The room was swaddled in red and black: obsidian coffee table, leather chairs and red wallpaper. Quite art deco, if one knew the time at all.A dark-skinned man punched in a set of numbers quickly and waited, drumming his fingers absently of the leather chair.
"Sim, senhor," a strained voice asked expectantly on the other end of the phone. "Ah, Salvadore, place a punhado of clicks on the Russian next," the Brazillian replied cheerfully. "Sim, senhor." He hung up the phone and sipped at his drink again, leaning forward on his chair to see better through the thick bullet-proof and tinted glass.
He was situated in the upper balcony of his little clubenoturno, the Carcaça, located just a few skips and stumbles into La Goulue; it was a seedy and slime-lit club, built brazenly and without many bells and whistles to it. It was simple and, for some, not poisoned by anacrotic misnomers that would cause timesickness. He built it with special consideration to his metachronistic friends in mind so that they could all enjoy, indulge, sink. Some of the attractions of the club included various and timeless gambling mechanisms; cast lots or pull on a slot machine lever, whichever made you vomit less and smile more. Of course, girls littered every inch and corner of the club, as well as cheap booze and cheap highs. He was a man of the people. All he wanted was their happiness and, in exchange, a little tip.
However, the main attraction of Carcaça was the pit fights which took place in a lowered crater in the center of the club, surrounded by thin steel cars. The fighters were unknown and scouted by some of the Brazillian's employees, after which they were organized by weight and not fighting style.
Interestingly enough, the fights were an immense hit. After the first few fights, specifically one, a Mohawk Indian from the cowboy era versus a post-modern Egyptian brawler. The club was always filled to the rafters. Needless to say, Rocco took pride in his battle royales. Content, he took a swig of the bourbon he was nursing, brown eyes sharp and flashing in time with the flickering lights outside. Quietly he watched the start of the next fight he'd arranged, the crowds below yelping and hooting in excitement, the glass reverberating and absorbing the sound.
The Sao Paulo-bred prince crossed his legs in his tailored suit and leaned forward, a smile gracing tanned lips. A low thumping music began and slowly blurred the peoples' yelling into a static bass. The black-skinned Cameroon beauties that were being featured tonight walked the ring and did a number which sent the men into fevered yells and whistles. The lights dimmed, the girls left and the announcer ushered in the fighters; one was an old grainy KGB intelligence officer, the other a stout, stone-faced Mongolian. The Russians' faced was scrunched and his ears cauliflowered while the Mongolians' was smooth for his old age, focused. The Brazillian licked his lips in anticipation as the bell rang noisily to start the brawl.
The Mongolian was a wrestler and, in wrestling fashion, immediately charged the Russian, who dropped forward to counter the weight. The Russian's fist flew repeatedly into the Mongolian's face who then finally toppled him. It only took 9 seconds for the Mongolians to wrap thick arms in a headlock. The Russian twitched and froze, only the whites of his eyes peeking out from between blue-hued eyelids. He was out.
The announcer ran in, nearly tackling the Mongolian to get him off; a few other ring attendants drug the Russian out by his arms and legs. He'd be dumped down in the Canal and most likely wake up sopping wet and sore and miserable. The Brazillian didn't need corpses and cripples cluttering his pit, that was for sure. The crowd was screaming and laughing again and they all dispersed slightly to again go back to their betting and laughing and losing. Rocco noted it with a smile.
The door to the private room creaked open and the music and sounds of jostling people burst into the room. He cracked his knuckles and grinned towards his burly employee, a nameless temporary bodyguard; he had many. He didn't talk much nor did the Brazillian know much about him but he did his job and took orders well. If he didn't, well, he always had his pistola. The bodyguard jerked his head upwards, a silent gesture to inform him his ride was here.
Rocco buried his hands into deep pockets, gave a last fraternal glance, a kiss goodnight to his Carcaça and followed his bodyguard out the door.