“I’ll bring coffee and sandwiches.”
“I’ll bring the binocs,” I say, limping up the steps. Painfully.
“And why are we doing this?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about Mr. Czech.”
“When was the last time you felt good about anybody who hires Captain Head-Case?”
Chapter 9
Lola is patiently waiting for me upstairs. I’m not usually the sneaky type, but even with the wound in my side and half my body numb, I try to step as lightly as possible, which isn’t easy with my limp.
Maybe I’m being paranoid about nothing.
But then, maybe my built-in shit detector is trying to tell me something. As I slowly open the door onto the living room, I can see through the crack that Lola is texting something into her cell. Frantically texting, opposing thumbs bouncing off the keypad. When I open the door all the way and limp out, she quickly stuffs the phone back into her bag, plants a smile on her face.
“How is it?” she asks, referring to my newly sutured side.
Her hands are trembling. I look at them. She looks at me looking at them. We don’t speak about our noticing the same things. But it’s like we’re shouting at one another.
“No more bleeding. But it’s gonna be painful later on.”
She stands up, the strap on her bag hanging off her shoulder. I hear a distinct chime coming from inside it.
“Sounds like you just got a text.”
She nods, eyes wide. Her hands go from trembling to outright shaking.
“Go ahead and read it, Lo.”
If she were in possession of an Adam’s apple, it would be jumping up and down in her neck along with her shaking hands. “We need to get you home,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Yeah,” I say, my right hand pressed against my side. “I should get home.”
Turning, I head for the front door, knowing in my bones that Lola is hiding something from me, and that it quite possibly has everything to do with the man I saw embracing her over my corpse.
Chapter 10
Pulling up in front of my new Hudson riverside loft, which is situated inside the now deserted Port of Albany, Lola kills the Hummer engine like she’s about to come inside with me. She almost always comes inside with me.
“I can handle it from here,” I say. But I’m lying. It isn’t the truth. If I were being honest, I would tell her that I’m exhausted, in pain, and not sure I’m thinking all too clearly. But I know that Lola’s hiding something, and it makes me want to run away, not have her in for a sleepover.
I open the door. She reaches out for me, takes hold of my arm.
“Richard,” she says, tightening her grip on my forearm. But instead of saying anything else, she just clams up, her grip tight on my arm. “Richard, I…”
“What is it?”
But her lips are sewn shut. Until she says, “I want you to consider not going ahead with this Peter Czech thing.”
What the hell is happening here? First three masked men beat me senseless over my new client, and now Lola is getting in on the action.
“Lola, what are you trying to tell me?”
She bites down hard on her lip. “I don’t have a good feeling about it. Look at what’s already happened.”
I feel the pressure of the stitches on my side as the Lidocaine begins to wear off. “I’ve never backed down from a gig before, Lo. And I’m not about to start. Besides, Czech has his claws buried in me now. And I also want to find out who those masked bastards are, why they killed me once already, why they want me to drop my client, and last but most certainly not least, what the contents are of this box I’m supposed to possess.”
She releases her grip on my arm. “No talking you out of it, huh.”
“It got entirely personal when they tried to kill me.”
She nods, starts the Hummer back up. I open the door, slip on out, stand facing her.
She adds, “You might not like what you find out about Czech, Moon.”
“OK, what is it you’re not telling me, Lo?” How many versions of the same question can I possibly lob at her?
She throws the Hummer in drive. “Just close the door,” she insists, a single tear rolling down her cheek. A single tear filled with anger, sadness, fear, and frustration.
“Lola, come on…What’s happening? Do you know Czech?”
“Close. The. Door.”
“Will I hear from you later?”
“I don’t think so. Close it. Now. Please.”
I close it.
The slam reverberates over the old docks and the slow-moving river. It’s as lonely as a ship’s bell softly clanging somewhere off in a thick foggy distance.
The Hummer engine revs.
Lola splits.
Chapter 11
I crawl into the loft, waddle over to my futon, collapse onto it, fall immediately to sleep.
In the dream you’re once more floating over your body. Only this time you’re not inside the hospital room. You’re inside Lola’s bedroom. She’s lying naked on the bed, face up. Both her arms are tied to opposing bedposts, as are her legs.
There are three people surrounding her bed.
One on each side and one at the foot. They’re dressed in black, wearing Obama masks. All three of them have those electronic voice synthesizers pressed up under their jaws. They’re not saying anything. They’re just humming in unison, the noise growing louder and louder, agitating Lola with each rise in decibel until she’s thrusting out her hips, and pulling on the ropes. From your perch above her you want to dive down and help her. Only you can’t do it. You’re stuck up there at the ceiling.
And then a third person enters the room. It’s a man. It’s Some Young Guy. Rather, it’s faceless Some Young Guy. Or, what serves as his face has been blocked out or distorted like they do on those true crime shows when they arrest some drunk driver who insists that his face not be shown on TV. The Obama at the end of the bed makes room for him. Faceless Some Young Guy undresses, gets on top of Lola, enters her. They do it just like that on the bed to the electronic soundtrack of those artificial voice boxes. Until finally Lola screams in climax and you…
…wake up.
Darkness fills the first-floor loft space.
How long was I asleep? An hour? Three? It had to be at least three. I look at my wristwatch. Fifteen past five. I’ve slept for over three hours. I slide off the bed, more than a bit groggy. There’s some blood smeared on the bed sheet from where I rolled over onto my right side. I touch my shirt and find that it’s wet. I turn on the lamp, pull off the shirt, and the old dressing, check the wound in the mirror above the dresser. The stitches seem intact, but the blood is still leaking through. I put on fresh dressing and a clean shirt. I’ve slept long enough. Time to get to work once and for all on the Peter Czech case. Find out if he is who he says he is, and if he is, in fact, looking for a man whom he swears is his biological father.
I’d start on the project immediately, too, if not for the figure of a man standing in the shadows.
Chapter 12
“Sorry if I startled you,” says trench-coated Detective Clyne. “The door. It was open.”
My heart dislodges itself from my throat, slowly drops back down into my bruised ribcage. He’s right. I rarely lock it. It’s a big industrial wood slider that’s secured with a padlock. Sometimes I’m lazy about it.
“You’re the cops,” I exhale.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Being a cop means never having to say you’re sorry.”
He smiles that sad smile of his, and steps into the inverted cone of white overhead light. The kind of white light that shines down from one of those ceiling-mounted warehouse lamps.
“Whaddaya got to drink around this place?” he asks, scoping the wide-open loft with deep-set brown eyes. Tired eyes.
“I’ve got a bottle or two. You here on official business, Clyne?
Or did you miss me?”
“Let’s get that drink,” he says, and together we settle in on the bar stools set in front of the island counter that serves as my kitchen.
“To answer your question,” Clyne says over a clear drinking glass with a double shot of Jack in it, “I went to the hospital, and they said you discharged yourself. I didn’t believe them. Considering the shape you were in.”
“It’s the truth,” I insist, though I suppose he doesn’t necessarily need convincing, seeing as how I’m sitting here right in front of him.
He takes a sip of the whiskey, lets it settle on his tongue, then swallows thoughtfully. “Pretty risky for a guy who technically bought the farm just the other day.”
“It was either bolt or die…on a permanent basis.”
“They came back for you, didn’t they? Sometime around nine in the morning. Or so I’m told.”
In my mind I picture the little blonde nurse who tried to stop me from leaving. She must have told him everything.
“I don’t recall the time.” I take a sip off my own glass of Jack. A glass that holds only a single shot. I wouldn’t want to alarm the dick by overdoing my booze privileges so soon after my resurrection.
“You should have called me right away.”
“Yup.”
“You gonna start that ‘yup’ thing?”
“Nope.”
He makes a corner-of-the-mouth smirk. “Look, Moonlight, it’s been a long day so far, and I’d really like to get home and put up my dogs and get drunk in peace, so if you could spare the ball busting.”
I take another drink, nod. I’m too beat up to keep giving him a hard time. “Three of them this time. Same three, I’m guessing, wearing those silly Obama masks, and using the voice synthesizers.”
He pulls that same small spiral notebook from the interior of his trench coat, jots down a note. “How’d they get in, you think?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Yup.” He smiles. Drinks the rest of his whiskey. I pour him another.
“OK, Clyne. My guess is it’s possible they know someone in the hospital. That’s my theory anyway, as a former cop.”
“And brilliant private dick,” he adds.
“Who’s busting balls now?” I laugh and hold up my whiskey glass for him to clink. Which he does. Good to have a new friend amongst my APD enemies.
“What did they want this time?”
“Other than to torture me by pulling out one of my staples, they switched the focus of their warnings from staying away from Peter Czech to something else. They want a box of some kind.”
“What box?”
“That’s the eternal question. Apparently Czech came to visit me, which I most definitely don’t remember, and he was supposed to have given me some kind of box with something in it. Now these Obamas are convinced I have the box and they want it, too.”
He drinks some more Jack, gazes at me quizzically. How would Agatha Christie put it? Gazes at me…rather quizzically.
“So, what’s in the box?”
“Clyne, I just told you I have no memory of the box. So how could I possibly know what’s in it?”
“Good retort. Allow me to rephrase. What, in your expert opinion, Mr. Moonlight, could be contained in this box the masked fellows who caved your face in want?”
I cock my head and feel an itchy pain in my side where Georgie sewed me up. The Lidocaine is really wearing off now. “Not a fucking clue.”
“But it’s got to be worth a pretty penny. Or these people wouldn’t be willing to kill and torture to get at it.”
“Agreed.”
“And they’re convinced Czech left it for you, and you just don’t recall because of your…” He makes like a pistol and points to his head.
“My accident,” I say. But we both know that the words he’s avoiding are “attempted suicide.”
We both sit in pregnant silence for a minute, until he downs the rest of his booze and I do the same.
He gets up.
I go to get up. too.
“Don’t bother,” he says, aiming his eyes at my side and the small blotch of blood that now stains my shirt. “That must smart.”
“Smart never seems to enter into my vocabulary, Clyne. No matter the connotation.”
“Something like this happens again, you’ll call me, right?”
“Yup.”
“And should you happen to locate this, uh, box, you’ll pick up the phone?”
“Most definitely.”
“Because you never know what can be in this box, what importance or danger lurks inside it. So, my advice to you is to stay away from it, should it show up. Simply call me, day or dark of night. I’ll take it from there.”
“Most definitely, Detective Clyne.” I hold my right hand up, two fingers raised high in Boy Scout salute. Christ, it hurts even to hold my fingers up.
He stands there, big and sad and lonely and draped in a tan trench coat. The look in his eyes…It’s like he’s staring at a corpse waiting to happen. And he is.
Turning for the door, he lets himself out without thanking me for the drinks or saying goodbye. A true Albany cop if I ever saw one.
Chapter 13
Yet another new shirt on, along with a tighter bandage, I’ve got the Dell laptop open on the kitchen island. I’ve switched to beer, an economy-sized Bud tallboy positioned next to the computer for easy access. Thank God for wireless internet. Allows me to multi-task.
Planted on the barstool, I go onto Google, type the name “Peter Czech” into the search engine, press Enter. Not a damn thing comes up. Nothing about him belonging to a professional society of nuclear engineers, nothing regarding high school or college alumni. No Facebook page or Twitter account. As far as the internet and social media are concerned, Czech is anonymous. And considering he works for a facility that deals on a daily basis with classified nuclear information, maybe that’s to be expected.
I sit back, take a sip of beer.
Even though the bleeding has stopped, the pain in my side is getting worse. I tap the bandaged wound gently with my fingers. It sends a small shockwave of sting up and down my side.
Lidocaine officially worn off.
I get up, find the Advil on the metal shelf mounted above the sink, pour four into my hand. Sitting back down at the counter, I swallow all four not with tap water but with a swig of beer. Pays to live dangerously.
Next search: Harvey Rose.
I get the website for The New York State Society for CPAs. Now, there’s some excitement. I type “Harvey Rose” into the site-specific search engine and receive only a single business address that’s located downtown on State Street. Not far from the alley where those three thugs beat the snot out of me. I write the address down on a piece of scrap paper, stuff it into my pocket. Later on, after Georgie gets here, I’ll attempt to pay a visit to Mr. Rose’s office, see if he does, in fact, look like the man in Czech’s black and white photo, only thirty-plus years older.
Next item: I search for the online version of the Albany County Hall of Records. When it comes up, I make a site search for “Harvey Rose.” Sure enough, just like Czech said, one Harvey Rose pops up. No information, other than his being listed as “deceased.” Under occupation it says, “Businessman.” No next-of-kin, no cemetery address, no contact information for surviving family, not even a birth or death date.
I click off the site.
Final item of business. Maybe there’s nothing noteworthy about Czech on the web, but I can bet my remaining days he’s located in the WhitePages.com. And that’s the way it turns out. He lives in a North Albany suburb called Loudonville. Four Orchard Grove, just like he revealed during our first meeting together at my bar. It’s exactly where I will be heading that evening, soon as Georgie gets here.
Chapter 14
By eight o’clock the pain in my side is beginning to subside. On that stupid one-to-ten pain scale the docs make yo
u refer to, the sting is now reduced to a more comfortable six or seven. The beers are helping. Which is why I decide to grab another cold one from the fridge. I pop the cap, take a swig. My cell vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket.
Text. From Lola.
She asks me how I’m feeling. I thumb a message back to her telling her I’m fine. Never better. It’s a lie of course. I’m dizzy, in pain, still bleeding, and drinking like a fish. I ask her if she wants me to come over.
“Now’s not a good time,” she texts.
She’s never said that to me before.
I picture her lying naked in bed with Some Young Guy, tickling one another’s feet under the covers with their big toes. I picture him doing all those things to her that I used to do, and it makes my stomach cramp up and throb with more pain than the gash in my side. On a scale of one to ten, the pain is an eleven.
I don’t text her back after that.
I just drink.
Drink and ache.
Chapter 15
I sit for a while thinking things out.
I start from the start, from the moment Czech first met me at my bar in his wheelchair a few days ago. Moonlight FYI: Whenever anyone hires me for something, I can’t help but wonder why? Why hire a guy with half a bullet in his brain and a penchant for forgetting things, when you can hire a perfectly normal person?
Maybe I just come cheap. Maybe that’s what it comes down to: price. These are tough times after all. Four bucks a gallon for gas, three bucks for a loaf of bread, most of a twenty-dollar bill for a six pack of brew and a single pack of Marlboros. Tough times even for nuclear engineers.
I take a sip of beer, sit back, and think about all that I have to go on. First things first: I have a handicapped guy who wants me to find his long-lost biological father. I’ve got a three-decade-old photograph of said father standing beside a pair of adoptive parents named Czech who originally migrated from the then USSR, only to settle in Albany to start a new life for themselves. That new life afforded Papa Czech employment as an engineer at the Knolls nuclear power plant. It would eventually include his son’s employment as well. And, for an added connection, the son’s biological father belongs to a team of accountants who oversaw the plant on behalf of the federal government.
Moonlight Rises Page 6
