Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

  Then the cars start passing by.

  I’m facing traffic as I run along the roadside, so I can easily see the faces of the drivers and the passengers as they motor pass. There’s something about the way they’re gazing upon me. The drivers are slowing down and craning their necks in order to get a good look at me. They’re risking injury to life and limb by taking their eyes off the road to get a full eye-fill of me, your average, everyday jogger taking in his morning run in the sun.

  Or am I?

  When a carload of college-age girls goes by and they begin to scream and hoot, the driver blaring the horn and swaying into the opposite lane of oncoming traffic, I know something must be up.

  That’s when I begin to feel a breeze.

  It’s slight at first. But it’s a breeze alright, and it’s blowing against my midsection. The farther I run away from home, the more intense the cold wind blowing against my junk becomes. I stop running. I look down at myself. It’s then I realize I’ve left my home without my shorts on. I’m jogging along the soft shoulder of a public street in the middle of a bright busy morning, with only a t-shirt and sneakers on, the rest of me exposed to the world.

  Panic fills me.

  I about-face and try to sprint back to my loft. But my feet won’t move. I’m paralyzed on the street-side as the cars and trucks begin piling up. They’re not flying past now, satisfied with a simple rubbernecking gaze. They’re pulling off to the side of the road and getting out. Old people, young people, men and women, girls and boys, cops, firemen, construction workers, students, suits, priests, bearded rabbis, you name it … they’re all stopping their vehicles and getting out. They’re standing in the road gawking at me with these wide-as-hell eyes, looking me up and down, feeding upon my nakedness. Upon my exposed manhood.

  Those eyes…

  …They are the same kind of wanting eyes that stare at me now.

  Steely blue eyes that belong to a small but spunky forty-something woman by the name of Suzanne Bonchance, but who is better known in literary circles as the “Iron Lady” due to a pair of brass knuckles she keeps conspicuously perched on the edge of her desk. The same brass knuckles I can plainly see as I sit down in a black leather chair that’s positioned directly before the desk. A desk so long and wide it can accommodate a dozen or more manuscripts and still leave room for the Iron Lady’s many framed photos which are positioned so that a visitor like me can get a good look at them. Pics of her seated in a café in Paris with Salmon Rushdie. Pics of her dirty dancing with Jackie Collins. Pics of her walking the red carpet at the Oscars, Brad and Angelia only a few steps behind her. Pics of her standing beside Michelle and Barack Obama, a massive American flag perched on the wall behind them.

  I slip my leather briefcase off my lap, set it down on the floor, and once more eye those brass knuckles.

  “You ever use those before?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the steel and very illegal street fighting weapon, as she seats herself down gently into her leather swivel chair, her neck-length black hair settling perfectly upon perfectly carved shoulders. This morning those perfect shoulders are covered by a perfectly tailored gray top that perfectly matches a gray mini skirt and knee length leather boots for footwear. The forty-something woman looks like the offspring of an in-her-prime Sophia Loren and a Friends-era Jennifer Anniston—that is if they were ever able to physically hook up and spit out a love child. Her perfect wardrobe du jour costs more than my entire closet of Levis jeans and crew neck, all-cotton t-shirts. But then, I’m not a hotshot literary agent.

  “Would you like to see me in them?” she asks, a hint of a perfect white smile forming on her red lip-sticked mouth.

  “And only in them,” I say. Moonlight the Cagey. Or is it Moonlight the Dog?

  She exhales and does that positively-taken-aback eye blinking thing that all classy women do when I surprise them with my wit and charm.

  “I’ve been warned about your humor,” she says, after a calm and collecting inhale and exhale. “And about your…” Making like a pistol, she points an extended index finger in the direction of her right temple.

  “It’s okay, you can say it. You being the perfect literary agent and all.”

  “Suicide,” she says, the word coming out with a noticeable hint of English on it. As if this New York born and bred woman were from London.

  “Botched suicide, to be perfectly honest. I couldn’t go through with it in the end. Call me a wimp.”

  “But you bear the scars. Emotional and physical.” It’s a statement posed like a question.

  “There’s a small piece of .22 caliber hollow-point lodged beside my cerebral cortex. On occasion it can cause me to pass out, especially during periods of great stress. Or it can mess with my decision making process. It can also cause me to die right now in this chair if it suddenly decides to shift. It’s a hell of a way to live actually, knowing you can die at any second. Makes you appreciate the time you have all the more.”

  “Sounds positively warm and fuzzy,” she says, the corners of her pretty little mouth perking up. “But I trust the little piece of bullet doesn’t impede your performance?”

  I smile.

  “My performance is impeccable.” It’s a lie. But what the hell?

  Her once cautious smile now turns into an all out ear-to-ear smile. Sitting back in her chair, she sets both hands onto the armrests. It causes her jacket to open up revealing a tight-fitting black silk blouse that’s unbuttoned enough to reveal some serious cleavage and a black lace push-up bra. Victoria Secret.

  “I’m not interested in that kind of performance,” she explains. “I’m interested in the performance of Dick Moonlight, private detective.”

  “I like the way you say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Dick.”

  We sit in silence while I watch the lids on her eyes rapidly rise and fall. What for some might be an uncomfortable silence, but for me is a whole-lot-of-fun kind of silence. Moonlight the Ball Buster.

  “Why don’t we get right to the heart of the matter, shall we?” the agent says after a beat.

  “Goody,” I say, crossing my right booted foot over my blue-jeaned knee. “Let’s have it, Iron Lady.”

  She shifts her gaze from me to the window wall on her left, as if looking out onto the Hudson Valley helps her think.

  “Are you familiar with the poet and novelist, Roger Walls?”

  I steal a silent second or two to think about it. But truth be told, I don’t have to think about it at all. I’m familiar with Roger Walls all right. He visited my college during my senior year back in the early ʹ80s when I was about to earn my BA in English Lit. Back when I’d made the solemn vow to never enter into my dad’s funeral business and instead become a world-class author. Like Hemingway. Mailer. Or Walls.

  Roger fucking Walls.

  Sitting in front of the perfectly presented Suzanne Bonchance, I pictured the less than perfectly dressed poet/novelist donning a ratty safari jacket over a pair of worn Levis and Tony Lama cowboy boots. He wasn’t very tall, but barrel-chested and he sported a black beard and black, brushed-back hair that by now would probably be grey. Or so I imagined. He was a bad boy writer, drunk when he arrived at the college for his reading and even drunker when he carried a bottle of Jack with him to the podium. A daring move that caused the rather conservative Providence College audience of stiff upper class profs to pucker their assholes while the English students jumped up on their feet and issued a rousing standing ovation.

  “Knives, Guns, and Bitches. Slasher Babe. The Killer Inside Her,” I recite, recalling just a few of Walls’s books. “Walls has a way with women and he reflects it in his titles.” Moonlight the Lit Critic.

  “Roger is old school, Mr. Moonlight,” Bonchance goes on, her eyes still staring out the window, no doubt onto an image of her stocky, liquor-soaked client. “He comes from a time when male writers felt they had to live by the Hemingway code. Tough, burly womanizers and drinkers. Men who lived by
their word and were willing to back it up with their fists and tire irons if need be. “ She sighs sadly, her eyes still glued to the great beyond. Gives me the feeling she misses the Roger Walls kind of bad boy writer. “Nowadays,” she goes on, her voice more sullen, “you’re lucky if a male writer takes real sugar with his double mocha Frappuccino. In today’s manhood-castrated world, being a bad boy means having to give back the Oprah award or a book called The Corrections is about as far away from a hard-core prison novel as Justin Bieber is from Sid Vicious.”

  “Word up is that Walls has got an evil temper. That he shot someone once.”

  Her head springs back around, her eyes once more locked onto me. She’s also smiling again like she’s turned on by the fact that Walls is not only the last of his macho kind, but also a homicidal maniac.

  “It’s the truth.” She nods. “He did shoot a man who encroached on his property out in Chatham near the very rural Massachusetts border. Almost thirty years ago now. Probably around the time he visited your college. He’s always maintained that the man encroaching was threatening his life with a hunting rifle. Of course, he only bears a slight recollection of the event.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “He was inebriated at the time.”

  “And flying high on windowpane LSD. In any event, the man he shot did not press charges in the end.”

  “After being shot?”

  “It was only flesh wound, Mr. Moonlight. The man with the hunting rifle was clearly in the wrong by trespassing on private property.”

  “Please call me Moonlight. Or, if you prefer, Ms. Bonchance, Dick.”

  She looks at me with an iron face. Matches her iron fist.

  “Moonlight it will be,” she says. “Rather poetic, I might add. An author’s name if ever I heard one. Have you ever considered writing something, Moonlight? Your memoirs perhaps? I could find you a ghostwriter.”

  “How interesting you should suggest that,” I say, reaching down with my right hand, setting it on my briefcase. “But before we get to that, what is it you would like me to do for Mr. Walls?”

  “I’d like you to find him for me.”

  “He go missing?”

  “Not officially.”

  “As in the cops aren’t looking him.” It’s a question.

  “The police have not been notified and nor will they be. Roger is no longer on probation for that shooting all those years ago, but his file is still open and it would be messy and complicated for him if they were to get involved.”

  “I understand,” I say. “But how long has he been gone?”

  “About a week. He’s on one of his … how shall I say it…” Tossing up her hands.

  “Benders,” I say for her.

  “Yes, benders,” she repeats, dropping her hands into her lap. “Like I said, Mr. Walls is one of the last of the bad boy writers.”

  “He still call Chatham home?”

  “Aren’t you going to write down some notes?”

  I tap what’s left of the little dime-sized scar on the side of my head with my index finger.

  “My brain might be fragile, but it’s still as sharp as the razor’s edge.”

  “Yes, he still maintains a home there. And an apartment in Florence, Italy. He also keeps a trailer in the Baja. An Airstream actually.” Then shaking her head. “Forgive me. I believe he’s since sold the Baja property to a famous jazz musician.”

  She says Airstream with so much happy, dreamy, sexy recollection in her voice I’m surprised she doesn’t faint on the spot. Tells me she’s no stranger to the inside of that desert Airstream.

  “How wonderful for him,” I say. “Has the bad boy written anything as of late?”

  She winces. Noticeably— like I picked up those brass knuckles and tossed them into her gut. Or lack thereof.

  “Funny you should ask that, Moonlight,” she says.

  “How funny, Ms. Bonchance?”

  “Please call me, Suzanne,” she says. “And it’s been quite a while since Mr. Walls produced a full-length novel. Ten years to be precise.”

  “Since Slasher,” I say. “That book rocked. Especially the girl-on-girl threesome scenes. Lots of violence too.”

  “Yes, you would be his kind of audience, I dare say, Moonlight. The movie did quite well too.”

  “Brad Pitt. How can it not do well? Walls must have made a fortune.”

  “Indeed. Problem is, that kind of money doesn’t last. Not when you possess the rather expensive habits of our Mr. Walls. One of which is divorce. He’s created a hobby out of it. You can’t imagine the child support and alimony payments he must make on a monthly basis alone.”

  “Or that he is supposed to make anyway.”

  “Correct, Moonlight. All too often he, um, let’s say, forgets to write out his checks.”

  “Another good reason for keeping the cops out of this.”

  “Hmm, yah think?”

  I smile.

  She smiles.

  “So then, Ms. Bonchance, bottom line here.”

  “Bottom line, Moonlight? A working Roger Walls is a money-making Roger Walls. He’s also a sober Roger Walls and a responsible bill-paying Roger Walls.”

  “I see. It means you can keep up with the payments on your Porsche and your house in The Hamptons.”

  “How did you know I have a house in The Hamptons?”

  “Lucky guess.” Moonlight the Intuitive. Then, “Any idea where I might start looking for him? He got a favorite local bar?”

  “Lots of favorites. So I assume.”

  “Can you recall a specific one?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I never frequented those kinds of places with him. We engaged in more civilized behavior. Like dinner at the 677 Prime Steak House in downtown Albany.” Laughing. What a writer might describe as sardonically. “Correction. I ate, and he drank.”

  “Maybe there’s a joint in Chatham I can check out. Not a big town.”

  “Excellent, Moonlight. I can already see what a master detective you are.”

  “Hey, you hired me. Warts and all. He have any family?”

  “Parents are dead. He’s got a sister somewhere. But not in New York. Don’t know whether she’s older or younger or even still alive for that matter.”

  “His ex-wives live around here?”

  Shaking her head. “His present wife still resides in the Albany area. Look Walls up on Wikipedia. You’ll find his list of love interests there. The newest one’s an actress. Got lucky with some minor parts in some Showtime stuff. A sprinkling of television commercials. Hot little piece of eye candy, you ask me.”

  “And Walls has a major sweet tooth, I take it. What’s her name?”

  “Sissy. Young thing. Bit of a partier. Has driven Roger to the edge more than once.”

  “She mind if I pay her a visit?”

  “I’m not sure her minding is important.”

  “Gotcha. Anyone else you know I should check with? Friends? Drinking buddies?”

  “Roger doesn’t believe in friends. ‘No friends, no enemas’ he often preaches.” Then raising her right hand like a brilliant thought has just flashed inside her head. “There is one man you might try. His name is Gregor Oatczuk. A writing professor at the university MFA program.”

  “Sounds important. But that name. Sounds like Upchuck.” I make a face, like I feel like puking.

  “He’s as close to a friend as Roger has around here, even though Roger thinks of him as a bore. And yup, hell of name to be born with. He should change it.”

  “You got a number for him?”

  She leans up in her chair, picks up her phone. “I’ll call his office. Tell him you’ll be coming.”

  She dials and I wait. When someone answers she asks for this Oatczuk character by name. When she’s told he isn’t in, she explains the situation to the person who must be his secretary. Then she hangs up.

  “He’ll call me back. When he does, I’ll send him your way.”

  “Thanks.”


  “Find the writer for me. And I will pay you handsomely. Plus all expenses and a nice fat bonus.”

  “With real money?”

  “And then some.”

  “Goodie. I might ask you to pay me in another way as well.” Once more, I set my hand back down on my brief case.

  Her eyes go wide, giving me that same up-and-down look they gave me when I first walked in.

  “Excuse me, Moonlight?”

  “Not that kind of payment, Ms. Bonchance,” I say, pulling the briefcase up and onto my lap. “But I have a small confession to make. A moment ago you asked me if I’ve ever written anything. Well, here’s your answer.” Opening up the flap on the leather case, I slide out the manuscript. “It’s a sort of fictional memoir. A detective story.”

  Silence fills the office. A thick weighted silence that makes my chest go tight.

  “My list is quite full, Moonlight. I’m not really taking on new projects. It’s one of the reasons I moved my office up to sleepy little Albany. I no longer have to compete in the Manhattan rat race.”

  I stand, the now empty case in one hand, the manuscript in the other.

  “Just read a few pages,” I say. “If you don’t like it, no harm done. Consider it a personal favor. I’ll be on the case of your missing writer regardless.”

  She cocks her head, sits up straight, feet flat on the floor.

  “Ok, leave it,” she says.

  I set the manuscript onto the table. It takes me by surprise when she practically dives across the desk to snatch it up. A hungry fish on a fat, juicy worm. Sitting back in her chair, she reads the cover page.

  “Moonlight Falls,” she says, with a sly grin. “Not bad, Moonlight. Not a bad title if I say so myself. Maybe you will have something here after all.” Setting the book back down on the table, she stands and comes around her desk.

  “I can stay while you read it,” I say, reaching out, setting my open hand on her perfect shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. Moonlight the Charming.