walls and dark carpet and linoleum couches.
The guards had swapped assault rifles for electroshock devices.
Duane was in a black tux and bowtie and he watched me warily. The poor guy was on edge about backing a fighter who refused to throw a punch. A disastrous investment.
Emile wore a green evening dress that would’ve been at home in the Playboy Mansion. Her breasts had a way of drawing the eye and she knew it and enjoyed it.
Tattoo Neck sweated and refused to look at me.
Duane conferenced with someone outside the room and came in. “August, you fight third. That’s the best slot, I’m told. First two rounds, the people are on cocktails and dessert. By round three, audience will be drunk. Got it?”
His eyes were a little wild and he fidgeted. His normal rasp had grown to a grunt.
“If you see a cannoli,” I said, “Save it.”
“A cannoli.”
I shrugged. “I have a predilection for them and a sumo wrestler ruined mine yesterday.”
“You win, August, and I’ll get you a truckload of cannoli. I don’t need to tell you how big a victory tonight would be for me.”
“I need your word,” I said. “I win the tournament, I go free.”
“You won’t win. So who cares.”
“Your word.”
Duane huffed. Glanced at our four guards and at Ernst. Crossed his arms, which threatened the shoulder seams, and shook his head—like, the nerve of this guy!
“My love,” said Emile. “Be reasonable.”
“We’re going to our seats,” he said. “Just win. Win and we’ll talk.”
“No deal.”
“Got’damn you, August. Rossi might be here. The former champions are watching.”
“Gimme that thumbs up, Moneybags.”
He stomped to the door, a motion which looked goofy in a tuxedo. He stuck out his fist, thumb pointing at the ground. “Ga’head and die, August. I don’t care.”
Emile followed him but paused at the door. Placed her hand on the jamb.
“Win, Mackenzie,” she cooed in her French accent. “The rewards are worth it. Trust me.”
“Herr August,” said Ernst after she and Tattoo Neck left. “You have probably an hour before the fight. Be better for you now without handcuffs.”
“Was thinking the same thing, German bounty hunter.”
“The doctor’s bracelet stays on. But I take the cuffs off. If you behave. You tell me so, I believe you.”
“Take off the cuffs, Ernst. I’ll give you no trouble for the next hour. Soon enough I’ll escape and kill you. But not in the immediate future.”
He grinned and removed a small silver key. “You still believe you will escape.”
You still belief you vill escape.
“Sure.”
“How will you?”
“Extemporaneous chicanery.”
He fitted the key into the lock. I heard a click.
“That means?”
Meg stood in the corner. She watched me with no small amount of concern, the bracelet’s activator in her hand. Ready to zap. She answered Ernst, “It means he doesn’t know yet.”
Ernst shot me another glance. Looked as though he momentarily had second thoughts but took off both cuffs.
I did the thing every prisoner has done throughout history—I rubbed my wrists. It was the first time my hands hadn’t been cuffed in three days and the freedom felt alien.
Meg, Ernst, and the guards seemed to hold their breath. Was this idiot in the American shorts about to kill them all? Or die trying?
To put them at ease, I lowered onto the couch. I spread my arms along the back cushions and enjoyed the range of motion.
The room relaxed.
Ernst tossed a set of grappling gloves beside me, the kind with fingers cut off.
Before long Niccolo Ferrari’s voice began thrumming through the walls. A muffled thunder. He spoke in Italian and an English translation followed. Anyone who didn’t speak those languages wore the headphones, I bet.
Fighters were introduced, a process which lasted four minutes. The first round began, unmistakable due to the rise in pitch.
I watched the analog clock on the wall. The fight began at 9:30pm.
“Il Principe combatte,” whispered one of the guards to the other. In a dazzling display of unprofessionalism, they bumped fists.
Ernst said, “The Prince is fighting. The crowd is loud, do you hear?”
“Yes I hear, Ernst,” replied Meg, breathing heavier.
Two minutes in, the audience issued several short blasts of emotion, followed by thunderous applause. The walls shook and dust drifted from the ceiling.
Good grief.
“Two minutes,” gasped Meg. “How do you terminate a human body in two minutes without some sort of tool?”
The guard whispered again. “Il Principe.”
Mackenzie August, a little spooked. I wished for a television so I could watch.
Soon new fighters were introduced.
At 9:45, the next fight began.
The second hand slowly fell through the Roman numerals for five minutes, and then there was a lull. Break in the action. Fighters to their corners, probably. Take water. Talk with trainers. Catch their breath. Ferrari’s voice blared out and at 9:53 the fight rejoined.
The second round passed without incident.
Three minutes into the third, the volume ratcheted up. Meg put her hands at her ears.
At four minutes, a burst of sound—screaming and groaning and boos, and then Ferrari’s voice returned.
“The second fight,” said Ernst, “is over. With the weapons, it doesn’t take long.”
“Holy shit, this is terrifying,” said Meg. Her face had lost color but hives swelled on her chest and neck. “I can’t believe I agreed to help with this.”
I stood up and began hopping. Better to exercise the nerves than let them stress and fester.
The guards and Ernst watched the ceiling, their heads involuntarily tilted to the side as they listened.
The door burst open. A man stood there, panting a little. He wore a radio headset. He shouted something in Italian and we were moving.
We plunged through dark tunnels and up a staircase, into another small room. The sound of dense humanity grew more intimate.
Ernst said, “My advice? Get him to the mat. The Mexican is smaller than you. Don’t let him reach the weapons or Fraulein Doctor will have nothing to patch up.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Meg was telling herself. “This is absurd. I don’t want to do this.”
Soon Ferrari’s voice boom
ed out again. The door rattled.
I thought Meg would pass out.
The Mexican was introduced first. I caught his name as Jorge.
Ferrari’s voice ramped up for me. Had I become popular? Maybe stabbing the sumo wrestler in the eyeball had been a great career move.
I heard my name.
Our door flung open. We went through the tunnel and turned into dazzling brilliance. The stadium, which had been less than half full for the Drawing, rose like sheer cliffs of sound and color. Spotlights twirled, radiating a multitude of hues.
Yan-kee!
Yan-kee!
Yan-kee, chanted by twenty thousand.
That was unfortunate.
The orchestra played louder, accompanied by an electric guitar.
Ernst walked beside me, shouting.
“Once the cage closes, it won’t open until the fight finishes. I stay in your corner and give you water. The doctor cannot help until the end.”
I nodded.
We stopped at the stairs leading into the raised cage. Ferrari chattered but I couldn’t listen. My sensorium was struggling to stay afloat.
Next to the stairs stood an enormous man wearing an executioner’s black mask and shroud. Tattoos were sleeved up and down his arms. In one hand he held the haft of a double-bladed axe.
Struck me as unnecessarily theatrical.
I thought about telling him traditional executioners didn’t wear the shroud or mask, but this seemed an inopportune time to dispel myths.
Ferrari was dressed in a white tuxedo and he circled the arena outside the cage, reading from cards into his wireless. His hair glinted with Macassar.
Meg pressed a boxing mouth guard into my hand with trembling fingers.
“For your teeth,” she cried.
I nodded.
She continued, “Don’t die, Mackenzie! Finish him quickly!”
“I agree with the doctor.” Zee doct-air. “Kill the bastard! I hate the Zetas.”
I jumped up the stairs and the cage door closed behind me. In the corner I saw a crimson stain on the mat.
Jorge wasn’t a big man, but he also wasn’t little. Thin with corded muscles that flexed and bunched as he breathed. His hair was a little shaggy. He was being restrained by a strap, pinned to the cage wall by handlers on the outside. He wore loose brown linen pants.