Bad Moon Rising

by Billy Kring

  “She’s healing. How are you?”

  She took a shuddering breath, “Fine. It’s just everything’s happening so fast, like being caught in a whirlwind. The attorneys are with Mom and Troy right now, finishing papers that have to do with Mother’s money and holdings.”

  I said, “So that they’re separate holdings, Troy’s and Sylvia’s?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s it. Some sort of combining documents thing, with a number of ‘In the event of’ clauses about any deaths. I didn’t want to hear all that, so I came to my room. My mind’s reeling.”

  Hondo said, “You call us anytime, for anything. Even if it’s just to say hello. And come by the office to visit. You know where it is, and you have our numbers.” He bent at the waist and looked at her. He said, “Okay?”

  She blushed, “Okay.”

  I said, “Can we ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure.”

  Hondo said, “Did Troy use his phone while you two drove home?”

  “Two times.”

  “Do you remember what he said?”

  “Not exactly. The first was something like, ‘It’s all good,’ like he was answering a question, which was funny because Troy was the one who made the call. Then he called Mother and said he had me with him.”

  “That was all?”

  “He got excited and told her about how he rescued me, making it sound like he’s Superman or something.”

  We visited with her for half an hour longer before we got up to leave. Bodhi hugged us again, “Don’t forget me.”

  Hondo pulled out Troy’s phone while we walked the hall and had it open in ten seconds. I asked him, “Did you know his password?”

  “No.”

  “Are you the Amazing Karnack now?”

  “I typed in the word ‘Oscar’.”

  “Ho-ly cow.”

  “He’s brilliant, I tell ya.”

  We scanned through his phone and the only ones that caught our attention had no names associated with them, only numbers. I took photos of them with my iPhone to check later.

  Troy met us before we left the mansion and Hondo gave him a big hug, sliding the phone back in his pocket without Troy noticing.

  Wilson walked with us to Shamu. “I’m going to hang close to Bodhi for a while.”

  Hondo said, “Good idea.”

  I said, “If you need us–” and I made the gesture of holding a phone to my ear.

  “I will.” He punched some numbers on his phone that opened the gate and nodded as we drove through.

  We passed the trip to the office in silence, each with our own thoughts. As we parked, I spotted something in front of our door. Hondo and I looked at each other as we approached it. I said, “Okay, now I believe these are messages. Tell me what they mean.”

  Hondo said, “You’re asking me?” He picked it off the concrete and held it up by the short purple ribbon. The heart-shaped medal hanging from the ribbon showed a gold border around a purple field, and a gold side image of George Washington centered it.

  Hondo held a Purple Heart medal.

  I looked around the lot, but saw no one. I said, “I’ve deduced from the clues that they point to a Marine wounded in Afghanistan. So I’ve done the hard part. Tell me his name.”

  “Yeah.” Hondo opened the door and we went inside. He put the medal on his desk and looked at it. “I’ll get the other things from Archie and keep all of it here.”

  “In case a Marine comes in and says, ‘Do you have my medals?’ That sounds like a good plan.” Hondo didn’t smile and I could tell this latest thing had him agitated. It did me, too.

  We weren’t inside ten minutes before Hondo said, “I’m hungry, let’s go to the Cow’s End and get something.”

  “Are you antsy, too?”

  “All this together, something feels out of whack.”

  “I know. Maybe a smoked salmon Panini will center us.”

  Hondo nodded, “And some pressed juice.”

  Hondo liked a three-veggie juice combo of cucumber, apple, and bell pepper. Me, I’m a straight apple man. We left the office and walked the longer route that took us to the beach.

  We noticed that Jericho Moon was nowhere around, and neither were any of his disciples. Bob Masters saw us and came over as we turned up Washington. He said, “Hey dudes.”

  I said, “We didn’t see Moon today. He around?”

  “Not lately. You need him for something?”

  “We found out he’s a minister and wanted to ask a couple of questions.”

  Bob frowned, “A minister of what?”

  I said, “Jericho Moon’s the Big Toe.”

  Bob had a confused grin and looked to Hondo, “Help me out here.”

  Hondo said, “Theologians Ordaining Ecumenism. T.O.E.”

  Bob laughed as he said, “Holy cow.”

  I said, “Yeah.”

  “Last time I saw Moon, he was halfway down the pier, talking to a tall, tanned, blond guy that looked like a movie star.”

  I pictured Troy and said, “Could you tell what they said?”

  “No. They looked excited, though. I went on past them to the end of the pier and visited with a couple of guys I knew, and when I started back, I saw Moon and the actor leaving the pier together.”

  “Thanks”

  Bob pointed to the sea, “We need to get out there, the yellowtails are biting like crazy, and big halibut are showing up.”

  “Let’s do it for sure next week.”

  “You’re on. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

  We left Bob and found an empty table at the restaurant. Hondo said, “When do you want to visit Derek?”

  Not today. I’m thinking he needs some alone time right now. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Hondo looked past me at someone and said, “Look who’s here.”

  Juan Luna walked to our table and I pushed out a chair for him. He said, “Where haf you guys bean?”

  So we told him. He didn’t interrupt us, but I saw the story troubled him.

  When we finished, Juan remained silent a moment, then said, “I have sorrows that I could not help you.”

  “No way you could know.” Hondo said.

  “Thees TJ, the giant black womans with esteel colored hairs… or I theenk she’s a woman, I see her before.”

  I sat higher. “At your day labor camp?”

  “No, where the weemens lived.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking to the Kiowa. I see them talking three, four times before, when I visit the weemens at the houses.”

  Hondo said, “And the last time?”

  “Here, near the pier. The day you leave to find Bodhi. I go to the office, but you and Hondo had left. ”

  I said, “Where are you staying?”

  “On the beach, or the street.”

  Hondo said, “Come with us to the office. I’ll give you a key so you can come and go as you want. There’s a couch you can sleep on, too. Have you eaten?”

  Juan shook his head.

  I motioned to the friendly server, “We’ll get you something. Come on.”

  Ten minutes later, the server delivered our sandwiches and Juan fell in with us. I whispered to Hondo, “Don’t you talk to me about rescuing abandoned puppies, you ol’ softie.”

  Hondo grinned, “I guess you rubbed off on me.”

  We entered our office and Hondo pulled the sandwiches and juice drinks from the bag, distributing them around the table. He gave the last, and fattest Panini to Juan. I said, “It’s all yours. Dig in.”

  While he sipped his drink, I heard my phone ring, saw the name of the caller, and answered, “Ronny Baca, private investigator and future Oscar winner.”

  Chapter 7

  The phone remained silent for a few seconds, then David Shells, the Director on our new film made an effort to laugh and failed, “Ronny, we’re pushing up the shoot, and we need you and Hondo here to go over the scenes we’ll shoot tomorrow.”

  �
��At your office?”

  “Yes.

  “We’re on our way.”

  Juan said, ‘I go for a while to the day labor camp, to see my friends.”

  “Be careful.”

  Juan nodded and waved but didn’t stop eating as we left the office and drove to meet Shells.

  We parked and walked to the door as Hondo said, “Shells called, rather than an Assistant Director?”

  “He did. I figure we must be more important than we thought.”

  We entered the building and the receptionist smiled, “Mr. Shells is expecting you, go right in.”

  We opened the door and saw the long, rectangular desk had two people sitting there, with each of them studying a script. David Shells was one, and he sat at the end of the table, the power position. He motioned for us to sit, “Your scripts are there. We’ll discuss some proposed changes and then do a reading.”

  He indicated the woman studying the script. “This is Amanda Streeter.”

  We knew who she was. Amanda Streeter is a beautiful, fast-rising young star, known for playing supporting roles in several dystopian and horror films.

  She reached across the table to shake Hondo’s and my hands, “Call me Mandy. Nice to meet you.”

  Shells said, “We thought it would be good to see the chemistry between you three, and Mandy has some ideas about the sexual dynamics we need to work out.”

  I smiled at Mandy and said, “If it’s sexual, I’m dynamic.”

  She said, “Both of you stand up, please.” She walked around the desk, moved us to the wall and placed us side by side.

  Shells said, “Face me. We want to see how you look beside Mandy. We’ll take a few photos.” Mandy walked to stand beside Hondo, and as she did, I pushed up on my toes to make me taller. I strained to go as high as possible and was afraid of getting a cramp in my calves, but the maneuver made me only a hair shorter than Hondo.

  Hondo smiled and put his arm across the top of my shoulder like we were pals. Mandy stood beside Hondo, sandwiching my friend between us, and then Hondo pushed down on my shoulder with his arm.

  It was like a hydraulic press. I almost pulled a groin muscle straining against it, but in the end, my heels rested on the floor and I was, again, two inches shorter than Hondo. When I stopped fighting him, he smiled and we both relaxed.

  Mandy had David take a dozen photos of her in different poses beside and in front of Hondo, and she did the same with me. I started to lift on my toes again, but Hondo kept his arm on my shoulder until David took the last photo and we all sat down again.

  David printed out the photos and placed the images on the table so he and Mandy could study them.

  “I’m wearing low-heeled shoes,” I said, “That’s why he looks taller.”

  Hondo said, “So am I. I didn’t want to dwarf you.”

  Mandy said, “This is a twenty million dollar production. Let’s be serious.”

  We relaxed in our chairs and watched Mandy study the script’s rewritten pages. I read my mine. The only thing remaining from the original was the title and that it takes place during wartime, sort of. Every single page showed new characters, new scenes, new locations, and a new, weird story line. It didn’t look to be in a good way, either. My character’s name now read Flint Blades. Hondo has been transformed into Colt Steele. I flipped through the pages again to see if this script might be for a porn film. This new script and new storyline made little sense to me. I had a bad feeling.

  Mandy’s name now showed as Xenetta. That’s the whole name. Described as a Xena-like, time-travelling warrior princess fighting the forces of evil.

  Hondo raised his hand and said, “This is different than what we read for in the audition. That story was about soldiers and resistance fighters in Europe. This is about mafia hit men taken hostage by Vikings who,” he flipped pages and read some more, “travel through time to get them. So they can save the world.”

  Mandy’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked at Hondo, then me. She let silence hang in the room for a few seconds, “And your point?”

  Hondo started to say something else and I cough-said, “Money.” Our bills are coming due and our funds are in the drought stage.

  Hondo took a deep breath to relax and said, “Oh nothing. I just wondered who wrote this version. It’s…unique.”

  Mandy let her hackles down and said, “My boyfriend, Gunter Shelvassen, we call him G. He’s putting up the money. It’s his first script. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  I said, “His first script? Wow.” I looked at Shells, the writer of the original script. He had a rictus smile on his face. I continued, “And the other pages?” I shuffled the two-dozen pages I held.

  “G will write them as we film. He says watching us shoot the first scenes will give him a better idea of how the story should unfold. He’s also writing the musical score for the film, and arranging for a toy line, a graphic novel, and a video game for it. This is going to be huge.”

  “He writes music?” Hondo asked.

  “G listens to a lot of it, and he says the program on his Mac will take care of the small stuff, like musical notes. He’s an idea guy.”

  I felt myself sinking into the floor with every statement Mandy made. I asked, “What does G do?”

  “Oil.”

  “Oh.”

  Shells said, “G is the owner of several companies that hit large fields in Russia. He is very rich.” He added, “And a renaissance man, as you can tell from the script and what Mandy told you of his plans.”

  “Why, thank you, David,” I said. “That information is so good to know. So he’s got deep pockets?”

  David said, “He said he will spare no expense to make this film, even if it takes years to shoot.”

  That’s movie talk, which means everyone continues to be paid at full wages for a long time, and that’s good for all of us. Not necessarily for the art, but for the money. I could live with that, at least for a while.

  Mandy said, “He has money, but this is about the art of the story. G feels, well, we feel that his script with me as the lead could be a new classic, like a modern day Gone With The Wind.”

  Hondo said, “If Gone With the Wind had time travel and Vikings and the Mafia and supernatural things in it, and it was set in a war, then yeah, I can see it, sure.” He turned and winked at me so they couldn’t see.

  I nodded, “Let’s get this epic rolling.”

  Mandy beamed, “I knew you two would be perfect for the story.”

  “I can feel it, too.”

  She pulled the script in front of her, “Shall we begin the read-through?”

  ~*~

  Two hours later, after we finished the reading and a visit to wardrobe for measurements and fittings, I said to Hondo, “You ready to go fishing?”

  “Yes I am. My brain feels like someone shot tiny darts in it. What a god-awful script. ”

  “I know, but we’ve never been paid this much before, so it’s a tradeoff. Some fresh sea air and being on the water will fix it. Hey, I think I’ll see if Amber wants to go.” I texted her and got an immediate reply: OMG YES! Meet you there.

  Hondo had his phone and punched in a number and said, “Your offer still good on the yacht?” Hondo gave me a thumbs-up, “Appreciate it.” Then he dialed Bob Masters’ number. When Bob answered, Hondo set the phone so we both could hear and talk. Hondo said, “You have any bait?”

  Bob said, “I happen to have a plethora of bait at the moment.”

  I said, “You watched The Three Amigos again, didn’t you?”

  “Me and the infamous El Guapo.” We knew he meant his dog, a mixed-breed rescue pet so large I figured it was part dinosaur. El Guapo was a sweetheart, too, and smart as a whip. The only problems were, one: that he didn’t realize how large he was and he liked to get in people’s laps, and two: when he wagged his big tail, which was often, it could leave welts on your leg like someone whacked you with the large end of a pool cue.

  Hondo said, “We’ll meet yo
u at Marina Del Rey and load the boat.”

  Bob said, “Are you bringing enough beer?”

  “Yes we are.”

  “Epic. See you there.”

  An hour later we all boarded the forty-foot Hatteras as Hondo captained the yacht and steered it out of the marina into the Pacific. Bob brought a large assortment of both live and artificial baits. The day looked perfect, with no clouds and little chop on the water. We took our time, so everyone enjoyed the feel of moving across the water and hearing the soft hiss of it passing beside the hull. The ocean smelled fresh and clean.

  I stood at the bow of the yacht pantomiming throwing out a line with a weight on it, and turned back to Hondo, saying, “Mark…twain!” like I was measuring water depth on an old-time Riverboat. I waited another half minute and did it again.

  When I said it the third time, Hondo said, “I don’t think the water is staying twelve feet deep every time. Besides, you don’t even have an actual rope to measure it. You’re guessing.”

  “I wasn’t measuring anything, I just liked calling it out.”

  Hondo laughed. “We’ll be at a good spot in about five minutes if you and Bob want to start rigging the rods.”

  I went aft and saw Bob and Amber already busy. The engine slowed to an idle as Hondo joined us. He said, “We’ll slow drift from here at about eighty feet and follow the rise up to thirty feet. The bottom here is sandy, so perfect for halibut. What are you thinking, Bob?”

  Bob said, “Live sardines, I brought a bunch of nice healthy ones.”

  We put out four lines and made sure the reels worked easily, and optimists that we are, we got ready for the big ones.

  The yacht drifted in the soft breeze, small waves lapped against the hull, and an occasional seagull passed over us, checking for any morsels we wanted to toss overboard. I felt the last few days’ tension leaving. The sun’s heat on my neck and shoulders felt warm but not hot. The beer was cold, and Amber sat so her arm touched mine. I raised my beer, so relaxed that I had my eyes half closed.

  That’s when Amber whooped like a Comanche and jumped from her chair to set the hook. Her movement pushed my elbow up and beer went over my face and chest, knocking off my Padres baseball cap. Bob stepped on it when he came to help Amber.