Blue Moonlight

by Zandri, Vincent

  Air marshal shifts, leans forward to get a look at me.

  I close my eyes, pretend to still be passed out.

  A voice over the intercom. Captain’s voice.

  “Please be advised, ladies and gentlemen, that we will be making an emergency landing at JFK International Airport in approximately seven minutes. You’ll have noticed that we have already begun our descent. Further instructions will be relayed to you by our flight attendants. We ask that you remain calm and cooperative for the remainder of the flight and follow strict emergency disembarking procedures, which include leaving all carry-on bags behind. When requested upon landing, utilize your closest emergency exit in a calm and orderly fashion. Thank you in advance for your cooperation, and thanks for choosing US Airways.”

  Seven minutes.

  Out the corner of my eye I catch the flight attendant approaching the air marshal. I bet she thinks he’s cute. I try to get a decent enough look at them by leaning forward so that I can see around Zumbo’s giant, bulbous head. Here’s what I see: the flight attendant reaches down for Zumbo’s piece, which is still stuffed into the air marshal’s crotch. I see her grip the piece and pull it toward her. She pulls back the bolt, checks to make sure a round is chambered, or perhaps no longer chambered, which is more likely the case. She closes the bolt, thumbs the clip release, and allows the clip to drop into her hand. Shoving the clip into her shirt pocket, she doesn’t hand the piece back to the air marshal. Instead, she gently opens Zumbo’s shirt and slides it back into his holster.

  “Told you we shouldn’t have let Zumbo pack his standard issue,” she whispers. “He might have fucked this whole thing up.”

  The air marshal shrugs. “Far as Zumbo the Dumbo knows, Moonlight’s a terrorist, an IRS bomber,” he murmurs. “Then he gets his head hit and he turns into psycho boy. He played pro ball, remember? His brains are already scrambled, probably worse than Moonlight’s. He comes to, Moonlight’s on the loose. He goes all Action Jackson on a bad acid trip.”

  “Trying to get one hundred crew and passengers killed. Nice.”

  Cocking his head, working up a smirk. “All these people will have something to tell their grandchildren,” the air marshal says. Mr. Bright Side.

  “That turbulence was enough to tell their grandchildren.”

  “Yes, but it worked in your favor. I was able to put Moonlight down.”

  Zumbo grunts, bobs his head forward. My cue to lay my head back, resume passed-out position. But just as quickly as he stirs, the ex-fullback begins to snore again.

  Through my lashes, I watch both the flight attendant and air marshal focus their gaze on us sleeping beauties. Or should I say uglies.

  “I know Zumbo can sleep through anything even without being dosed. But how long will Moonlight be passed out like that?”

  “Don’t know,” the air marshal says. “You got the body bag ready?”

  She nods. “You might have killed him for real with that Taser. I know it’s your job as AM, Kevin, but I’m supposed to take extreme care of his head. He can die from a stroke at any time even without the help of a Taser. And the FBI most certainly needs him alive.”

  “No further arguments from me, Agent,” the air marshal comments.

  “Soon as we land,” she says, “you guys will be the first ones down those chutes. The car will be waiting for you, along with two NYPD blue-and-whites. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Gotcha, Chief.”

  The air marshal leans in toward the flight attendant/FBI agent, wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into him.

  She pushes him off with a giggle. “Not here. Not on the job. Not at all. We’re history, Kevin. We had a good run, but—”

  “Don’t embarrass the bureau, is that it?” Air Marshal Kevin grouses. “You’re turbulence enough for one man. You’re why I left the bureau.”

  She slaps his hand as she steps back into the galley, and the descending passenger jet enters into the thick cloud cover.

  Soon as we’re through the thick gray cloud cover and the plane has once again stopped bucking like a bronco on speed, the Manhattan skyline comes into view, its towers looming over the horizon like giant steel-and-glass needles pinpricking the sky. The pilot makes a couple figure-eight revolutions in preparation for the emergency landing. I still feign sleep while the little flight attendant straps herself into the wall-mounted foldout seat just outside the galley.

  My wrist jerks as Zumbo is jarred awake.

  “Are we there yet?” he barks, swiping the drool from his mouth with the back of his good hand. The lump above his eye is more black and blue than before.

  “Landing,” answers the air marshal.

  “Better than crashing,” I say, pretending to have only now woken up.

  Zumbo jerks his wrist, sending electric pain shooting up my right arm. “Shut up, sweetie,” he spits. “Don’t say another word.”

  I’m not sure if it’s head-injured Zumbo speaking or the real-deal Zumbo. His words aren’t slurred anymore, so I’m guessing the latter.

  The pilot comes back on the PA then, tells us all to assume crash position while he lands the big bird on an out-of-the-way runway where emergency crews will be awaiting us.

  Air Marshal Kevin leans forward, head between his legs.

  “Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Zumbo mocks. Then, “What about you, Moonlight, sweetie? You gonna tongue your nut sack good-bye too?”

  I stare out the window onto water, which quickly turns into the brown terra firma of Queens. “I’ll take whatever comes sitting up,” I say, my heart jumping up into my throat.

  Moonlight the terrified.

  Terra firma fast becomes a runway. We feel the thump of the landing. Brakes quickly applied, we all lurch forward as the pilot parks the US Airways Airbus onto a wide expanse of tarmac.

  We’re not stopped for more than three seconds when we’re greeted by a team of EMS vans, fire trucks, and cop cars. Flashers flashing. Sirens screaming.

  “Unbuckle, Moonlight,” Zumbo insists.

  I do it.

  “We’re going for a ride.” He pulls me up and out of my seat by the cuffs. I feel like my hand is about to be severed at the wrist. Maybe that’s what he’s going for.

  Cute flight attendant/FBI agent unstraps herself, shoots up from her seat. Heading back into the galley, she comes back out with a rolled-up bag. I’m the son of a mortician. I know a body bag when I see one.

  “You’re not serious?” I say.

  “Do it, Moonlight,” Zumbo orders while the flight attendant, or whatever she is, rolls it out onto the floor. “Get in.”

  I just stare down at it.

  “Now!”

  Situation beyond my control. I’m powerless. Might as well be dead. I lay myself down, slip my left foot inside, followed by my torso, and then the rest of my body. The zipper is quickly zipped and my world turns black.

  “Make even a peep, Moonlight,” Zumbo warns, “and you’ll never leave the body bag alive.”

  There’s some real irony for you.

  I don’t speak as I hear what has to be the emergency exit opening and the loud pop of the emergency chute inflating. What happens next happens fast. I’m lifted off the floor and tossed onto the chute for a fast ride, straight down. My heels hit the tarmac hard, my knees buckling, my breath escaping my lungs.

  From up above I can hear Zumbo laughing. I hear him scream, “Geronimo!”

  I hear the commotion that a whale of a man makes when he slides down an emergency chute.

  “Whaddaya think, Moonlight?” he shouts upon crash-landing. “Wanna go again?”

  Too bad he didn’t land on his head. Maybe this time the already head-banged big beast would have lost consciousness for a while. Maybe for the rest of his life.

  I try not to speak. Not because it would constitute a peep. But my breath is still knocked out of me.

  Then the sound of a car or van pulling up. I’m lifted off the tarmac and shoved into the back of the v
ehicle, the door closing behind me. From there, we speed off, rooftop sirens blaring.

  Once again, I’m dead.

  Lord help me, I’m dead.

  PART II

  I’ve been here before.

  In a dozen other buildings in a dozen different towns. But always the same setting. As if to add some color and comfort to an FBI interview room would somehow go against company policy or what Hollywood would want us to believe in one of its B-level crime thriller movies.

  Instead, what we’ve got is four walls, no windows other than a four-by-eight one-way mirror located in the wall opposite my right shoulder. I’m seated in the usual metal chair at the usual metal table, my wrists cuffed and chained to the usual round metal disk that protrudes from the underside of said metal table. That way they can be sure I won’t kill them all should I suddenly enter into a rage. OK, maybe I tried to shoot myself once, but I’m not about to pull a stunt like Zumbo did on the plane just because my head’s a little off.

  Seated beside me is Agent Zumbo. He’s sipping on a coffee and enjoying a jelly doughnut that he’s lifted from off a plate of a dozen others just like it.

  Dunkin’ Donuts.

  There’s a long piece of white surgical tape stuck to his forehead. The surgical tape is holding a piece of thick gauze in place over the egg-shaped lump and apparent concussion he suffered during our severely turbulent flight.

  The cut above my forehead hasn’t been touched. But it has stopped bleeding. I’m guessing they figure it’s only a scratch.

  Seated across from us is the agent who apparently posed as Cute Little Flight Attendant, whose name I have discovered is Vanessa Crockett. She’s got a nice figure and no doubt she intends to keep it, which is probably why she is abstaining from the doughnuts, although I’m getting a kick out of watching her eyes shift from the pile of white jelly-filled doughy goodness every two or three seconds.

  Conspicuously missing from the party, the mustached Air Marshal Kevin, who I can only assume is back to flying and protecting the friendly skies.

  “In five seconds, everyone,” comes a tinny hidden speaker voice from behind me. “Can you please say something, Mr. Moonlight, so we can check the levels?”

  “There once was a fellow McSweeny,” I recite, “who spilled some gin on his weenie…”

  “That works for me.”

  Zumbo must get a kick out of that ’cause he bursts out laughing, his round mouth covered in white powder. “For a little man, you crack me up, sweetie. You really do.”

  “Can we just get this started?” Agent Crockett barks. “I’m exhausted from that dreadful flight, and I wanna take a bath.”

  Well, fuck me. She had to put that image in my head, right? Her naked body, resting in a pool of hot, steamy water and bubble bath. Heart be still.

  “Good to go, Agents.”

  Zumbo grabs another doughnut, takes a sip of coffee.

  Crockett pushes her chair out, stands up.

  Zump…Zumbo’s nickname bestowed upon him by his fellow New York Giants. Whenever he’d run over a middle linebacker the television broadcaster would shout, “You’ve just been Zumped!” The fans picked up on it too and so did the stadium JumboTron. Picture a giant cartoon caricature of Zump running over a skinny little cartoon defensive player, the word ZUMPED! cascading across the screen in big bold letters, the entire stadium shouting “ZUMPED!” in unison.

  The old fullback wipes his powder- and jelly-stained right hand on his pant leg.

  “Aren’t you gonna offer me a doughnut?” I pose.

  Zumbo slaps my arm. The solid rock of a hand sends a shockwave throughout my torso. “Yo,” he says, “play right.”

  “Kidnapping and physical torture,” I hiss. “All this is gonna make a great lawsuit, let me tell you.”

  Agent Crockett turns away from the table, raises her right hand over her shoulder, waves it dismissively, like she’s about to say, See ya!

  “Oh, Moonlight, spare it. We don’t give a rat’s ass about lawsuits. We don’t have to. When it comes to domestic and international terrorism and the threat thereof, we enjoy an almost unlimited autonomy, so long as it’s in the best interest, health, and security of the GP.”

  “That comes as a relief, actually, Agent Crockett. Save me a fortune in lawyer fees. You fabricate that severe turbulence too? In the best interest of the GP?”

  “Shut up, little man.” Zumbo slaps me again. It hurts again too.

  “Zump,” Crockett scolds, “please don’t hit the suspect. And no, Mr. Moonlight, that turbulence was the real deal.”

  “Shackled suspect,” I add. “So aside from that stupid letter I wrote, why am I here?”

  The female agent peers into the one-way mirror, then turns to face me once more. “Mr. Moonlight, do you recall a former APD detective by the name of Dennis Clyne?”

  The name hits me upside the head. Less than a year ago he helped relieve me of a gang of Russian thugs who, along with the father of Lola, my then-girlfriend, were going to kill me if I didn’t produce a certain flash drive containing sensitive nuclear weapons secrets on it. Rogue nuclear warhead locations, to be more precise, that landed on the black market following the end of the Cold War. The short of it is that I never realized I was in possession of said flash drive until I discovered that it had been safely stored under a table in Moonlight’s Moonlit Manor.

  In the end, Lola’s father was killed and the bar burned to the ground. Lola ran off with her ex-boyfriend. Dude who goes by the name of Christian Barter and who also happens to be a special agent for the FBI and the biological father of the now-deceased son she was forced to give up at birth, since she was only sixteen at the time. And Detective Clyne, whom I personally and, yes, illegally entrusted the flash drive to, bolted the country with it.

  A shitload to sort out, I know. Try living it.

  “I remember Clyne,” I admit. “How can I not?”

  “Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?” Agent Crockett pushes.

  “Word up is that he’s somewhere in Europe.”

  “Where exactly, sweetie?” asks Zumbo.

  I try to sit back. But my shackled hands won’t allow it. And my right wrist stings when I pull on it against the steel cuff. I turn to eye his round, doughnut-stuffed head. “Oh jeepers, Agent Zumbo,” I say, “Clyne asked me not to reveal that when he placed his last personal call to me a few days ago.” Rolling my eyes. “Come on, Zump man, how the fuck should I know?”

  He slaps me again. On the fleshy part of the upper arm, above the bicep. Does it with that heavyweight Super Bowl ring out front. I fall most of the way off the chair.

  “That’s ‘Agent Zumbo’ to you, little man,” he says.

  “So it’s true, then, that you and Clyne are in communication?” asks Agent Crockett.

  Christ almighty, what happened to her little mandate about not hitting and/or abusing the suspect? The hot little Crockett appears to have forgotten all about it. I exhale, shake my head. “I was being facetious.”

  “Which is it, Moonlight?” the female agent shouts. “Yes or no?”

  My head is beginning to spin. Not a good sign. It means my blood pressure is up. When my pressure is up, a lot of blood flows through my brain and it makes the sliver of bullet lodged inside the gray matter press up against the cerebral cortex. It means I’m in danger of passing out, at best, and at worst, falling into a coma. For now I’ll just take deep breaths and tackle their silly questions as accurately as I can.

  “That would be a big fat no,” I assure her. “So, let me clarify something here. I really don’t get to see a lawyer?”

  “What do you need a lawyer for, Moonlight?” Crockett poses, like I’m asking to speak to the president. “You’re not accused of anything. Nor have you been arrested. We’re just talking is all.”

  “And I’m just shackled for no reason, having been kidnapped, Tasered, and taken to New York City entirely against my will.”

  “The plane almost crashed and you went hayw
ire,” Zumbo interjects, like he didn’t lose it at all himself after suffering a head-on collision with the hard US Airways interior during a moment of severe turbulence.

  “Thus the reason for your cuffs, Mr. Moonlight,” Crockett explains. “Also, when we originally, and might I add, politely, asked you to accompany us to New York, you went ballistic. You had to be restrained.”

  I’m trying to recall their coming to my door early this morning. But I have no recollection whatsoever. Considering the amount of alcohol I imbibed yesterday, I must have still been drunk.

  “You don’t remember, do you, Moonlight?”

  I shake my head.

  “My brain—”

  “We know, we know.” The pretty agent nods. “It’s not always right.”

  Crockett turns back to the mirror. “Pictures!” she barks.

  A second later the door opens, and a short, thin man enters. He’s holding a manila folder, which he sets down on the table. When he leaves, closing the door behind him, the female agent opens the folder to reveal a series of eight-by-ten full-color glossies.

  “Recognize any of these, Moonlight?” she asks, slapping down the stack before me.

  The top pic is of a man. A tall man with broad shoulders, dressed all in black. His head’s been shaved, leaving only a small cropping of hair. He has an equally cropped beard to match. He’s lost considerable weight, but I have no doubt about the identity of the man in the picture. “Clyne,” I say.

  “So you do recognize him?”

  “I just told you that!”

  Zumbo, slapping the back of my head. “Be nice.”

  When the shockwave abates, I say, “Yes, ma’am, I recognize him.”