Moonlight Rises (A Dick Moonlight Thriller)

by Zandri, Vincent

  “Yah,” Clyne answers. “Just a minute.” Then to back me, “Care to give me the phone number and address of this, ah, Peter Czech?”

  “Nope.”

  “Even if it might lead to the assholes who did this to you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Client confidentiality right?”

  “Yup.”

  “At least think about it?”

  “Yup.”

  Reaching into his pants pocket, he tosses a business card onto my lap. “I’ll be in touch,” he warns. “In the meantime, watch your back. The enemies you’ve made in Albany are a lot more dangerous than that piece of lead in your brain. And that’s saying something.”

  He turns, walks out the door. Officer Mike lags behind, standing in the open door, filling it like a giant pig in a big blue blanket. He smiles at me, exposing every single one of his grinding teeth. He bobs his head and glares at me. If we were back on the schoolyard he’d be the big fat bully who stares you down from across the jungle gym before beating the lunch money out of you. I hate bullies.

  “Excuse me Officer Mike,” I speak up, feeling a tell-tale dizziness swimming around my battered brain. “Would you mind finding me a new straw for my water?”

  He raises up his right hand, flashes me his middle digit.

  “There’s your fucking straw,” he smiles. “Suck on that for a while . . . Dick.”

  He walks.

  I guess he told me off but good, even if Dick jokes are totally ‘90s.

  The dizziness in my head gets worse. My vision begins to come and go. Like a Maglite with the batteries about to go on me.

  I call for a nurse. The one with the glorious cleavage. But I pass out before the heavenly vision can come to my rescue.

  CHAPTER 3

  I FALL UNCONSCIOUS TO a dream.

  I’m on a lifeboat that’s bobbing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Just a plain old wooden lifeboat like the kind they somehow forgot to bring along on the Titanic. On one side of me sits Lola. On the other, her new boyfriend. The faceless Some Young Guy. Only this guy isn’t faceless. He’s got Detective Clyne’s sad face.

  I’m naked, the sun beating down on me. I’m also thirsty as hell. Desert sand-parched.

  Lola’s wearing this smoking red thong-kini, and sipping a bottle of cold beer.

  Dos Equis.

  Some Young Clyne is naked too, and he’s sporting this huge ass boner. Just the biggest banana-shaped man sausage I’ve ever seen. It makes me want to cry the thing is so big, while my own looks like a shriveled raisin.

  Maybe the hot sun is beating down on me, but my right side is on fire. It feels like a hot poker is being jammed through my skin into my kidney. I look to my right and I can see that Some Young Clyne is sticking me with a Bowie knife. He’s got it thrust into my side, the jagged spine of the blade scraping against my bottom-most rib.

  Lola is laughing, sipping her beer. She takes her top off, allows her bouncy white titties to hang out. “Need to get some sun,” she says, running the pad of her index finger over sexy red lips, then over her mams, making those nipples scrumptiously pert and perky.

  “Don’t distract me,” says Some Young Clyne, his big boner bobbing up and down while he works. “I gotta get this thing out without popping it.”

  I’m in agony, red lights flashing in my eyes. He’s ramming the blade in deeper and deeper, until he reaches in with his hand, pulls something out . . . Something goopy, raw and meaty.

  It’s my kidney.

  My fucking kidney.

  He holds it up like a triumphant Apache warrior holding up the still beating heart of General Custer.

  “Nice work, baby,” Lola cheerfully utters. “Now how’s about an ice cold beer.”

  I wake up to the scent of leather.

  A hand is covering my mouth. A black-gloved hand, pressed down tight. One of those men-in-black Obama goons is standing on my right side, another on the left, and one at the foot of the bed. I peer down towards my side. The Obama on my right flank is sticking me with a scalpel, jabbing the blade inside a fresh three-stacked-rib-length gash that’s been sutured with a staple gun. He’s flicking the topmost staple and issuing a heartfelt giggle each time he does it.

  Sick goon at the foot of the bed holds that cancer voice machine up to his throat.

  “You should have stayed dead, dude,” he says like a question, voice sounding like a computer. Sort of like that famous wheelchair physics guy, Stephen Hawking. Stephen Hawking with a foreign accent. For the first time I’m beginning to think the Obamas aren’t exactly American nationals after all, just like Clyne was getting at earlier.

  I want to reach out, grab hold of the emergency nurse call. But I can’t move. I can’t talk. The stabs of the scalpel take my breath away. The flicking of the topmost staple makes me see through a sheen of red. I’m choking. Choking on my own pain.

  “Peter Czech . . . he was here, dude?” Obama says. “He give you something, yes? What is it he give you, Mister Moonlight, dude?”

  Scalpel Man pulls back on the blade. The relief is instantaneous. I’m able to swallow, able to moisten the back of my throat.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him, surprised at the sound of my own voice, now that it’s an entire octave higher than normal. “No one’s been here.”

  Flick goes the staple. I see red. Body burning electric.

  “Liar. We watch him come here, dude. Two hours ago. We fucking watch him. We think it is possible sneaky bastard give you a . . . a . . . a . . . what you call it . . . a flesh box. What does flesh box contain, dude?”

  “No stupid,” interrupts the Obama on my left. “Zeepy box. That’s what it is. It’s possible Czech give him a Zeepy box stupid motherfucker.”

  “Fuck cares what it’s called in America!” barks the scalpel man.

  I’m trying to make out where these men come from. But it’s tough to understand their voices through the synths. It screws up the sound of their words more than they’re capable of doing it on their own. And anyhow, I don’t see a box of any size, shape, or form inside the room. I don’t see a flesh box or a zeepy box or a shoebox or anything resembling a box.

  I look one way, then the other.

  I try to get up but I can’t budge myself from the bed. I just don’t see a box or I’d gladly give it to them so long as it’ll make them stop digging at me with that scalpel.

  This room isn’t big. There’s no storage. Wouldn’t a box be set out in plain sight? Is it possible Czech was here and I can’t remember? There’s a bullet frag stuck in my brain, and I just had my head bashed in by these same Obama look-alikes. Yes, it’s entirely possible I suffered another memory lapse.

  “If you see what you’re looking for inside this room,” I swallow, “you are most certainly welcome to have it. It’ll be my gift to you.”

  “What do you do with it, dude? Where do you hide box, dude? Our! Gift!”

  “I. Don’t. Have. A. Box.”

  The scalpel inserted, the blade flicks the staple, and this time doesn’t the mofo pop out.

  Back when I was a kid . . . a little kid of no more than five . . . I snuck down into my dad’s embalming room. I was strictly forbidden to enter the place. Not because there was always a stiff or two lying naked and ripped open from caudal to clavicle on one of the two stainless steel tables, but because the place was filled from top to bottom with sharp instruments. Plus electric saws and toxic chemicals that would kill me in an instant if I even swallowed one sip.

  Despite repeated warnings however, I couldn’t stop my little boy curiosity from getting the best of me. I remember when I finally worked up the courage to sneak down into the subterranean depths at dawn, staring goo-goo eyed at the naked fat man laid out face up on the far table, a clear hose inserted into his right side draining the blood that collected inside a silver vat, while another hose inserted into his left side filled him with psychedelic blue embalming fluid.

  To my right sat a silver casket. Its doors had been lef
t open. I remember thinking how cool it would be if I could just hop up inside the casket, close the doors, and pretend I was Count Dracula for a while. Seemed like a cool enough game to play in the creepy but fun basement of my dad’s funeral home. Without a second thought, I shuffled over to the empty casket in my Superman-feet jammies, and set both hands on the rim.

  That’s when the doors slammed closed.

  It was also the first time I ever experienced real pain. The kind of pain that not only takes your breath away, but that locks up your voice box, so that even screaming out is a physical impossibility.

  As luck would have it . . . or what would later turn out to be bad luck . . . my old man wasn’t far behind me. After raising the casket doors, he checked my hands to make sure they weren’t shattered. Only when he assured me they were in fact only bruised but not broken was I able to scream out in agony. He hugged me, dried my tears, and put my swelled black-and-blued hands on ice for the rest of the morning. Then he took my TV privileges away for an entire week.

  That’s when the real pain set in.

  First I hear the tinny jingle of a single medical staple hitting the hard floor.

  Then I see several rapid-fire flashes of red just before passing out.

  When I come to, the Obamas are standing at the front of the room. One of them is looking out through a crack in the door. They obviously know that someone is coming, and that means they have to exit the premises. Pronto.

  “We’ll be back, Mister Moonlight,” warns the lead Obama. “And we want what we come for, yes dude?”

  “By all means . . . dude.” But I have no idea what box and even more no idea about my new client Peter Czech having paid me a visit.

  The Obamas scoot out the door.

  I roll onto my good side, and heave all over the bed.

  CHAPTER 4

  A FEW MINUTES LATER Lola walks in, carrying a white vase filled with fresh flowers in her hands. She takes one look at me and drops the flowers to the floor. The vase shatters.

  So do my nerves.

  I don’t realize it, but the little staple flicking/popping incident has left a puddle of blood on the bed. On the opposite side sits a pool of my own brown bile.

  Moonlight the attractive.

  I sit up, feel more of that electric pain shoot up and down my side. I pull off the covers, and somehow swing my legs around.

  “You’re out of your head!” Lola says, voice trembling.

  I pull out the intravenous lines.

  “No, I’m out of my bed, and we have to go. I stay here, I’m a dead man.”

  “Richard, it’s the hospital. You leave you’re a dead man.”

  I slide off the bed. Stand. A bit wobbly. But once I get my breath back, I know I can manage without falling flat on my face. I shuffle to the closet, find my clothes. I toss them to Lola.

  “Help me with these. I’m telling not asking.”

  She’s still wearing those Jackie Os. Tight jeans, black sweater. Hair long and pulled back in a ponytail. I can’t help but wonder where Some Young Guy has run off to. Or if he even exists in the real world. Maybe I dreamt him up in the first place. The brain plays tricks on you when it’s deprived of oxygen.

  “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  I tear off the gown and reveal yet another uncontrollable erection. Doesn’t matter at this point. Lola has seen it a thousand times before. It ain’t all that much to look at, even at full mast. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s why Lola has turned to Some Young Guy. Maybe Johnson and I are just not good enough for her.

  “Help me into my pants.”

  She hesitates.

  “Like now!”

  She bends down with my Levis in hand. There’s blood on them. She holds the pants like you would for a child who’s too young to dress himself. I step into the pant leg. More electric pain. I step into the other leg and with Lola’s help, pull them up and over my manhood.

  That’s when the nurse steps in, her eyes shifting from the shattered ruins of a broken vase on the floor to me. She’s the good-looking short blond nurse. The one with the cleavage.

  “Oh no you’re not!”

  She lunges at me, grabs hold of my arm. I pull away.

  “A man was here earlier. In a wheelchair. Did you see him?”

  She goes wide-eyed. I’m trying not to look down into her cleavage. But it’s like trying not to look at parallel Mount Everests while standing in front of them.

  “Yes. He said he was a friend. You spoke with him for a while.” Eyes back on the wilted flowers and shattered ceramic. Then back on me. “Did he give you anything? Anything I should know about?”

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  Shaking her head, she says, “You have a brain injury. You obviously don’t remember anything.” Her eyes shifting down to my midsection. “You’re getting spontaneous erections due to a bruised thalamus. Not an ideal situation for someone who can suffer a stroke at any time. Get back in bed.”

  I glance downwards. Just as I thought. I’m showing.

  She goes to grab me again, but this time I take her hand and hold it. Then looking up. “Lola, watch the door.”

  She does it.

  “It’s possible the man in the wheelchair gave me some kind of box, or something that looks like a box or a package. I don’t see it here. Did you take it? Is that why you’re asking me if he gave me something?”

  “You’re hurting me,” she says, trying to free her hand. “I don’t remember a box. Do you? Could it be around here?”

  I shake my head. My side feels squishy and liquidly. I know I’m bleeding, the blood running from my side down my right leg.

  “Some men came to see me just a few minutes ago. They were dressed in black and wearing masks like President Obama. Did you see them too?”

  “Mr. Moonlight, I’ve been standing out at that desk all morning, and I did not see any men wearing masks. My brain is perfectly normal and I would recall that.”

  They must have gotten in through the service elevator somehow. Or the stairs. One at a time. Maybe even wore lab coats to make themselves look like hospital support staff.

  I let her go, grab the rest of my clothing.

  “I’m leaving and don’t try and stop me, understand? There’s no law against me leaving. I need you to grab me a wheelchair. Now. Please. Please. Now.”

  Nurse shakes her head, bites down on her lip. She slips past Lola, and just for a moment the two women pause to glare at each other, almost like they’re about to engage in conversation.

  But without saying a word, Nurse heads out into the hall, returns right away with a wheelchair, the letters AMC stenciled on the back.

  “You’re making a huge mistake,” Lola says as I fall back into the chair. “You should listen to the nurse instead of just staring goo-goo eyed at her boobs. You have a pre-existing brain injury. You could enter into stroke at any time. You could die. Again.”

  I ask Lola to place a blanket over me. She grabs the one off the bed, steps around the puddle of broken glass and flowers, and drapes it over my lap.

  “Dead again,” I say to Nurse. “Been there, done that.” Then to Lola. “Let’s go.”

  “One of these times, Mr. Moonlight,” Nurse says, “you’re not going to wake up from being dead.”

  “He who dies today is quit for next,” I say, wheeling myself through the open door. “Shakespeare said that. Or maybe it was Ernest Hemingway. In any event, they’re both dead now.”

  “So are you,” Nurse says, “one way or another.”

  I don’t like the way she says it. Death isn’t something to joke around with. But then life . . . life is a different story. Especially my own train wreck of an existence . . .

  . . . Now there’s something to laugh about.

  CHAPTER 5

  WE MAKE IT TO the elevator without anyone, doctor or nurse, giving us a second thought. Down on the hospital’s ground floor level, Lola pushes my chair slowly, casually, as though she
’s taking me for a stroll in the hospital courtyard for some much deserved fresh air.

  It’s almost a letdown the way we make it to Lola’s ride without any trouble at all. Without even a single white-smocked doctor giving us any kind of hassle whatsoever. The half dozen we pass by on our way down the narrow corridor towards the electronic sliding doors simply issue kind bedside smiles and keep on their merry way.

  Stat!

  By the time Lola helps me up into the passenger seat of her Hummer, the blood oozing out my side has soaked through the towel. My erection has subsided thank God, but I’m also beginning to feel lightheaded, which isn’t anything unusual for me. New concussion or no new concussion. But I do know that if I don’t get that gash in my side stitched back up soon, I’ll pass out from blood loss.

  “Let’s head straight to Georgie’s,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Lola gives me no argument. But I can tell from the tight-as-a-tick expression on her face that she isn’t liking any of this. She even opens her mouth once as if to say something; reveal some kind of truth, or at the very least, give me a good tongue lashing. But then she clams up on me again. In the end she just sighs, turns the big eight-cylinder over, and backs out of the parking spot.

  I can’t tell what hurts worse.

  My split open side or her silence.

  When she pulls out onto the road, I can’t help but spot them sitting inside an unmarked Chevy: Detective Clyne and his driver, Officer Mike. At first I can’t be sure they’ve caught sight of me. But when big Mike holds his hand out the open window and flips me off for the second time in twenty-four hours, I’m pretty damned sure I’ve been spotted by the APD, the same crime stoppers who rescued me from the Albany back alley in the first place. Against their better judgment, no doubt.

  No matter what happens from this point out, I’ll bet the non-existent mortgage on Moonlight’s Moonlit Manner that those two cops won’t be far from my tail. What I can’t decide however is if a cop tail is a good thing or a bad thing for a marked man like me.