by Alan Lee
“The rabble,” said the Prince. “The peasants of Naples are angry. Something lurking beneath has outraged them. They nearly broke through last night.”
“How?”
“I do not know. I only listen to the whispers of my attendants. They suspect a saboteur from within. I am weary of it all.”
“You weren’t this forlorn two days ago.”
“Things change, American.” He growled the word. “The game has lost its shine.”
“This isn’t a game and it never had a luster.”
“That is why you resist,” he said. “You do not see the tournament for the opportunity that it is.”
“I refuse to become inured to crime.”
“Crime leads the way. Crime is life.”
“Not to all.”
“You have a family.”
“I do.”
“A son,” he said.
“I have one of those.”
“You have a wife?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?” he said.
“It’s complex. But she’s lovely.”
“You do not deserve her, stupid American.”
“Hurtful. But possibly correct.”
“This meal is over. I will not sit with you at this table one minute longer. The betters will be disappointed, I know, but I can no longer look at your face.”
“Yet it’s such a nice one.”
He smacked the stainless steel cocktail shaker off the table. It hit the mesh metal cage and broke apart. He stood, got his fingers under the nearest tray of food, and flung it upwards in a spray of gory repast.
“Ti odio, americano. Domani muori,” he said. His face had gone red.
I picked up a plate of cannoli before he could destroy them.
“I dunno what that means, Prince.”
He plucked off his small microphone and dropped it into the carafe of ice water. The speakers crackled and buzzed. Then he took the mic off my jacket and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger until it broke.
Our hedonistic audience gasped and winced as their headsets issued feedback.
“I hate you, American.”
“I deduced,” I said.
Ferrari called, “Signori, per favore! Il pubblico deve ascoltare!”
The Prince leaned down, his face close to mine. I heard his teeth grinding. “Tomorrow. If you survive until the third round, I will help you escape. Do you understand?”
“Not at all.”
“The first two rounds, I show no mercy. I will kill you. But somehow, if I cannot, then you have earned the reward.”
The crowd grew agitated. Ferrari’s voice blared from everywhere. We were breaking the rules.
I said, “The reward?”
“Freedom. Your life. Your…wife…and child.”
“Why would you help me escape?”
Praetorian guards hurried to the cage.
Ferrari’s voice blared in English. “Gentleman, please. Honorable tradition must be observed.”
The Prince said, “Because, American, I promised.”
He stood and wiped tears from his eyes. Composed himself. Turned and left the cage, marching through the dumbstruck guards.
Ferrari cried, “Principe, dove stai andando?”
The Prince stopped. Set his fist over his heart and spoke in a stentorian voice. “Mala via masta ne.”
It was a salute. Most of the audience repeated the phrase by rote.
I could see half of his face from my angle. He smiled and wiped his eyes again. Said, “No. Sei stupido criminale. L'amore apre la strada.”
L’amore.
Something about love.
He left the arena. His footsteps echoing.
I grew more and more confused the longer I stayed in Naples.
I took a bite of cannoli.
20
I woke up with an awareness that it wasn’t time. I’d only slept a few hours, on the carpet, my arms stretched to either side. Not comfortable.
Ernst released the chains and shackled my wrists together. Guards stood nearby, their electroshock weapons held ready. I watched bleary-eyed.
“What time is it,” I said.
“Four in the morning. You will fight now.”
“Now?”
He nodded. Indicated I get up. “Yes.”
“Go’way, Ernst. Come back in three hours. With coffee.”
The four praetorian guards glanced at one another. Should they haul the sleepy and sinfully handsome man to his feet?
In barged Duane. It was too early for barging. He threw fighting shorts at me and started working on his cufflinks. He looked rough, like a cocaine snorter at the end of a bender.
“Get up, August. We’re doing this.”
“Go’way, Duane Moneybags. Come back in three hours. With coffee. Fight’s not ’til tonight.”
“Yeah, well, plans change. Rossi says we’re doing it now,” he said.
“Rossi the Camorra lord.”
“Right. Says we’re sitting on dynamite. All of Naples about to erupt, but especially the clans. We do the fight now and get the hell out of here. Something’s got them spooked. They broke into Vomero. Impossible but they did it. They’re here.”
“Who is?” I said. Stupidly. I looked out the window. Vomero was dark except for fires burning nearby.
“Mobs. Angry people. Thousands.”
“Trouble in paradise. So weird, like people don’t enjoy being oppressed.”
“Get the fuck up. You got an Italian prince to kill, hear me? I’m betting a lot on you.”
I stood. Stretched. Said, “Coffee and breakfast, Duane.”
“Not a bad got’damn idea.” He stuck his head into the next room. “Someone! Get the chef. Coffee and breakfast. For me and the champion, here.”
“You said the Prince is not a man who loses. Now you’re betting on me?”
Duane finished with the cufflinks. Pulled at his collar and belt. “I met Rossi last night. Bastard goaded me into it. So don’t lose.”
“You met Rossi? What’d you think?”
“I hate that son of a bitch.”
The Teatro di Montagna was in a state of tumult. That was obvious to people who weren’t even keen detectives. Guards stood at every corner. Cries down the hall. The more furtive residents hurrying to the exits, dragging luggage themselves instead of waiting on porters.
“Everyone leaving?” I said.
“Only the cowards,” said Duane with a scoff. “The arena will be full. Trust me.”
Our usual procession had swollen. We walked with eight guards, some of which looked antsy—hands at their holster, scanning the hallways, glancing at one another. Emile had lost her patina of confidence. Guests watched us pass. Some of the hotel staff shot me a thumbs up.
“Look, August,” said Duane. “You told me you’ll get revenge if I don’t release you. Kill me. Forget about that. You win this thing, we’re both rich. Afterwards I’ll get us out of here and we go our separate ways. Alright?”
“Alright? Expound on your proposal.”
“I mean, we’re square. You win. I get you out of Naples. You keep the money. Live and let live,” said Duane.
“Release the cuffs now and we’re square.”
His raspy voice made a growl. “Can’t do it. I let you go, I lose the money. You and me, we need a truce.”
“I go into that ring, your life is forfeit.”
“Why?” he said. A low scrape of anger. “Tell me that. Why can’t we strike a deal? That’s how these things work.”
“What things? Deals struck by human traffickers? Professional criminals trying to make a fortune? I’m not part of your world, Duane. You shouldn’t have brought me here. Our animosity is mortal.”
“Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. The first ungrateful champion and I gotta bring him. Fine. Forget you, August. We’re through.” He rubbed his hands together, like cleaning them. “Win or lose, don’t look for me afterwards. I’ll keep my word and I won’t co
me looking for you. But if you come after me, I’ll bury your ass.”
“You’re tiptoeing on the edge of oblivion, Duane, you just don’t know it. Last chance.”
He didn’t respond. Kept walking.
Something cold and unyielding pressed into my back, forced me to keep marching. Ernst’s SIG pistol.
We neared the indoor arena and the halls became congested. Hundreds of Neopolitans clotted the passages, surging towards the stadium. These weren’t residents of Teatro di Montagna. These weren’t billionaires. These were Camorra clansmen. Local soldiers and fighters who’d burst their way into Vomero and then into the Holy of Holies, the Theater on the Mountain itself.
Ernst growled in my ear, “They watch the fights online. Streaming on their phones from the underground. Now they come to watch you die.”
The heat and stench of compacted humanity intensified.
A man in khakis and no shirt was the first to notice us. He lowered a clear bottle of liquor from his lips. Gaped, like we were aliens.
“È l'americano! Guarda, è il King! Yankee!”
I knew a little of that. He recognized me.
His friend turns to watch. Then so did others.
“Lo Yankee! Vieni ad uccidere il Camorrista!”
More took up the cry.
Yankee!
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
Ernst was wrong. They hadn’t come to watch me die. They’d come to cheer for me.
The mass of bodies parted and we passed between the cheering rabble.
“I am Moses,” I said.
Duane, wincing against the noise, looked at me. Shouted, “What?”
“You missed your chance, Moneybags. The end draws nigh.”
I put my head down and plowed forward. Kinda fun. Fun and terrifying. The men slapped me on the shoulders. Unseen villains showered us with alcohol. Smelled like Sambuca. The noise and light and heat inclined upwards.
A man wearing a radio found us. Breathless.
“Signori, please! Follow. It is time!” he cried.
The Neapolitan men smashed the lamps and bulbs over our head. The hallway grew dark except for a red glow ahead.
Why do mobs smash things? What inner dam broke inside these lunatics? And why?
Ferrari’s voice boomed from everywhere. His normal sensuous and unctuous tone now sounded urgent.
“Ora abbiamo l'evento finale! L'ultimo combattimento. Per favore prendi i tuoi posti!”
We bypassed the small waiting rooms. The horizontally rotating door was up and our river of bodies surged into the arena.
Into hell.
The size of the audience had tripled. Stadium seating overflowed. The floor of the arena was standing room only. Many of the powerful overhead lights were out, and it was obvious why—spectators in the throng fired guns at them. Molten flares were lit and thrown intermittently. Some shot upwards, pausing, and arcing into the unsuspecting crowd below. In the northern seats, an Italian flag was burnings and being waved. In the southern seats, so was an American flag.
Italians on both sides were chanting and singing a dirge. It rattled my ears.
“Good Christ,” said Duane. “We’re going to die.”
Ernst laughed. The kind where one’s head falls back and the mouth opens wide. A true guffaw. “No. We will not die. You have not been to the European football games? Is always madness.”
Somewhere unseen, Ferrari was shouting into his wireless. His head of security charged our way with a cadre of armed guards. They administered powerful electroshocks seemingly at random, winnowing the crowd.
The man with blue flashing devices in his ears glared like this was my fault.
He shouted in Italian.
Meg translated. “Follow him! Mackenzie’s fight is about to start!”
“Okay,” said Duane. He licked his lips. His eyes were a fraction too wide. “Okay. Ernst, Meg, take Mackenzie. I’m going to the box. These Italian Guidos stink of piss. August, maybe it’s not too late. Win this thing and maybe we’ll talk.”
His normal rasp was hoarse and verging on hysteria.
“And Darren’s assassin?” I asked.
“Never mind that. Forget about it. That’s got nothing to do with me. Your best chance at staying alive? A truce. Find me after. If you’re alive. Which, probably, you won’t be.”
He turned and grabbed the sleeves of two guards and filtered into the crowd—fleeing the peasants and heading towards the comfortable and air conditioned quarters of the privileged.
The crowd jostled us. Ernst was distracted, and Meg too frightened to function well. Neither had their trigger out.
The moment I’d been waiting for had arrived. The moment to escape. It would almost be easy. Clunk their heads together. Take Ernst’s gun and bracelet trigger. Move into the throng.
And yet…
And yet.
There was still Darren’s assassin. Here. Watching and waiting. And if I ran, I’d be followed.
Furthermore, the Prince had told me he’d help.
Furthermore, the haberdasher had told me the blonde girl was working to release me.
Something was afoot. And if I ran now, I might be spoiling things.
Part of me wanted to go into the cage. Part of me fed off the crowd’s mania and thirst for blood. Some of my inner dams were breaking and I wanted to smash things. Wanted to charge through the crucible. The Prince couldn’t finish me in two rounds—I could survive until the third.
Probably.
The functional overhead spotlights found us and my world turned dazzling and brilliant. The mob made a path.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
The Prince waited. He looked a little like the Statue of David, but with gloved hands resting through the wire mesh. His torso was long and ridged with muscle. Broad shoulders, trim waist, ramrod back, knotty calves.
“Good luck, American,” called Ernst. “Maybe you will make the second round.”
Vill make zee second round.
“Stay alive, Mackenzie!” cried Meg the blonde girl. “You can do this!”
The Executioner stood by the door. Despite the mask, I could tell this wasn’t the same man. No sleeve of tattoos. And this guy was even taller.
I jumped up the stairs and into the cage. Nobody forced me. I did it volitionally. Temporary bout of insanity.
Mackenzie August, going off the rails.
Deep breaths. Slow the pulse. Think clearly.
I pulled on fighting gloves, which scraped against my electrical burns.
The audience got loud enough to create a localized quake in the Theater on the Mountain, shaking the cage’s floor.
The Prince prowled back and forth on his side. Men in his corner clapped and screamed.
In mine, so did Meg.
Ferrari kept jabbering.
The man with flashing Bluetooth ears was circling the cage. Sneering. He carried a pistol now. His men were not above thinning the herd.
More flags began to burn in the stands.
Half of the luxury boxes were empty. Many of the wealthy debutantes had fled, leaving the final fight to the rabble.
Thousands held their hands in the air. Thumbs thrust high.
For me.
I raised my fist. Thumps up. The audience roared. A sonic embodiment of madness. Hurt my ears.
The Prince met me in the middle of the ring.
“American, you should have fled by now.”
“These colors don’t run. And waking up this early’s got me truculent.”
“I will kill you, I am afraid."
We were having to shout and I still barely heard him. Ferrari had finished the introductions, I could tell. Was about to sound the horn.
I shrugged. “I’m also afraid of that.”
“But. You reach the third round? You’re a free man.”
“Why?” I said. Loudly. “Tell me that, I need to know.”
He shook his head. Backed away to his corner.
“Roma victa,” I said.
Five minutes.
Then five more minutes. I could do this.
21
He came on in a mixed martial arts fighting stance I recognized. Which meant he’d been trained. Ah nuts. He’d be versed in submission moves. The choke hold most likely. A broken arm or leg wouldn’t stop this fight.
I dropped into my forward stance. A defensive crouch. Fists up. He came straight at me. I circled to my right. He was right handed and it made his life harder.
In my periphery I noticed spectators rush the cage. They’d been held back by threat of gunfire but the oncoming crush was too much. Humanity flowed to the base of our platform.
The Prince peppered me with jabs. Easy blocks. I held my palms up, catching them.
He snapped exploratory kicks. I twisted to let them slap harmlessly against the side and back of my thighs.
“You won’t get a choke hold,” I called.
He grinned. Only a madman would grin during this fight.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not.”
He moved in. Impressive combo. Right left right, but I caught them on my hands and shoulders, and then he was behind me. So quick, and I’d been focused on parrying. I think he planted a foot on the mesh to spring off, got higher on my back.
He went for a grappling move called a rear naked choke hold. Feet around my waist, one arm around my neck, locked in place. It would mean death but I didn’t let him. I bunched my shoulders. Caught his right wrist in my right fist, and I pinned his left arm.
“Ahhh,” he breathed in my ear. “You are trained, no?”
“Sexy, yes?” I said.
I tossed us both backwards. Landed hard. I had thirty or forty pounds on him and he lost his air.
The onlookers released a throaty roar.
I squirmed enough to get my shoulders and neck onto the mat, which meant safety. Like a good grappler, he tried to get superior position above, but I got my knees up and shoved him away.
Yan-kee, Yan-kee.
It had been a furious thirty seconds. Might’ve looked a mess to untrained eyes. But to me and the Prince, much had been communicated. Each was facing a skilled combatant. Each had done everything correctly.
He bounced in his corner, reclaiming oxygen.
We met in the middle again. He was quicker and I adjusted, playing defense. He jabbed, a pop from his left hand. I caught and deflected it with my left, a small motion. Another jab, but it was exploratory. The Prince was testing my reflexes—was I a skilled boxer? More jabs. I parried or let them fall ineffectually.