Blue Moonlight

by Zandri, Vincent

  He catches my glance from just a couple of feet off the cobblestones. “Ciao,” he greets. He’s a got a small plastic bowl set in front of him. It’s half-filled with coins.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “You’re American.” He nods. “New York?”

  “All from one word?” I say. “Yeah, you got it. Upstate. Albany.”

  He smiles, I smile. It’s like we’re two working-stiff strangers hitting it off at the local bar. You can spend a lifetime trying to connect with some people. Just ask my ex-wife, Lynn. But on some occasions, connecting can take only an instant. There’s no explanation for it. Who knows, maybe this deformed man and I were friends in another life.

  “Moonlight,” I say. “Dick Moonlight.”

  “Carlo,” he returns. “The magnificent half man, half animal. I was a superstar in the circus. But kids no more interested in the circus. Just Xbox and Wii.”

  I get it. I fish out a five-euro note from my pants pocket, drop it into his bucket.

  “Molto grazie,” he says, smiles. “Thank you, Moonlight.”

  I nod.

  “Moonlight,” he laughs. “Luna illuminata. Your name, bellissimo. Except for the Dick part.”

  “You had to say it, huh, Carlo?”

  “’Scuse…could not help myself.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around. You’re a tough man to miss.”

  “You here on vacation? To see the Duomo?” He reaches back with his left hoof, or hand I should say, while balancing on the other. He sheds the shoe and reaches into the pocket of his cutoffs, comes back out with a business card, hands it to me.

  I take it, give it a peek.

  “Carlo the Great. Circus Actor and Tour Guide.”

  His cell phone number is located below that.

  “Never seen a beggar who carries a business card,” I say, pocketing the card.

  “Tough times,” he says, cocking his head. “You do what you have to do to survive.”

  I purse my lips. “I’ll call if I need a guide.”

  “Call soon. I book up fast.”

  “I’d expect nothing less for a man of your talents,” I say, and head on into the ancient city.

  The air is a combination of roast coffee, cooking meats and sauces, and even perfumes. The fact that the aromas combine with exhaust from the old cars and trucks does little to make it any less appetizing. Am I really here to steal back a flash drive for the FBI? Or was all that just a bad dream while I slept a Valium-induced sleep on the plane? A big part of me just wants to sit down at a café and drink espresso. Fuck the FBI.

  Soon I find myself at the corner of Nazionale and Fienza. On the corner beside me, a coffee bar. Across the street from that, another coffee bar. Farther up ahead on the right, an old convent. The building I’m seeking, the Il Ghiro guesthouse, is located directly across from it.

  I walk the stone street until I locate the building. I thumb the buzzer on the wall-mounted intercom and wait for a voice to emerge from the speaker.

  “Pronto,” says the tinny voice.

  Facing the speaker, I say, “I’m looking for Francesco. He’s expecting me.”

  “Ahhh, si, si,” comes the happy voice. “Come in, yes, come in.”

  There’s a loud buzz and click-clack sound of a mechanical bolt releasing, and the old heavy wood door opens on its own.

  “All the way up, Mr. Moonlight,” adds the voice.

  I look directly up at a skylight through the center of a wraparound staircase constructed of marble treads and a brass banister.

  “Bella,” I whisper to myself. I sound stupid trying to speak Italian.

  “Welcome to Italy,” echoes the voice from up on high.

  I begin to climb six flights with a fifty-pound pack on my back and a leather shoulder bag filled with computer equipment. By the time I get to the top, what’s left of my Valium haze has mostly been sweated out. As I catch my breath, a narrow blue door opens and out steps my contact.

  Francesco.

  “Welcome to Florence,” says a forty-something, slim man dressed in Levi’s and a pressed baby-blue button-down. “Shameful you are not here to see the museums and to soak in the culture.”

  “It’s all cloak-and-dagger stuff from this point on,” I say, nodding.

  He tells me to come in.

  I do it.

  Behind me, the guesthouse door closes with a resounding slam. A heavy-duty deadbolt engages. Reminds me of a prison lockdown.

  I follow Francesco down another narrow corridor to an open room that serves as his office. There’s a desk that sits in front of a terrace and balcony separated from the interior with two slim french doors. The doors are open. Mounted on the plaster wall to my right is a giant map of Florence. Beside that, another giant map of the Italian boot. Beside that, a map of the globe. Under the maps, running the length of the wall, is a counter that holds an automatic espresso machine. I begin to salivate just looking at it. Moonlight the exhausted.

  To my left is a bathroom. Mounted to the wall above the bathroom door, a security camera. I look into the camera, and my contact notices me looking into it.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not on right now.”

  “Why’s it there, then?”

  He cocks his head over his shoulder. “On occasion we have…let’s call them ‘guests’…who do not come as highly recommended as you.”

  I get the distinct feeling the FBI and Interpol are not this man’s only clients.

  We stand in weighted silence for a moment, until he suddenly holds out his hand. “But where are my manners?” he offers. “I am Francesco, owner of Il Ghiro. Do you know what Il Ghiro means, Mr. Moonlight?”

  The only thing I feel more stupid at than trying to speak Italian is trying to translate it. I shake my head while setting my pack down against the map wall, but keeping the leather shoulder bag slung to my shoulder.

  “It means to sleep like a church mouse,” he goes on. “Or, in your case, to sleep like a church mouse while seeking out rats.” He belly laughs and pats my back.

  “Cloak and dagger,” I repeat.

  “But you must be tired. Would you like an espresso?”

  I tell him I’d love one, or three. Is it possible we can mainline the caffeine directly into my veins?

  “Bene, bene.”

  He goes to the machine, sets a demi glass beneath the spot, and hits a red button on the side. Almost immediately a stream of steaming hot black coffee begins pouring into the cup. When it’s through he hands the cup to me and fixes one for himself. There’s a couple of wood stools set against the counter. He gestures for me to take a load off. Which I gladly do. Instead of seating himself behind the desk, he takes the other stool and sits.

  For a brief moment we sit quietly and sip the hot coffee.

  Then, after a couple more silent beats, he gets to it.

  “As I am to understand, Mr. Moonlight,” he says, “I will be providing you not only with lodging, but I will be your contact here for everything you need in support of your mission.”

  I drink down my coffee, feel the sudden but good caffeine rush. “You’re aware of the details?”

  “They tell me what I need to know. Such as, I know you are after a man, an American, who goes by the name of Dennis Clyne. Clyne possesses a data storage drive that contains information sensitive to the national security of the US and Europe, if not the world. Joining him in this venture is another man, an FBI man, by the name of Barter. Neither man has bothered to change his name, probably knowing that such a move is useless and very, how you say?”

  “Cloak and dagger.”

  “Si, cloak and dagger.” Then he says, “And joining Mr. Barter is—and this is difficult for me to say—your ex-lover, Dr. Lola Ross.”

  I feel the usual stomach drop when I hear her name spoken out loud.

  He adds, “We have reason to believe Ross is being held against her will, in that she fears physical reprisal should she decide to leave Barter. It will be
your job to infiltrate her world and get her to trust you with the location of the storage drive.”

  “Maybe I can get her to fall back in love with me while I’m at it.”

  “Ah yes,” he says, his eyes lighting up.

  “This is romantic Italy, am I right?”

  “Eco!” he barks, patting my shoulder again. “I will help you with your love problem. In no time, Lola will be loving you again, Mr. Moonlight. But then, perhaps, that kind of love is already too broken for repair.”

  My stomach sinks some more.

  “My immediate priority is to get my hands on that flash drive.”

  “I understand,” he says, sliding off the stool. “Let’s get started on it right away, shall we?”

  He heads back behind his desk, opens the top right-hand drawer, pulls out an automatic. A .9 mm Walther PPK, along with two ammo clips filled with rounds, and its elastic shoulder holster. He sets the stuff down on the desk.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with one of these?” he says.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “James Bond’s preferred choice of hand cannon.”

  “There will be considerable risk in this assignment. You must be cautious, vigilant.”

  “I used to be a cop,” I reveal. “A New York cop. And truth be told, Francesco, someone’s always taking a shot at me. So it seems.”

  He smiles. “Cloak and dagger,” he repeats.

  Cloak and fucking dagger.

  As I said, I’ve been to Florence before. Two decades, a wife, a life, an attempted suicide, and one beautiful little son ago. But Francesco is taking no chances. Together, we stand before the wall-mounted map of Florence. Using Il Ghiro as my benchmark, he employs his fingertip to trace the way to the Duomo and the large square it occupies. He also shows me the location of one of at least half a dozen cafés where Clyne, Barter, and Lola tend to spend a large part of their afternoons drinking coffee right out in the open like they haven’t a care in the world, other than mingling with the tourists. He also points out Harry’s Bar, which is located in a tall building not far from the banks of the Arno.

  “Apparently, they feel they’re invisible,” I say.

  “Or they are simply arrogant,” Francesco points out in his perfect but Italian-accented English. “Clyne has his hands on the locations of a whole bunch of nukes and has devised a scheme to sell the information to the highest bidder, be it the Russian mob or perhaps a rogue terrorist organization. It’s no coincidence that Barter has agreed to work with the former cop. It tells me it’s quite possible that Barter was already in on the project in one form or another even before the data drive landed on European soil. An investor perhaps, or even a first-level player.”

  Francesco makes sense and I tell him so.

  “Si, si,” agrees Francesco. “We might even suppose that, at this point, the only thing keeping Clyne alive is that he knows where the flash drive is hidden, and perhaps Barter does not. Or vice versa.”

  “That’s definitely a possibility. You really think Lola could know of its location even if her boyfriend doesn’t?”

  He cocks his head, his eyes glued to the map and the small black ovular reproduction of the Duomo and the cathedral it covers.

  “No, I do not,” he tells me. “However, if you can perhaps find a way to get her to open up to you, she might be willing to help you find it. But she must feel she can trust you first.”

  I take hold of his forearm. I don’t hold it tight, but I squeeze it just enough to get his attention. “I’m not about to place Lola in danger,” I say. “No matter what, I still love her, and if what I’m about to do exposes her to danger in any way, I’ll stop.”

  I release his arm.

  “Remember, this is love and war we’re dealing with, Mr. Moonlight,” he explains, his brown eyes glued to mine. “And all is fair.”

  Francesco grabs my backpack. He leads me out of his office, down a narrow corridor, past the entrance doors, and finally to my room, the door of which is already open.

  It’s a large room with a tile floor and stucco walls, a cathedral ceiling with thick beams running across it and a Casablanca fan hanging down. In the center of the room is a double bed supported by a metal frame, and two wall-mounted sconces for light on either side. To the right of the bed is a small end table that supports a portable television, and beside it, a stand-alone closet. Behind the closet is the bathroom. Just a shower, sink, toilet, and bidet, not that I’ll need it. On the far right of the bed is a desk pushed up against french windows that open onto the convent and, in the near distance, a view of Florence Cathedral’s dome or Duomo, and far beyond that, the mountain town of Fesolie, which I visited during my last trip here. Spartan accommodations, but the perfect view. That is, if you were a honeymooner and in love.

  Francesco sets down the pack against the bed. He suggests I take a rest. He gives me that look like a lot of people give me in Albany. The one that says, “I’m aware of that piece of bullet in your head and the fact that you can buy the farm at any time.” I know the look very well by now. Behind the eyes is the sad knowledge that I somehow managed to survive my own suicide and that now I’m a head case who at times has trouble even trusting himself. After all, I’ve been known to forget things and my decision-making ability is not always the greatest, especially in times of great stress. I can also pass out without the slightest warning. So perhaps some rest is a good idea.

  But I can’t possibly rest.

  My espresso-fueled adrenaline is flowing like electricity through hot wires, and I just got off a plane after almost a dozen hours cruising through the friendly skies. Nervous energy. Moonlight the wired.

  Time to go to work.

  An inventory of the things I need to carry on my person seems like it’s in order. With Francesco standing beside me, I pull my passport from my pocket and set it on the bed. I do the same with my new mobile phone. I take the laptop computer and its power cord from the leather shoulder bag, set it onto the desk, open it, and begin booting it up. Then I pull out my wallet and set it on the bed beside the passport, the mobile smartphone, the Walther .9 mm, and one of the two extra ammo clips.

  Taking a couple of steps back and away from the bed, I stare down at my weaponry and it feels considerably weak to me.

  Turning to Francesco. “I’m prone to carry a small piece around my ankle as a backup,” I tell him. “Would you be able to help out there?”

  He nods, purses his lips. “I might have something you’ll be interested in. If you’ll excuse me.” He exits the room and after a minute returns with a soft leather satchel. Loosening the straps on the satchel, he opens it to reveal a black-plated snub-nose .22 caliber five-shot Colt revolver, and along with it, a twelve-inch fighting knife I recognize as NATO-issue from my own days in the Persian Gulf War.

  “Compliments of Il Ghiro,” he says, exiting the room once more and returning with some duct tape. “Sadly, I have no holster for the .22. But I have plenty of tape for wrapping it around your leg. As for the knife, she can be fixed to your belt.”

  I reach out and gently pat him on the shoulder as a way of saying thanks.

  “Just one more favor,” I beg of Francesco. “Got a pencil I can borrow? And maybe a pad of paper or a notebook?”

  “It’s the simplest things that always go missing.” He laughs. “We will have to remedy that.” Once more he leaves the room and returns with a couple of sharpened pencils, which I stuff inside my leather shoulder bag along with the notebook. Slipping out of my jacket, I set it on the bed. I remove my shirt and toss it into the corner I’ll designate for soiled laundry. Then, grabbing hold of the roll of duct tape, I set my left leg up on the bed. I pull up the cuff and cut off a piece of duct tape and tape the .22 to my left leg just above the boot top. Pull my pant cuff back over the pistol. Slide my foot off the bed and unbuckle my belt. I remove some of the narrow leather strap from the pant loops and slide on the knife sheath. Then I fish the strap back through the loops and once more buckle the belt.
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br />   I retrieve a clean white shirt from my pack and put it on, carefully buttoning it from bottom to top, leaving the neck open. I slip the elastic shoulder holster over my head and shoulders, adjusting it to fit comfortably. Slipping back into my leather coat, I store my passport in an inside pocket along with my billfold. I place the mobile phone into the second interior pocket and store one of the extra ammo clips in the left-hand pocket.

  Easy access.

  Picking up the .9 mm and the second clip from off the bed, I slap the clip home and cock a round into the chamber. Thumbing the safety on, I drop the piece, grip inverted, into the holster. I slip the shoulder bag over my head and allow it to hang against my left shoulder and my right hip. That way it won’t get in the way if I have to make a quick play for the Walther.

  When I slide on a pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, I know I’m finally locked and loaded.

  When we exit the room something dawns on me.

  “How about a key?” I say.

  Francesco reaches into his pocket, hands me a skeleton key.

  “You’re kidding,” I say, taking the key in hand and locking the door. “I haven’t seen one of these since my grandmother was still alive.”

  “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “You are my only guest until this little issue of the data drive recovery is behind us and perhaps, just perhaps, you will have your Lola back, safe and sound.”

  In my head I see Lola’s big brown eyes, rich olive-skinned face, thick heart-shaped lips, and long, lush, brunette hair. Then I picture her being made to share Special Agent Christian Barter’s bed every night. My stomach caves in on itself and my breathing becomes slightly strained.

  Keep a clear head, Moonlight. Don’t let emotions get in the way of your job.

  Francesco approaches the door that leads out to the stairs, releases the deadbolt. “Don’t take on too much this afternoon,” he warns. “Reacquaint yourself with the city. Time is of the essence, but we still have enough time to enact our plan.”