New Moon Rising

by J. R. Rain

  The interior is tiny, with only three small booth tables along the right side (all full of people), some coolers with drinks, and a long counter with a glass front containing all the fixings. Bins hold everything from the usual cheese, bacon, lettuce, tomato, onions, pickles, to the unusual like macaroni and cheese and even tuna salad. I stop in my tracks at that, look away, and shudder. It’s my sincere hope that the tuna fish is there in case someone wants a sandwich, and not meant to go on top of a burger. A sign on the wall behind the counter announces a free meal to anyone who can finish the ‘Habanero Hammer,’ a half-pound monster that’s about twenty percent finely chopped hot pepper. Eek. No thanks. Free food isn’t worth having no sense of taste for a week.

  Chad goes for a pizza burger with mozzarella and mushrooms while I’m feeling a call to a barbecue-bacon-cheeseburger. Neither of us opt for the double or triple… wholly unnecessary when the patties are an inch thick already.

  It’s my turn to pay, and in a couple of minutes, we’re outside at one of the tables basking in the wonderful aroma of our junk food. I love how this place leaves the skin on the fries too, even if they’ve got enough salt to preserve a mummy. Chad dumps pepper on his fries, enough that I hold my breath until he stops to avoid sneezing.

  “Jesus, Chad…” I examine the shaker, noting the contents are about a quarter-inch lower. “Enough pepper?”

  “No such thing.” He winks and throws a ‘blackened’ fry in his mouth.

  This is going to be messy. I manage to cradle my burger in both hands without losing too much of the goopy cheese and barbecue sauce. The first bite is heaven on Earth. Why is it the stuff that’s so horrible for us is so damn good?

  “You stole my policy regarding garlic,” I say, right before chomping down. Yeah, I kinda have a garlic addiction. Vampires beware.

  Unable to laugh with a full mouth, he “mmm”s while nodding.

  A few bites into my lunch, and about half my fries later, I gaze around at the other tables, squinting due to the sun. The high school kids on a date have left, but a thin guy in an expensive suit has taken their table. I say to Chad, “That card’s bugging the hell out of me.”

  “Card?” My partner starts to take a bite, but stops. “Oh, that handyman thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about it bugs you?”

  “I don’t know.” I bite my hamburger like it’s to blame for my problems.

  Chad laughs.

  A few minutes of silent munching pass. These fries really are awesome.

  “You could always try to find the guy,” says Chad. “Check him out. If the dude does maintenance work on the cheap, it’s not that surprising word would get around among people who need housing assistance.”

  I wag my scrap of hamburger at him. “That’s just it, though. How’s a guy like that make a living if he’s charging so little? I’m sure it’s connected to the drugs somehow.”

  The last of my burger dies a savage death.

  Chad leans back. “Guess you were hungry.”

  Still chewing, I shrug and dust off my hands.

  “Soon as we’re back in the office, I’m going to dig―”

  A tweaked-out metallic green Honda Accord rolls to a stop at the edge of the lot, facing to my right. The windows have too much tint to see inside, and the lack of loud bass music pounding out of it strikes me as suspicious. I get the unsettling feeling we’re being watched.

  “What?” Chad dabs at his mouth with a napkin.

  Probably just some locals after a burger. Why am I so on edge lately? “Sorry. Car behind you is blinding. Anyway, I was saying… once we’re back in the office, I’m going to try to dig up as much as I can on this Marty character.”

  The Accord’s passenger side door opens, and a skinny guy in a gray hoodie hops out. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s got his hood up, head down, and hands stuffed in his pockets that puts me on guard, or if it’s the driver wearing a bandana over his face. Probably both.

  I reach under my blazer, grasping the handle of my Glock. “Trouble coming.”

  Chad glances back over his shoulder. The guy walks past where he should’ve turned left to go into the restaurant, and continues heading straight toward us. I start to pull my weapon, but before I can yell ‘that’s far enough,’ he stops short and yanks his hand from his sweatshirt pocket. His stance sinks into a backpedal; sunlight glints from a small revolver coming up to bear on me. For an instant, I lock eyes with a Hispanic kid who can’t be older than seventeen.

  “Gun!” shouts Chad while leaping backward out of his chair.

  My training takes over. Sinking in my chair, I sight over my weapon and squeeze the trigger.

  His revolver erupts in a series of sharp snaps, feeble compared to my Glock. More shots happen in front of me to the right, Chad firing from the ground. The kid keeps pulling the trigger until it clicks empty, staggering away and swooning to the side. I’m sure I hit him at least twice, but he runs back to the waiting Accord. The whole thing takes three or four seconds tops.

  Chad squeezes off two more rounds at the fleeing shooter, the second causing a spurt of blood from the left knee that sends the guy flying face first into the Honda.

  Hands inside pull him in while the tires smoke and squeal. I fire once more at the retreating car, but hold back for fear of a stray bullet going into one of the homes across the street. The shooter’s legs fold up inside, but the door keeps flapping open. Chad sprints to the sidewalk and unloads the rest of his magazine, shattering the back window. The Accord screeches around the corner at the end of the block hard enough to make the door slam closed, and zooms off out of sight.

  Everyone at the outdoor tables is on the ground, staring up at us in abject terror. The guy in the fancy suit hasn’t even moved, still eating like nothing happened. I stand transfixed in the moment, my heartbeat slamming in my skull, waiting for the blinding flash of agony to tell me where I’ve been hit. A few seconds later, a lack of pain lets me snap out of my fog. A quick self-check finds only a splat of pizza sauce on my arm from a bullet that struck Chad’s plate. His soda cup is also leaking from both sides.

  Chad whips out his phone, standing on the sidewalk, suit jacket flapping in the wind. His Glock dangles from his trigger finger, the slide locked back.

  “Federal agent,” I say, lowering my weapon. “Everyone please stay calm and remain in the area. We’ll need you to give statements.”

  Another more distant squelch of tires precedes a cacophony of blaring horns.

  “Is anyone hurt?” I look around, mystified at my good fortune. A strip of plain steel gleams on our table where a bullet gouged away the green paint. Holy shit… that missed me by inches. About thirty feet from where I stand, blood glistens on the blacktop. Grr. How’s a guy take multiple hits from a 9mm and keep on running? We need hollow points or an upgrade to .45 or something…

  Patrons shake their heads and gradually pick themselves up off the ground. Since Chad’s calling it in already, I holster my weapon. Faces pressed against the glass of the restaurant windows, a bunch of employees, stare at me.

  Chad stuffs his phone in his pocket and walks over while ramming a fresh magazine into his Glock. “LAPDs on the way.”

  “That kid on something? I know I hit him at least once.”

  “Who knows? I’m sure I got him a couple times. They’ll turn up at a hospital sooner or later. Probably dumped there by his friends who don’t stick around.”

  “Yeah.” I sigh at the blood on the ground. “Somehow, I don’t think he was upset we took his table.”

  Chad grins. “You know, if you keep this shit up, your guardian angel’s going to develop a drinking problem.”

  “Hah.” I chuckle. “I don’t believe in that stuff. You know that. There’s no such thing as guardian angels. That kid didn’t even sight over his weapon. Snub-nosed .38 at what, twenty-seven feet? It’s not a mystery why he missed.”

  “Actually, I think that was a .32. Sounded like a cap g
un.” Chad pats me on the shoulder. “Still. Snubbie or not, six shots at relative close range while you were sitting down. Someone up there likes you.”

  I glance up at the deep blue sky and puffy white clouds. “I’ve been shot at twice in one month,” I say. “If that’s ‘likes me,’ I hope I never piss him off.”

  “Him?”

  I shrug. “I figure if I have a guardian angel, it’d be a him.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

  I look again at the blood on the ground. “I don’t. I think.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dead Ends

  The police show up in minutes and start collecting statements from the witnesses.

  A pair of FBI agents join us soon after―since it looks like they targeted me specifically, and an attack on a federal agent makes it their show. I’m reasonably certain the kid who tried to shoot me is connected to the same gang from the raid on Rosa’s house. Nick (the owner’s name really is Nick) eagerly provides a copy of his security camera footage, which got a great view of the whole thing. Unfortunately, between the shooter’s hoodie and the other two never leaving the car, it’s impossible to use it for identification. The agents are unaware of any attempts on other personnel, which gets them all wondering why they came after me.

  “The bushes,” I say. “Those two got a real good close look at me… and dammit. This might not have been the first try.”

  “Not the first?” asks Special Agent Santos. “Why didn’t you report it before?”

  “Because I’m still not entirely sure it was.” I explain the blowout and the figure in the woods―leaving out the weird feeling of being surrounded by one person who simultaneously existed and didn’t. “Maybe the guy threw something into the road to kill the tire, but when he saw Danny, he chickened out.”

  Chad stifles a snicker.

  I glance sideways at him. “What?”

  “Uhh, just… erm… Danny isn’t exactly the sorta guy people find intimidating.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I poke Chad in the side. “Still, if that was connected to this and the prospective shooter’s young, seeing another person around, even Danny, might’ve been one thing too much for the kid’s nerves. Or… we just ran something over and scared the crap out of a vagrant.”

  “Where’d this happen?” asks Special Agent Oakley.

  “On Lemon Street by Hillcrest Park. At the elbow, a little past Lions Field,” I say.

  They nod and jot down notes before splitting us up. I go with Oakley to one side of the lot to give my statement of events, while Santos does the same with Chad. We also had at least six witnesses at outside tables, plus whatever the people inside managed to see out the window. Fancy suit man has a meltdown when he discovers he ate lunch while an actual gunfight occurred. He’d assumed we were shooting a movie. Must be my Law & Order outfit.

  About two hours later, we leave the restaurant and head back to the office. I don’t even bother slowing down as I approach my cube, expecting Nico will call us into his office as soon as he realizes we’re back.

  He’s halfway out his door when we round the corner at the end of the cube row. My boss is nothing if not predictable. Once he’s sure we’re on our way to his office, he backs up and waits.

  “Christ, you okay, Moon?” asks Nico, as soon as I walk in.

  I fold my arms, pacing back and forth in a small space. “Believe it or not, I’m actually more pissed off than anything.”

  “That’s shock talking.” Nico gestures at the two chairs facing his desk. “Go on, sit down. You’re probably already considering this, but I think that attack is some kind of gang retaliation for the raid the other day.”

  Sitting. Yeah right. I stand behind the chair, gripping the back. “That’s where I was taking it too. There’s something going on here with that, more than we think we see. We’ve found these business cards at two houses back to back, and I think this Marty―if that’s even his real name―has something to do with this gang. When we were checking out Shante Reed’s home, I got the strong feeling she was hiding something, but couldn’t pry it out of her.”

  “Hmm.” Nico lowers himself into his chair and leans back, rubbing his chin. “There’s something going on, that’s for sure. Rosa Melendez.”

  “What about her?” I ask.

  Chad tilts his head.

  “Miss Melendez was shot last night.” Nico looks town.

  I gasp. “No… What happened?”

  “An unknown assailant was lying in wait outside the office building where she’d been working. She, and six other employees of her cleaning company, left the premises at 1:14 a.m. A lone individual ran up from behind and fired two shots at close range before fleeing. As far as I know, she’s currently in critical condition.”

  My knuckles whiten on the seatback. Grr. That poor woman. As if invading her home and abusing her for over a year wasn’t bad enough… “I’m going to find them.”

  “The FBI’s gang task force is already investigating the shooting. I don’t need you going off on a vendetta, especially when you seem to be on their short list too.” Nico scowls at something on his monitor. “We haven’t found anything that leads me to believe they’re organized enough to find out who you are and be a threat to your family.”

  Hearing that these sons of bitches might harm my kids or Danny makes me woozy with worry and rage. I step around the chair and fall into it, holding my head. These bastards think they’re hot shit, they can just kill anyone who stands up to them? It’s all I can do to resist calling Mary Lou right in front of Nico to check up on her and my kids.

  “We’re getting close to something,” says Chad. “Probably why they tried to kill Rosa. Maybe they thought she talked.”

  “Or would testify,” I mutter.

  “Could the assailant who attacked Rosa be the same guy that came after us?” asks Chad.

  Nico steeples his fingers in front of his face. “Hmm. That’s a possibility. From what the FBI has shared with me, these guys don’t seem too large. Going after you two was stupid of them. They just elevated their threat level on the FBI’s radar.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel too much better.” I lift my head and stare at a little gold figurine, a departmental softball trophy, on the desk until it goes blurry. “I hate not knowing.”

  Nico nods. “Well, then find out. If Rosa wakes up, she may be more inclined to talk.”

  I nod, following his train of thought. “They already tried to kill her. Keeping quiet isn’t going to help her.”

  “Assuming she wakes up,” says Chad, ever the optimist.

  I bow my head. “If there is such a thing as guardian angels, mine needs to give Rosa’s a slap upside the head.”

  Nico chuckles. “Six shots at close range and you walk away without a scratch. Pretty impressive. Go buy a lottery ticket. Oh, that reminds me… Dr. Weir is expecting you tomorrow at ten.”

  “Gonna get your head shrunk,” says Chad with a wink.

  “She’s meeting you at eleven thirty.” Nico smiles at him.

  Chad’s grin shifts flat. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s routine procedure for agents involved in shootings. Look on the bright side. You two had a second fire incident before you made it to your psych appointment for the first. Might as well do a two-for-one special.” Nico’s soft chuckle morphs into a concerned expression. “I’m glad you two are okay. Tactical Kevlar would intimidate anyone you need to interview, of course, but you might want to consider at least a vest under your street clothes for the time being.”

  “Thanks, and yeah… not a bad idea.” I stand. “I have a Marty to catch.”

  Nico raises an eyebrow. I explain the cards we found at Rosa’s place as well as Shante’s, and how both women gave me almost the exact same response when I asked who he was, as if they’d been coached. He raises his arm and gives us his ‘go forth and discover’ gesture of dismissal.

  I return to my cube by way of the bathroom. At least by the
time I’m done in there, my hands have stopped shaking. As soon as my ass hits my desk chair, I dial Mary Lou.

  “Sam? What’s up?”

  “Just checking in, making sure everything’s fine.”

  “Billy Joe, stop that!” shouts Mary Lou in the background before coming back on the line. “Oh, everything’s peachy. Nothing I can’t handle. I don’t know what you did with Tammy, but she’s so sweet. Wish I could get my four-year-old to behave that well.”

  I grin. “Luck of the draw. Anthony’s not giving you any trouble?”

  “Well, he got into a fight with Ruby Grace over the potty. He used it, she thinks it’s hers, screaming happened. Now she won’t go near it because it’s got ‘boy germs.’”

  “Heh. Tell her she can cover his with girl germs soon. Hey, keep an eye out, okay?”

  “Oh, shit. What’s wrong?” asks Mary Lou in a half-whisper.

  “I… I’m being overly cautious.” I can’t say a drug gang is literally gunning for me or she’ll lose her mind. “Saw an alert of a number of burglaries in your area. Guy’s still out there. All I’m saying is keep an eye open.”

  “Aw, shit. All right. This guy dangerous?”

  “Probably.”

  Mary Lou whines out her nose. “Geez, Sam. You go on―and tell me whenever they catch the guy, all right? I ain’t gonna be able to sleep now, but thanks for warning me.”

  “I had to.” I smile a guilty smile to myself.

  We chat for a few minutes more about the kids and Ricky. She’s still worried he might be cheating on her, but hasn’t had the courage yet to ask him about it. Though, he also hasn’t gone out with the guys after work again, so maybe he really did as he said. She thinks he’s been anxious lately, which I suggest might be job related. While I’m encouraging her to talk to him, Ellie Mae screams, “Mom!” seconds before something crashes to the floor and another kid starts wailing.

  “Gotta go,” says Mary Lou. “Billy Joe just pulled a shelf down on top of himself.”

  “Oh, no! Is he okay?” I bite my finger. “Sorry for distracting you.”