Blue Moonlight

by Zandri, Vincent

  “Did you try to leave?”

  “Immediately.”

  “He forced you to stay.”

  “Let’s just say he keeps me on a short leash.”

  Now I begin to feel a slow burn building inside my chest. It’s important that I keep my cool and stay calm. “Has he hurt you in any way? He hit you? Threaten you?”

  She shakes her head. “No, nothing like that. It’s more a matter of knowing what will happen to me if I try to leave.”

  “He’d kill you.”

  She smokes. “I believe he would,” she says and exhales.

  The burn, heating up. Heart racing. “How did you get out tonight?”

  “I cornered him into an argument. Then I told him I needed to take a walk to cool off. He’s used to my walks and even more used to our fights.”

  “He trusts you’ll come back and not simply hop a flight out.” A question.

  “I’ve never given him reason not to trust me. Besides…”

  She looks away, her hands still trembling.

  “Besides what, Lo?”

  “He’d come looking for me. And he would employ people here in the city to come looking for me. I’d never get beyond the train station.”

  “So you are a prisoner.”

  “Yes,” she says. “And I hate Christian Barter’s guts almost as much as I detest Dennis Clyne and what it is they are about to do.”

  “You mean sell the flash drive to the Iranians. Is that their true intention?”

  She nods. “You’ve been informed.”

  “A source was provided for me. The provider lost his life in the line of duty to the same bunch of Russians who killed me once already in Albany.”

  “Yes, the Russians want their flash drive back. My late son, Peter, contracted with them, and they want their property.”

  Suddenly the acid burn that fills me blooms, like a switch has been flicked inside my brain. I reach out and take hold of Lola’s forearm. Time to ask her the question of questions.

  “Do you know where the flash drive is, Lo?”

  She nods again, smokes.

  “Can you lead me to it?” A surge of optimism dislodging the brick in my stomach.

  “It would be extremely dangerous.”

  “I understand that. This whole place is dangerous. But it’s something I have to do.”

  “For you? For the tragic mistake you made in handing it over to Clyne in the first place? Or for the FBI?”

  “Both,” I say. “And for us.”

  She stamps out her now-smoked cigarette. “There is no us,” she whispers. “Not any longer.”

  It feels like a slap to the face. But it’s also something I have to accept. “I’m taking you out of here,” I tell her. “We’ll grab the flash drive, get on the train, and then take the next flight out of here.”

  “Dick Moonlight, knight in shining armor. Well, Richard, aren’t you just a little bit too late to be saving our relationship?”

  “It’s never too late.”

  “Is that how you reassured yourself when you cheated on me with Scarlet Montana? With the others?”

  I feel my breath exit my lungs along with the cigarette smoke. “I have this condition, Lo—”

  “I’m sick of hearing about that bullet, Richard. You have a conscience and a soul and they’re perfectly fine. That bullet is and has been your crutch. Get over it.”

  “This the clinical psychologist speaking? Or Lola Ross? Excuse me…Lola Rose, your true last name. The name you hid from me for years. It’s not like you’re beyond deception.”

  “It’s me in here, Richard. Just me. And I’m not going back to that life I lived with you.” Turning away. “I’d rather take my chances here.”

  For a moment, we drink. I shoot my whiskey while Lola sips hers. I motion to the barkeep for another.

  “Easy, killer,” Lola warns. “It’s ten euros a drink in this establishment. I hope the FBI provided you with some mad money.”

  “They want me to produce receipts when I make it back.”

  “If you make it back, you mean.”

  My second whiskey arrives. I sit and stare at it.

  “I’ll ask you again,” I say after a time. “Will you leave Florence with me?”

  A tear begins to fall down her left cheek. “Yes,” she whispers. “I will leave with you. But I make no promises about us beyond that.”

  “Can you trust me for the time being?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Can you take me to the flash drive?”

  “I think I can.”

  “Now?”

  Running her hands through her hair. “That’s the question.”

  “You have to be sure,” I say. “There’s no room here for error. Clyne or Barter sees me, they’ll kill me on the spot, dump me in the river, and no telling what they might do to you.”

  “It’s Tuesday,” she begins to explain. “There’s an old gym located in the center of town. Ricciardi’s Gym, run by a man who used to compete with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Barter and Clyne lift weights there on Tuesday and Thursday nights.”

  “Clyne?”

  “You noticed how much weight he’s dropped since he’s been here? He’s a health fanatic now. His psychological profile is now that of a free man intent on attracting a woman to help him enjoy what will be his newfound wealth. Ultimately, he’s playing out a game of revenge against his cheating wife.”

  “God. Sounds like you’ve had the, uhhh, former APD dick on the couch.”

  “Passes the time. Especially when my heart is learning to hate as much as it used to love.”

  “How can you be sure they made their date at the gym tonight?”

  She pulls out her cell.

  I drink some more whiskey while she calls Barter.

  When he answers she asks him how long he’s going to be at the gym. Her voice is cold enough to frost over the North Pole. I recall that voice very well. Makes me feel good she’s using it on Barter.

  She hangs up. “We have approximately one hour to retrieve your precious flash drive,” she informs.

  I stand. “We’ve leaving,” I say, peeling off thirty euros and sliding them under the empty drinking glass. “Now.”

  Lola gets up and begins to follow. “Just like old times,” she says.

  “Let’s hope not,” I say, holding the door for her.

  Lola’s apartment is not far from here. Just a straight shot across the Piazza Santa Maria Novella in the direction of the train station. From there, we hook a right onto busy Nazionale. Lola follows close behind me, not saying anything, while we walk one in front of the other over the narrow sidewalk in the darkness and in the rain. When we come upon the Via Guelfa, which runs perpendicular to Nazionale, I stop and Lola takes the lead.

  “It’s just a few buildings in,” she says, her voice showing signs of fraying nerves and maybe fear.

  I reach into my leather jacket and thumb the safety off on the shoulder-holstered .9 mm. Then I say, “Let’s do this, Lola. Let’s get the hell out of rainy Florence.”

  “We have no other choice, Richard?” she says, and begins the long, short walk down the Via Guelfa.

  Her apartment building is nondescript for Florence, in that it looks a lot like every other four- or five-hundred-year-old townhouse on the block. Five stories, old french windows protected by thick wood shutters painted lime green, Victorian-era metal lamps mounted to the stucco walls, the ground-level stucco walls marred by colorful graffiti shouting out political slogans and threats of anarchy.

  Lola unlocks the door and we slip into the narrow tile-floored entry. She goes to flick on the overhead corridor lamps, but I grab hold of her hand.

  “No,” I whisper. “No light.”

  She heeds my warning and begins climbing a short flight of stairs.

  Reaching into my coat, I slip out the .9 mm and follow.

  The door leading into Lola’s apartment is preceded by a landing that’s made entirely of stone. It’s so old
it has a distinct list to it, making me feel like at any moment I might fall backward. The doors are thick wood french doors secured by a deadbolt with pulleys for openers. As is the custom in Italy, the landing outside the door also serves as a makeshift closet, housing a mop and a bucket, plus a broom and a couple of plastic bottles of cleaning solution.

  It takes Lola a moment to negotiate the key in the lock in the semidarkness. Then I hear the distinct click-clack of a bolt being sprung and the squeak of a door being pushed open. We’re in.

  Lola flicks on a dull, wall-mounted sconce. She attempts to turn the overhead lights on, but again I tell her not to. One light will do.

  A quick glance at the place reveals brick walls covered in new white stucco that in some areas has been removed to reveal some faded, ancient detailing, which I understand is the modern architectural norm for buildings considered historic. Ninety-nine percent of the structures in Florence probably make the historic cut. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to my right and beyond that a small dining room with a kitchen on one side and a bath on the other. Behind me is a bedroom. To my right a couch that looks like it’s been doubling as a bed. Clyne’s bed, no doubt.

  “Where is it?” I ask.

  “In the bedroom,” Lola answers.

  “Show me,” I say, feeling my heart sink at the thought of entering into the bedroom where my former lover sleeps with her new man.

  The bedroom is rectangular and good-sized for an apartment, with thick wood beams supporting a stucco ceiling. The wall opposite the bed is brick and partially finished with white stucco. Same for the wall to my left.

  There are two big french windows that are presently open, admitting the sounds from the street below. It’s quiet, with only the occasional Mini and Vespa passing by or neighborhood dweller walking past on the cobbles in the steady rain.

  The bed is a queen-sized futon. It hasn’t been made, the sheets and covers scattered mostly at the foot of the bed like some serious wrestling went on here recently.

  Wrestling…

  I prefer to put the image out of my mind.

  Lola kneels onto the bed, at the head where two sets of head-dented down pillows reside. There’s a tall, almost life-size print of Botticelli’s Venus that covers almost the entire wall above the bed. The naked, blond-haired beauty in the painting is floating in a big clamshell while angels blow wind gusts upon her from puckered lips and a handmaiden attempts to cover up her nakedness with a blanket. I never did get to see the real thing during my recent unpleasantness at the Uffizi, but I’ve seen maybe a dozen prints just like this one hanging on the dorm room wall of just about every college woman I ever dated.

  Lola carefully lifts the framed print off the wall, revealing a recessed safe. She sets the painting onto the bed. The small safe opens not with a combination but a skeleton key. Sliding back off the bed, she lifts up the edge of the futon and uncovers the key. Replacing the mattress, she once more sets herself on her knees before the safe.

  “That’s it?” I say. “That’s the extent of your security system?”

  “It’s not my flash drive,” she answers.

  She slides the key into the safe lock, twists it. The safe opens.

  Reaching inside the dark space, she pulls out three American passports along with a couple of bundles of euros wadded together with rubber bands. Then she pulls out a .9 mm S&W, identical to the service weapon I used to carry as an APD cop, and two extra loaded ammo clips. The third thing she pulls out is the flash drive, which is protected in a little plastic Ziploc sandwich baggie.

  For a moment, I stare at it. Then, realizing what it is and how important it is to some very bad people, I hold out my hand. “Please,” I say.

  Lola exhales, sets it into my hand.

  The quiet of the rainy night is shattered by the deep voices of two men coming from directly outside the open windows.

  Lola’s eyes go wide.

  “It’s them,” she whispers. “They’re early.”

  I shove the flash drive into the right-hand pocket of my leather coat.

  We hear the front door to the building open and slam closed.

  “What do we do?” she begs, sliding off the bed.

  I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stone stairs.

  “They carry weapons on them?”

  “Always.”

  “I’m not gonna shoot it out with them.”

  “I’ll distract them,” Lola says. “You sneak out the door. You have what you came for. Just go. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sure, until they find out the flash drive is missing. You’ll be lucky you don’t end up in the river with your throat cut.” I take hold of her arm. “I’m not leaving without you.”

  I hear the key entering into the lock on the front door.

  “Greet your man at the door,” I say, releasing my grip and snatching up the euros, the passports, the pistol, and the extra clips. I press my back up against the wall, out of sight of the open bedroom door. “Lead them into the kitchen and come back here to the bedroom for something you forgot. We’ll just walk out the door together.”

  The front door opens.

  Lola’s lover is home.

  “You’re home early,” Lola says.

  Barter bursts out in laughter. “You got a man hidden in our love den?” he jokes.

  If he only knew.

  “Very funny,” she says. I can tell she’s doing her best to keep her voice calm and without alarm.

  “I’m thirsty as hell,” remarks the voice of Dennis Clyne. “Whatta we got to drink?”

  “I was just about to show you both something special in the fridge,” Lola answers. “My little bubbly peace offering to you, darling. Come, it’s in the kitchen.”

  “I should change, Lo,” Barter comments. I hear him taking a step toward the bedroom.

  “No!” Lola barks. Then, reining herself in, she says, “It’ll only take a sec. Come on, hon, I’ve been waiting.”

  Hon, darling…

  I think I’m going to be sick. I have to put the thought of them together out of my head, even if my eyes are staring at their bed and their pillows below the open safe.

  The. Open. Safe.

  From where I’m standing I can see that we didn’t empty it out completely. There’s something else inside it. Something reflecting the lamplight and that’s stored in a plastic baggie, just like the flash drive in my pocket.

  “Yeah, Agent Barter,” Clyne says, “shoot your woman some slack, why don’t you. Some bubbly sounds really good right about now.”

  Good old Clyne. Concerned about making a relationship work even when it’s obviously over, just like him and his ex-wife. The woman who drove him to a life of international crime.

  A pause ensues, as if Barter is weighing the pros and cons of his next move. My .9 mm is gripped in my right hand, barrel pointing up at the ceiling, safety off. Right now it’s two against one. If the former FBI agent enters the room, I’ll have no choice but to shoot him with the intent to seriously wound. That would level the playing field.

  “Ah, what the hell,” Barter says and exhales. “And don’t call me agent, Officer Clyne.”

  Footsteps. Moving the opposite way, toward the kitchen.

  That’s when I make my move. I step over to the bed, place one knee upon it, and stuff my left hand back into the safe. I pull out the plastic baggie. There’s a second flash drive inside it. A second flash drive identical to the first. I wonder why Lola wouldn’t mention the presence of a second device. Perhaps she didn’t know about it, or perhaps she didn’t want me to know about it. No time to think things through right now. Time only to survive and make an escape. Me and Lola.

  I stuff the second flash drive into my pocket along with the first, close the safe, and pull the painting back over it. Then I slide off the bed. With my back once again pressed up against the wall and the .9 mm at the ready, I get set to run out the door, soon as Lola makes her way back.

  They’ve entered the kitche
n, where I can hear them going through the refrigerator.

  “Thought you had a nice surprise for us, Lo,” Barter says.

  “Oh crap.” Lola grousing. “I forgot the best part. Don’t move an inch, I’ll be right back.”

  I hear her returning.

  I move out from the bedroom wall.

  She makes her way along the corridor until she’s at the door. That’s when I swing around, open the front door, and jump out, pulling Lola with me.

  I close the door as gently and quietly as possible. But the effort is wasted when the door closer engages, issuing a loud mechanical click-clack.

  There comes a shout. “Hey! Lola!” Barter’s voice.

  Lola wasn’t kidding. She is a prisoner in her own home.

  In the corner is the mop bucket and mop. I pull out the mop, slide the wood handle through the two pulley openers. To the sound of footsteps running to the door, Lola and I bound down the short flight of steps and out into the street.

  “Go, Lola!” I shout. “Don’t look back.”

  “I’m already gone!”

  They’re both standing in the bedroom windows by the time we hit the street. I don’t see their pistols but I hear the shots. The bullets ricochet off the wet cobbles, sending up bright orange sparks. I grab hold of Lola’s hand tightly, sprint the length of the Via Guelfa, out of range of Barter’s and Clyne’s automatics.

  The broom handle I stuffed between the door pulleys.

  How long will it hold?

  Probably not nearly long enough.

  I go right onto Nazionale, gripping Lola’s hand, pulling on her, dragging her around the tight corner just as a city bus is barreling its way through the intersection. The roads here, even the major ones, are so narrow the girth of the bus takes up the entire width of the one-way street. The sidewalks are even narrower, forcing me to release Lola’s hand while we negotiate through the evening crowd of tourists and natives.