Roger stands there in shock, the bottle gripped in his hands.
“Georgie,” he says, “that’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.” Lifting the bottle of Jack, he stares into it. For a split second I think he’s about to toss it to the pavement. But, instead, he takes another sip, and passes it on to me. “Have a shot, Moonlight. You look like you lost your best friend.”
I take hold of the bottle and steal a drink. I’d pass the bottle to Georgie, but he’s already rolling a joint and both his hands are occupied. I can’t say everything is back to normal. Not by a long shot, but I can tell the worst of this disaster is over. Now all that has to be done is to return Sissy to the morgue. Which is what I convey to Georgie in detail.
“Then we’d better get a move on,” he says, deeply inhaling his medicinal weed.
“Mind if I get a hit of that?” Roger says.
“Inside the van,” I insist. “You’re going to need it after the news I’m about to lay on you.”
“News,” Roger says, climbing into the van’s shotgun seat. “What news?”
“You’re going to be a daddy, Roger.”
Georgie turns over the engine and, together, the three of us plus one dead body begin making our way back to Albany.
Epilogue
WE SIT AROUND THE table in the 677 Prime steakhouse like one big happy family. Me, Roger Walls, and his lost-but-now-found son, Gregor Oatczuk. A fourth person chooses to stand while he raises up a glass of champagne to make a toast.
“Here’s to my newest powerhouse authors,” states literary agent William Craig Williams. “Congratulations on your present successes and your good fortune to come.”
“Yeah, yeah, Willy,” Roger laughs, taking a drink of beer from the open bottle of beer set before him. “Like you won’t hesitate to drop one of us if we stop moving units. Sit your ass down before you embarrass us. And order more of those jumbo shrimp.”
Williams sits down and pours more champagne all around. He’s smiling and pretending to be good humored despite Roger’s assessment of literary disloyalty. But the agent has reason to celebrate. He’s not only succeeded at acquiring Roger a new three-book deal with one of the biggest houses in the land, he was also able to secure a tidy mid-six figure sum for an advance. Then he sold Oatczuk’s, a.k.a. Ian Brando’s, most recent opus Dancing with the Dead, for an equal sum. He even sold Moonlight Falls for a nice advance that will keep me in food and beer for a year or more.
I feel almost like a star, being included in the company of real writers. Makes me feel kind of special. But I’m not about to give up my day job. Turns out private detecting is not only a way to make some money, it’s also a way to come up with a plot for the new book I’m now contracted to write as the follow-up to Moonlight Falls.
Who’d ever have guessed: Richard “Dick” Moonlight. Captain Head-Case and author.
“Tell me, Gregor,” I say, after a time, “why did you decide to send your manuscript to Suzanne Bonchance under a pen name?”
He sips some champagne, sets the glass down, runs his hand over his trim black beard. A beard that now makes him look a lot like his father.
“I knew she wouldn’t like it, mostly because she didn’t like any of the other books I’d sent her. She was clouded by poor judgment. I knew I had a good book and I wanted her to see not the name Oatczuk, but something hip and fresh. Turns out she really liked the story.”
“A little too much,” Roger adds. “She stole it. Thus began her downfall and the long and lurid tale that would climax with her death in the kitchen of my former Chatham home. A tale you no doubt will be writing sooner than later, am I right, Moonlight?”
“Do you have a title yet, Richard?” begs William.
“I’m thinking Moonlight Sonata,” I say.
“Has a good ring to it, if I don’t say so myself,” Roger says, drinking down the rest of his beer, then holding up his hand to grab the waiter’s attention.
The talk and back-talk goes on like that for a while, everyone getting drunker, the mood getting lighter, William Craig Williams growing more enthusiastic about selling our movie and foreign rights. We talk about world tours, reviews in People Magazine, and about Moonlight Falls being a great vehicle for Clooney or Pitt. Williams makes real and mental notes and, after a time, I simply tune out and fade away into the back of my own mind. Is this it? Is this what it’s all about? The literary life?
After a while I stand and excuse myself from the table.
“I need to make a phone call,” I say, and head back across the dining room to the restaurant’s front door. Stepping outside into the warm, moonlit night, I pull a cigarette from the pack inside my leather coat, and fire it up. I retrieve my cell phone from my pocket and speed-dial my son in Los Angeles. I wait for the connection while I listen to the rings over the sound of my pulse beating in my temples. When the connection is made, I hear the machine click on.
“You’ve reached the home of Lynn and Harrison Harder, please leave a message at the tone and have yourself a great day.”
I wait for the beep and when it comes I am left only with silence and nothing to say. I draw a complete blank. Me, the new author. The man of words. I can’t even work up a simple hello or I love you for my son. Instead I thumb End and stuff the phone back into my coat pocket.
When did Lynn drop Bear’s last name for her own maiden name? She never consulted me about it. But, then, I suppose she considers herself much more of a father to our son than I am. But she has no idea how much I miss the little guy and what I wouldn’t do to get him back. Maybe now that I have a new writing job to go with my day job, I can afford to bring him to Albany for a while.
I smoke and gaze through the windows into the restaurant.
I see my table and the men who occupy it, minus myself. Roger is holding court. He’s got a napkin draped over his head and he’s holding the champagne bottle by its neck. His son Gregor is laughing hysterically, as is William Craig Williams and quite a few admirers who occupy the surrounding tables.
Roger Walls, local celebrity author. I found him and found out a lot more about myself in the process.
Tossing my cigarette to the macadam, I stamp it out. I begin making my way back to the front entrance. But I don’t get half way before something stops me. I turn and begin walking the opposite way, toward the downtown and the colorful neon that lights up the juke joints and the dancehalls on lower Broadway, not far from the riverside loft where I live, alone.
Folding up the collar on my leather coat, I decide to walk away from it all, accompanied only by the sound of a heart that beats under a cover of brilliant moonlight.
THE END
If you enjoyed this Dick Moonlight PI Thriller, please check out MOONLIGHT WEEPS.
Vincent Zandri is the New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of more than sixteen novels, including The Innocent, The Remains, Moonlight Falls, The Shroud Key, and Everything Burns. A freelance photojournalist and traveler, he is also the author of the blog The Vincent Zandri Vox. He lives in New York and Florence, Italy. For more information and to join Vincent’s “For Your Eyes Only” Mailing List, go to http://www.vincentzandri.com/.
Moonlight Sonata
(A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller No. 7)
2nd Edition: November 2014
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Moonlight Sonata: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller No. 7)
Moonlight Sonata: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller No. 7) Page 17