Moonlight Sonata: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller No. 7)

by Vincent Zandri

  I grab Georgie’s attention through the plate glass window. I raise the two fingers on my left hand to indicate the number two. Then, with the same fingers closed together, I point them in the direction of the two goons on the backup squad. He gets my meaning, flashes me a single raised finger on his free hand. I then pat my heart, meaning, “Don’t kill them. Just shoot to wound.” He nods in total understanding. Georgie and I have known one another as close as two non-biological brothers can for nearly forty years. We don’t need to speak directly to know what the other is thinking.

  My left hand held back up, I hold up three fingers.

  “One,” I mouth, dropping the first finger.

  “Two.” Dropping the second.

  “Three.”

  I hear a shot just as I burst through the door. At the same time, I fire the .38 at the legs of the backup goons. They never get a shot off, dropping on the spot, the blood from the wounds in their thighs already spurting blood. Alexander is on his back, the .44 gripped in his right hand. With one bullet, he shatters the chandelier over the kitchen table. It falls from the ceiling in a resounding crash.

  He’s screaming “Shit! Fuck! Motherfucker!” in Russian-accented English.

  I kick the other .44s out of reach of the wounded men and nearly break my big toe.

  “Drop it!” Georgie screams. “Drop the gun!”

  Instead, the Russian fires again, the bullet hitting the ceiling, plaster reigning down on his erect penis.

  Suzanne is screaming. Roger is still on his knees. He’s grabbed hold of Alexander’s stiff manhood and looks like he’s about to yank it off. His face is so red with rage I’m afraid he will.

  I lean down, press the barrel of my gun against Alexander’s forehead.

  “Roger, let it go!” I scream. “We need him and his dick.”

  He issues me this scrunched-up-brow look of confusion.

  “Get his gun,” I add.

  Roger does it, turning the barrel back onto the thug.

  “What are you going to do to me, motherfucker?” Alexander asks, the wound in his lower shin draining blood like a bad leak. His face is pale with pain.

  “We’re not going to kill you yet,” I say. “We’re going to finish what Suzanne started.”

  The look of pain on his face shifts to tight-lipped disgust.

  “What kind of creepy, perversion man are you?” he spits.

  “The word is perverted, Alexander,” Roger corrects, standing back up on his two feet. “It’s per-ver-ted. If you’re going to say it in English, say it right.”

  “Alexander,” Suzanne says, tugging her black T-shirt down over her head, tucking it into the waist of her jeans, “meet my newest client. Mr. Richard ‘Dick’ Moonlight. Part time author, part time private detective, full-time hater of the Russian mob.”

  Chapter 40

  AFTER BINDING THE WRISTS and ankles of the two Russians I wounded with my .38, I ask Roger to stand guard over them.

  “What are you doing with Alexander?” Suzanne asks.

  I hand her one of the other two hand cannons the thugs brought along.

  “Georgie and I are going to interrogate him inside the van,” I lie. “You help Roger.”

  She seems apprehensive at first, like she doesn’t quite believe my story. And for good reason. As a woman who sells fiction, her own built-in shit detector must be as good if not better than mine. She’s also read my book. Which means she’s fully aware of how much I hate Russian mobsters and, now, how desperately I need to clear myself of having anything to do with Sissy’s death. But that doesn’t mean I want her to witness the rather nasty business Georgie and I are about to pull off.

  Before Georgie and I proceed to carry Alexander out to the van, I make sure Roger has himself a couple of cold beers sitting out on the kitchen table and Suzanne has a fresh pack of smokes and a mirror with some neatly cut lines laid out on it. Courtesy of Sissy Walls and a less than thorough Albany Police Department.

  “Ready, Georgie,” I say, hefting a woozy Alexander to his feet, with his left arm wrapped around my shoulder.

  “Don’t pass out on us, Mr. Stalin,” Georgie says, withdrawing a vial of Viagra from his jacket pocket. “We need to get that hammer and sickle in the mood.”

  Chapter 41

  WE HAUL THE WOUNDED thug out to the van, where we shove him into the back cargo space along with Sissy’s body.

  “What the fuck are you doing with dead body?” he begs. “Get me away from dead body.”

  While I’m standing outside the open cargo bay doors, Georgie jumps inside, sets himself onto his knees to the right of Sissy’s black-bagged body. He takes out his cell phone.

  “Here you go, Alex,” he smiles, holding out the phone toward the wounded Russian. “Why don’t you call the police and tell them what’s happening.”

  The thug coughs up a lugy, spits it in Georgie’s general direction. The pathologist might be nearing his senior years, but he’s quick on his feet. Or, in this case, his knees. He shifts his head out of the line of fire as the thick wad of spit splats against the van’s hollow metal wall.

  Sufficiently pissed off, Georgie, pulls out his .9mm, presses the barrel against the goon’s forehead.

  “Get undressed,” he orders.

  Georgie unzips Sissy’s body bag, revealing her pale, chalky face and mussed-up red hair, along with the entirety of her naked body.

  There’s a look of profound confusion mixed with pain and fear on Alexander’s clean-shaven face. His steel gray eyes are open wide, brow scrunched. His mouth has suddenly gone dry, judging from his incessant swallowing and the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat like a turkey awaiting the axe.

  Georgie tells me to hold my gun on the thug while he returns his to his shoulder holster. He then unzips his duffel bag, digs out a bottle of Poland Spring Water, uncaps it. Hands it to the Russian.

  “Hold this,” he says.

  From outside the open doors, I hold the .38 on the Russian, pointblank, safety off.

  Alex takes hold of the water bottle.

  “Now then, I want you to swallow these.” The old pathologist pours a fistful of pills into the palm of his hand. He immediately attempts to transfer the pills to the Russian’s hand. But the Russian tosses the water bottle at Georgie’s head.

  “Fuck you, pig!” he screams.

  Georgie turns to me. “Moon, shoot off one of his big toes.”

  Without hesitation I press the barrel of the .38 against the goon’s boot tip.

  “Wait! Please! Fucking wait! Stop!” he begs.

  Georgie, still holding out the pills. “Well, what’s it going to be Alexander Stalin? This is one of those you-can-do-this-the-easy-way-or-the-hard-way moments.”

  I push the gun deeply into the tip of the boot so he gets the point. He winces in pain since the foot I’m messing with belongs to the shin I’ve already put a hole through. He takes the pills from Georgie and pops them in his mouth. The entire handful. Reaching around his backside, Georgie retrieves the water bottle and hands it to him. Half the water is gone, but he swallows what’s left, along with the pills.

  “What is in pills?” Alexander asks as soon as he can get his air back.

  “Viagra,” Georgie tells him. “You’ve just taken enough to make an elephant hard as a rock.”

  As if on cue, we shift our glance in the direction of the thug’s junk. As if it’s about to rise like a muffin inside an Easy Bake Oven.

  “You are insane, da?” he says. “That many pills will make me kiss bucket.”

  “It’s ‘kick the bucket,’ Alex,” Georgie corrects. “Kick the fucking bucket. And I don’t really care what happens to you after you give us a sample.”

  “What sample?” the goon says.

  “Your sperm sample.”

  “I will do no such thing.”

  He’s moving now. Shifting his body as if his already too tight clothing is growing uncomfortable. The pills are working.

  “Yes
, you will,” Georgie says. Then Georgie tells him precisely how and where he wants that sperm sample delivered.

  The goon’s face goes from pale to purple. For a split second I think he might throw up. Georgie slides Sissy’s legs out of the body bag. She’s limber and rubber-like now that the rigor mortis stage of death has passed. He positions her legs like she is about to give birth and, reaching back into his kit, pulls out a pair of blue Latex gloves, slaps them on. Next, he produces a tube of K-Y Jelly. Squeezing a dollop out onto his finger pads, he applies the K-Y in the required area. Then, his eyes on Alexander, he says. “Let’s go, Romeo. Batter up.”

  “Batter up. What does that fucking mean? Batter up. You mean like dick. Dick’s up.”

  “It’s just a saying,” Georgie says. “Let’s go, assume the position and make it happen.”

  But the goon backs away. His look of horror turns to weeping. He begins crying real tears. The tears are streaming down his cheeks. “Please. Don’t make me do this.”

  “Let me ask you something, Alex?” Georgie says. “Did you enjoy raping Suzanne? Making her suck your cock while you stuffed the barrel of that pistol into Roger’s mouth? You weren’t crying then.”

  “It was all in good fun.”

  “Good fun,” Georgie laughs. But nothing’s funny. “How many men and women have you killed in your day, Mr. Stalin? How did you kill them? Shoot them in the head? Did you rape the women before you killed them? Did you cut their heads off? What about the boys you’ve tortured and killed? Did you cut their throats? Do it in front of their mothers?”

  Alexander remains silent, knowing Georgie isn’t exaggerating. Like me, Georgie has had his share of near-death run-ins with the Russian mob.

  “I have never made anyone have sex with dead person before,” the thug wails. “That is going against unwritten rule. Like disobeying Geneva Convention or something.”

  “First time for everything,” Georgie insists, tearing off his rubber glove and once more grabbing hold of his .9mm, holding the barrel on the weeping Russian, thumbing back the hammer. “Do it, or die now.”

  “Then you won’t have sample,” the goon exclaims.

  “Oh, I can grab a sample up until five minutes after you’re deceased. Little known fact about dead men. The junk can produce sperm while the body is still warm.” Reaching back into his bag with his free hand. “Only difference is, I’ll have to cut it out, which means immediate and total castration.”

  Now the Russian goes from purple to red. He also stops crying, as if he’s just wept his last tear. He sits up, wincing in pain. Then sucking in a single deep breath, he unbuckles his pants, drops them down around his knees and rolls over on top of Sissy.

  “May good Lord forgive me,” he says, as he makes the sign of the cross, then shifts himself forward to go to work on her body.

  “May the devil have mercy on your soul, Alexander,” Georgie says, while I step back from the open doors and look the other way.

  Chapter 42

  IT TAKES LESS THAN five minutes for Alex to give us, and Sissy, the sample we need. He then re-buckles his pants. Georgie helps him out of the van, where he proceeds to puke. When he’s finished, Georgie and I act as his crutches and lead him back into the house. Inside we find Roger and Suzanne are holding guns on the seated, wounded Russians. Their blood has collected forming a small pool of crimson underneath the chairs.

  “What do we do with my house guests, Moonlight?” Roger inquires. He’s got an open beer in his free hand. Meanwhile, Suzanne is sitting on the long leather couch, her pistol set on the cushion beside her now that the two Russians are passed out from blood loss, and on their way to being dead.

  Georgie and I drop Alexander to the floor. With all the Viagra he’s ingested, his erection is pup-tenting out of his pants. My guess is he’ll carry that wood for forty-eight hours or more.

  “We need to call the police,” I say.

  Georgie nods.

  “It’s about that time, Moon. Call the cops from the car while we’re trucking Sissy back to the morgue.”

  I ask Roger how he feels about involving the cops at this point.

  “If it means these Russians will no longer be up my ass for one million bucks,” he says, “I’m ready. I’ll even wait here for them.”

  “What will you tell them, Rog?” I ask.

  “The truth,” he says, taking a drink of beer. “At least, my version of the truth. I drove back to the house and let myself in. These guys were here waiting for me. Turns out Sissy had some illegal drug dealings with them and they wanted their money. Now that Sissy’s gone, they wanted me to pay. They turned their guns on me, but I was able to get the jump on them. I shot them in self-defense. Just like the first time around, when I shot that man for trespassing.”

  “We’ve got three different caliber of bullets embedded into these Russian’s legs and into the woodwork,” Georgie points out. “How is Roger going to explain that?”

  I start wracking my brain for an answer when the bullet wizzes past my right ear.

  Chapter 43

  I HIT THE FLOOR.

  So do Georgie and Roger.

  Suzanne slides off the couch, crawls around to the back. Taking advantage of the chaos, Alexander crawls over to Roger, snatches the .44 Magnum from his hand, cold-cocks the author over the head with the barrel.

  Another couple of rounds tear through the windows and into the floor at my feet.

  Alexander raises up the gun, fires one off at Georgie. The bullet misses and takes a chunk out of the wall behind him.

  Georgie rolls in my direction, aiming his .9mm at Alexander, and proceeds to pump three rounds into his head.

  No more Alexander.

  Coming from outside the now shot through windows are the sounds of boot heels on the wooden desk and an ear-piercing screech. Correction. Not a screech, but a good old-fashioned rebel yell. Then comes the sound of the kitchen door being kicked in. In steps two men and, behind them, two women.

  “Git yer asses down on the floor!” screams the short, chubby redneck, his bolt-action 30.06 hunting rifle gripped in both hands.

  “We’re already on the floors, you morons!” Georgie yells, his right hand gripping his .9mm.

  “We got us here the Richard ‘Dick’ Moonlight!” shouts the tall bearded one, a double-barreled shotgun at the ready. “Wanted for the murder of Missus Sissy Walls.”

  “Let me guess, Harlan,” I say from down on the floor, on my stomach. “You aims to turn my hide in to the law.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” says the woman standing behind him. “Unless, of course, we negotiate a settlement. Out of court, so to speak.” The woman giggles, like she’s having a lot of fun. The woman beside her giggles, too. The giggles sound identical, since the women are identical twins.

  I know one of them. But from down on the floor, I’m not entirely sure which one I know, since they are dressed in the same clothing. Tall leather boots over knee-high socks and short white, thigh-length dresses with a pleasant flower print. Aviator sunglasses conceal their eyes and the way they wear their brown hair parted neatly to the side brings out the whiteness in their perfect teeth.

  “Erica,” I say, “perhaps you should introduce us to your twin sister.”

  Chapter 44

  “SO WHAT IS IT you girls want?” I say, knowing if we don’t get Sissy’s body back to the morgue in less than an hour, I will not only be wanted for murder, but also body snatching.

  “I don’t know,” says the one, who is now obviously Erica, to her twin. “What exactly do we want, Vanessa?”

  “We don’t need any money,” Vanessa says. “We got lots of that now. Thanks to Roger and his booze.”

  I steal a glance at the author. He’s passed out from the pistol whipping Alexander Stalin gave him. He’s mumbling in his sleep. Something about wanting another round for everyone. He’s buying.

  “You took Roger’s money,” I say. “The million the Russians put up. You must
have both been present when Roger went to the train station for the payoff. One of you sits at the table with Roger and, when he got up to take a leak, the other simply walked away with the bag.”

  “Yeah, but how did you guys even know enough to be there when the drop was supposed to go down?” Georgie poses.

  That’s when something interesting happens.

  Suzanne stands up from behind the couch, stuffs the barrel of the gun she’s been holding into the waist of her jeans and approaches the two girls, kissing both of them lovingly on the mouth. “Because I told them to, Dr. Phillips.”

  I feel my insides heating up. If only one of those rednecks weren’t holding a hunting rifle on me, I’d jump up and tackle all three of them.

  “You told them,” I say. “Good going, Suzanne. First stealing Brando’s manuscript. Then selling drugs. Then stealing a million dollars in cash from some Russian goons. I haven’t even asked you about paying my bill.”

  “Actually, Moonlight,” Suzanne says, lighting a cigarette, “the drug running came after I stole the million.”

  “We stole the million,” Erica chimes in.

  “Yes, we,” adds Vanessa. The both of them have these bright smiles beaming on their faces telling me their life of crime is the most fun they can have with their clothes on.

  “Be serious, Moonlight,” Suzanne says. “My career wasn’t just in the crapper. It was in the sewer. Do you really think the one client I had left was going to pull me out of it? Not only is Roger Walls suffering from a ten-year-old writer’s block, but there isn’t a publisher who will touch him even with your dick, Dick.”

  “Thanks for that,” I say.

  Behind me, Roger mumbles in his sleep. “More shots . . . more shots.”

  “So why did you hire me to find him?”

  “Because I needed him for my newest clients. My new clients who would provide me with the homerun I need to get myself back on top.”