Claudia smiles. I think she really likes Georgie.
“A cigarette for my very short-lived friend, George,” she orders.
The closest of the four masked Russians reaches into the interior pocket on his leather jacket, produces a pack of Marlboro Reds, shakes one out. He pops it into his mouth, lights it himself with a Zippo, then pulls the lit butt out, handing it to Claudia. She in turn gently places the cig between Georgie’s lips.
“How about you, Mr. Moonlight?” she kindly offers. “One final smoke?”
“No thanks,” I lie. “Those things will kill you. ‘Sides, Marlboro Reds ain’t my brand.”
“Fuck him,” Georgie says, pulling on the cig. “If it were me . . . If I knew where the hell the flash drive was . . . I’d give it to you. You should consider that right now maybe. Or is it that now I got no choice but to die for him. In any case, I say he doesn’t get a final smoke. No way, Jose. Sayonara motherfucker.”
The Russian gunmen laugh at that. Georgie’s words must remind them of a Schwarzenegger action flick. Because the Russian farthest to the right turns to the one on his left.
“Hasta la vista, motherfucker,” he says in a deep, fauz-Austrian, accented voice mixed with real Russian-slash-English.
The third one down turns to him, shakes his head.
“You of course have it fucking wrong, yes? It is ‘Yippee Kayai motherfucker,’ And it is Bruce Willis, yes?”
“Asta Lauego,” the first man corrects himself. “Arnold Schwarzee-nazi!”
They all get a kick out of that one, playing with the famous California ex-governor’s last name.
“Hasta la vista, baby,” corrects the second one in. “That is from Schwarzenegger.” Then he starts rattling the shit off in his own version of the Schwarzenegger monotone. “‘I’ll be back!’ ‘Consider this a divorce!’ ‘If it bleeds we kill it!’ ‘Say Hello to my little friend.’”
“No, stupid fucking asshole,” chimes in the first one. “That will be Al Pacino. Scarface. Bad ass Scarface, yes? You don’t fuck with Scarface, stupid asshole. Even the colored people don’t fuck with Scarface.”
Claudia turns to us.
“See the shit I put up with?” she says shaking her head. “Too bad you two chose the wrong side. You’d make wonderful employees.” Then, looking down at her wristwatch. “You almost done, George?”
But Georgie isn’t listening. He’s smoking and doing something strange for the Viet Nam vet. He’s crying. Real tears stream down his face.
Claudia takes a step forward.
“Don’t cry, George,” she consoles. “We all owe God a life. Your time to pay the big guy has come.”
He nods, pulls the cig from his lips, stares down at the lit end, grabs a fist-full of Claudia’s left breast, tosses the cig into the spilled alcohol, and hits the floor.
The fire plumes up into a red-orange haze just as I go down onto my belly.
The Chatty Cathy Russians start blasting in all directions. Georgie reaches into Claudia’s jacket, finds her piece, plants the barrel on the four goons, empties the clip into their legs. They drop like iron curtains as the fire spreads to the walls of the bar and up into the ceiling. Flames roar, but the shooting stops.
Just then we hear the sirens from the squad cars and vans that surround the bar’s exterior. The back door explodes open. An army of feds and APD spill into the burning gin mill.
“Out now!” screams Special Agent Barter. Clyne is standing directly beside him, his service weapon drawn.
We don’t argue.
Georgie lets go of Claudia as Barter grabs hold of her jacket, pulls her out the back door. It’s then, as I’m getting up from the floor, in the glare of the spreading flames that I see it. Stuck to the underside of the overturned table. The zip drive.
The zip, or flash drive, is stuck to the underside of the table by a big piece of chewing gum. Czech must have planted it there back when he first came to see me a little more than a week ago. He knew that the table was my table alone and that no one else was allowed to sit at it. He knew the zip drive would be safe there, plastered to the bottom via an old chewed up piece of Juicy Fruit. As the fire approaches me like foaming, lapping waves, I pull the zip drive from the table, and make a run for the back door.
I’m not outside for more than five seconds before the fire flashes, and the bar roof collapses.
Moonlight’s Moonlit Manor falls.
CHAPTER 57
AS USUAL I’M OUT of a job.
So are the Russian Obamas who are pulled out of the fire just in time before their Latex masks melt to their faces. In any case, they’ll be spending considerable time in the hospital mending their leg wounds. And after that, I foresee prison time in a maximum federal penitentiary. I also know that eventually they’ll be extradited back to their homeland where they’ll probably co-host a prime-time cable television reality show. Welcome to the new Post-Communist Russia.
We stand in a circle, feeling the heat of the fire on our faces with EMT-provided towels covering our shoulders. Me, Georgie, Agent Barter, Clyne, and several FBI agents, including Special Agent Lombardi. For a time we all look on like happy campers at a bonfire as the firemen hopelessly stand around the still-burning remains of Moonlight’s.
“Don’t suppose you took out an insurance policy on the joint,” Georgie says after a time.
I cock my head.
“You need cash for that.”
He smiles.
Barter shoots me a glance. He still seems very sad.
“How’s Lola?” I ask.
“Lost her son and her old man today,” he exhales. “Not great. But she’s strong. I forgot just how strong she was until we came back into one another’s life.”
I feel his words lodge themselves inside my stomach like so many stones. I also can tell by the redness in his eyes that he’s done his share of crying today, too. For a son he never got the chance to know. A son he would have been forced to arrest had he lived. But also a son who might have been spared a life sentence over his willingness to cooperate with the law. I can’t imagine the internal conflict he’s experiencing right about now.
“I understand,” I say. “Take care of Lola for me, will you?”
He exhales. Then, “Did you really see me inside that hospital room? When you died for a few minutes?”
I nod. “It’s the truth.”
The corner of his mouth rises up just enough to offer the hint of a smile.
“Maybe there’s something to the afterlife thing after all,” he says.
Now I see what he’s getting at. His dead son somehow having a life beyond the earthly life.
“You can count on it, Barter,” I offer. What the hell else can I say to him?
He holds out his hand for me. I look down upon it for a moment, but then I take it in mine and give it a squeeze. He goes to say something as he gently pulls his hand away. But in the end, he just closes his mouth and shakes his head. It looks like his chin is about to drag on the ground when he walks away from me towards his ride.
I pull off the towel, toss it back to one of the EMTs.
Georgie does the same.
“Think one of your people can give us a lift home?” he asks Agent Lombardi. “Assuming you wanna impound my bloody Beetle.”
“I’m on it,” she smiles warmly. A little too warmly.
Together, she and Georgie start walking like they’re about to head out on their first date together. Fucking Georgie.
“Coming Moon?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Be there in a minute,” I say.
But as they walk away I suddenly see someone coming up on me from over my left shoulder. At first I can’t help but think it’s my old man. But that’s impossible because he’s dead. As the four-by-four of a man approaches through the haze of the fire and the black smoke emerging from it, it doesn’t take me long to see that it’s Uncle Leo, my most loyal customer.
“We’re closed, Uncle Leo,” I say. It’s a joke. He
doesn’t laugh.
He comes close, looks up at me with his always teary eyes.
“Did you save it?” he says, voice gravelly with worry, his still thick head of gray hair slicked back against his skull with Brylcreem.
“I’m not reading you, Uncle Leo,” I say, suspecting that he’s already tipped a few beers at home. But when he motions with his hands for me to lean down in close to him, I don’t smell even a hint of booze on his breath.
He brings his lips close to my ear.
“The box,” he says. “Did you save the computer box?”
I stand upright.
“How . . .” It’s all I can get out.
“That nice young man in the wheelchair,” he offers. “He waited for me that night when he first came in to see you. He waited inside his car for me. He called me over and he told me that he stuck a small plastic computer box to the underside of your private table. He said the little box was very important; that it contained secrets that those goddamned Russian commies want. It was up to him to find a place to hide it where no one would think of looking for it. So that’s when he thought about sticking it under your desk, for just a few days. He paid me two thousand dollars cash to keep an eye on it, from morning till night, so long as you were open. He said you knew all about the plan, but that I was forbidden to talk with you about it.” He laughs suddenly, his voice mixing with burning timbers. “Nearly cost me my liver. And when you closed up early a couple of times, I nearly worried my seventy-nine-year-old ass off.”
I find myself nodding. Because all this time, my one and only perpetually buzzed client knew of the exact location of that flash drive. The box that cost me considerable pain and even my life. The irony is almost too much to bear. So just like Uncle Leo, I begin to laugh. Laugh out loud. Laugh so hard, the firemen and APD and local TV reporters milling about the scene shoot me a glance.
“Sorry about your bar, Uncle Leo,” I say after a beat. “We’ll have to find you a new one.” Then reaching into my pocket and producing the flash drive in the palm of my hand. “And don’t worry. Job well done. Our secret box is perfectly safe. And so is the United States of America.” Holding my hand up to my forehead in military salute fashion. “Uncle Leo, you have fought your final battle of the war against communist aggression. You are hereby relieved of duty.”
As if acting on instinct he goes to return the salute. But then, thinking twice, he settles for patting me on the back.
“Jeez, Moonlight, there’s spies all over the goddamned place,” he warns. “No saluting. And that box, take good care of it. The entire freedom-loving world depends on the information stored inside there.”
“Aye, Aye, Uncle Leo,” I assure him. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
He turns then, takes one last look at the fire and starts walking the opposite way, back across the rear parking lot towards his home.
“I’ll be drinking at the house from now on case you need me,” he mutters. “I’ll be with the wife. She has no idea how much James Bond and I have in common.”
The swagger in his walk is unmistakable, as he leaves the scene of my burning bar.
CHAPTER 58
WHICH LEAVES ME PRETTY much alone to face Detective Clyne.
I hold the zip drive up for him so he can see it.
“I thought about handing this over to the Feds,” I say. “But somehow giving it to you seems more honest. Besides, you might use this as leverage over the course of your investigation. My experience is that the feds can be pretty bossy. They suspect you’re in possession of the flash drive, they might buy you lunch now and again. Or even a cocktail.” But what I’m not telling him is that I’d rather my girlfriend’s new boyfriend be denied the Holy Grail of their investigation. Just because.
I toss it to him.
He snatches it out of the smoky mid-air.
He takes a reflective moment to gaze upon the small device resting in the palm of his hand.
“This is the investigation,” he offers with a nod. “Fifty years’ worth of documents, letters, photos, cancelled checks, rogue warhead locations, nuclear sub specs, prices, names of sellers, names of buyers, transactions, Swiss bank account numbers, safety deposit box locations, cash drops . . .” He stares down at the drive and smiles, even giggles. “Jesus, it’s all in here, making this thing worth more than Fort-fucking-Knox.” Cocking his head. “To the right buyer, of course.”
“It also must prove that Rose was selling secrets to the Russians. First as a federal government accountant employed by the Department of Military Affairs and later through his grandson, a nuclear engineer in the employ of the Knolls Atomic plant in Schenectady.”
“That it does,” Clyne says, staring into what’s left of the fire, as the remainder of the building begins to cave in slowly, like a dying, gut-shot deer collapsing under its own weight. “Peter Czech was a traitor. But he was also burning with optimism’s flame. He hired you thinking you’d keep his flash drive safe while you exposed his grandfather, and at the same time, regained the use of his legs. And when all was said and done, he’d use the flash drive and the evidence you gathered up against Grandpa Rose as his get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“I guess that about sums the grand plan up,” I say. “But sometimes optimism isn’t enough, is it? In the end the bastards still find a way to nail you to the cross.”
I shoot a glance at the cop’s left hand. At the ringless finger.
“You miss her, don’t you Clyne? Even though she was unfaithful.”
He turns to me, nods.
“Yah,” he says, above the crackling noise of the fire. “Even though she was unfaithful.”
I remember Barter standing beside Lola in my hospital room. Her old lover come to be by her side and console her in her grief on the day I died. Turns out he’ll be consoling her again. But not over me . . . my life or my death. He’ll be consoling her over the death of their own flesh and blood.
“I know exactly how you feel,” I say, but the words are like pissing in the Hudson River and about as pathetically poignant.
He lets out a small laugh again.
“Do you?” he says, once more staring down at the flash drive.
I don’t know how to answer that one. Because maybe I truly have no idea how he feels about being cheated by the one person he must have loved more than himself. No idea, other than he’s suffering from the pangs of a broken heart. And who hasn’t suffered one of those before?
Tossing the drive up into the air like he’s flipping a coin, he catches it again with the same hand. Then he shoves it into the pocket of his trench coat.
“All’s well that ends well, or not so well,” he says. “Gotta get this thing tagged and bagged and stored away safely in evidence.” Tossing me another teddy bear smile he adds, “I’ll be seeing you Moonlight.”
“Sure thing,” I say, but as I watch the brokenhearted detective walk away from the smoldering remnants of Moonlight’s, my built-in shit detector pokes me against my ribs, and speaks up loud and clear.
It says, You might never see Detective Clyne again.
Nor will his cheating wife.
CHAPTER 59
HE DISAPPEARS OF COURSE.
A week after Moonlight’s burns to the ground and the zip drive that proves Rose and his grandson Peter Czech are traitors is discovered stuck to the underside of my own barroom table, APD Officer Dennis Clyne is declared officially missing and WANTED by the FBI for absconding with evidence crucial to a federal and state investigation, or whatever the official term for it is.
But in unofficial terms, Clyne is wanted for turning traitor and for disappearing from US soil with the intention, no doubt, to sell the flash drive to the highest bidder on the black market.
So in the end, it’s Clyne who gets his face plastered up on the wall of every post office from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon. I have to admit, I can’t help but picture the stocky, sad-faced man sitting inside a café, maybe in Paris. Drinking a solitary coffee, sta
ring out at no one in particular, but remembering the wife he loved and lost so tragically to another man.
Maybe he has every intention of selling the zip drive, or maybe he’ll hold on to it for a while. Just long enough for the feds to give up on finding him and for Interpol to toss in the towel.
I haven’t known Clyne for very long, or really at all for that matter. But what I do know of him tells me that he’s a pretty smart cookie, and that if he has any flaw at all it’s being sensitive enough to agree to leave his job in the Bronx to raise a family up here in the country, as it were.
Albany.
I imagine him losing some weight, maybe shaving his head, growing a beard that he’ll keep trimmed. He’ll dress in black and perhaps take up smoking. He’ll blend in with the surroundings, maybe refer to himself as an artist at work, or something like that. He’ll have access to those Swiss accounts and secret cash drops, and once he unloads that zip drive he’ll have more cash than he ever dreamed about. Certainly enough to live on. Enough to pay for a new identity, a new passport, a new soul altogether.
Maybe he’ll even be able to afford a black-market cadaver that he’ll then arrange to have dropped into the Seine and fished out by the police, who will then have no choice but to declare APD Detective Dennis Clyne dead. Only then will his investigation be called off. Only then will Clyne declare himself the ultimate winner in the matter of Harvey Rose and Peter Czech and one very wayward wife.
Moonlight Rises (A Dick Moonlight Thriller) Page 17