Blue Moonlight

by Zandri, Vincent

  She slowly works up a nod. “Yes. I guess you could say I found something about him to trust while I…”

  Her thought trails off, but I get her meaning well enough.

  “A trust you couldn’t find in me.”

  She turns away, looks at the faux brick wall of the airport pub. “Something like that,” she goes on. “I never knew what to expect from you. Just which Richard Moonlight I was going to get. The one who loved me, or the one who would sleep with another woman and then blame the bullet in his head for it.”

  “It happened once, Lo. And we weren’t exactly a tight couple at the time.”

  “But we weren’t not tight, either.”

  There’s no arguing with her, because she’s right, of course. I had no business sleeping with Scarlet Montana, the wife of my former boss at the Albany Police Department. I had no right, because even though Lola and I weren’t exactly committed at the time, most of my nights were still spent sleeping with her in my bed, even if we didn’t allow ourselves to have sex. The whole thing with Scarlet was brought on by my acting as her best friend and confidant for a very brief period when we’d get together in the early evenings when her abusive husband, my former boss at the APD, was still at work. Back when I was still recovering from my botched suicide, searching for a new direction in my new life separate from the cops and my then newly divorced wife, Lynn. My sleeping with Scarlet was inevitable, but it was still a mistake since, technically speaking, I was with Lola and Scarlet was married.

  A big, beautiful mistake.

  But one that I’ll regret for the rest of my days.

  “But you felt you could trust Barter, even though you didn’t know him, other than as teenagers who made a baby you gave up some twenty-five years ago.”

  She sips her wine again. I drink some more beer.

  “Despite what you might think now, what I had with Christian in high school was not a flighty, immature, one-night stand. I loved him and he loved me. Yes, we were young, but he was my first real love and had things not gone horribly wrong, I might have spent my life with him.”

  I see the tears build in her eyes. I know how desperately she wanted to leave Florence and the danger she was mixed up in there. But I also sense that deep down inside, Florence wasn’t all bad.

  And then it dawns on me.

  “You miss him, don’t you?” I ask, the air leaving my lungs. “You fucking miss him? Even now? Even after everything that’s happened? Jesus, Lo, you’re killing me here.”

  She looks up at me. Looks me in my eyes as a single tear falls down her cheek. “I can’t help it,” she whispers.

  “Even after he steals a flash drive holding secrets that could obliterate millions of souls and tries to sell it to the highest bidder.”

  She begins to cry. “I’m so sorry, Richard.”

  My phone vibrates inside my pocket, right beside my breaking heart.

  I press the phone to my ear.

  It’s Zumbo. “Welcome back, sweetie,” he says. “You’ve done your country a great service.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Zump. I’m tired. Where are you?”

  He tells me he’s double-parked outside the Delta check-in counter at the pickup area. He wants me to hurry before a real cop comes along and tickets him.

  “Just volunteer an autograph,” I say.

  “You kidding?” he says. “I used up the autograph thing with NYPD a long time ago.”

  “We’ll be there in three minutes. Sit tight.”

  “Right on, sweetie.”

  I thumb End.

  Lola and I emerge through the sliding glass doors out onto the sidewalk of the busy airport pickup area. Zumbo is there just like he said he would be, standing outside the passenger-side door that belongs to a black four-door sedan with tinted windows that just screams COP!

  He’s wearing that same loud Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt over a pair of baggy blue jeans, even though it can’t be much over forty degrees outside, and cloudy. It’s unbuttoned halfway down his tight beer belly so that the butt of his automatic is exposed. As usual, he’s sporting a four-day salt-and-pepper facial growth, not to mention a serious case of bed head.

  “You’ve never looked prettier, Zump.”

  “Let me get your luggage,” he says with a smile. “Oh, you don’t have any. Silly me.”

  He opens the back door for Lola.

  “You must be the infamous Lola,” he says as she gets in, and he quickly closes the door behind her. Then, opening the front door for me, he says, “Brains before beauty.”

  I slip on in.

  The door closes behind me and the cold steel of a pistol barrel presses up against the back of my head.

  “Did I tell you ‘Welcome home’ yet, sweetie?” Zumbo says as he pulls the sedan out onto the airport road.

  I’m trying to get a look at who exactly has the gun pressed to my head. But my angle in the front passenger seat won’t allow it.

  “You OK, Lo?” I ask.

  “For someone staring down a pistol barrel,” she says. “I thought these were supposed to be your friends.”

  “Shut up your faces,” says a man behind me. “Both of you.”

  I recognize the voice. It’s low and gravelly. It’s angry. It’s in pain because of a shot-away kneecap. It’s Russian-accented. It’s Boris. He must have made it back to the States on an earlier flight. Out the corner of my eye I catch sight of another man, who’s dressed in black leather like Boris. He’s seated up against the far door, and he holds an automatic on me while Boris drags Lola over his lap and stuffs her between the two of them in the backseat. Boris returns his gun barrel to the back of my head, and his pal trains his on Lola.

  “We all set back there?” Zumbo pipes up, beaming into the rearview. “Everybody warm and cozy?”

  “Nice friends you got there, Zump,” I say. “How much they paying you to sell out?”

  “More than you can imagine, buddy,” he answers. “More than my NFL pension, anyway.”

  Zumbo is happy as hell. He’s even humming a song while tapping out the beat onto the steering wheel as he pulls out onto the Van Wyck Expressway in the direction of Manhattan. I know the song. It’s Buster Poindexter. “Hot, Hot, Hot.” Fuck. Now I’m gonna have the song in my head the whole ride long.

  “What about Agent Crockett?” I ask. “She in on this shit too?”

  “Normally I’d tell you to mind your own beeswax,” Zump says in between verses of “Hot, Hot, Hot.” “But since you and the missus back there don’t have a whole lot longer to live, I might as well tell you that cute little Agent Crockett is not, I repeat, not a part of my most excellent relationship with my Russian friends here.” He pauses to tap out some more “Hot, hot, hot”s. “You see, sweetie, one more mouth to feed would simply cut into my cut. I need to maximize my monetary potential instead of simply giving away the farm.” Winks at me. “’Sides, I don’t think she’d be into it anyway. Crockett is a Goody Two-Shoes.”

  “You don’t say,” I say, picturing the few short hours I spent in bed with her. “Congratulations.”

  He turns to me with one of his all-teeth smiles, slaps me so hard on the thigh it feels like a compound fracture. “Hey thanks, Moonlight,” he bellows. “You know, I like you. Under different circumstances we might have been pretty good pals. Or more, even.”

  Or more, even?

  “I just want you to be clear on what’s happening here. You and the missus are buying the farm in the interest of security and my overall plan. You realize, of course, that it’s strictly business.”

  “I understand, Zump. No harm done. Shoe could easily be on the other foot.”

  He slaps me again. A backhand to the sternum. It rattles my rib cage and my fillings. “You see that, Boris?” he barks into the rearview mirror. “Now that’s some fuckin’ A-1 Americana class for you, my commie Ruskie bro. That’s how you go out. Not screaming like a girl to some crippled asshole like yourself to spare your pathetic little life. But with real dignity.
Real, made-in-America pride.”

  I feel the pistol pressed harder against my head. “Do not call me Boris,” says Boris to Zumbo. “This motherfucker,” he says, cracking the muzzle against my skull, “he calls me Boris when he shoots off my kneecap. Boris is not my name, da?”

  “Hey, Boris,” Zump says. “Tell it to somebody who gives a shit. Far as I’m concerned, Reagan should’ve nuked your entire beet-eating outhouse of a country when he had the chance.”

  I feel Boris’s hot breath on my neck. He flicks my earlobe with the barrel and leans forward.

  “First I shoot both your kneecaps off,” he whispers into my ear. “Then I rape your woman…while you watch, da? Then after I have shot cum inside her pussy and blown her pretty brains all over the ground, I’m going stick pistol into your mouth. When I am ready, I will make you pull trigger. From what I hear, you already know how to shoot self in head, da?”

  I’m listening to Boris, but I’m looking out onto the crowded Belt Parkway that’s taken over from the Van Wyck. With every word he speaks, with every bit of spittle that sprays against my ear, with every micro-ounce of rotten-garbage-like halitosis vapor that passes by my nostrils, the rage inside of me builds like a volcano about to erupt. It’s just a matter of controlling it, and releasing it when the opportune time arrives.

  It. Will. Arrive.

  Zumbo doesn’t take the turn for the FDR that runs along Manhattan’s East River. Instead he passes over the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge and onto the Deegan for the ride north toward Albany. In the meantime, I’m trying to get a better look at the second man sitting in the back, his piece aimed at Lola’s liver. The quiet one. I’m also trying to get a look at her. She has hardly spoken a word since we left the airport. I know she must be frightened out of her mind. But I need to see her to make sure she’s OK. I need to see him to get an idea of what I’ll be dealing with.

  That’s when I get an idea.

  “Hey, Zump,” I say. “It’s cool, I been calling you Zump? Listen, man, I know time is short and all, but I gotta tell you, if I’m gonna buy it, I’d like to do it with an empty bladder.”

  “You can hold it, I think.”

  “Well, there’s a little more to it than a simple wee-wee, I gotta say. And it wouldn’t be very pleasant. How can I put this delicately?”

  “You can speak your mind, Moonlight,” Zumbo says. “We’re all friends here. Well, maybe not Boris and Mr. Personality back there. But the rest of us are.”

  “Fuck you, Mr. Zumbo,” Boris says, jabbing me once more with the pistol. When he says “mister,” it comes out sounding like a snake: “Meeessster.”

  “It was a long plane ride,” I say, “and it’s a brand-new day, and well, Mother Nature calls.”

  Zumbo nods. “I get it. Gotta poop, don’t ya?”

  “Can’t get one past you, Zump. You’re too sharp.”

  “That’s what some dipshit told me after I paid him ten grand to pilfer the final exams at Quantico. That I might have actually passed the tests without cheating. But I didn’t want to take that chance.”

  “I agree. You would have aced them without having to cheat, Zump. But it’s good to have a contingency plan in place. Smart thinking.” A sigh, and a pained squirm in my seat, like I’m desperately trying to hold in Mother Nature. “So whaddaya say, Zump? How do I spell relief here? Trust me, I’m not planning anything other than guaranteeing you and our international friends a clean, shitless ride. So to speak.”

  Zumbo laughs. “Tell you what, Moonlight,” he says. “Since you’re so mature about this whole dying thing, I’m gonna stop at the next rest stop and allow you to pinch one final long, curly, satisfying loaf. How’s that sound?”

  “Jeez, thanks, Zump. It’ll make for easy cleanup later on when I’m finally gone too. If you get my meaning.”

  He laughs again. “Yup, no one likes picking up a stiff with shit in his drawers.”

  Up ahead on the right is a sign for the next rest stop. It’s ten miles away.

  Ten miles for me to make a plan so that Lola and I can live and Zump and company can die horrible, painful deaths.

  We drive in silence.

  Until Zumbo slaps the steering wheel. “Well I’ll be doggoned,” he says. “All this time I never thought once about asking you for the flash drive. Can you believe that, Boris? I never even asked once. But then, neither did you. You soccer-loving pussy.”

  The barrel jabs the back of my skull once more. “I thought of asking for fleshy box,” Boris grumbles. “Just assume we take it off him when he is dead.” Perking up. “And my football is not pussy galore. It is hard man’s sport.” Laughing. “No helmets or padding to ease pain, da?”

  “No helmets, no tackling, no scoring more than three lousy points a game,” Zump points out. I can’t help but think how right he is, despite our circumstances. Then he adds, “I think it’s best to grab the zip-thingy now. Makes things easier.” Holding out his right hand, palm up. “Let’s have it, sweetie.”

  I begin digging in my coat pocket. I feel one of the two plastic baggies. I feel something else too. My cell phone. The ringer is turned off. Only the vibrator is on. They never took it off of me when I got in the car. I pull out one of the baggies and drop it onto the floor by my feet. On purpose.

  “Silly me,” I say and exhale.

  When I twist and bend down to retrieve it, I can see that Mr. Personality is a small, thin man with a shaved head. He’s got little cancer whiskers wrapped around his tiny little lipless mouth that are supposed to serve as a chin beard and mustache. His eyes are glass and his face tighter than a snare drum, the skin pale. I’ve seen killers in prison, stone-cold killers, and that’s exactly who Mr. Personality reminds me of. Someone who can kill you slow with a knife and maybe enjoy a nibble on your flesh in the process. He’s holding an automatic on Lola, who’s been gagged with a big white handkerchief. No wonder she hasn’t had anything to say.

  I pick up the flash drive and hand it to Zumbo. “All yours,” I say.

  We pass a sign that says three miles until the rest stop.

  “Just hold it another couple minutes, sweetie,” Zumbo says, pocketing the flash drive into the chest pocket on his Hawaiian shirt. “Bet you’re seriously turtling that loaf.”

  “It’s a sure test of my potty training,” I say.

  We pull into the rest stop. It’s one of those places that features a McDonald’s as the main restaurant and a greasy chain pizza joint as a healthier alternative. Zumbo pulls into a spot at the back of the lot. Sneaky.

  He kills the engine.

  “OK, here’s the deal,” he says, turning his big body to face us all. “I’m gonna take Moonlight into the crap house. And so we don’t have any other little side trips, Boris, you and Mr. Personality get to take the little lady to her bathroom. Maybe you can try and pinch one too, honey.”

  “What about following woman into crapper?” Boris says. “Can’t simply walk in ladies’ crapper.” He says “what” like “vhat.”

  “No windows or exterior doors on these bathrooms, I happen to know. She’s not going anywhere. And anyway, she’s not out in three minutes, I’ll go in after her myself since I’m a big-shot federal agent and you’re just a commie with a bad knee, capice?”

  “Capice…what is capice? Polish?”

  “No, it’s Italian, you stupid fucking soccer-loving one-kneed commie Ruskie. Now let’s get moving. I don’t have all day. We have a couple executions to attend, not to mention a double burial of sorts.”

  Zumbo opens his door and shifts his big weight out onto the parking lot. I get out and so do Boris and Mr. Personality, pushing Lola out before him.

  “I don’t think I have to remind you to behave, sweetie.”

  “You don’t, Zump. A man knows when it’s time to call it a life. Especially me.” Making like a pistol with my right hand, pressing extended index finger against the scar on my temple. “I just want to enjoy one final constitutional.”

  He sets his gargantuan
hand on my shoulder, pinches it, lovingly. A little too lovingly. He smiles, tells me to go on ahead of him. He wants to watch me walk with my cute little butt cheeks pinched tight.

  Well I’ll be dipped in shit. The Zump…the big football player…the macho New York Giant…he really is a fairy.

  I toss him a wink. “I’ll try, sweetie,” I whisper.

  The rest stop is crowded with weekend travelers trying to get in some late-season fall foliage gazing. So is the men’s room. Zumbo heads straight to an unoccupied wall-mounted urinal.

  “Take care of business, Moonlight,” he says to me while pulling himself out and producing a steady flow that spatters against the porcelain. “Just remember, I’m right here watching. Or listening, anyway.”

  I locate an empty stall and close the door behind me, securing it by turning the bolt. I don’t bother with slipping off my coat, nor do I pull down my pants and attempt to appease Mother Nature. I just sit myself on the toilet seat while reaching for my cell phone inside my coat pocket. I start in on a text to Agent Crockett.

  Zumbo and Russians kidnap us. Going to kill us. On Northway 87 above NYC. Ramapo. GPS this number.

  I thumb Send.

  I know it’s silly to wait for an immediate reply. I’m also hoping they have an automatic GPS set up for the cell. It’s an FBI-issued mobile phone, after all. How can it not be traceable? I know it’s only a matter of a few seconds before Zumbo’s big fat head peers down at me from over the side of the stall. I listen to the men and boys coming and going from the men’s room, the sound of toilets and urinals flushing, sink faucets spilling water, hands slapping the wall-mounted hand dryers, the jet-plane-like sound of the hot air spewing out the stainless-steel nozzle.

  Through the narrow half-inch opening between the stall door and the partition closer, I spot three huge, beer-lubed, blue-and-red New-York-Giants-jersey-wearing fans peeing in the urinals. Must be a special Thursday night game on the NFL Network. All three of them are shooting Zumbo these glances like they recognize him. And maybe they do.