The Moondust Sonatas

by Alan Osi

  The articles neared completion. But, I was a wreck of frayed nerves and exhaustion. I worked all night to complete workable roughs. They only lacked write-ups of two future events: the moondust fete being thrown by Percival et. al., and my current interview with the police. I needed to call work first thing next Monday morning and explain what I’d been working on, so I needed to be as far along as possible by then.

  That I’d waited an hour for Greene wasn’t helping. Mental note: This was the last time I’d walk into a police precinct cold. After this, I’d have a contact, and I would use it.

  Sitting in this cheap, uncomfortable plastic chair sucked. But, on the plus side, it helped me stay awake. The watery coffee seemed better at burning my taste-buds than fighting sleep, given the drip-drip of lazy minutes drifting by.

  I needed to use the time effectively. I needed to check in with Peter, the chemist, to check his progress. I took out my note pad in case he said anything worth writing and called his cell.

  “Max,” he said, “hey.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “I have absolutely nothing. Just some ideas.”

  “Can you tell me? Think soundbite.”

  I heard him take a deep breath. “Dark matter.”

  “That’s not a soundbite, it’s a concept.”

  “It’s is an educated guess. The idea being there are forces in the universe we can’t account for, given the amount of matter in the universe, so there must be extra matter we can’t detect.”

  “So?”

  “What if there’s more to it? What if we’re missing something?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Think of this example. A tree falls famously in the forest. It does make a sound, and in this case someone is there to hear it. But, when they get over to the tree, it’s no longer a tree, it’s a microwave oven.”

  “What?”

  “Moondust is connected to the universe in some way we can’t understand.” Thus, proving my theory—Peter had lost it.

  Quietly, I said, “What happened to the objective scientist? The one who studies truth with method?”

  “He’s a damned dream. Listen, Max, I got to go. Call me if you’re coming by.” He hung up.

  I felt like Alice—a manly version, of course—falling down a Mobius-shaped rabbit hole. The severity of the act I was taking, informing the police of moondust, suddenly frightened. These were forces beyond my control.

  I needed some air. I stood up to leave the room.

  “Mr. Smith?” said a woman, a cop, blocking my way. “Where are you going?”

  “Just outside for a second.”

  “That’ll have to wait,” she said. “Detective Greene will see you in a moment. Please sit down.”

  94. LEONARD

  “That him?” I asked Shelly, inclining my head toward a skinny guy in fancy-boy clothing, sitting in the wait area, sipping a cup of the precinct’s shitty brew.

  “That’s him. Name is Maxwell Smith. Says he works for The New York Globe.”

  I nodded, drank my own home-made coffee. He looked like I’d imagined him. They always did.

  “Keep an eye on him for me, will you?” I said. “I want him to stew a while.”

  “Check.”

  Shelly was good like that. She didn’t ask questions or give any backtalk, unlike the majority of her wise-assed compatriots. Young guys grew up watching Crime and Justice reruns on television, wanted to be like the actors they saw. Doofs spending all day cheesing it for imaginary cameras.

  So given what she was up against, Shelly was destined to shoot right up the ranks. A natural cop, tough, perceptive, and loyal. She didn’t need to ask why I iced the preppy because she knew. Guy like that, make him wait long enough, he cracks, ‘cause he’s used to being in control. He’d tell you anything to get back to where he called shots. Easy, squeezy.

  I had tons of paperwork in piles on my desk, stuff I punted on all week. If the preppie hadn’t need icing, I’d still be putting it off. But, I had to kill the time somehow.

  I started with my department of homeland security reports, pointless DHS bureaucratic red tape nonsense. They couldn’t just gift us with the extra jurisdictional abilities, they had to kick us in the ass, too. I doubted anyone ever even read these things. But, they sure did throw a fit if you didn’t send them in.

  Which meant explaining why I locked some fruitcake called the messenger in solitary, and how our lab boys flipped their shit over the designer drug the guy possessed. No way could I avoid sounding like a delusional whack-job. Then again, writing a nutty report was a sure way to find out if anyone actually read them.

  So I detailed all I had on “chemical substance unknown-variable;” most of what I had went into the name. The sample zigzagged from lab to lab across the city. But, none of the eggheads knew squat.

  During a quick break, I checked on the human Gap catalogue in the waiting area. He proved this stuff was for real, a future Class A narcotic with epidemic threat. Hadn’t even gone looking, yet, and he came knocking on the precinct door, literally knocking, throwing around a new street name, describing the very attributes currently giving the lab boys aneurisms.

  I almost felt sorry for the guy, given I would have to go at him hard. But, I needed to turn my empathy off on this one. The needs of the many outweighed all, and the many needed me to stop proliferating so-called moondust by any means. I’d seen too many drug wars, we all had. If I could stop that before it started, even the angels would approve my methods.

  Now he was listening to his cell phone, looking green in the gills. I needed to know the subject of that call and to who was on it. I added that to the list of thing to discuss when I got him singing.

  I finished typing up my HSRs, then did some other paperwork. I even called the wife, to say I’d probably be late. Had a meeting in the afternoon with the captain, yet another sign the threat was real.

  The preppie finally cracked. He stood up and made a bee-line to the door.

  I swore because I was back at my desk, too far away to stop him. He’d come voluntarily so technically he was free to go, and free to never come back.

  Lucky for me Shelly appeared out of nowhere, and got between him and the door. Right then I decided to mention her to the captain, even if I had to force her into the conversation. If guys like me didn’t talk up the good cops, then only assholes would get promoted, and it rained shit enough already.

  Shelly grabbed his shoulders gently, looked into his eyes, and said about five calm words. His shoulders sagged, and he sat back down, burying his head in his hands, but then stopped. Instead, he sat up in a desperate bid to seem nonchalant. Oh yeah, he was ready.

  I walked over to Shelly and said, quietly, “In ten minutes take him to room two.”

  We used room two when we needed to put the screws in. It was lighted by a bare bulb above a table with three chairs. Two of the chairs were for cops, and on the other side of the table sat the chair for snitches and suspects, bolted to the floor. We didn’t want them to be able to make adjustments to get cozier. Not a seat you wanted to spend any time in at all, which was the whole point.

  I went there, sat in one of the nice cop chairs, and waited. Soon enough the doorknob twisted, and my guy walked in. “You must be Smith,” I said. I heard you wanted to see me.”

  I waited until he opened his mouth to speak. First, he got his nuts under him, squaring his shoulders. Then, right when he started talking, I cut him off. “Have a seat,” I said. “Right there.”

  He looked flummoxed as he sat down. It helped that we bolted the chair so far from the table. The psychological effect of being able to hide the lower half of your body was underappreciated. It was less like sitting at the table than being put on display. Smith reached down and tried to pull the chair forward. Which, of course, didn’t work. I slowly put my elbows on the table and laced my fingers. When I did, his eyes told me he began to understand.

  “So,” I said. “You were going to
talk to me about this new stuff on the streets.”

  95. MAXWELL

  I made myself take a few deep breaths. Detective Greene was putting the press on me, using his interrogation skills either by accident or design. He struck clean with the grim reality of my situation: in a police station, possessing critical knowledge, completely at this man’s whim.

  “I came here to get a statement, not make one,” I told him, using all the balls I had. But, still only looking at the table between us, and not at the man.

  “Is that right?”

  I heard the smirk in his voice. “Yeah. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You said on the phone you knew some things, is all. I’m trying to find out what you know.”

  “Hell of a way to go about it.”

  “You think this is the hard way? Guy, this is me being cuddly. Especially since I’ve got a freaking weird case that fell on my lap, and the captain’s breathing down my neck about it. I’ve got to get results, like yesterday. I have every reason to pursue any lead as aggressively as the most liberal laws on the subject might allow. “

  “I don’t see why that would be necessary.”

  “Nice to hear you plan to cooperate. So, where shall we begin?”

  It took all my courage to pull out my recorder. “Do you mind if I record this conversation?”

  His eyes narrowed, and the room got colder. “Explain why you brought that into my room and why you’re trying to turn it on.”

  “I’m just here as a reporter and a citizen, trying to give you information you may need and getting a brief statement about the moondust situation in return. Which is not a lot to ask.”

  The surge of relief I got putting the recorder between us was something to hold on to, a seed of crystallizing order in a sea of chaos. So I flipped it on.

  Detective Greene said, “Turn that thing off. Now!”

  “I’m here voluntarily.”

  “Now!”

  “Fine, but I’ll be leaving, too. Unless you want to charge me with something?” I put my hand on the recorder. But, I didn’t flip the switch. The detective’s eyes fastened on my hands. “Look, I’m getting the impression you think we’re enemies. But, there’s no reason we should be. I came here for a win-win. I’m trying to help you, and all I’m asking is that you help me, too. Just a little bit. Just with a couple of words. You can be as general as you like, and if you want, you can be anonymous. I just need something like: ‘We are very concerned about this situation and looking into it as quickly as we can.’ Maybe something about how moondust as unclassifiable is causing you a headache, and how you plan to get around that. Is that really so much to ask?”

  He didn’t answer. So I kept talking.

  “Well if it is, then we’re enemies, and you have to lock me up—or something—and do a ton of paperwork, and try to justify it to your captain—or whomever. If he’s breathing down your neck, I don’t think you need the headache. So either we both win or we both lose.”

  He stood, without a word, and left the room. I heard a click when the door shut, likely the door locking behind him. The silence left in his wake was powerful. I reeled with adrenaline, and the fear I pushed away.

  The possibility of this ending well for me felt slim now, if it existed. Unfortunately, given the momentum gained, I couldn’t reverse course.

  96. LEONARD

  Back at my desk, I decided to give the boss a call, much as I hated to do so. Only thing holding me back was ego: I hated the reporter dictating terms, and I especially hated the smirk on his face when he did. The problem was that damned recorder. He’d been about to shit his pants. But, putting me on tape threw his fear right out the window, fucking up my questioning in the process.

  I guess I could have tossed his dumb ass in the clink. But, two people in on trumped-up homeland security violations was pushing it. It would have made me feel a lot better, yeah. But, as an officer, sometimes you needed to swallow your personal feelings.

  “So what do you think you should do?” captain asked, after I reported the situation.

  “Promise him an anonymous statement, if he gives good intel. That way, if any politicos get their panties in a twist, you’ll be in the clear.”

  “I’m glad you’re seeing straight, today.”

  I thought of a retort, but I decided to leave career suicide for another day. Besides, it wasn’t him who had me mad.

  “Knock this one out of the park,” he continued. “I want you to give him the statement. But, play hard to get, milk him for all he’s worth. If this goes right, the public will put pressure on the mayor to give us legal leverage we need here.”

  He was telling me stuff I already knew. “Sure, boss. I’m going to get to it, alright?”

  “We never had this conversation.” He hung up.

  I took a couple of deep breaths, grabbed another cup of my coffee, and went back into the interrogation room.

  “Okay. Here’s the deal,” I said, walking toward the table where Smith sat. “Option one: You tell me what you have. If I like your intel, then I give you an anonymous statement. Maybe take a question or two. Then you get the hell out of here and never bother me again.

  I waited for that to sink in, watching his face. It didn’t change. I continued. “Option two. You decide not to take option one, and you get the hell out of here. I decide you’re probably in with whatever lowlifes are trying to prosper off this stuff, and I keep my eye out for you. And if I ever—and I mean ever—get the chance, I’m taking you down. Your choice.”

  “I’ll take option one, obviously.” He reached for his recorder.

  “You turn that thing on before I say so, and you can take a walk.”

  “Okay, fine,” he said. But, whatever confidence the recorder gave him was gone. “Where do you want me to begin?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me. What’s the beginning?”

  He started talking slow at first, like they all did. But, before long, the story tumbled out all on its own. Hell of a story, too. Even with the mystery drug zigzagging across the island from geek to geek, I found parts tough to believe, even though my nose told me he meant every word.

  It went like this: The messenger, whose real name was Harold Westgate according to Smith, gave him and his girlfriend a packet of the substance, called moondust, on the street. Smith here wanted to break the story in the worst way, so he went reporting. He infiltrated the hip Manhattan party scene because he figured designer drugs flowed through clubs, and he got lucky. He fell in with a crew fronting as artists while dealing moondust to clients in the know, who cloaked their operation in secrecy to duck the law. He actually helped them fend off some other lowlifes, who wanted to horn in on their business in return for information—that surprised me, I didn’t think he had the salt.

  But the three dealers got skittish about being the only game in town, so they planned a big party to let the cat out of the bag. They’d tell everyone at the party how to make the stuff, taking the pressure off themselves, allowing them to ride off into the sunset.

  Smith skirted around the necessary details of who they were, when they were doing it, and where the event would be. He’d probably hide behind freedom of the press on that one, and if so we might be in for a fight. I’d win. We needed to be there, and we needed a way to keep what they were planning from happening. End of story. No way would this go down on my watch.

  Smith also got in-depth descriptions of the psychoactive experience from users; this was where his intel got nutty. You might as well start believing in hobbits and unicorns. There had to be a better explanation, something science-y. But, it didn’t really matter. Point was, this stuff fucked with people’s heads on heretofore unseen levels, and nothing upset the balance more than new drugs hitting streets. Gang wars happened. People got ripped off— killed—to support habits. It was bedlam every time. I wouldn’t say I was scared. But, I was deeply concerned.

  When he finished, I said, “You know, I planned on taking it easy on yo
u, I really did. Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re a fucking twat. But, I was going to give you your statement, let you walk; I wasn’t going to pursue you.”

  “Oh? What’s changed?”

  “Did you listen to what you just said? You just described crack all over again. If this party goes down, then we’re looking at another epidemic. Whole neighborhoods will be destroyed. If you were me, what would you do?”

  A light came on somewhere in his stupid little head. It caused him to deflate, again. But, he didn’t speak.

  “Go ahead, answer.”

  “If I were you, then I’d do everything I could to stand in their way.”

  “Yeah, you would. And how would you go about doing that?”

  “Are you going to let me leave?”

  I had that look in my eye, I didn’t even have to try. Never meant it before like I did now. “Depends on what you say next.”

  97. ANNIE

  It read:

  You Are Cordially Invited

  To a Disconnect Magic Theatre Presentation:

  The Moondust Sonatas

  (Blurring the lines between you and me)

  Sunday, October 8, 2006

  at

  Valkerye, 1990 Kensington, Bronx, Ground Floor

  Featuring DJ Wally Beaver.

  Harry and Hermione will attend to your visions.

  Admittance: $20

  For Madmen and

  Madwomen only.

  And I just had to laugh. It brought back my days of being a literature major—a Steppenwolf-themed party? I had to admit, it was intriguing.

  For one, the planners had to be given points for obscurity. It wasn’t the most widely read book in this country. They used it to interesting effect, too. Sure, it was probably the usual bullshit, using a great work of literature as nothing more than an ego booster for the DJ or whoever. (Look at what we can reference!)