Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8) Page 16

  “Can we be friends again?” I ask, piling it on.

  He smiles. A thin, ear to ear smile like you might see on a fat clown. It gives me a case of the shivers.

  He takes hold of my hand with his wet, chubby fish of a hand. We shake, loosely. Then I pull my hand back, try not to let him see me wipe my palm off on my pant leg.

  “I’m still not sure if I want to hire you back, however, Moonlight,” Schroder says, making his way back to the pool, where he resumes his horizontal perch on the chaise lounge. I follow right behind him. He’s once more drinking a Bloody Mary with a long celery stalk sticking out of it. The remnants of yesterday’s broken Bloody are all gone, like the spilled blood at a white-washed crime scene.

  “I’m not looking to work as a private detective for you anymore,” I say. “My work there is finished now that Stephen is free.” As if on cue, we both catch a glance of the kid as he downs the rest of the vodka pint and smokes his cigarette. He’s drunkenly dancing on the wood deck to a song on his iPod, the wires from the white earphones swaying with his every awkward movement.

  Turning back to one another.

  “I realize I’m not in a position to ask anything of you, Doctor Schroder,” I say, after a beat, “but I’d like to make you a proposition.”

  He seems a bit startled.

  “You propositioning me? Come now, Bruce Willis. And here I thought we were just friends.”

  I fake laugh.

  “Not that kind of proposition,” I say, recalling Stephen’s offer to blow him on his way home from jail. Like warped father, like warped son. “A financial arrangement, let’s call it.”

  “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Truth is, Doc, I’m broke. Broker than broke. I’ve got more bills than cash, no work, and my child support payments are so far behind, I’ll be lucky not to land in prison by the end of the year.”

  “My, my. You are in bad fiduciary shape. Worse than myself perhaps.” He giggles, reaches down for his drink, takes a long, slow sip. Setting the glass back down, he wipes his thin, bee-lipped mouth with the back of his hand. “What is it you have in mind?”

  “I’m not suggesting that your arrangement with the Russians isn’t anything other than your providing them with a much-needed prescription.”

  “Ha, ha, Moonlight. Just yesterday you accused me of running drugs.”

  Holding up my hands.

  “I know, and I apologize for that.” Lowering my hands. “However, if it should happen that you and the good Russian people are making deals for pharmaceuticals on a larger scale, I was wondering if you wouldn’t entertain an investor.”

  He stares at me through those round sunglasses.

  “And if I were to even consider for a minute saying yes to something like this, what would you use for money? And what kind of clientele would you be bringing to the party?”

  Over my shoulder, I catch another glance at Stephen. He’s still dancing, but now he has a can of beer gripped in his right hand.

  “I have five thousand cash,” I say. “I might be able to get you another two if I call in some old loans.”

  “And buyers?”

  “I’m fairly certain I can get some night work as a security guard at Albany State. You can imagine the market for Oxy on a campus of seventeen thousand spoiled kids and left-of-center professors?”

  “So why not just reduce your overhead and DIY?”

  “You control the product. I have zero access to Oxy or anything like it.”

  “True dat. Guess you could say I hold the cards. Conceptually speaking, of course.”

  “I’m quite sure I can help you triple your sales. Maybe even quadruple them.”

  “That so, Moonlight. All this sounds very, very illegal and I am in no way admitting to selling illicit pharmaceuticals. But I’m curious about your proposal. Just listening is all.”

  Stephen tosses the empty beer can into the pool where it makes a tinny, hollow, metallic noise. He runs into the kitchen to grab another.

  “Way I see it, Doc,” I say, “I need you, and you could most definitely use me and use my cash.”

  “Cash?”

  “Cash.”

  “Ten grand,” he says. “No less.”

  I anticipated his raising the ante which is why I low-balled him to begin with.

  I shake my head.

  “Impossible,” I say. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  He stands.

  “Remember, Moonlight,” he adds, “I really have no idea what you’re talking about when it comes to the sale of anything illegal like Oxy. And if it should happen that you’re wired right now, or someone is somehow listening in on some sort of high-tech device, it should be stated for the record that you’ve approached me and not the other way around.”

  “I’m not wired,” I say, pulling out my shirt tails, unbuttoning my shirt exposing bare skin. “No high tech listening devices.”

  Reaching out slowly with his right hand, Schroder brings his fingertips to my chest. It creeps me out.

  “You have a fine body, Moonlight. If I were a gay man, I’d jump your bones.”

  I button back up, shove my tails back into my jeans.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “I’ll call you,” he says. “But first, I want something from you.”

  “Anything,” I lie.

  “Stand still,” he says.

  I stand there while he makes a fist, sucker punches me in the gut. Funny thing is, I don’t double over. I don’t shout out in pain. I don’t cry. I merely wince as his powerless punch bounces off my stomach muscles.

  He takes a step back, rubs the pain off of the knuckles on his punching hand.

  “That didn’t hurt?” he asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I try to stay in shape.”

  “I can see that, Moonlight,” he says, his white, puffy face having turned fifty shades of red. “Thanks for bringing my son back home to me on his birthday, Bruce Willis. You’re a real superhero.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Listen, why don’t you come by tonight. I’m throwing the lad a little birthday party. Eight o’clock. Sound good?”

  “Yeah, sounds good,” I say, wishing that bullet would shift in my brain so that I could die right now on the spot.

  “My Russian friends will be there,” he says, making a frown. “Sadly, they have become something of a liability in my life lately.”

  “How so, Doc?”

  “They drink too much. For certain they do too many drugs. And they can be . . . How shall I say this? . . . Quite dangerous especially when given access to firearms.” He pauses for a moment, looking off into the distance. Then, “It would be a shame if something bad were to happen to them tonight at the party.”

  “Something bad?”

  He reaches out, pats me on the chest in precisely the spot where my shoulder holstered .38 rests against my ribcage.

  “If they were to be accidentally wounded by someone who really, really, really wants to do business with me. If you get my drift. Because should we do business together, Moonlight, Lord knows it would go a heck of a lot smoother without those two Russian bears in the picture. Plus, the take would become much larger for each of us. That is, should you prove yourself worthy of doing business with me.”

  “I get your point, Doc. You’ll let me do business with you if I assassinate the two Russians for you.”

  He pats my arm.

  “Did I say that? I was just thinking out loud. In any case, I’ll see you later. If in the meantime, I decide to accept your offer, I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, backing away, turning and heading towards the driveway.

  I toss a wave to the iPod and booze-soaked Stephen. He’s got one of those Super Soakers in his hands. A rifle sized squirt gun that shoots a powerful spray of water a thousand feet or something. He plants a bead on me with the business end of the Super Soaker, triggers
a blast of water that nails my temple, in the precise spot where a chunk of .22 caliber bullet pierced it once upon a time. At least he didn’t tell me to say hello to his leetle frien, again.

  I ignore him and keep on walking.

  Fast.

  On my way back out of hell on earth.

  Chapter 54

  As I slip back behind the wheel of the hearse, my smartphone chimes.

  I glance down at the digital caller ID. It’s Georgie again. Here’s what I do: I don’t answer the phone. I ignore it, start the engine, back out of the driveway.

  All the way home, I wonder how I’ll handle the news about Lola being alive.

  Chapter 55

  Back at the loft, Elvis is waiting for me at the kitchen island counter. He’s got a bunch of gadgets set out on top of it. He’s drinking a beer.

  “Where’s mine?” I say, glancing at the can of Budweiser.

  “Rough day at the office, honey?”

  “I’m officially back to being Schroder’s bitch,” I say, opening the fridge, grabbing a cold one. “But, thus far, the plan has worked like a charm.”

  “Schroder’s gonna let you partner up with him?”

  “He’s thinking about it.”

  I crack open the beer, steal a deep drink, take it with me over to the island counter.

  “What’s all this?” I say.

  “Combo video/still camera, courtesy of my soon to be ex-wife. Zoom lens, also courtesy of my soon to be ex-wife, and the piece de resistance — a bionic ear.” He points to a pair of black headphones which are attached to a small black disk that looks identical in both size and shape to the one-thousand-channel television satellite disks most rednecks attach to their double-wide trailers. “Cost the APD four hundred bills, but it will be worth it. It not only eliminates background noise, but it can hone in on a conversation from up to two-hundred feet away.”

  “Good work, Elvis. Next thing I need is for you to grab your Elvis outfit. The 1977 white jumpsuit thing. I’ve got a gig for you tonight.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Our boy Stephen Schroder’s birthday party.”

  “Not exactly my kind of gig.”

  “My plan is simple. I’m going to finalize my deal with Schroder for running the Oxy as soon as I arrive. I’m going to lure him into the backyard so that it will be a no-brainer for you to record the audio-visual for the entire proceedings. Soon as that’s done, and we head back into the house, I want you to ring the front doorbell. You’ll be Elvis from that point on. Inside your costume, you’ll be carrying my .38.”

  I pull the pistol out of my shoulder holster, set it out on the counter.

  “Why not just carry it in yourself?”

  “It’s possible Schroder’s gonna pat me down. If not him, then maybe the Russian goons will. But even if they don’t, I’m thinking that if I’m not carrying heat, Schroder might not make me assassinate Hector and Vadim.”

  “What if Schroder makes you use one of his own pistols?”

  In my mind, I picture the Glock the ex-brain surgeon has stored in the glove compartment of his Beamer.

  “He won’t want to link his licensed pieces to a double homicide.”

  “He’s probably got some unlicensed pieces for just such an occasion.”

  “Then so be it. He wants blood on his hands, then it’s going to come from one of his own guns. Either way, I think the best policy is to go in there clean as a whistle. Understand?”

  He nods.

  I look at my watch. It’s a little past noon. It’s time to check in with Miller to give him the details of my plan. I call him from my smartphone.

  “You want I should be waiting nearby with the cavalry?” he asks. In my head, I see him sitting behind his old wood desk, the ball knot on his tie perfectly tied and positioned.

  “Might be nice. But if Schroder thinks for even a split second that he smells cop, this thing is shot to hell.”

  “I understand. You’re doing your old department a great service, Deputy Moonlight.”

  “Wow, I feel all warm and tingly inside.”

  “You’re much easier to deal with when you’re getting laid regularly.”

  “I think Amanda’s Aunt Lisa was a one-shot deal.”

  “Probably better that way.”

  He hangs up before I have the chance to tell him I couldn’t agree more.

  Chapter 56

  Maybe entering into the hornet’s nest with my .38 is a bad idea since the doc is going to insist on my becoming a murderer all in the name of Schroder loyalty. But that doesn’t mean I’m not about to protect myself. In the top drawer of my desk, I locate my spare pistol. It’s a small, unlicensed .22 caliber snub-nose revolver with the serial number scraped off. The same revolver I used to kill myself with. Most people would probably get rid of the weapon they used to kill themselves with. That is, they survived the attempt, like I did. But I like to keep it around for the same reason I like to drive Dad’s hearse. It reminds me that instant death is always a distinct possibility in my life.

  Slipping the pistol into my leather coat pocket, I head back to the island counter, down the rest of my beer. I grab hold of my car keys.

  “Where you going, Chief?” Elvis asks.

  “We’ve got a few hours before Schroder’s expecting me back at his house. I have some personal business to attend to first.”

  “Care to let me in on that personal business?”

  “No.”

  I leave the loft, not knowing if I’m about to do the right thing or the wrong thing. But then, right or wrong, I’m going to find Lola, and I’m going to find her right now.

  Dead or alive.

  Chapter 57

  By the time I get back in the hearse, Georgie has already left me another message. I haven’t listened to a single one of them yet. Eventually, I’m going to have to face the truth. Or maybe that bullet in my brain will shift right now and someone . . . probably fat Elvis . . . will discover my body in a few hours, the rigor mortis having already kicked in.

  I decide not to bother with leaving a message. I opt for calling him in real time.

  “Jesus, Moon,” he barks. “Where the fuck you been? I thought you might be dead.”

  “By the Grace of God I go.”

  “Ain’t that the goddamned truth.”

  “Such language.”

  “I have some fucking news.”

  “Good news?” I say, my stomach cramping up, my throat constricting, my head ringing like a bell.

  “Depends on how you look at it.”

  “I need a drink in the worst way.”

  “It’s not even one o’clock, Mister Slippery Slope,” Georgie says.

  “Slippery Slope is getting dry.”

  “Meet me at McGeary’s Tavern as soon as you can. I’m buying.”

  “I’ll be there. May God strike me dead.”

  Chapter 58

  Georgie is already there when I walk into the bar. McGeary’s is one of those old time Albany bars that’s been in existence since the city itself. It’s a long, cavernous bar, set inside an old downtown brownstone that faces the Hudson River. The floor is old black and white marble tiles, and the ceiling is ornate, hand-crafted tin that’s been painted white. The walls are finished with wood paneling covered in mirrors along with framed black and white photos of old Albany and some other cool stuff like former New York State Governor Rockefeller flipping the bird at some reporters. There’s even a big, full-color, 1972 re-election poster of Nixon that’s been hung upside down.

  Georgie occupies the far corner seat closest to the river. He’s dressed in blue jeans with tears in them, and his favorite pair of Nocona cowboy boots. His long silver hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He’s sipping on a Coors Light while chatting it up with Tess, McGeary’s owner. Tess is a red-haired beauty with an ample chest that fills out her red velvet gown. Green eyes and luscious lips, she is an Albany legend, and I’ve had a major crush on her for years. If only she weren’t b
atting for the other team.

  I ignore Georgie and, instead, lean over the bar and plant a fat one on Tess.

  “Hello, beautiful,” I say.

  “You look like shit, Moon,” she says with her characteristic smile. “Maybe I should cut you off before you start.”

  “I’ve already started,” I confess.

  “In that case,” she says, popping the top on a tall-necked bottle of Budweiser beer, setting it onto a coaster before me. “But no Jack.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Georgie says.

  Tess slides down the bar to tend to a construction worker who’s just entered into the establishment and taken a stool further down from us. I turn to Georgie.

  “Let’s have it,” I say.

  Georgie wraps both hands around his beer bottle, but he doesn’t drink.

  My beer sits on the bar. I’m too weak, or perhaps too paralyzed with fear, to raise my hand to drink from it.

  “I’m not sure how to say this, Richard,” he says, while exhaling a breath. “So, I’m just gonna say it. She’s alive. Lola. Is. Alive.”

  Chapter 59

  The life drains from my head like the last bit of soapy water down the shower drain. For a brief few seconds, I see bright white lights flashing behind my eyeballs. I begin to sway on the bar stool, but Georgie catches me before I enter into full pass-out mode.

  “You okay, Moon?” he says. “We can go in back into the dining room. You can lie down in an empty booth.”

  I look for Tess out the corner of my left eye. Luckily, she hasn’t noticed my dizzy spell, thanks to Georgie’s quick thinking. He takes hold of my beer, aims the neck at my mouth.

  “Here,” he insists. “Drink this. Doctor’s orders.”

  As mandated, I drink down some beer. Half the bottle. Maybe I should be drinking water instead, but somehow the cold effervescent beer does the trick. Within moments, I’m feeling better, stronger. Strong and balanced enough not to fall off the bar stool anyway.