Free The King's Gold by Yxta Maya Murray Page B

put it,” said Marco.
    I said, “Seriously—listen—”
    “Actually, why are you wearing that?”
    Everyone was talking at once.
    “You can interrogate her cleavage back in California.” Marco eased a cigarette box from his tuxedo pocket, lighting up with a flick of his elegant hands. “Why don’t you find a bowl of ranch dip dressing and stick your head in it, my good boy? Go suck on a chocolate. Though you’re awfully amusing with your little cheese crackers and aroma of armpit, we are both very, very busy and can’t be bothered.”
    “Will you shut up?” I hissed at him.
    “I’m persuading him to go. Nicely, you’ll note.” Marco exhaled smoke through his nostrils before glancing over at Domenico, who still stood in the hall like a guard. “I could be ruder if you like, sweetheart.”
    Erik puffed up at Marco, in a he-man sort of way, raking his fingers through his hair before patting him in a hard and whapping manner on the shoulder. “I don’t feel like we’ve been properly introduced. What’s your name?”
    “Marco Moreno.” He smiled. “I can very easily ensure that you never forget it—”
    “No, Jesus, don’t do that,” I said. “Okay, everyone stop acting manly right now!”
    “Marco Moreno ?” Marco’s shoulder juddered back as Erik continued to smack him. He reached up and rapped on Erik’s head with his knuckles. “Ring a bell? Moreno?”
    “Stop whacking each other, sirs,” Adriana commanded. “It’s entertaining, but no one’s fought at the palazzo since, ah, 1523, I think. Too many antiques. And besides, it’s bad for the digestion. Would you like to a tour instead?”
    “No, Erik has to look at this. ” Again I tried to show him the pages in my hand, rustling them under his nose. “Here, just in case you see something that I didn’t—”
    But Erik roughly brushed Marco’s lapel, so the man had to take a step back. “Hey. This is a really nice tuxedo. Does it wrinkle easily?”
    “Honey,” I said. “Stop.”
    “Gentlemen,” warned Adriana.
    Marco’s face rippled with mirth. “Ha ha ha. Not at all. I’ll give you the name of my tailor—as you’ll soon need to be stitched up.”
    “Look, all of you, do shut up ,” Adriana bassooned, so that we gave a little jump and quieted down.
    “Even me, darling?” Marco asked.
    “Especially you. Sir.” She smiled again before pushing him down the hall, his cigarette smoke following him like the devil’s gas. She maneuvered Erik after him, before propelling me toward the staircase. “I run this house, you see. My job is to make sure the doctor is happy. When she is not happy, she screams. This, I hate. And if you kill each other before dinner—and thus are not able to sit down for appetizers—what will happen? Unhappiness. The screaming. So, please... move .”
    This sufficiently startled Erik and me so that we automatically followed her orders. Marco floated down the stairs, and we followed him past more of the palazzo’s marble nudes, Renaissance landscapes, and a spectacularly painted chamber tucked into a side corridor.
    “Here, this should divert you!” Adriana said. “This always works! We have a very nice chapel, with a lovely mural. Look, look, look. Pay attention. It has your friend in it; you’ll love it. No, don’t stop mumbling at him, sir— up here! Recognize this?”
    “What?”
    “What?”
    “What?”
    We had been dragged to a small room ablaze with a green-gold painted panorama showing nobles surrounded by slaves, dogs, brilliant hills and trees. Adriana was frisking about, drawing our attention away from our argument by pointing up to this mural of young handsome men riding muscular steeds in a kings’ processional.
    “Points for who gives me the name of the mural.” Adriana waved her hands in the air. “Those of you who can’t will immediately be branded a buffoon. Come on, come on.”
    “This is absurd,” said Marco.
    “ Buf- foon,” answered Adriana.
    “It’s the