“You gonna drive or what?” the kid says.
“Nope,” I say.
He quick draws his left hand to the keyed ignition, as though to start the engine. But I snatch his hand while it’s still half-way there. He yanks it out of my grip.
“Fuck you, pal,” he says. “You’re just the hired help. Now drive.”
“Stephen, that’s a no-no,” the doc scolds from the back. But it’s like pissing into the ocean.
“While we’re on the subject,” I add, “Nobody drinks and smokes in the car when I’m driving.”
The kid looks taken aback. He drags on the cig and releases a blue cloud directly into my face.
“Where’d you get this clown, Dad?” he says. “Maybe you should fire him.” Then, turning back to me, he raises up his left hand, makes like a pistol with his index and middle fingers extended and his thumb standing straight up. “You wanna fuck with me, okay?” he says in a passable Tony Scarface Montana, pig Latin accent. “You wanna play rough?” He points the faux pistol at my head. “Okay. Say hello to my leetle frien’!” He pokes my head with his pistol barrel fingers.
His face feels like mush when I backhand it, crushing his cig and spilling his beer into his lap. The ghetto baseball cap goes crooked on his head, and the right lens on his sunglasses pops out.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he shouts. “Nobody does that to me! Daddy! Daddy!”
Schroder remains surprisingly calm, as if he’s been wanting to do the same thing for a long time but hasn’t been able to work up the balls.
“Now, Stephen,” he scolds, “you can’t be nasty to people and not expect them to react appropriately. Now, let’s all get along and allow Mr. Moonlight to do his job. You can drink and smoke the afternoon away by the pool when you get home. You can invite some friends over. Okay?”
The kid’s got the window open, and he’s tossing out the crushed butt along with the now empty beer can right onto his would-be alma mater’s front circle. Stealing a glance down at his pants, I can see that the crotch is soaked. I can’t help but chuckle. Moonlight the merciless.
Turning the key in the ignition, I fire the Beamer up and pull out. On my way out of the drive, I notice the America flag mounted to the tall white pole outside The Albany Academy for Girls has also been lowered to half-mast.
I still have no idea who might have died, but whenever I think of death I’m reminded of Lola and how her absence from my life feels like a limb that’s been freshly severed by a chainsaw . . .
. . . Scarface style.
Chapter 7
The kid goes silent for the drive through Albany, north to the suburbs where the doc maintains a mansion that abuts the Schuyler Meadows Country Club golf course. But then, that’s not entirely true because the kid isn’t exactly silent. Now and then he whispers something under his breath. With his eyes peering out the passenger side window and both his hands mimicking matching pistolas, he mumbles niceties like, “You fuck with me . . . You fuck with the best . . . Fucking asshole . . .” I can only wonder if the doc hears what his son is whispering or if he just chooses to ignore his spawn’s little Tony Montana identity crisis.
When I pull into the long drive of the mammoth, yellow, wood clapboard colonial, the kid gathers up the smokes and what’s left of the six pack. It strikes me as odd that he doesn’t carry a book bag. But then, he doesn’t seem like the homework type. He opens the door, lifts himself gingerly out of the seat. Holding the plastic bag of beers and butts in one hand, he points his finger pistol at me with the other. When he points the faux pistol at my head through the open door, he brings the thumb down, whispers, “Bang.”
“Goodbye, son,” the Doc says from the back like he’s addressing a Boy Scout merit badge winner. “Text me later.”
The kid ignores his father. Instead, he slams the car door shut, turns and begins making his way toward the house, walking with his legs bowed, like a three-year-old carrying a load in his drawers. I hope I never have to lay eyes on the creep again.
Once more, I ask the doc, “Where to now?” and he instructs me to drive him to his private downtown office. I’m not sure why, but it immediately strikes me as odd that a brain surgeon would keep a private office away from a hospital or medical center. All of the brain experts I’ve consulted with over the years since my botched suicide — and there have been a lot of them — met me inside their hospital offices, where they had immediate access to X-ray and MRI equipment. But then, maybe Schroder prefers to meet his clients in a less clinical, less threatening environment. Whatever the case, I back out of the drive, proceed to head back in the direction I came.
Back towards the city.
As we pull out of his development, onto a suburban road that will lead us down to Broadway, I peer into the rearview, try and make eye contact with the pumpkin head.
“You gonna let me in on your son’s situation?” I say.
His thin-lipped smile has long since dissolved, his beady eyes no longer so glossed over with optimism. Can’t say I blame him.
“I’m not sure I owe you an explanation, Mr. Moonlight,” he says while peering out the window at the cookie cutter suburban houses and their perfectly manicured lawns and plastic mailboxes.
“I’m a dad, too, Doc,” I say. “My boy is younger than yours. But we’re still dealing with fathers and sons here. The difficulties, the rewards, the difficulties.”
He hesitates for a few more beats while he weighs the benefits, or lack thereof, of confiding in me. Clearing his throat, he says, “Stephen is . . . let’s call him . . . a highly strung young man.”
“I’ve gathered that. How come you pulled him out of school like that?”
He continues to stare out the window for a few more beats.
“I already told you. He’s been suspended. Again.”
“That why you reward him with beer?”
Through the rearview, I see his head turn fast, those black eyes staring into mine via the reflective glass.
“Allow me to illuminate you, Mr. Moonlight. My son is eighteen years old and an addict. He’s done more stints in rehab for crack cocaine and X than Lindsay Lohan. He’s also done his fair share of time in juvy, too. I don’t make sure he has something like a couple of beers and a pack of cigarettes to calm him down, chances are that tonight I will find him hold up in some crack house in the Arbor Hill section of Albany. Entirely imprudent logic, I realize, but it’s the only way I can deal with him and his issues.”
For a brief moment, I’m wondering where the smiley-faced, fuck-anything-that-walks, “Bruce Willis is my driver,” preppy, good old boy disappeared to. But now I can see the profound effect his Scarface son has on him. Kids can be great, and kids can be a burden, but problem kids can really suck.
“Where’s his mother?” I ask.
“She ran out five years ago, after he hit her.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“So was I.”
I go right on Broadway and keep driving until he tells me to make a quick right onto State Street and pull over in front of his office. He grabs his briefcase and steps out of the car. Leaning his head back in, he says, “That’s it for this morning, Mr. Moonlight. I will text you when to pick me up later.”
I nod. Then, “Doc, maybe you owe it to the kid to get him some help? Better help than he’s had in the past?”
He shakes his head.
“My God, Moonlight, am I under investigation by a private detective with a bullet in his brain?”
“The curiosity part of my head still works like a charm. Don’t respond if you don’t want to.”
He stares at me.
“Truth is, Moonlight, at this point, Stephen is beyond professional help. It’s not like I’m giving up on him, but I am hoping he grows out of whatever it is he’s been going through.”
“Grows out of his addictions? Out of his date raping?”
“I’ve heard that you yourself have suffered your own share of mishaps with the more perfect sex, Mo
onlight, so perhaps you will not cast any stones at my troubled son.”
“I won’t, Doc. You can count on Bruce Willis.”
“Until later,” he says, closing the door, the heavy burden that is his son dragging ass on the pavement behind him.
“Vaya con dios, motherfucker,” I whisper, pulling away from the curb.
Chapter 8
It’s the last thing I should be doing. Heading in the direction of Lola Ross’ downtown brownstone. It’s the very last thing I should be doing knowing that she’s dead and that the woman I saw walking into and out of the coffee shop this morning was not her . . . could not be her . . . but someone who looked an awful lot like her. Or maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me again. Messing with me. My eyes and my less than perfect brain.
My damaged brain.
I’ll say it one last time: It’s the last thing I should be doing. But then, fixation is a tricky task master. And I’m a head-case who, as much as he tries, cannot put the past behind him. Moonlight the obsessed and regressed.
I drive Schroder’s BMW all the way up the Madison Avenue hill, past the Empire State Plaza, past the white-marbled New York State Museum, past the Governor’s Mansion, past Dove Street, and past the three-story house where Leg’s Diamond took a bullet to the head from an FBI-issued .38 caliber revolver back in the early 1930s. I cross over Lark and drive on until Washington Park is on my right-hand side, and the long row of pre-twentieth century brownstones is on my left. I pull over when I come to the one that, once upon a time, belonged to Lola.
From across the busy, two-way avenue, I watch the entrance to the building. Watch the front door as if at any moment it will open up and Lola will emerge looking fresh and beautiful, her long brunette hair catching the spring breeze while she skips down the stone steps in her short skirt and tall black leather boots to the concrete sidewalk.
But, no one is emerging through the thick wood door. There’s no sign of life coming from the building. The shades have been pulled down on the windows. There’s a pile of old newspapers that have collected at the bottom of the door. I don’t see any signs of electric light coming from inside the home. There’s just nothing. The place has the look and feel of a mausoleum.
I start the BMW back up.
In my mind, I’m picturing the grave I have never once visited. The grave where I can only assume Lola is buried. A plot in the Albany Rural Cemetery that was hand-picked for her by her father a long, long time ago. Back when the Ross family still maintained an air of innocence. Before the split that resulted in the father and a younger sister named Claudia turning to the dark side, and Lola choosing to remain in the light. The light that eventually failed her, killed her.
Perhaps the time has come for me to visit her grave. To put an end, once and for all, to this notion that the deceased love of my life could actually be alive.
Chapter 9
But now is not the time to visit the dead. Now is the time to do some detecting. Maybe Dr. Schroder hired me to be his driver and a part-time bodyguard, but, at this point, I sense that a simple DWI is not his only problem. Not by a long shot. He’s paying me good money, so why not use it to get to the bottom of what seems to be going very wrong in his life and how it might affect me and my overall health? Not the least of which involves his son and some people whom he’s agreed to meet tonight in the parking lot of a local church under the cover of darkness. If I’m going to be driving and protecting him, maybe it will be a good idea to find out exactly what I am up against.
Inside the abandoned Port of Albany, I pull the BMW up beside Dad’s black hearse, kill the engine. I get out and make my way to the front solid wood door where I come face to face with a plain white business-sized envelope that’s been Scotch-taped to it at eye level.
I pull the envelope off the door, tear it open.
I’m surprised to find a check inside. It’s made out to “Dick Moonlight” in the amount of fifty dollars. It’s signed Roland Hills, aka Elvis. He owes me a grand, but what the hell, at least he’s trying. I stare down at the check, at the hastily written handwriting, at the background image which is none other than “the King” himself, circa 1966 Blue Hawaii era. It’s a computer digitized portrait of Elvis wearing his multi-colored Hawaii shirt, several leis draped around his neck, a ukulele in his hands, his thick black hair slicked back and perfect.
There’s something else included in the envelope.
I pull it out. It’s a yellow flyer for “The 21st Century Elvis and his band, The Teddy Bears.” There’s a photo of Roland Hills/Elvis on the flyer, his gut hanging out over a massive silver pro wrestler's belt, which is wrapped around a white Evel Knievel jumpsuit. His hair is thick, slicked back into a ducktail, and his pork chop sideburns extend nearly all the way down both sides of his chubby face. His brown eyes are hidden behind thick, metal-rimmed sunglasses, the ear pieces studded with little circular holes. In the picture, he’s got the microphone pressed against his lips, while he’s got one black-booted leg raised in the air like he’s making a round-house kick, the cape on his jumpsuit swinging with the motion.
Superimposed over the picture is a list of dates for the band’s appearances. I can’t help but give them a cursory glance. The one at the very top lists the Marriott Lounge, and it’s for tonight. The second one down says “The South Albany Knights of Columbus Hall.” It’s for tomorrow night. But it’s the date listed under that one that makes the cockles on the back of my neck stand at attention. It reads, Special afternoon appearance, Monday 4 PM, The Albany Academy for Boys and Girls Spring After School Mixer. According to the information listed on the sheet, the gig is to take place inside the basement “Buttery” which I recognize as old English prep school jargon for cafeteria.
My brain starts spinning.
Elvis owes me a lot of money. At the rate of fifty bucks here, fifty there, it will take him a couple of years to pay me in full. That is, his checks aren’t made of rubber, which means I’m not holding my breath. Moonlight the skeptical.
But, what if I employ him as a spy?
Maybe it’s the old cop inside of me, but I smell a rat, and the rat is itching the insides of my built-in shit detector. Maybe if I ask him politely, he’ll poke his nose around a little while entertaining the young, silver-spoon fed students of the academy. Maybe he can get a grip on precisely what happened between Stephen Schroder and a young woman who cried rape this past weekend at a house party thrown by his apparently bipolar, bisexual, brain surgeon dad.
Unlocking the padlock on the heavy industrial door, I slide it open, and enter into the loft. Tossing the flyer, and the check, down onto the butcher’s block counter set before the floor-to-ceiling warehouse windows that overlook the Hudson River, I pull my smartphone from my leather coat pocket and dial Elvis’s number. The phone pressed to my ear, I listen to one ring after another until the voice mail comes on.
It’s not the traditional “Hi, I’m not here, please leave a message,” but instead the voice of the fake Elvis singing “Blue Suede Shoes,” “Well it’s one for the money . . . two for the show . . . three to get ready now go cat go, why don’t you, leave a message at the beep . . .”
I’m about to leave a message when my smartphone begins to vibrate and chime. I pull it from my ear and see that Elvis is already calling me back. I thumb Answer.
“You could have picked up right away, Elvis,” I say in place of a hello. “You just wanted me to hear that silly message.”
“Clever ain’t it?”
“Yeah, clever.”
“You get my check?”
“I haven’t dropped it to the floor yet to see if it’s made of Flubber.”
“That ain’t nice. Least I’m tryin’.”
“I’ll give you that, Elvis. Fifty bucks is a long way off from the grand you owe me, but I have an idea that might help you pay me off without having to work up more cash.”
I can almost taste the sudden optimism oozing through the phone.
“You want me
to headline a party at your loft?”
Now I can feel the smile beaming on his round face.
“Not exactly,” I say. “Your flyer says you’re playing a gig at the Albany Academy later this afternoon. I want you to do a little snooping for me.”
“Snooping?”
“Yeah, spying.”
“Well, all right,” he says. “You know, Elvis spied for Nixon. Did you know that? There’s a cool picture of the two of them standing in Tricky Dick’s oval office, shaking hands and smiling for the camera. Not a lot of people know this, but that’s the day Elvis agreed to spy on the American counter-culture for the government. Tricky had himself one hell of a black list. Anti-war protestors, hippies, black radicals, even John Lennon . . . They were all fair game for Elvis. And the King had the power, plus the means to infiltrate these people, their activities.”
“No doubt,” I say. “How about you? You got the means and the power?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” I say. Then, I proceed to tell him about my driving gig with Dr. Schroder. About his supposed DWIs and how he’s hired me not only as his temporary driver but also as a part-time bodyguard. Then I tell him about Stephen, how the kid has been suspended, yet again, from his school and how it might involve a girl and some kind of indiscretion that occurred during a house party at the Schroder’s this past weekend.
“So, you want me to find the shit on this kid?” Elvis poses.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Thought you were hired just to drive and protect the doctor?”
“I was, but I’m a professional snoop. It’s in my blood. Plus, how do I know what he’s got himself involved in won’t get me killed?”
“You got a point, Moonlight. To be informed is to be safe. This gig don’t work out, I can join the Obama NSA. I’ll get back to you tonight.”
Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8) Page 3