Only the Details

by Alan Lee

  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 emphasis 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 wi
th 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.

  “Seriously. I’d like to wear these shoes in heaven,” I said.

  19

  Ferrari announced us into the area. The majority of the stadium seating had been removed, making way for formal table and chair settings. Instead of thundering music and lights, polite applause pitter-pattered from the stands. Tonight wasn’t about blood, tonight was about money.

  Not everyone had received an invitation to the elite dinner, only the most well-heeled. Those in the stands sat around tables with white cloths, waited on by reverent servers. They ate caviar and lobster and drank thousand-dollar bottles of champagne.

  Meg had told me tonight was for the billionaires. Italian royalty, Persian sheiks, oil sultans, Singapore gods, and the mafia bosses. Wealthy beyond comprehension.

  The cage stood like a tomb at the center. Inside was set another table, heaped with candles and bottles and plates.

  While Ferrari chattered, Ernst released my cuffs.

  “Don’t try it, August,” said Duane. “I’ll tell’em to use bullets, not electroshock.”

  Ernst smiled, lips pulling back from white teeth like a skeleton. “Try, Herr August. You’d be foolish not to. I want to watch you die.”

  I vant to vatch.

  “Mackenzie cannot get far,” said Emile. Always watching. “He wears the bracelet. He belongs to us.”

  Ernst clipped a microphone to my jacket.

  Duane whacked me on the back. His party moved to a table near the base of the seating.

  I walked up the stairs. Into the cage.

  Ferrari stopped chattering. The stadium echoed into stillness, like holding its breath.

  The Prince sat at the table, leg crossed. His suit was blue and crisp. He sipped a martini and stared at nothing.

  Two specimen under a microscope.

  “Why do you wear the black bracelet? You volunteered,” I said. My voice felt small. A marble bouncing in an airplane hanger.

  My favorite elderly couple sat the front, their hands clamped around their ears. Food forgotten. They leaned forward, listening and pondering and weighing.

  The Prince sucked at his teeth a moment. Said, “A tradition. In the past, all champions wore chains. Now, we wear only the bracelet. Except for the reluctant, such as yourself. The arrogant and the foolish and the prisoners.”

  He wouldn’t look at me. His gregarious smile was absent.

  I poured myself a glass of water. The inconsiderate hosts had neglected beer, and champagne tasted like the Executioner looked.

  I drank some water and tried a pasta dish. Noodles tossed with white wine and bacon and eggs. A worse combination was unimaginable. And yet…zounds. It tasted as good as my Berluti shoes felt.

  “Everyone is listening,” I said.

  He nodded. Eyes distant. He appeared to have skipped to the stage of the meal where one becomes philosophical.

  “Deciding on whom to invest a fortune,” I said.

  This time his head didn’t bother to budge.

  “What’s the betting line?”

  He took a breath. Held it. Slowly released. “Even. We are a coin flip.”

  “I accept your surrender.”

  “Never in life,” he said and he finished his drink. Wiped his mouth with a thumb and forefinger. Set the martini glass down and refilled it from a stainless steel shaker. Inside, the ice tinkled. The pale green liquid leaked out in oily swirls. “Never in life have I wanted to kill someone as much as I want to kill you, American.”

  An audible inhalation from the audience. Millions in money swinging to his side. Abhorrence and moral superiority counted for a lot.

  I would’ve bet on him.

  “Such sudden hate,” I said. “I’m out of touch with the news. Is this about Trump? What’d he do?”

  “It is not your President. Italy is in no place to judge a chaotic government.” He carefully selected a link of sizzling chorizo and cut it with his fork. Hot juice squirted onto the tablecloth. “Tell me. Do you still think you will escape your captivity?”

  “I will.”

  More noise from our host of onlookers
. Murmurs and grumbling.

  “You were nearly successful after your fight with the Mexican.”

  “Nearly.”

  “You killed the Gurkha, which is hard.”

  “I’ve been told that, but I don’t remember it.”

  “Why do you resist?” he asked.

  “That answer is obvious.”

  The chorizo sat on his fork, forgotten. “Yes, but why. You are a man of violence. You have the scars. You have the face. The ability. The skill. The anger. The different…mafias, they bring their champion or their prisoners. But you are more than a mere prisoner. Do you understand what I say? I want to know why. You are more.”

  “Maybe if I wasn’t actively resisting, I wouldn’t be.”

  “Say that again. But elaborate. This might be your last conversation before I kill you tomorrow.”

  I made a small twirling motion with my finger. “All of this? It’s a sad pastiche of former Roman might. I don’t buy it. The Camorra and the Kings and the others, they’re a supercilious bunch of lost souls pretending they aren’t. Pretending they aren’t leading lives of quiet desperation. Consider me an iconoclast. I reject this diorama. And so I resist.”

  “You intentionally use words I cannot follow. Because you are a proud and obnoxious American.”

  “I did. You’re right. Let me try again. I think this thing is a joke. It’s beneath me. If I quit resisting then something inside of me is damaged,” I said.

  “Damaged if you surrender to this lifestyle.”

  “Yes.”

  He scoffed. “You become like me, you mean.”

  “Maybe. But with better cheekbones.”

  He did not smile. Which was weird.

  The crowd chuckled, listening to a translation.

  They got me.

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He swirled his cocktail, a subdued motion. He stared into its emerald depths, no longer the larger-than-life crowd favorite. For a moment, he looked like a boy. “Being an, ahh, opportunist so far has meant that I am alone in the world. And you are not.”

  Radios squawked simultaneously around the arena. Like an echo. On the belt of every guard who hadn’t cranked down the volume. Ferrari’s stern security chief put a hand to his ear, listened, and jogged out of the stadium.