“He sells other things too, I’m guessing,” I say, taking another small sip of the newly poured whiskey.
“Indeed he does. If there are interested buyers in the flash drive, it’s possible he will know who they are and if they are serious and perhaps, just perhaps, when they might show up to make the purchase. That’s when you might make your move to intercept the goods.”
“I’m hoping it doesn’t get to that, Francesco.”
“I’m sorry. I do not understand.”
“I spoke with Lola yesterday. We spotted one another as she angrily walked away from the café table where Clyne and Barter were sitting, perhaps waiting for their elusive Iranian buyer.”
He drinks. “She recognized you, then.”
“Of course. But at first she didn’t want to believe it was me. Or so I suspect, my friend.”
“I see.”
“She knows why I’m here and what I have to do.”
“Will she help you?”
“She’s being kept here against her will. She knows she made a mistake in trusting her ex-lover. She will help me. Tomorrow I’m to meet her at Harry’s Bar on the river.”
“She will take you to the flash drive?”
“That’s what I’m hoping. It’s possible this could be over in twenty-four hours, and Lola and I will be on a plane out of here before midnight strikes tomorrow night.”
Francesco reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small notebook, writes something down on a piece of paper, tears it off, hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the name and stall number of the man who might give you information regarding the possible Iranian buyers. You should at least speak with him and find out when a drop might take place. Your FBI might be very interested in who the players are. To discover their identity would be a feather in your hat.”
“I just told you, I’m meeting Lola tomorrow evening. And it’s ‘feather in your cap.’”
He finishes his drink. “Mr. Moonlight,” he says, “we have a saying in Italy: if something looks too easy, it is likely to be impossibly difficult.”
I feel my built-in shit detector poking at the insides of my stomach. Somehow I know for certain that Francesco is right.
I say, “It’s possible, or maybe even likely, that Clyne and Barter have not revealed the location of the flash drive to Lola.”
He cocks his head over his right shoulder. “A valid assumption.” He goes for the door. “See the man in the market tomorrow. At the very least he will give you information, which in itself might lead you to the flash drive, inevitably. And, Mr. Moonlight…” He allows his thought to drift off, like he’s hesitant to share it for fear of reprisal.
“What is it?”
“We have another saying in Italy you might like to know.”
“What is it?”
“Be careful which head you make your decisions with.”
I can’t help but smile. “We have that same saying in the US. Or a version thereof.”
“Then you understand my meaning very clearly.”
Lola. Me. Us. My obsession.
“I will meet the man in the market. First thing in the morning.”
“Prudent of you.”
He goes to leave and retire to his quarters down the hall. Or so I assume.
“Francesco,” I call out.
He turns to face me.
“This man,” I say, “he can be trusted? I’m not walking into a trap, I pray.”
He bites down on his bottom lip. “Never trust a soul, Mr. Moonlight,” he warns. “Not even your own.”
He exits my room without taking the whiskey bottle with him.
With my entire left hand throbbing and my midsection still tender, I don’t have a chance in hell of sleeping. I pour another whiskey, pull the desk chair in front of the window, open both sashes along with the thick, wood-slat shutters. The noise, the cool air, and the sweet, smoky smells of the narrow, cobbled street below speak to me. They say, You are far away from home, Dick Moonlight.
I light a cigarette and whisper back at the voices. “I couldn’t agree more,” I say.
My voice sounds strange and dreamlike in the small room. It makes me feel self-conscious and aware of my existence, as though I were staring at my own beating heart through transparent skin and flesh.
I unfold the small piece of paper Francesco gave to me. I read the name of the man he wants me to see in the morning: Abdiesus. His stall is located on the corner of the Via Zannoni.
Abdiesus…not sure I can trust a man who has the word “die” in his name. But then I don’t have much of a choice. I pocket the paper and sip more whiskey. I think about how strange my life has become in the past few days. How I’ve gone from a boring Sunday afternoon getting drunk in a corner bar while watching the New York Giants beat the Dallas Cowboys in the final minute of the fourth quarter, to spearheading an international mission to retrieve a flash drive that, should it fall into terrorist hands, could potentially spell death and destruction for a whole lot of people. Innocent people. Moonlight the courageous. Or maybe, Moonlight the perpetually in over his broken head.
Listen: I’ve found myself in surreal situations before. But this one tops them all. What I mean to say is, I’m Dick Moonlight, after all. Captain Head Case. Suicide survivor. A man who lives minute to minute due to a piece of .22 caliber hollow-point pressed up against his cerebral cortex. If I die right at this moment with a burning cigarette in my hand and a glass of Jack in the other, it would come as no surprise. So why then choose me for such an important mission?
I guess the answer lies somewhere in between love and expendability.
Lola and I love—used to love—one another as much as any tight sig others can. If I have to guess, I’d say that despite going off with Barter, she still loves me. And if she still loves me, then perhaps she will trust me enough to reveal the location of the flash drive. That is, if Barter and/or Clyne has revealed its location to her in the first place, which my built-in shit detector tells me doesn’t even fall into the ballpark of possibilities. Still, stranger things have happened.
But there’s more to this than just the Moonlight/Lola Ross connection. If I were to suddenly buy the farm while going after the flash drive, the agencies involved could at least say they did everything in their power to get it back, including enlisting the very man who placed it into the wrong hands in the first place. If the mission were to fail, they might wash their hands of any and all responsibility in allowing me access to the flash drive in the first place. Because, in essence, that is where the FBI made their initial mistake. They never should have trusted me with it once it was discovered that Czech had hidden it under my personal table at Moonlight’s Moonlit Manor. I wanted Clyne to have it. Not the FBI. I liked Clyne, felt sorry for him now that his wife walked out on him. I’ve got a soft spot for a man who’s been cheated on and scorned by the woman he loved. At the time, I felt him a suitable caretaker of the flash drive. How was I to know he’d actually run away with it, put it up for sale on the black market?
Other factors might have been considered.
I’m a decorated vet of the first Iraq war. I know what it is to experience combat in a foreign land, know what it feels like to be shot at by people who want to kill you. People who don’t speak your own language. I know how to use firearms with the intent to kill. I know how to use a fighting knife. I know all about the overriding importance of the quote, “mission,” unquote. I know how to take orders.
And I know how to kill.
I know that before this mission is finished, it is likely that I will kill again. I also know that Crockett and her crew of agents know that my love for Lola overrides everything. Even my own life. No doubt, that is what they are betting on. And in the end, if I fail, they can use me as the patsy. They can put me in prison for having handed off the flash drive to Clyne in the first place and for having written that “terroristic” letter to the IRS.
So perhaps it make
s perfect sense that I’m sitting in front of an open window, staring out onto the Florentine night with a left hand throbbing from a knife attack that nearly cost me my pinky finger.
What a beautiful, cool night it is. Clear, with the second full moon this month casting its glow down upon my face.
Blue moonlight.
I’m up early the next morning, my head a little crusty from the Jack on top of, at best, one hour of restless sleep, my good hand gripping the automatic.
My pinky finger still throbs, but at least my bruised balls are back in action.
After last night’s attack, I’m leaving nothing to chance. Before I get dressed I take a few minutes to maneuver the bones and joints in my injured hand. Despite the stitches and the bone-deep gash it suffered, there’s no real swelling to speak of. It’s throbbing and sore, but I can use the hand in a pinch. I just thank God it’s not my shooting hand.
As I pop a couple of Advil with some no-gas aqua mineral, I wonder if the Russian really intended to cut my finger off. Or was he only pretending to do so? Either way, it was one hell of a painful experience and one that I won’t soon forget.
That Russian goon and I…we’ll meet again. When we do, I won’t make the same mistake he did. I’ll not only cut off one of his fingers for real, but I’ll cut off his trigger finger. One more Russian mobster out of business won’t hurt my chances of survival. Not by a long shot.
I shower, holding my injured hand outside the curtain. After I dry off, I put my black pants back on, along with the combat boots, lacing them all the way to the top. They’re snug and fit like a second skin. If I need to sprint myself out of a situation, I can count on them like I can my favorite pair of running shoes. Cutting off more duct tape from the roll Francesco loaned me, I tape the .22 to the top of the left lace-up boot.
Then, slipping on a thin black turtleneck over a long-sleeved T-shirt, I drape the elastic shoulder holster over my head. I retrieve the .9 mm from between mattress and the bed board, thumb back the clip release, allow the magazine to drop into the palm of my hand, just short of coming all the way out of the pistol grip. All the rounds are there like I knew they would be. Slapping the clip back home, I slide back the bolt and open the chamber. I deposit an extra round into the barrel and gently release the chamber closed, thumbing on the safety.
An extra round in the chamber wouldn’t hurt my odds of survival either.
The piece secure in the holster, grip-first for easy access, I then slide a fighting knife and its leather sheath onto my belt. Buckling the belt, I grab my leather coat and put it on. With two additional ammo clips stuffed into the interior pockets and my sunglasses masking my eyes, I’m ready to make my way out the door to the busy marketplace where I’m supposed to find an Iranian by the name of Abdiesus.
I have a decent idea of where I’ll find his leather-goods stall, but still I feel like I might be looking for a sewing needle in a stack of sewing needles.
But then my gut speaks up and tells me that I don’t have to worry about recognizing Abdiesus.
In all probability, he will already know me.
Here’s what I learned in college, just before coming to Florence for the first time as a young man: leather has been big business here since the Romans founded the place more than two thousand years ago when, for some reason that defies all conventional logic, they decided to place a soldiers’ encampment on the swampy, mosquito-infested valley. To further defy logic and wisdom, the area became a stopping-off point for travelers and adventure seekers of all kinds. Merchants seeking trade who originated from all ends of the known earth. Spice merchants from India. Chinese selling textiles. Persians selling rugs, bronze cookware, swords, knives, animals, and even slaves who would become gladiators.
The markets have remained for all these years, making the city a vibrant melting pot of hawkers, bargain hunters, and adventurers. And the police rarely make an appearance inside its tidal river of people.
It’s been awhile since I’ve traipsed through the tent-covered markets. But here’s what I know: it’s easy to get lost inside them and even easier to get pulled away and abducted.
Especially when you’re traveling alone to a place where you have enemies. Mortal enemies.
I head down the flights of stairs to the Via Faenza. I hook a right and head toward the busy four corners where Faenza crosses over Nazionale. On the opposite left-hand corner stands a policeman, his blue uniform tight over a hard body, black-shaded sunglasses hiding eyes that just might be staring me down. Sharing the corner with him is a beggar with bare, hobbled feet that resemble dark, scaly, distorted tree branches. Carlo comes to mind. The half man, half beast, with hooves for hands and feet. I think about our immediate moment of connection. My own sliced hoof throbs in my pocket.
Behind the cop and the beggar is a newsstand that sells newspapers, drinks, lottery tickets, and souvenirs that include underwear mimicking Michelangelo’s David. Not the whole David, but his infamous package.
There’s also a large poster mounted to the exterior wall outside the store in a glass frame. The poster depicts the levels of Dante’s hell, or Inferno. Peering over my left shoulder, I cross Nazionale as soon as the traffic permits. My eyes still glued to the Inferno poster, I don’t have the time to study all the levels since I’m simply passing by while trying not to raise the attention of the cop. But I look at it long enough to make out a level entitled “Gluttony.” The word appears over an illustrated landscape of darkness, hard rock, filthy mud, filthy water, and a heavy cold rain.
Another level bears the headline “Wrath.” People trying to stay afloat in a fast-moving river while they lash out at one another.
In another level, called “The Violent,” naked bodies are burning while dogs with humanlike faces stab at them with pitchforks. It’s not hard to recognize the face of Hitler in this level. Also, I clearly see Napoleon, Oppenheimer, and Osama bin Laden. The perfect poster for your teenage kid’s bedroom.
Now that I’m past the newsstand I pick up my pace along the narrow, cobble-covered street. Past cheap trattorias and sandwich shops, past shops run by Asians selling only cheap beer and wine, past sexy-underwear stores, and one store that sells custom-made masks, some of which look Satan-inspired, with their grossly long noses and evil, bulging eyes. The road is filled with Americans, Peruvians, Germans, Africans, Iranians, Syrians, you name it.
There are Italians in Italy, right?
I walk past tourists and art students, both young and old, and I feel the good weight of the .9 mm tucked away in the shoulder holster bobbing gently against my rib cage. If I could wear it on my right hip I’d feel like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti Western.
The Good, the Bad, and the Head Case…
I go left at Via Zannoni and eye the first tent on the corner to my right. There are two steady streams of leather-hungry tourists congesting the narrow path between the two long parallel rows of tents and booths, but that shit doesn’t concern me. When I spot the little waif of a man seated behind the tent, my gut tells me I’m looking at Abdiesus.
I approach the man carefully, so as not to startle him. He’s so little and suntanned dark I feel like a sudden start might cause him to crack down the middle.
I’ll say it again: he’s a little man. Skinny. Dark-skinned, dressed in a gray or off-white thawb, an honest-to-goodness fez balanced on the back of his bald skull. He’s old, maybe eighty or more, and sports a sparse white beard. The type of Middle Eastern man who might get pulled out of line at airport security for a full anal cavity and shoe check back in the States. He’s smoking a cigarette lovingly, like it’s what he has now in the place of true affection, and it isn’t until he’s finished smoking it that he looks up at me.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the pack of Marlboros, thumb open the lid, silently offer him one. He reaches out with a hand that’s as bone thin and brown leathery as the leather jackets and belts he sells on the other side of the tent. With long, bone-colored fingernails, he plucks out
four cigarettes, sliding one into his mouth and the others into the chest pocket on his robe-like thawb.
I pull out the Bic lighter, fire it up for him.
“How much for one of your leather belts?” I pose. “I’m particularly interested in a black one.”
He nods, smokes, stares at the burning end of the lit cigarette. Then, reaching out with his stick-thin right hand, he pulls one of the black belts from off the rack.
He stares at my waist.
“I will have to punch one or two new holes in the leather for your narrow waist.”
Popping the cigarette between dry, cracked lips, he picks up a metal hole punch and, in a surprising display of strength, punches two new holes out of the leather belt. Coiling the belt and its metal buckle into a round, compact package, he slips it inside a brown paper bag, hands it to me. I slip the belt into my side coat pocket and dig out a twenty-euro note to complete the sale.
“Keep the change,” I offer.
He writes up a receipt, hands it to me. I stuff it into my right pants pocket.
“You know who I am,” I say after a beat. It’s a question.
“I’ve never been to America,” he says in a voice that’s gravelly, soft, and sad. The voice of a man who has lost something precious to him, like a wife or a child or both. “Is it like they tell me it is?” he goes on while slowly, painfully sitting back down. “Corrupt and evil?”
I shake my head, light up a smoke of my own. “My country has its faults,” I say, releasing a cloud of blue smoke that combines with his. “But it has a wonderful heart. And we care about people. Not just our own. I make no apologies for her.”
“Is that why you have come for the flash drive, Mr. Moonlight?”
His question takes me by surprise. But I’m not sure why it should. It makes sense that he would know of my mission. Especially if Francesco filled him in on it. Naturally I’m concerned about trust. But it’s a little late to be concerned about that now.
I smoke a little more. Then, “Yes. It’s why I have come.”
Blue Moonlight Page 9