Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8) Page 15

  “I’ll be right there,” I say. “But one question.”

  “What now?”

  “What if the Russians show their faces again?”

  “You got a gun, right?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You got bullets to go with the gun?”

  “You gotta ask?”

  “So load the gun and use it if you have to. Now, we done here? I gotta stop for coffee.”

  “The Facebook pics of Amanda. Do you have a copy?”

  “You haven’t seen them yet?”

  “Not sure I want to. But I feel like I need to.”

  “I’ve got your email. I’ll send them over to you from my smartphone.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You won’t be thanking me after you see them.”

  He hangs up.

  I head inside for my third cup of coffee while I get dressed.

  Chapter 49

  Driving, I’m careful to keep a sharp eye out for an old model Cadillac as I take Interstate 90 to the Albany International Airport exit, which is the same exit for the county lockup. Miller is waiting for me in the parking lot, two tall Dunkin Donuts coffees in hand.

  “Thought you could use one of these, Richard,” he says. “Maybe it’s time you think about slowing down on the booze.”

  “I could inject gasoline into my veins right now and wouldn’t make any difference,” I say, taking hold of the coffee. “I was a jerk to you yesterday. My apologies. I promise never to call you Barney Miller again. The similarity is in name only.”

  Pulling back the plastic tab on the cup, I drink some of the hot, black-no-sugar coffee.

  “Raise your right hand,” Miller says.

  “What for?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  I do it. I raise my right hand.

  “Do you solemnly swear that you will uphold the law and position of Deputy of the Albany Police Department, in accordance with the law and requirements of yadda, yadda, something, something, so help you God?”

  I look at him. Into his steely gray eyes. I’m not entirely sure why he’s doing this, but then, I need a job.

  “I do, baby.” Then, bright eyed. “Hey, it’s better than Barney.”

  “Cut the shit,” he says, reaching into his blazer pocket, pulling out a small leather wallet-like object. “This here’s your temporary badge.” He hands it to me.

  I fold open the wallet, glance down at the badge. It’s identical to the one I once carried for the APD for real. I fold the wallet back up, slip it into the interior pocket of my leather coat. My built-in shit detector speaks to me. I hope I can trust what it’s telling me.

  “You want me to stand guard over Scarface, don’t you?” I intuit.

  “APD would never authorize the use of one of our blue uniforms for the job. We’re sorely understaffed as it is.”

  “Then you agree, his life could be in danger.” A question.

  He nods.

  “If what you tell me is true,” he says, “I do. But there’s another reason why I’m deputizing you.”

  I drink some coffee.

  “Can’t wait to hear it,” I say.

  “I want you to make good with Doc Schroder. Apologize to him. Then, I want you to get everyone in one place. The Doctor, Stephen, the Russians. Videotape the proceedings if you can. Make them talk about their deals and former deals. Make them name names.”

  “How do I go about getting them to trust me?”

  “You’re going to tell him you want in on the drug op.”

  I laugh. It just comes out.

  “Me? Schroder will never go for it. I just bloodied his lip and spilled his Bloody Mary.”

  “If you put up the right amount of investment money, he will. He’s going broke, fast.”

  “How much?”

  “My guess is that ten grand will do it for the initial buy in.”

  “Where do I get that kind of money?”

  Just then, a blue and white turns into the lot, its flashers going but the sirens turned off.

  “Just in time,” Miller says, smiling. “The bank has arrived.”

  Chapter 50

  We stand over the trunk of the blue and white. Miller, myself, and an aviator sunglasses-wearing officer who not only doesn’t acknowledge my presence but ops for not saying a word regarding the proceedings. Using the key, the cop opens the trunk, revealing a plain blue and white duffel bag. The kind of duffel I used as a book bag back when I was a kid. A canvas bag with a flat hard bottom, plastic horseshoe-like handles and a zipper that goes from one end to the other. Miller reaches in, unzips the bag partway, revealing numerous stacks of twenty dollar bills. He rummages around the bag for a bit, until he’s satisfied with what it contains. Then he zips the bag back up and pulls it out of the trunk.

  “Ten grand,” he says. “In marked bills.”

  “Marked how?”

  “A digitally installed GPS traceable watermark not even Allan Greenspan could find even with one of Obama’s NSA spies holding a gun to his head.”

  “That’s what they all say,” I say, my eyes peering at the dead-faced cop.

  He doesn’t laugh.

  “I suppose you want me to hand this money over to Doc Schroder.”

  “That’s your buy-in money.”

  “What if he wants more?”

  “Chance we take.”

  He hands me the bag. It’s surprisingly heavy. Maybe it wouldn’t be so heavy if it were all mine, and not so traceable.

  Miller turns to the cop.

  “You’re dismissed, officer.”

  Without a word, the cop gets back in the car and takes off.

  I head to the hearse, place the money in the back where the caskets used to go. I shut the door, turning back to Miller.

  “You sure all this is legal?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Standard sting operation.”

  “Using me as the bait.”

  “I wouldn’t actually call you bait. More like a stand-in for a real cop. Just in case the lead starts flying.”

  “Gee, thanks. Nice to be wanted.”

  “Look at it this way, Moonlight. Your rep with the department sucks. You pull this off, bring the Schroders and their drug dealing buddies down, you’ll look like a hero in their eyes.”

  “Wow, a real hero. Maybe Barbara Walters will have me on The Vagina.”

  “That’s The View, and who knows, so long as you don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Yes, getting killed would end the hero thing pretty quick. But then, I’d be a martyr.”

  “Shall we go get that kid out of jail?”

  “Would it make a difference if I said no?”

  Miller starts walking towards the lockup’s front entrance like my opinion doesn’t mean shit.

  Chapter 51

  Scarface Stephen is psychopathically wired, his eyes bloodshot and piercing. Now that he’s ditched his county jumper, he’s back to wearing husky skinny jeans that hang halfway down his ass, a black T-shirt with a full-bodied, white leisure suit-wearing, silhouette of guess who, and his extra wide-ghetto-brimmed Yankees baseball cap. He looks exactly like what he is — a white-bread, silver-spoon-up-his-fat-ass, suburban dope pusher who’s just been liberated from the clink.

  “You responsible for springing me?” the kid says as we make our way back across the parking lot with Miller in tow.

  “Maybe,” I say. It’s best for him to think he owes me one.

  I stop at the hearse, turn to face the detective and Stephen.

  “I don’t have to tell you that the APD is still watching you, Mr. Schroder,” Miller says to the now free kid. “I’m entrusting Moonlight here to escort you home and look after you until things settle down.”

  “What fucking things?” the kid says, his face bitter and hard, despite its physical softness.

  It dawns on me that he probably thinks I’m still buying into his I’m gay and the real victim in all of this story, and that obviously the cops have bought into i
t, too. Which just might work in our favor.

  “The judge might have tossed out the count of reckless murder for now, but the prosecuting attorney is still hard at work trying to find a way to nail you for complicity in Amanda’s death. Her father is a state senator. Her death made big news. National news. The public is angry at what happened to her. They want revenge. Your life could be in danger as we speak. Mortal danger.”

  Miller’s really laying it on, raising the concept of bad cop to an entirely new level. Without having to be told, I take my cue.

  “Hold on just one stinkin’ minute, Detective Miller,” I insist. “Stephen has been wrongly accused here. The judge proved it when he killed the charges. He’s not even the type to go after someone like Amanda. He’s a sorely misunderstood young man who’s been through a lot and just wants to get back home. Isn’t that right, Stephen?”

  We both lock eyes on the kid. His chubby, beady-eyed face takes on a new pale glow.

  “Yeah, listen to Moonlight, Detective Miller. He might be a bit of a douche bag, but he speaks the truth. I’ve been railroaded.” He brings fisted hands to his face, rubs his eyes with them like he’s about to break out in tears. “I’m so, so sensitive. I just want to be liked. I know what my dad did to your old lady. But it’s not my fault.”

  I toss Miller a wink. He winks back.

  “You just get yourself home, young man,” the detective says. “Due process of the law will run its course one way or another.”

  I open the passenger side door for Stephen like I’m his chauffeur. He plops himself down on the seat.

  “Oh, and one more thing, Stephen,” Miller says. “Stay close to home. You’re out on bail pending charges for your numerous crimes. Understand?”

  “That’s quite enough for today, Detective,” I say, closing the door. Then, as I walk around the back of the hearse. “How’m I doing?” I say under my breath as I pass within inches of Miller.

  “He mentions my wife again I’ll shoot him in the head,” he says. Then, “The Schroders are gonna be eating off your dinner plate in a matter of moments.”

  “That would be the plan,” I say. “I’ll be in touch. Soon.”

  Miller turns, starts heading back to his ride.

  I get in, start the hearse up.

  “Let’s go home, Stephen,” I say, pulling out of the lot.

  “Let’s head to the nearest liquor store, cock-a-roach,” he says. “Today’s my birthday, and I’m fuckin’ thirsty.”

  Chapter 52

  Not one to argue with a psychotic drug dealer, I pull into a neighborhood liquor store and buy the kid a pint of vodka and a pack of Marlboro Reds. While I’m in the store, I place a secret call to Elvis.

  “Thought I’d never hear from you again, Moonlight.”

  “I’m like a rotten penny,” I say. Then I fill him in what’s going on with Stephen along with mine and Miller’s plan to get back on Doc Schroder’s good side.

  “You’re gonna give him ten grand?”

  “That would be the idea. And I need you to be Johnny-on-the-spot with a video camera.”

  “It’s not like I can just stand there filming. I’ll need equipment. Real spy equipment, like Tom Cruise uses on Mission Impossible.”

  “You got a credit card that works?”

  “Yeah. I can steal one from the old lady.”

  “Go buy what you need. Save the receipts and I’ll get you reimbursed from the APD.”

  “Cool. I get to be a spy. Just like Elvis and Tricky Dick Nixon.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “When do we meet back up?”

  “Just head back to my loft as soon as you’ve bought the stuff.”

  “Roger that, Chief.”

  “Don’t call me Chief.”

  Back in the car, Stephen cracks the cap on the bottle, takes a drink that would knock even me out. He lights up a smoke, offers one to me. I take it, set it between my lips unlit.

  “Didn’t know you smoked, Moonlight,” he says, handing me the lighter.

  I light up.

  “I’m not a smoker. I’m a quitter.”

  He takes another swig from the bottle.

  “How’s about a drink?” he says, passing over the bottle.

  “Well, seeing as it’s your birthday.”

  I set down the lighter and take hold of the bottle. I drink a half shot, hand it back to him.

  “And a boozer to boot,” he laughs. “First, you help me get out of jail, then you defend me against that sorry ass detective prick, and now you’re partying with me. You’ve grown a whole new skin, Moonlight. Maybe my dad will give you your job back, even though you gave him a fat lip.”

  “You’re going to have to forgive me, Stephen,” I lie. “And I’m hoping your dad does, too. I misread things. Misjudged them, also. I know you could never rape anyone, never cause them to commit suicide. I should have never hit your dad. I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m so ashamed.”

  I make sure there’s a tear-jerking crack in my voice when I say “ashamed” just for drama’s sake. The kid’s buying it all — hook, line, and fucking sinker.

  “I do have one confession, though,” the kid says.

  “You can trust me,” I say, knowing what he’s about to say, but playing dumber than dumb.

  “I’m not gay. Or, well, let me put it this way. I’m not looking to fuck guys in the ass.” He giggles, then pauses to smoke for a minute. “But if I were to ask you to pull over, maybe behind a gas station or something, I would give you the privilege of sucking me off.”

  Freon runs through my veins. My heart begins to throb in my temples. I have to think quick on this one. No way I’m sucking him off. But then, no way am I about to piss him off either.

  “Gee, Stephen,” I say, “I can’t tell you how honored I am about what you’re asking me to do.”

  “But you’re gonna say no, aren’t you, cock-a-roach?” he snaps. “Maybe you are still an asshole.”

  “Hey, hold on, kid,” I say, trying to calm him down. “You see, with that little piece of bullet in my brain, I must refrain from any and all sexual activity. Not many people know that secret, but now you do.”

  “Really,” he says “No shit?”

  “It’s true. The arousal from sexual activity can not only cause me to pass out and enter into a coma, it can result in a serious case of S.I.L.”

  “What’s S.I.L.?”

  “Sudden and Irreversible Lockjaw.”

  “Lockjaw,” he repeats as I pull onto Interstate 90, eastbound towards the suburbs.

  “Imagine my jaw clamping irreversibly shut on your manhood while in the process of taking care of it. You’d not only bleed to death, you’d become an entirely different gender.”

  “Holy crap,” he says. “You’re right. I could make you give me a hand job, but you’re driving. Tell you what. After being locked up for two days with no peace, I got a boner that just won’t quit. You’re lucky I’m not already jacking off.”

  Holy fuck, the things I have to do in the name of law and order and righteousness.

  “We’ll be home in six or seven minutes,” I say. “You can take care of yourself in private then.”

  I step on it before the kid decides to relieve himself in front of me.

  Exactly five and a half minutes later, we pull into his driveway. He jumps out of the car with his half-empty bottle of vodka, his new pack of smokes, and his hard-on.

  I watch him casually walk the length of the driveway, his pants belted around his thighs, and his oversized Scarface T-shirt falling just short of it. I’m trying my best to resist the voice in my head that’s telling me to blow the little deviant motherfucker away at my earliest convenience.

  Chapter 53

  I get out of the hearse, head around to the back of the house. It’s a good thing I’ve learned the value of self-control over the years. Because the way I’m feeling right now, I’d just assume pull out my Smith & Wesson, shoot the entire joint up, then set it all ablaze. Goodbye
, Schroders. Goodbye, any trace that you ever existed. Moonlight the totally fucking fed up.

  Doc Schroder is pretty much in the same place I left him yesterday. Sunning himself by the pool. Only he’s not lying down. He’s embracing his son, hugging him like he’s just returned from the wars. He catches sight of me and releases the kid.

  “I don’t recall inviting you here, Moonlight!” he barks, his swollen bottom lip butterfly clamped, his beady eyes covered in those thick sunglasses. He’s back to wearing nothing but a skimpy Speedo like it’s mid-summer, his white gut protruding over it like a basketball-sized tumor.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Stephens says, coming to my rescue. “Turns out, Mr. Moonlight is okay. He helped get me out of jail on my birthday of all days. He also defended me against that silly piece of white bread, Detective Miller. You know, the one who thinks you killed his wife.”

  I slowly make my way into the backyard, the big house’s wood deck to my left and the Olympic-sized swimming pool to my right, the small patch of woods that separate the property from the golf course beyond that. Schroder seems to grow all the more rigid and afraid the closer I come to him. Like I’m about to beat him up again. But I’m not. Instead, I do something far different. I hold out my right hand.

  He looks down at the hand.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Maybe he’ll jerk you off with it,” Stephen says, firing up another smoke.

  “Stephen!” barks the brain surgeon. “That will be quite enough.”

  “Yeah, fuck you, too, Pop.”

  Schroder turns back to me.

  “Listen, Doc,” I say. “I want to extend my most humble apology to you. I misjudged you. I misjudged Stephen.”

  “That’s what he said to me when he sprung me out of the clink,” the kid interjects.

  “Please, Doc,” I push.

  Schroder continues to stare down at the hand.

  “Well, you did help get Stephen out of jail,” he says. “And I can see where perhaps you might have acquired the wrong idea about us, having witnessed what on the surface might be interpreted as an illegal transaction with my Russian acquaintances.”