Bad Moon Rising

by Tom Shepherd

  “Butt out, Tanella. This situation demands profanity.”

  “God, I told you!” Eric said. “He’s blowing chunks like a busted fire hydrant.”

  Tanella picked up a hairbrush from the coffee table and sat on the back of the sofa. Her hair was still wet, and she stroked slowly to untangle the mess. “What else did you hear last night?”

  “Lotsa talking about oil prices. Ahmad must be here to sign a deal with the Israelis.”

  “Not likely,” Tanella said. “Israelis quietly buy their oil from Arab neighbors. Persian Gulf Emirates are too far away.”

  “They talked about Israeli oil forever,” Eric said. “Lots of it was Arabic. I don’t get Arabic, but when they keep jabbering about ‘Israeli petrol’ it totally sounds like oil to me.”

  Tanella nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Television,” Eric said. “The Arabs watched television all night until Ahmad came home.”

  “What time was that?” she said.

  “About midnight, I think. I was watching Dick Tracy on the Movie Classics Channel. They were watching it too, so I got a stereo effect, listening to their TV through my bug and watching the same show on our TV. Man, that’s a cool old movie—”

  “Stick to the narrative,” Tanella said.

  “Huh?” he said.

  “Cut the crap,” I translated. “What happened next?”

  “Okay, okay—dang! Anyway, you know where Tracy escapes from Tess Trueheart’s basement just before the boiler explodes? That’s when Ahmad comes stumbling in, crying.”

  “Crying?” Maybe I did break his heart!

  “Yeah. Abdu’l carried his ass to bed pretty quick,” Eric said. “Oops. My bad. Sorry, Tanella.”

  “I wonder who drowned?” she said. “The news said a man in white.”

  Eric smiled. “I know that, too. Heard my dad say it was some dude named O’Henry, or O’Somethin’.”

  “Carsten O'Malley?” I said.

  “That's it!” Eric said. “How’dja know? Dad said they’re keeping it a big secret.”

  “So, how did you find out?” I said.

  “Eric!” Tanella stood up, tossing her hairbrush on the coffee table. “You bugged your own father, too?”

  I threw a chair backwards, slapping it on the floor. “You dog! That means you bugged Dr. Blake.”

  “Hey, it was an experiment, okay?”

  “How would you like to do research on life after death?” I leaped over the coffee table after him, flushing the little sardine from his barrier reef.

  “Stop it!” Tanella stepped between us. “Eric, you'll have to get the microphone out of Ahmad's room. I'll get Dad’s.”

  “Aw, Tanella—”

  “Where’s your receiver?”

  “It’s right here.”

  He fished in a pocket. The base unit looked like a make-up compact, clam-shaped. Eric snapped it open and pressed the power switch. Rows of holes pocked the top half of the shell, which served as the speaker. He wiggled a finger, beckoning us to follow him into the direct sunshine under the skylight.

  “Solar powered, with batteries for the dark. Wanna try it?”

  “No!” Tanella said. “It’s illegal.”

  “You are so boring.” He tilted the device to catch the morning rays. “So, you think this O’Malley dude really drowned? Or was he snuffed by the dopers?”

  Tanella cocked an eyebrow at me. “You told him?”

  “He weaseled it out of me,” I said.

  “Did not,” Eric said. “She forced me to listen to every gory detail.”

  “This is getting very complicated,” Tanella said. “We have no choice. We must tell my dad what we know.”

  “Are you crazy?” I said. “Tell your father an’ my uncle we’ve been spying on Olivia Bennett, the Prince, and them?”

  “Mr. O’Malley was probably murdered by drug runners,” Tanella said. “We can’t keep it a secret.”

  “Please, please, please don’t tell them nothing about my bugs,” Eric said. “I want to live long enough to reach the sixth grade.”

  Tanella stood up. “Let’s go. Right now.” She tramped down the steps before me and Eric could stop her.

  Five

  Tanella went looking for her dad, while Eric and me hung out in the stairwell. Cracking the door to peek, I smelled coffee brewing. Good. I had a clear line-of-sight across the suite, through the sliding door to the windowed balcony where Dr. Blake and Uncle Bob munched toast in a pool of light at the breakfast table. Beyond them the sea tossed, dark green and white.

  A balding man sat between them cleaning his wire-rimmed glasses with a white handkerchief. The two professors wore golf shirts and leaned on bare elbows, but this older man was dressed in an expensive-looking gray suit and red tie. I knew who he was, although I’d never seen Hector Bennett before.

  Tanella marched onto the sunlit balcony. “We have to talk.”

  “Hector, have you met Tanella, my daughter?”

  Mr. Bennett stood, and offered his hand. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Tee, this is Hector Bennett, Executive Director of the Hochberg Institute. Our host.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir, but I need to borrow my father for just a minute.”

  Dr. Blake shook his head. “We’re in the middle of something.”

  “Please, Daddy.”

  Dr. Blake nodded, standing. “Hector, can we continue later?”

  “I’d like to nail down our strategy this morning,” the older man said.

  “I’m sorry,” Tanella said. “But it’s important.”

  Dr. Blake glanced at Bennett. “Can we break for a minute?”

  “Well, Nate,” he slipped the wire glasses over his nose. “No offense, but everything is urgent to kids.”

  “Tanella is an exceptional girl,” Uncle Bob said. “If she says it’s important, I believe her.”

  Her dad nodded. Once again, I was proud to be Tanella’s best friend.

  “Actually, I need to track down Clancey Beaumont and Peter Antonucci this morning,” Mr. Bennett said.

  “They’re finally ready to sell?” Uncle Bob said.

  “Not quite, but I’m coaxing them with money and praise.”

  “Unfair tactics. You’re attacking two-thirds of humanity’s soft spots,” Dr. Blake said with a broad smile.

  “Let’s get together for lunch, squeeze in another hour’s work before the conference starts,” Mr. Bennett said. “Eleven thirty in the Aspinwall Room?”

  “Fine,” Dr. Blake said. He and Uncle Bob walked Hector Bennett to the door. “I need a few hours to look over my notes this morning. All this, plus a major lecture on the Civil War. You’re some host, Hector.”

  “I like to keep great minds occupied.”

  Uncle Bob left with Mr. Bennett, leaving Dr. Blake and his daughter alone. Except for me and Eric hiding in the stairway to our loft apartment, peeping through the doorway.

  He sat down and folded the newspaper on his lap, pretending to read. “All right, Tee. What’s so ding-damned important?”

  “Daddy, do you have to swear?”

  “I’ll use a lot stronger language if this is something trivial. You have no idea how important this meeting was.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Just say what you need to say,” he raised the newspaper, shielding himself from her.

  She drew a breath. “Carsten O’Malley was murdered.”

  Down came the newspaper, crumpled in his lap. “Police say he was intoxicated,” her dad said. “Staggered to the wharf, fell in and drowned.”

  “He hated the pier. O’Malley would never have gone out there, drunk or sober. He was terrified of deep water because of something in his past.”

  “How do you know that?” Dr. Blake said.

  “I heard him tell someone.”

  “When did you meet O’Malley?”

  “I didn’t,” Tanella said.

  “Eavesdropping on a private conversation, Tane
lla?”

  “Yes, but it was unintentional.”

  Dr. Blake took his seat again. “You have no evidence.”

  “I know Mr. O’Malley was murdered. Probably by—”

  “No, you don’t.” He sipped coffee. “You believe it. You don’t know it. Passionate belief is the mortal enemy of good science, Tee. A scholar must push aside belief and look at the facts. What research shows, according to the Glynn County criminal investigation department, is that Carsten O’Malley got drunk at J.P.’s Lounge last night. He subsequently wandered around the grounds until he staggered off the pier.”

  “When did O’Malley drown?”

  “Inspector Borkowski said a little after midnight.”

  “The tide was out. Water at the end of that pier was less than five feet deep. He could have walked to shore.”

  Dr. Blake shook his head. “Men who drink too much have drowned in puddles.”

  “But—”

  “If you’re not convinced, do some original research.”

  “May I do that?”

  Dr. Blake smiled. “Absolutely! Read the police report. Visit the scene of the crime. Field work will get your nose out of those books for a while. But I want you to know something.”

  In the stairwell, Eric winked at me. “Dr. Blake just handed Tanella a gold card for snooping.”

  “Shhh!”

  Nathaniel Blake reached into his briefcase. “Murder is serious business, Tee. Don’t go making accusations of homicide without concrete evidence.”

  “I understand.”

  “Let me show you something.” From the leather valise he drew out a black pistol with a brown handgrip. Little gun, snub nosed, like a toy. Only it wasn’t a toy. I’d seen it a few times before, always as Dr. Blake was pulling it out of the briefcase.

  “Know why I carry it?” He snapped the chamber open and twirled the bullets like a wheel. “For protection.”

  “We don’t live in a war zone.”

  “Black people always live in a war zone. Sometimes the terrorists drive Lincoln Navigators. Or police cars.” He studied his daughter in silence for a long moment. “I’ve never told you this. When I was twenty-three my sister Yolanda was gunned down in a quiet, white Atlanta neighborhood. Drug dealers making their rounds. She recognized one of them.”

  I knew about Tanella’s Aunt Kenisha, who’s a reporter for CNN Atlanta, but she never mentioned anyone else.

  “I have an Aunt Yolanda?” she said.

  “You would have, if she’d lived. Grandpop never mentions her name. Grandmom hasn’t driven into Atlanta since it happened. That’s when I started carrying a pistol in my briefcase. I won’t travel without a gun.”

  “And when you fly—?”

  “Soon as I arrive, buy a Saturday Night Special. Pawn it when I leave.” He put the pistol away.

  “That’s paranoid.”

  “That’s the real world.” He studied her face. I imagined he was deciding whether to continue. “Yolanda died in my arms, Tee.”

  “Daddy, I believe Mr. O’Malley was murdered. It is my Christian duty to investigate.”

  “Just wanted you to know this isn’t a game.”

  “I understand.”

  “Something else,” Dr. Blake studied his daughter for a moment, then continued. “I can’t help you, because I’m involved with terribly important meetings this week.”

  “You’re negotiating with the Arabs and Israelis,” Tanella said. “It’s about oil.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you do, realize the situation is highly explosive. If these talks break down, another war could break out.”

  “Is Utaybah so important?”

  “Ahmad speaks for a coalition of Arab countries. It is a heavy burden for a young man,” Dr. Blake said, opening his laptop computer. “Now, excuse me. I’ve got a lecture to prepare.”

  I waved for Eric to follow me up the steps. Tanella caught up with us in the TV room. She was breathless with excitement.

  “Did you hear?”

  “We’re in the detective business!” Eric crooned.

  All I wanted was a little smooching under the moonlight. Now, Tanella might get me shot by dopers or blown up by terrorists. This late summer getaway was not turning out as planned.

  “This is a bad idea,” I said.

  She ignored me. “Eric, I want you to monitor that bug in Ahmad’s suite.”

  “No problem.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute,” I said. “Why Ahmad?”

  “He came back around midnight, drunk. O’Malley drowned around midnight, also drunk. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

  I felt my eyelids twitch. “Not particularly.”

  “Dr. Blake said Ahmad is representing the Arab world,” Eric said. “How’s that possible? He’s just a kid.”

  Tanella picked up the hairbrush from the coffee table and stroked the bristles with her thumb. “Suppose key Arab leaders don’t want to talk publicly with Israel about this problem, whatever it is. But suppose it’s so important they must negotiate. My dad said it could lead to war—”

  “Oil. It's about oil,” Eric insisted.

  “No,” I said. “Tanella asked if it was about oil. He didn’t say either way.”

  She smiled slightly. “Now you’re thinking like a scientist.”

  “Same question,” Eric said. “Why Ahmad?”

  Tanella held up a hand. “Suppose an Arab leader sends his youngest son to haggle with the Israelis in secret.”

  “Don’t they have grown-ups to do that junk?” I said. “Why send a sixteen year old kid?”

  “It’s perfect,” Tanella said. “Ahmad probably has strict orders telling him what to do. If the mission succeeds, his father will brag about his brilliant son. If Ahmad fails, Hasan Al Kuwari can say, ‘I sent my pup to toy with them.’”

  “Tanella,” Eric said, “what if the evidence points to Sally Ann’s boyfriend?”

  “He ain’t my boyfriend. He’s a jerk. I hate him.”

  Eric shrugged. “What if the jerk killed O’Malley?”

  “Don’t call him a jerk!” I shrieked. “He didn't do it—he couldn’t!”

  Tanella perched on the edge of the table, her fingers curled, drumming, like a piano keyboard. “If evidence shows Ahmad killed O’Malley, the Arabs will say it was all an Israeli plot.”

  “What happens then?” I was terrified of the answer.

  “Best case scenario? Negotiations break down.”

  “That’s not so bad,” I said.

  “And the worst case?” Eric said.

  Tanella shuddered, as though a cold wind chilled the room. She took a deep breath. “The Arabs attack Israel, which defends itself with nuclear weapons. Other Muslim states join the battle. Pakistan launches its own nukes, and the war becomes a regional conflagration which kills millions. And if Russia takes sides—who knows where it might end?”

  Eric swallowed. “So, if Ahmad killed O’Malley we’re lookin’ at the Battle of Armageddon?”

  “Oh, God,” I said. “I’m scared, Tanella.”

  “Don’t worry,” Eric said, “if the world gets blown up, you won’t feel nothing. You’re gone—zap!—like that. Cremated to a cinder, smoked to ashes, melted to a—”

  “Will you quit it!” I turned to Tanella. “Why can’t we tell somebody—the FBI, the CIA, NCIS?”

  “Who’ll believe us?” Tanella said. “My father doesn’t believe us.”

  “We gotta prove it was druggies,” Eric said softly. “Not Ahmad.”

  Tanella bit her lip. “Or—sorry, Sally Ann—or we must confirm he did it. Prove it so completely that even his father, the Emir, will accept the verdict.”

  “I’m too young for this much responsibility,” I said.

  She shot a glance at me. “You need to find out what happened last night.”

  “Me! Why not you?”

  “I walked out on dinner. You were the last one with him.” She looked at me sternly. “You may have to flirt with him, lead him on until he con
fides in you.”

  “I can’t spy on Ahmad.”

  “Yeah, James Bond’s girlfriend always gets killed.”

  “Shut up.”

  Tanella ignored our family feud. “Eric, how many microphone spiders do you have?”

  “Three,” he said. “But I hafta fix the third one. Needs a power booster.”

  “Can you do it now?”

  “Don’t have bug number three. Dropped it in the lounge last night to try to pick up some table conversation. The singers were too loud.”

  “Find it. Let’s get bugging.”

  “Yessssss!” Eric said.

  “All I wanted was sunlight for bathing and moonlight for kissing,” I moaned. “Now, I’ll probably get shot.” In the distance I heard a faint crack! Then two more.

  “What was that?” Tanella said.

  “Backfire?” I said.

  It happened again, but now the cracking came in spurts, like popcorn starting to pop.

  “Gunfire.” Tanella hurried to the window. “Something is happening down on the hotel lawn. People are scattering—lots of smoke.”

  “All right!” Eric howled. Grabbing his phone, he leaped for the steps.

  “Stay here, you idiot!” I shouted.

  But he was gone.

  Six

  Tanella and me bounced down the stairs after Eric, even though I expected some responsible adult to stop the fool before he got to the hallway. Unfortunately, Uncle Bob and Dr. Blake were gone, so Eric picked up speed and beat us to the elevator. We waited in the hall listening to crack! crack! echo through the building while that stupid elevator dragged itself back to the fourth floor.

  Riding down was an even greater joy. I had visions of the doors opening up just as some crazy terrorist detonates a bomb, blowing us straight up the shaft. It was a moment suspended in time, and I kept asking myself, “Why am I doing this? I hate Eric.”

  I tried punching buttons to stop the elevator, but we’d descended past the second level. Only place this puppy was opening was the main floor.

  I’m a Catholic, right? So, I started praying to the Virgin. Okay, call me a hypocrite. Deal with it. I was sooooo scared. Thought I’d go straight from puberty to menopause before the elevator doors opened.

  I prayed, hard. I prayed to live long enough to kiss again. Mary would understand. She’s a woman.