Moonlight Rises

by Vincent Zandri

  “But that operation took his life,” Lombardi says bitterly. “Now if Rose dies, the entire operation will be in jeopardy and most likely dead, too.”

  “You knew about Czech all along,” I point out to Clyne.

  The sad cop pulls his hands out of his trench coat pockets, crosses arms over chest. The pursed lip look on his face is like, gotta do what you gotta do, even if it means lying…

  “My apologies,” he offers. “I wasn’t at liberty to divulge the APD’s cooperative efforts in this FBI-led case. My only option was to try to get you to reveal what you know as an independent working for Czech. But client confidentiality sealed your lips.” He smiles a little when he says the thing about sealed lips. Makes him look soft and almost loveable.

  “This is a terrifically complicated case, Mr. Moonlight,” Lombardi says.

  “It goes deeper than just grandfather and grandson?”

  “Naturally. We also assumed through the course of your investigation you might end up latching onto some of the other players. Turns out you nearly did.”

  Georgie sits up in his chair. “Everyone’s interested in some sort of zip or flash drive,” he offers.

  Lombardi steals a glance at her partner. “Do you have any idea where it could be?” she asks, eyes wide. “Be the one thing that would keep this case a case.”

  “You, too, huh?” I say. “Everyone wants that drive. But no one can begin to find it. Least of all me.”

  The door opens then, and Barter walks in. He looks drained, and there’s a small bloodstain on his white button-down shirt. He must have been listening in on the conversation through the one-way glass. He and an entire FBI team, no doubt. He nods at Clyne and Clyne nods back. Then he sits himself down hard in the one remaining chair left inside the square-shaped room.

  “OK, Moonlight,” exhales, “I’m sure you have more than a few questions that need answers. Tell you what I’m willing to do. I’m going to give you a chance to ask them right now, right here. You got one shot and one shot only. So, let’s have at it.”

  “How long have you known you had a son?” I ask.

  “Forever,” he answers.

  “How long have you known he was working with Rose to sell nuclear secrets to the Russians for cash?”

  He blinks at me, like he’s weighing how open he should be with me. Gives a tiny nod to himself, like he’s decided. “Only this past year, when he contacted me for the first time.”

  “How long had Lola known that the son she’d given up lived here in Albany?”

  “Like me, since last year.”

  “How long did she know about her father’s illegal activities? Her sister?”

  “She’s always known about him. That he was alive, I mean. She just had no idea that his business was so illegal.”

  I look at Georgie. He looks back at me. I want to believe that Lola had no idea about her father’s business, but my built-in shit detector tells me different.

  “Yeah, illegal to the core,” I agree. “Selling secrets. Faking his death and living inside an abandoned department store warehouse, all on the former Soviet government’s dime.”

  “Blood and water, pal,” he sighs. “Peter is…was…her son, and she was determined to protect him.”

  “I’m not your pal, Barter,” I say. Then, “Is Lola going to be indicted, too?”

  Barter shrugs his shoulders and stands. “Question and answer time is about to come to a swift conclusion, Moonlight.”

  Lombardi’s eyes go wide. But Clyne doesn’t blink an eyelash.

  Barter shoves his hands in his pocket as if to rein himself in, exhales a deep breath. “OK, fair enough,” he says, calming himself down. “No, she’s not suspected of anything. Truth is, she rarely saw her father. They hadn’t spoken in ten years. She also hadn’t spoken to her half-sister in over ten years. Not until Czech came back into their lives.”

  “Your son,” I say.

  He nods. “My son,” he whispers, voice cracking.

  Silence fills the room like the gas inside a death chamber.

  Until Barter breaks the silence once more.

  “That’s it for now, Moonlight. You and Mr. Phillips can leave. We’ll be in touch later on when it’s our turn for the questioning.” He turns, looks over his shoulder at Clyne. “You good, Detective?”

  Clyne purses his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “Got nothing to add.”

  I get up. So does Georgie. We go for the door. I open it. But before I walk out, I have one more question.

  “Barter,” I say, “do you still love Lola?”

  He looks at me, makes hard eye contact, but then looks away with the most defeated expression I’ve ever seen on one man’s face, save Detective Clyne.

  It’s answer enough.

  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.

  “Answer me a question, Georgie,” I say. “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, if 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 floor as most of the 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 become a battleground of exploded rounds, stamped boot-heels, and shouts. From down on the floor, face pressed against filthy floorboards, I make out formal orders being shouted out in Russian.

  Georgie and I draw our weapons as the entire bar back become victims to Russian bullets. Three entire rows of bottles smash and shatter in 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 in the general direction of four black leather-jacketed men who wear Obama masks, and finger the trigger until the clip empties out. Georgie does the same. But with the lead flying over our heads, it’s like shooting blind and we hit nothing.

  The shooting stops.

  “Lose the weapons,” says a fifth person, who’s come up on Georgie and me from behind. A small person. Dressed in black like the others. A woman.

  Claudia.

  She’s got her own hand cannon poised on Georgie and I. Must be she 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.

  Gun in hand, she kneels down beside me and Georgie. She grabs hold of my pistol, tosses it aside. She does the same with Georgie’s gun. She holds out her free hand, palm up.

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

  One of the masked Obamas approaches, kicks both our pistols out of reach with his jackboot.

  “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.

  “No prison for you, 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. “For Christ’s sake, Moon,” he says.

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

  The Obama facing down upon me 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 blonde 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, 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 flash 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.

  “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—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Moon. You really are a fuckup, you know that? A never-ending train wreck, no matter who’s on board with you. Holy shit, dude. Just give these people the flash 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 Vietnam. 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 of 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, hands 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, José. 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 and says, “Hasta la vista, motherfucker,” in a deep, faux-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 ki-yay, motherfucker.’ And it is Bruce Willis, yes?”

  “Hasta luego,” the first man corrects himself. “Arnold Schwarzee-nazi!”

  They all get a kick out of that one.

  “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 hard-assed Vietnam 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 just come, that’s all.”

  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 with her.

  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, and 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 flash drive.

  The 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 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 nursing their leg wounds. And after that, I foresee prison time in a maximum-security 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.