Moonlight Rises (A Dick Moonlight Thriller) (17 page)

CHAPTER 55

GEORGIE AND I DECIDE it’s time for a drink.

A lot of drinks, bullet in the head be damned. New series of concussions be damned. Concussion-induced blackouts be damned. Spontaneous road boners be…well, you get it.

We head back over to Moonlight’s just as the sun is coming up. The bar is locked up and empty, which suits me just fine. Once inside, I uncap two Buds, carry them over to where Georgie is seated. At the same table where I first sat with Peter Czech. Back when he was still alive and I could only assume he had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Lola.

I take a long pull on the beer and sit back.

“So to recap the game’s play-by-play,” I say like a sports broadcaster. “I’ve just spent days on a project that not only killed me once, it nearly killed me several times over. I’m not going to get the rest of my fee because the person who hired me is not only dead, he was lying to me in the first place. The woman I love is also still loved by the man she fathered a son with some thirty years ago, and by the looks of things, it’s quite possible, if not probable, they will rekindle their relationship in light of their mutual grief.” Another sip of beer. “I have now involved you, my best friend and big brother, in an FBI investigation that will almost surely lead to the arrest, conviction, and sure death sentence of Harvey Rose. That is, he lives. And there’s something else that bothers me. Where was Claudia throughout this whole thing? Last I caught sight of her she was assisting the surgeons as a nurse. Not a soul has mentioned a word about her since.”

Georgie drinks some beer, cocks his head.

“She’ll show up. The evil ones always do.”

“Or maybe she’s halfway to Aruba by now, new identity, a few mil stuffed inside her C-cups. That is she can make room.”

“But you gotta admit, Moon,” Georgie adds, “she is a cutie. A nuclear, black widow kind of cutie.”

“Lola is left to pick up the pieces . . . With Special Agent Some Young Guy.”

“Oh cheer up, Moon. At least you’ve got your health.”

He lets out a laugh.

And then the wall behind him explodes.

CHAPTER 56

GEORGIE AND I HIT THE wood floor as most of the wood wall behind us disintegrates into broken boards, shards, and splinters from automatic machine gun fire.

AK-47s.

The unmistakable metallic jingle of 7.62mm casings spilling onto the hardwood floor like lead confetti. The bar fills with the eardrum, battle-ground-bursting cacophony of boot-heels, shouts, and spent lead. From down on the floor, face pressed against filthy floor boards, I make out formal orders being shouted out in Russian.

The shooting stops, giving Georgie and me enough time to draw our own weapons. Clips are switched out, and the shooting resumes. This time, my entire bar back becomes the victim. Smashing and shattering follow the rapid gunfire, along with the spraying and spilling of alcohol. That alcohol, what I make most of my money from these days, is now history.

I roll onto my back, plant a bead on four black leather-jacketed men who wear Obama masks. Jesus, there’s no end to these bastards.

“Dumb, dumb, dee, dumb, dumb,” sings a fifth person. A smaller person. Dressed in black like the others. A woman.

Claudia.

She must have slipped out of Rose’s castle fortress before the FBI arrived on the scene. She had to know of a secret exit that only she and her father knew about.

She comes to me, kneels down beside me and Georgie.

“The zip drive, Mr. Moonlight,” she says calmly. “My father is no longer in need of it, and you see, these men very much are.”

I drop my weapon. Georgie drops his. One of the masked Obamas approaches, kicks the pistols out of reach with his jack boot.

“Who are they, Claudia?” I ask. “Russian mobsters, am I right? Mafia? Former regular army conscripts?”

“Let’s just say they are . . . or
were
. . . my dad’s partners. Now that he’s dead, they require the information that’s on that zip drive. It’s worth an unbelievable amount of money to the right buyer and should it get into the wrong hands . . .” She allows the notion to drift, its message more than obvious.

So that’s it then. Rose never made it. He must have been DOA by the time he got to the Albany Medical Center. Or she’s lying. Not that either scenario matters at this point. Now that he’s gone, Claudia is working the Russians, trying to gain their loyalty when they clearly want to form their own camp now that the big boss is dead. Long live the boss.

“You want to avoid a lengthy prison sentence, am I right Claudia?”

“Life in a concrete cell surrounded by lesbians does not appeal to me,” she smiles. “I’m only twenty-eight years old, and I most definitely prefer cock to pussy.”

When she kneels down, I can’t help but get a look at her substantial cleavage, like now’s the time for love. Georgie must notice me noticing.

“Moon,” he says. “Cut the shit.”

“Yah sure, Georgie,” I say, sitting up. “I’m in control.” Then to Claudia. “Mind if I stand?”

The Obama facing down upon me directly keeps on poking me with his AK. It’s fucking annoying, so I reach up, push the black barrel away. He shifts the weapon, presses the stock into his shoulder, plants a point-blank bead on my head.

“Go ahead and shoot, asshole,” I tell him. “I could buy the farm at any time.”

“Back off,” Claudia orders the Russian. “Mr. Moonlight is about to provide us with what we came for.” Then smiling at me. Sexy. Enticing. “It’s not Christmas yet, but you’re in a giving mood, aren’t you, Mr. Moonlight?”

I stand up, brush myself off.

Georgie stands too.

Claudia holds out her hand, and with a quick Rita Hayworth shake of her head, repositions her long, lush blond hair. For a brief moment, I consider being her slave.

“The flash drive please.”

I shake my head.

“Ain’t got it,” I reveal.

The Obama raises up his AK again, pulls back the bolt.

“I’m not playing, Mr. Moonlight!” Claudia barks. “Time is of the essence now that the FBI is involved. We know you have it, because we know Czech personally handed it to you.”

“He doesn’t remember,” Georgie snarls. “You see he’s got this problem with his head.”

“Of course,” Claudia says, “there’s a bullet in his brain. Mr. Moonlight is a rare human being. A suicide who survived a gunshot to the brainpan. Well, now he can very much have his suicide once he gets us the zip drive. Or perhaps we should just execute you now, then scour the place for it. In the end we’ll burn the bar with you in it. Yes, come to think of it, that’s what we’re going to do.”

Claudia takes a step back.

“Execute them!” she shouts. “Blow their fucking brains out then rip the joint apart and don’t stop until you find the zip drive.”

The Obama in front of me presses the barrel of the AK into my stomach, pushes me back up against what’s left of the wood wall. Georgie stands back along with me.

The other three men all take a step forward, aiming their AKs at Georgie and me. The stomach-poking Russian steps back, and joins them to create a formal firing squad.

“Start digging your grave, Moon,” Georgie says. “’Cause you’re already worm food.”

“Are you sure this is what you want, Mr. Moonlight?” Claudia poses.

“I told you,” I say, “I have no idea about a zip or flash drive.”

She steps back.

“On three gentlemen.”

“Wait!” Georgie shouts. “I want a cigarette. If I’m going to fucking take a bullet, I want a cigarette. OK? I get that much, especially cause . . . cause . . . cause
he
dragged me into this.”

I turn to my big brother, give him a look like,
Are you for real?

“Way to stick by me in our mutual time of need. Blaming me. I didn’t put a gun to your head when I asked you to help me with Czech’s case . . . So to speak.”

“Shut the fuck up, Moon. You really are a fuckup you know that? You really know how to make a train wreck of people’s lives. Holy shit, dude. Just give these people the zip drive. Who cares what’s on it or what they’re going to do with it. Just hand it over. You think holding back isn’t going to get us killed in the end anyway? Is holding back going to change the way of the world? You think that by
not
having the flash drive in their possession they
won’t
be able to sell rogue Soviet-era nuclear warheads to Iran or the Taliban? Or maybe you think that what’s on it will result in Times Square getting nuked, or Israel getting blown into the stone age. Listen Moon, my half a brain friend, who fucking gives a fuck?! I don’t care and nor did I care back when Nixon sent me to die fighting the Soviet-backed commies in Viet Nam. So if I’m gonna die now all because of you and your silly morals or values, I want to smoke my way out.”

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.