Blue Moonlight

by Zandri, Vincent

  An untrustworthy head case like me.

  Makes total sense, doesn’t it?

  When my beer is done, so is my shower. I’m drying off and anticipating some of the food the FBI has laid out for me and what, these days, has become a rare cigarette…when I hear the hotel room door open.

  I also hear it shut, the deadbolt engage.

  Gut instinct tells me to grab my automatic. But I’m totally naked and equally unarmed. I take a quick survey of the bathroom to see if there’s something I can use as a weapon. The closet thing I can find is a drinking glass.

  I wrap the bath towel around my waist, and then pick up the drinking glass. I hold it in the palm of my hand like a rock, the thick, heavy bottom pointing out. Swallowing a breath, I open the bathroom door, step out.

  She’s standing in the center of the floor, a dark brown leather bag slung over her shoulder. She’s not wearing her FBI Windbreaker right now. She’s wearing, instead, a black silk blouse that’s unbuttoned enough to reveal some cleavage and just a hint of a black lace bra. Victoria’s Secret maybe. Her miniskirt is also black and tight-fitting. The heels on her long black leather boots make her almost as tall as me. Shoulder-length hair parted neatly above her right temple, deep brown eyes, and moist red lips make me want to take her into my arms, toss her onto the bed.

  But I’m dressed in only a bath towel, and it’s all I can do not to keep from proving to her how glad I am to see her. But a quick peek down at the pup tent emerging from my midsection tells me I’m having little success controlling Mother Nature.

  “I let myself in,” she says.

  “We can see that,” I say.

  She can’t help but work up a grin. “I hope these accommodations are to your liking.”

  “Well beyond expectations. You’re trying to get on my good side.”

  “We at the FBI wanted to prove we aren’t entirely uncivil when it comes to kidnapping in the name of national security.”

  “Feel free to kidnap me anytime.”

  She smiles and sets the bag onto the desk chair, takes notice of the food and the wine laid out there. Two long-stem drinking glasses came with the wine. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? The wine has been uncorked for breathing. I never noticed that, either.

  “Well, Moonlight,” Agent Crockett says and sighs, “you gonna stand there in your bath towel or are you going to pour a girl a glass of wine?”

  I make it two steps toward the bottle before I grab her hand and pull her into me. My towel comes off, drops to my feet. I’m standing at the end of the bed. Exposed. Both heads.

  “My, my, Moonlight,” she says, staring me up and down. The look on her face is dead serious. Like she’s about to arrest me instead of seduce me. So much for professionalism.

  I crawl onto the bed, pull her down beside me, begin unbuttoning her shirt. She closes her eyes, issues a slight moan, her chest heaving in and out.

  “This is what I kept seeing in my head during our interview,” she whispers in my ear.

  I cup her bra-covered breast with my right hand, pinch her erect nipple through the fabric.

  “Sure this is a very good idea?” I whisper. “We’ve become coworkers.”

  But it’s too late for that now as I have her shirt entirely unbuttoned, and I’m kissing the parts of her pert breasts that aren’t covered by her bra.

  “I don’t care what the FBI thinks,” she moans. “You’re on my time now.”

  I think about reminding her that just a few hours ago she ordered me cuffed and shackled to a metal table inside an FBI interrogation room, and that if I don’t produce Clyne’s flash drive for her, she will have me arrested. But then, who wants to talk shop at a time like this?

  I kiss her on the mouth.

  “Lights on or off?” she poses, coming up for air.

  “Does it matter?” I answer.

  We leave the lights on.

  Later on we’re eating shrimp and drinking wine in bed. Or Agent Crockett is drinking wine and I’m having another beer. I attempt to light a cigarette but immediately reconsider when she shoots me this tight-as-a-tick expression with her official agent face.

  “Don’t even think about it, Moonlight.”

  What happened to Dick?

  Clearly our little tryst was just that. Little. But it’s quality not quantity that counts in these matters. And Vanessa Crockett showed some skills, let me tell you.

  Pulling her shirt back on, along with her panties, Agent Crockett reappears for me by getting back down to all business. Set by the bed is the leather shoulder bag she brought into the room with her earlier. She hoists up the bag, opens it, and pulls out one of those sleek, slick, super-thin new Mac laptops that I can’t even begin to afford. Next she pulls out a passport, a wallet filled with credit cards and cash. Both euros and dollars. Clearly the FBI seems to have covered their bases.

  I open the passport, glance at the photo. It’s me from my days as a cop. How the FBI acquired it I have no idea. But then, I’m not surprised they acquired it either.

  “We have a source who tells us that your ex-significant other shows up now and again at a bar located not far from the Santa Maria Novella piazza.” Now clicking on a map of Florence and enhancing so we get a real-time satellite view of the very square she’s talking about. “Right there,” she adds, using her index finger as a pointer. “Establishment called Harry’s Bar. Right on the river.”

  “I know it. Hemingway used to drink at the one up in Venice.”

  “Florence is small and very walkable, if you recall.”

  I do recall. You can walk from one end to the other in fifteen minutes.

  “You want me to have a few drinks at Harry’s, I take it. Find a way to reintroduce myself to Lola.”

  She nods.

  “That would be the strategy. Let’s hope she’s willing to trust you enough with the location of the flash drive.”

  “What if she figures out immediately that I’m working for the cops, and splits?”

  “Then job over. We’ll fly you right back. But…”

  It’s one of those dangling Buts…

  “But we don’t believe that will happen. We believe that, given the chance to make her escape, she’ll want to accompany you out of the country. We have a ticket waiting for her. Just make sure she has her passport. Interpol has been alerted, and she will be allowed through airport security without a hitch.”

  “Gotcha. But what if the flash drive isn’t so readily available?”

  “Listen, if it’s hidden inside a safety deposit box in a local bank, we want to know. If it’s hidden inside a vault, we want to know the combination or, at the very least, a verifiable location. But if it’s located inside a sock in Clyne’s underwear drawer, we want you to find a way to get in and steal it. The point, Moonlight, is to convince Lola to reveal what she knows.”

  “I’ll seduce her with my charm and good looks.” Moonlight the confident.

  “Watch yourself,” she warns. “One danger will be your falling back in love with your ex. You must maintain enough focus and control to get the job done. Keep that brain of yours clear.”

  I’ve never fallen out of love.

  “And when it’s over? You won’t prosecute Lola?”

  “We have no reason to charge her with anything as of yet, especially if she cooperates with you. But we will need to interview her at length.”

  I think about what she’s telling me. Think about how easy it will be to fall under the spell of the woman I once loved and still love a little too much. Could be that by entering into the FBI’s little arrangement, I will be setting myself up for another fall. As Agent Crockett says, I’ll just have to try my best to stay focused.

  “One question: Why haven’t you already picked up Clyne or Barter if you know where they’re hiding out?”

  Shaking her head.

  “Can’t take the chance that they’ll destroy the flash drive. Far as we know, it’s the only one in existence—though, of course, who knows
how many times they’ve copied it. If they have, we’ll have to deal with that when the time comes. We also don’t know whom they’ve been in contact with since Barter came aboard, and whom they might lead us to. So our policy since we’ve located them has been to observe first and act later.” Her hand on my thigh. “Now we have you and now we can act.”

  Sliding off the bed, she stands, slips into her skirt, and fixes it around her narrow waist.

  I slide off the bed, wrap an arm around her, move in for a kiss. But she pushes me away.

  “Fun’s over, Romeo,” she says. “You have homework to do. There are more items inside that bag that you’ll need for the assignment. Go through it all and call me if you have any questions. I’ll be available to you day and night. But call only if it’s of the utmost importance. Got it? We don’t want to risk a communications interception. My number is on the preset speed-dial list on the BlackBerry we included inside the bag.”

  Now fully dressed, she goes for the door. Before opening it, she turns back to me.

  “Good luck, Moonlight. And be careful. Clyne and company have their fingers on some serious death and destruction. No telling what they’re capable of when it comes to protecting it.”

  She lets herself out.

  I step on over to the door, lock the deadbolt.

  I sit on the bed, naked, and smoke.

  Not that I smoke a lot these days. The constriction of the blood vessels it causes inside my brain is not the safest thing in the world when you have a piece of .22 caliber hollow-point residing directly beside your cerebral cortex.

  I should just quit outright.

  But for some reason, I can’t get myself to let go. As crazy as it seems, it’s like letting go of the memory of Lola.

  I set the laptop on my lap, feel the warmth from the processor against my bare thighs. I scroll through the photos of Clyne that are stored inside the Flickr account. Instead of the slightly overweight, whiskey-soaked, trench-coated APD detective, what we have now is a trim, concave-jawed, dressed-all-in-black phantom. In most of the shots, he’s wearing narrow-framed sunglasses that succeed in hiding those sad eyes. Black turtleneck sweater, dark trousers, black jacket. Dressed just like I imagined a man to be hiding from international law to be dressed. In the shots, he’s seated at a table in an outdoor café, sipping a cappuccino, a newspaper in his hands. Trim beard and shorter-than-short cropped hair on his head, both of which have been dyed black.

  In a place like Albany, Clyne would stick out like a sore thumb among the pastel-clothed white-bread population. But not in Florence, where every other man or woman is dressed in dark clothing and looking European chic. Just like Lola appears in her photos. Long dark hair, tan face, black scarf wrapped around her neck. Barter is also dressed to blend. Dark suit and sunglasses, his goatee and mustache trimmed to precise specifications.

  I go through all the pictures searching for anyone with whom the three might engage in conversation other than themselves. But all the shots are the same: Clyne, Lola, and Barter sitting at the table, drinking coffee, the men’s faces painted with great expectations. As for Lola, her expression is always the same: one of doom.

  I set the computer aside and pull the leather bag closer to me. Tip it upside down, the rest of its contents spilling out onto the bed.

  There’s a folded map of Florence. I unfold it. A few of the streets are highlighted in blaze yellow. One of the streets contains the guesthouse where I’ll be staying. The second street shows the location of Harry’s Bar. I guess the rest is up to me to figure out.

  I set the map back down.

  Next I pick up an envelope.

  “Itinerary” is written on the outside in black Sharpie.

  I open it, slide out the folded pages. I check out the electronic vouchers for the flights. Departure is at 6:00 p.m. tomorrow from JFK. Arrive in Frankfurt at 6:00 a.m. the next day. A quick flight over the Alps and I’m in Florence by 9:30 a.m. From there I’m to meet up with my contact, one Francesco Tasi, at a guesthouse called Il Ghiro, where I will be set up in a private room. Tasi will provide me with information when I get there. He will also outfit me with a weapon and ammunition. It’s going to be one of those kinds of trips.

  The bag has more goodies for me.

  A modem for direct Internet communication with Agent Crockett and her gang. A small portable printer with fax and scanning capabilities. More credit cards besides the ones already stuffed into the wallet, including an AmEx and a Visa, both with $50K limits. Or so the Post-it notes stuck to them attest. There’s also a debit card that accesses an ING cash account that contains a fifty-thousand-euro balance.

  “Please hand in all receipts at the end of the project,” insists yet another handwritten Post-it note attached to the debit card.

  What else? Toothbrush, dental floss, toothpaste, deodorant, razors, shampoo—the whole kit and self-grooming caboodle.

  And one more thing.

  An additional bottle of Valium, to which Crockett has attached one more Post-it note with a hand-drawn smiley face on it.

  I’m beginning to think she really likes me.

  Later that night I dream: I’m riding in a gondola with Lola. It’s night, the black sky backlit with a full moon. We’re somehow riding down the middle of Broadway in downtown Albany, the black crumbling macadam having given way to canals of gray-brown water. We’re holding hands, listening to a song sung by the gondolier. It’s sweet music by moonlight. Lola holds my hand tightly. She turns to me, kisses me. But then she pulls away, lets go of my hand. She says, “I can’t do this.” Lifting herself up, she jumps overboard and disappears into the lagoon, never to return…

  PART III

  Early Tuesday morning I land in Florence, Italy.

  I’m groggy and disoriented from having self-medicated for the entire ten hours’ worth of flying time. What can I say? Flying—the safest means of transportation there is—scares the living daylights out of me. Valium, ingested in the right amounts with the correct infusion of alcohol, will knock you out cold. Only when we started flying over the Alps did I wake up from the severe turbulence that occurs naturally from the up and down mountain drafts. So they tell me. Just the thought of kissing one of those beautiful white-capped summits head-on is enough to snap me out of a drug-induced near-death.

  Standing outside the Santa Maria Novella train station where the airport cab has let me out, I check the map Crockett provided me back in New York. The guesthouse is only a few blocks away. Slinging my pack on my back, I wrap my leather carry-on around my shoulder and take a quick look around.

  Florence.

  Home of the Renaissance.

  Home of Leonardo da Vinci.

  Home of Dante and the Divine Comedy and all those levels of hell. Not that I remember much of it from my English and art history classes at Providence College. But this might be the perfect time to brush up.

  I can’t help but notice, coming and going from the marble-sided, art deco train station, dozens of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. Many of them with long, flowing hair, and outfitted stylishly in short skirts, tall leather boots, and leather jackets to match. The way the language flows off their tongues as they speak to one another only enhances their attractiveness. So does the way they walk arm in arm, like lovers do in the States.

  I shake the Valium fuzz from my brain and cross the busy street. I head down the Via Nazionale past the McDonald’s and a Chinese restaurant toward the Via Faenza. The streets are narrow here, as are the sidewalks, which are full of people, young and old. Many of them look like natives, but there’s a big Asian contingent here.

  As I negotiate a space on the sidewalk, the Florence experience washes right back over me, like I never left here more than twenty years ago. Once again I’m exposed to that curious language mixture of Italian, Chinese, Japanese, and English. American English. Which makes sense, since there are so many American art schools in this town. What was it someone once said to me during my visit here right out of colleg
e? There are more Americans in Florence than Italians. Possibly. But this urban landscape, created from centuries-old stucco and stone buildings, their glass facades showing off fresh meats, cheeses, fruits, and wines—this place is all Tuscany. All Italian.

  I move on past a two-man crew carrying a big gold-framed oil painting out through the open doorway of a townhouse toward a small, three-wheeled flatbed truck parked up on the slate-covered sidewalk. The men are smoking and yelling at one another. I have no idea what they’re saying, but it seems like their yells are in the normal course of their working relationship.

  Up ahead of them, I spot some kids on motor scooters. Teenagers, riding white Vespas that look about as old as I am. The boys in skinny jeans drive while their miniskirted girlfriends press themselves up against their backsides, hanging on by wrapping their arms around their boyfriends’ belted waists. As soon as the boys spot a couple of policemen on the corner, each of them shouldering automatic weapons, they slow down and pay attention to the road.

  Farther up in the Piazza Santa Maria Novella resides a collection of beggars. One man with his right leg missing from the knee down. I see a woman dressed in a long, filthy dress and moth-eaten sweater, a kerchief covering her head. She’s old, her face pockmarked with disease, age, and poverty. She holds an empty espresso coffee can out for the passersby to toss coins into. I make my way past them, until I come to something that sends a shiver up and down my spine. He’s a man, but his limbs are so disjointed that his legs and knees are twisted one hundred and eighty degrees in the wrong direction, almost as if his hips were installed backward. He’s got shoes on his hands and feet, and looks like a human who’s been bred with a big dog or a small horse. With his inverted knees, he doesn’t walk so much as he trots. In the cool, moist air, he’s wearing only a T-shirt and cutoff jeans, and despite his condition, he’s not a bad-looking guy of thirtysomething.