Moonlight Rises (A Dick Moonlight Thriller)

by Zandri, Vincent

  I could leave the building, my job done, my contract with Czech null and void, my girlfriend lost in the arms of another. But something’s keeping me there.

  Back to Lola.

  It’s the way I feel about her; the way my gut feels about her. I guess I love her more than I thought. I haven’t confronted her about her conducting an affair these past few days. Not because I’m angry or hurt, but because I’m afraid that if I utter even a single word about it, I’ll lose her forever. As the surgeons step away from the table, speak something softly in Spanish to Lola and Barter, that’s precisely what I realize.

  The surgeons never do lay their hands upon Peter Czech again.

  They abandon the table, shaking their heads in disgust, ripping their sweat-soaked masks from their faces. It’s the cue then for the half-dozen FBI personnel still hanging around inside the loft to flash their badges at them, explain that they are to be questioned.

  My eyes lock on Lola and Barter as they approach their son.

  I see Lola take hold of his limp hand. I hear her begin to weep, and then I hear Special Agent Barter begin to cry. He wraps his long arm around Lola’s shoulder. She’s trembling in his arms. Maybe they don’t exist as real family, but at the same time, they are family.

  Blood family.

  The surgeons are allowed to take their white smocks off, and to wash in a makeshift sink that’s been set up in a corner beside several fifty-gallon blue medical waste bins. They aren’t being arrested or charged as far as I can tell, but they and their cameraman are about to be rounded up and hauled downtown for questioning.

  Out the corner of my eye, Detective Clyne is chomping at the bit in the far corner of the loft space, hands stuffed inside the pockets of his trench coat, his eyes shifting from the makeshift surgery to me and back to the surgery again.

  I make my way quietly to one of the surgeons. He’s a tall, thin man, and his brow is still beaded with sweat.

  “Do you speak English?”

  He nods.

  “The young man you were operating on,” I swallow. “Is he dead?”

  He nods once more, bites his bottom lip, eyes peering at the floor.

  “The man suffered a massive coronary on the table. He bore the heart of an alcoholic, despite his tender age. If we had been operating inside a true medical center he might have lived. But we were not prepared for something like that. Not inside a warehouse. Not with portable equipment. We just could not make something like that happen.” His voice may be heavily accented, but you can’t mistake the tone of utter defeat and disappointment sprinkled with fear.

  The same, small female FBI agent who thanked me before approaches us, takes hold of the surgeon’s arm.

  “That’s all for now, Mr. Moonlight,” she says. “I’m going to have to ask you and your partner to exit the building along with us. Considering your involvement in this case, I will ask that you follow us to FBI headquarters. Or you can ride with us now.”

  “I can give you a lift,” a man says from behind me. It’s Clyne. Not far behind him, his ever-loyal Officer Mike.

  I tell them both that I’ll take care of carting Georgie and me downtown.

  “We’ll be right behind you,” I assure them, the trust beaming forth from my eyes like headlights.

  The agent looks at me, into my eyes. I can tell she’s questioning her own judgment by trusting me. She shifts her gaze at Clyne as if to get his blessing.

  “He’s O-K,” Clyne says with a nod.

  Over his shoulder, I see Officer Mike nod in agreement. Funny how things can change so rapidly.

  “Don’t worry,” I add. “I want to see this thing through as much as you guys do.”

  “OK then,” the special agent says. “See you in a few.”

  I make my way back over to the operating theater. Lola is still desperately clutching onto her son, and Barter is still clutching to the both of them. You can’t help but hear the crying coming through the heavy plastic. For a brief second I think about going to her. But then I think better of it.

  That’s when I turn and head for a freight elevator that will take me down. But I’m not entirely sure how much more down I can possibly go.

  CHAPTER 54

  GEORGIE AND I DRIVE to the FBI headquarters as promised in downtown Albany on lower Broadway, not far from the alley where I first took a beating by Rose’s Obama-masked Russian support staff. But not without first making a pit stop at Georgie’s townhouse where we retrieved a much-needed medicinal joint for him and four Advils for me.

  We’re hustled into a glass-walled room that contains that same dark-haired FBI woman, whose name it turns out is Lombardi, and Detective Clyne. They’ve been working with Peter Czech for more than a year, she explains. They were going to arrest him for treason unless he agreed to give them Rose. But in the meantime, he wanted the use of his legs again. That was the deal. If Rose would put up the money, the FBI would agree to allowing him the operation.

  “But that operation took his life,” Lombardi says bitterly. “Now if Rose dies, the entire operation will be in jeopardy and most likely, dead too.”

  “You knew about Czech all along,” I point out to Clyne.

  The sad cop pulls his hands out of his trench coat pockets, crosses arms over chest. The pursed lip look on his face is like, Gotta do what you gotta do even if it means lying . . .

  “My apologies,” he offers. “I wasn’t at liberty to divulge the APD’s cooperative efforts in this FBI-led case. I could only try and perhaps get you to reveal what you might know as an independent working for Czech. But client confidentiality sealed your lips.” He smiles a little when he says the thing about sealed lips. Makes him look soft and almost loveable. I wonder if his wandering wife knows what she’s missing out on by doing the wild thing with her personal trainer. Probably not.

  “This is a terrifically complicated case, Mr. Moonlight,” Lombardi says after a beat.

  “Naturally it goes deeper than just grandfather and grandson.”

  “Naturally. We also assumed through the course of your investigation you might end up latching onto some of the other players. Turns out you nearly did.”

  Georgie sits up.

  “Everyone’s interested in some sort of zip or flash drive,” he offers.

  Lombardi steals a glance at her partner.

  “Do you have any idea where it could be?” she begs, eyes wide. “Be the one thing that will keep this case a case.”

  “You too, huh?” I say. “Everyone wants that drive. But no one can begin to find it. Least of all me.”

  The door opens then, and Barter walks in. His face looks drained, and there’s a small bloodstain on his white button-down shirt. He must have been listening in on the conversation through the one-way glass. He and an entire FBI team no doubt. I’ve been the subject of an interrogation before. I’m no stranger to how the process works.

  He nods at Clyne and Clyne nods back. Then he sits himself down hard in the one remaining chairs left inside the square-shaped room.

  “How long have you known you had a son?” I ask.

  “Forever,” he answers.

  “How long did you know he was working with Rose to sell nuclear secrets to the Russians for cash?”

  “Only this past year when he contacted me for the first time.”

  “How long had Lola known that the son she’d given up from an adoption arranged by her own father lived here in Albany?”

  “Like me, since last year.”

  “How long did she know about her father’s illegal activities? Her sister?”

  “She’s always known about him. That he was alive, I mean. She just had no idea that his business was so illegal.”

  I look at Georgie. He looks back at me. I want to believe that Lola had no idea about her father’s business, but my built-in shit detector tells me different.

  “Faking one’s death and living inside an abandoned department store warehouse isn’t exactly legal either,” I point out, “espec
ially when the whole plot is financed by the former Soviet government.”

  Barter shrugs his shoulders. “Blood and water, pal,” he sighs. “Blood and fucking water.”

  “I’m not your pal, Barter,” I say. Then, “Is Lola going to be indicted too?”

  He slams his fist on the table, stands.

  “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions, Moonlight!”

  Lombardi’s eyes go wide. But Clyne doesn’t blink an eyelash.

  Barter shoves his hands in his pocket as if to reign himself in, exhales a deep breath.

  “OK, fair enough,” he says, calming himself down. “No, she’s not suspected of anything. Truth is, she rarely saw her father if at all. They hadn’t spoken in ten years. She also hadn’t spoken to her half-sister in over ten years. Not until Czech came back in their lives.”

  “Your son,” I say.

  He nods.

  “My son,” he whispers, voice cracking.

  Silence fills the room like the gas inside a death chamber.

  Until Barter breaks the silence once more.

  “That’s it for now, Moonlight. You and Mr. Phillips can leave. We’ll be in touch for more questioning later on.” He turns, looks over his shoulder at Clyne. “You good, Detective?”

  Clyne purses his lips.

  “Yeah,” he says. “No further questions.”

  I get up. So does Georgie.

  We go for the door.

  I open it. But before I walk out, I have one more question.

  “Barter,” I say, “do you still love Lola?”

  He looks at me, makes hard eye contact, but then looks away with the most defeated expression I’ve ever seen on one man’s face, save Detective Clyne.

  It’s answer enough.

  CHAPTER 55

  GEORGIE AND I DECIDE it’s time for a drink.

  A lot of drinks, bullet in the head be damned. New series of concussions be damned. Concussion-induced blackouts be damned. Spontaneous road boners be…well, you get it.

  We head back over to Moonlight’s just as the sun is coming up. The bar is locked up and empty, which suits me just fine. Once inside, I uncap two Buds, carry them over to where Georgie is seated. At the same table where I first sat with Peter Czech. Back when he was still alive and I could only assume he had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Lola.

  I take a long pull on the beer and sit back.

  “So to recap the game’s play-by-play,” I say like a sports broadcaster. “I’ve just spent days on a project that not only killed me once, it nearly killed me several times over. I’m not going to get the rest of my fee because the person who hired me is not only dead, he was lying to me in the first place. The woman I love is also still loved by the man she fathered a son with some thirty years ago, and by the looks of things, it’s quite possible, if not probable, they will rekindle their relationship in light of their mutual grief.” Another sip of beer. “I have now involved you, my best friend and big brother, in an FBI investigation that will almost surely lead to the arrest, conviction, and sure death sentence of Harvey Rose. That is, he lives. And there’s something else that bothers me. Where was Claudia throughout this whole thing? Last I caught sight of her she was assisting the surgeons as a nurse. Not a soul has mentioned a word about her since.”

  Georgie drinks some beer, cocks his head.

  “She’ll show up. The evil ones always do.”

  “Or maybe she’s halfway to Aruba by now, new identity, a few mil stuffed inside her C-cups. That is she can make room.”

  “But you gotta admit, Moon,” Georgie adds, “she is a cutie. A nuclear, black widow kind of cutie.”

  “Lola is left to pick up the pieces . . . With Special Agent Some Young Guy.”

  “Oh cheer up, Moon. At least you’ve got your health.”

  He lets out a laugh.

  And then the wall behind him explodes.

  CHAPTER 56

  GEORGIE AND I HIT THE wood floor as most of the wood wall behind us disintegrates into broken boards, shards, and splinters from automatic machine gun fire.

  AK-47s.

  The unmistakable metallic jingle of 7.62mm casings spilling onto the hardwood floor like lead confetti. The bar fills with the eardrum, battle-ground-bursting cacophony of boot-heels, shouts, and spent lead. From down on the floor, face pressed against filthy floor boards, I make out formal orders being shouted out in Russian.

  The shooting stops, giving Georgie and me enough time to draw our own weapons. Clips are switched out, and the shooting resumes. This time, my entire bar back becomes the victim. Smashing and shattering follow the rapid gunfire, along with the spraying and spilling of alcohol. That alcohol, what I make most of my money from these days, is now history.

  I roll onto my back, plant a bead on four black leather-jacketed men who wear Obama masks. Jesus, there’s no end to these bastards.

  “Dumb, dumb, dee, dumb, dumb,” sings a fifth person. A smaller person. Dressed in black like the others. A woman.

  Claudia.

  She must have slipped out of Rose’s castle fortress before the FBI arrived on the scene. She had to know of a secret exit that only she and her father knew about.

  She comes to me, kneels down beside me and Georgie.

  “The zip drive, Mr. Moonlight,” she says calmly. “My father is no longer in need of it, and you see, these men very much are.”

  I drop my weapon. Georgie drops his. One of the masked Obamas approaches, kicks the pistols out of reach with his jack boot.

  “Who are they, Claudia?” I ask. “Russian mobsters, am I right? Mafia? Former regular army conscripts?”

  “Let’s just say they are . . . or were . . . my dad’s partners. Now that he’s dead, they require the information that’s on that zip drive. It’s worth an unbelievable amount of money to the right buyer and should it get into the wrong hands . . .” She allows the notion to drift, its message more than obvious.

  So that’s it then. Rose never made it. He must have been DOA by the time he got to the Albany Medical Center. Or she’s lying. Not that either scenario matters at this point. Now that he’s gone, Claudia is working the Russians, trying to gain their loyalty when they clearly want to form their own camp now that the big boss is dead. Long live the boss.

  “You want to avoid a lengthy prison sentence, am I right Claudia?”

  “Life in a concrete cell surrounded by lesbians does not appeal to me,” she smiles. “I’m only twenty-eight years old, and I most definitely prefer cock to pussy.”

  When she kneels down, I can’t help but get a look at her substantial cleavage, like now’s the time for love. Georgie must notice me noticing.

  “Moon,” he says. “Cut the shit.”

  “Yah sure, Georgie,” I say, sitting up. “I’m in control.” Then to Claudia. “Mind if I stand?”

  The Obama facing down upon me directly keeps on poking me with his AK. It’s fucking annoying, so I reach up, push the black barrel away. He shifts the weapon, presses the stock into his shoulder, plants a point-blank bead on my head.

  “Go ahead and shoot, asshole,” I tell him. “I could buy the farm at any time.”

  “Back off,” Claudia orders the Russian. “Mr. Moonlight is about to provide us with what we came for.” Then smiling at me. Sexy. Enticing. “It’s not Christmas yet, but you’re in a giving mood, aren’t you, Mr. Moonlight?”

  I stand up, brush myself off.

  Georgie stands too.

  Claudia holds out her hand, and with a quick Rita Hayworth shake of her head, repositions her long, lush blond hair. For a brief moment, I consider being her slave.

  “The flash drive please.”

  I shake my head.

  “Ain’t got it,” I reveal.

  The Obama raises up his AK again, pulls back the bolt.

  “I’m not playing, Mr. Moonlight!” Claudia barks. “Time is of the essence now that the FBI is involved. We know you have it, because we know Czech personally handed it to
you.”

  “He doesn’t remember,” Georgie snarls. “You see he’s got this problem with his head.”

  “Of course,” Claudia says, “there’s a bullet in his brain. Mr. Moonlight is a rare human being. A suicide who survived a gunshot to the brainpan. Well, now he can very much have his suicide once he gets us the zip drive. Or perhaps we should just execute you now, then scour the place for it. In the end we’ll burn the bar with you in it. Yes, come to think of it, that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Claudia takes a step back.

  “Execute them!” she shouts. “Blow their fucking brains out then rip the joint apart and don’t stop until you find the zip drive.”

  The Obama in front of me presses the barrel of the AK into my stomach, pushes me back up against what’s left of the wood wall. Georgie stands back along with me.

  The other three men all take a step forward, aiming their AKs at Georgie and me. The stomach-poking Russian steps back, and joins them to create a formal firing squad.

  “Start digging your grave, Moon,” Georgie says. “’Cause you’re already worm food.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want, Mr. Moonlight?” Claudia poses.

  “I told you,” I say, “I have no idea about a zip or flash drive.”

  She steps back.

  “On three gentlemen.”

  “Wait!” Georgie shouts. “I want a cigarette. If I’m going to fucking take a bullet, I want a cigarette. OK? I get that much, especially cause . . . cause . . . cause he dragged me into this.”

  I turn to my big brother, give him a look like, Are you for real?

  “Way to stick by me in our mutual time of need. Blaming me. I didn’t put a gun to your head when I asked you to help me with Czech’s case . . . So to speak.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Moon. You really are a fuckup you know that? You really know how to make a train wreck of people’s lives. Holy shit, dude. Just give these people the zip drive. Who cares what’s on it or what they’re going to do with it. Just hand it over. You think holding back isn’t going to get us killed in the end anyway? Is holding back going to change the way of the world? You think that by not having the flash drive in their possession they won’t be able to sell rogue Soviet-era nuclear warheads to Iran or the Taliban? Or maybe you think that what’s on it will result in Times Square getting nuked, or Israel getting blown into the stone age. Listen Moon, my half a brain friend, who fucking gives a fuck?! I don’t care and nor did I care back when Nixon sent me to die fighting the Soviet-backed commies in Viet Nam. So if I’m gonna die now all because of you and your silly morals or values, I want to smoke my way out.”