Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8) Page 5

  “My son has been accused falsely, and that’s as far as it goes,” Schroder goes on. “You are not the police. You are my employee . . . Correction . . . You were an employee. Now you are nothing, Mr. Moonlight. Please return my car to my office within the hour, or I will send the police out after you. Are we clear on this?”

  I want to say, “Crystal,” but he hangs up before I can remind him that he owes me for one full day’s pay.

  Chapter 14

  “I need a fucking drink,” I whisper out loud while turning the volume back up on the lads from Liverpool. Feels good to say it, to hear it. “A drink and a cigarette.”

  Reaching over the center console, I open the glove box and pull out the emergency pack of Marlboro Lights I store there just in case of emergency Jonesing. I shake one out, place it between my lips. Setting the pack back down in the cup holder, I dig around in the right-hand pocket of my leather coat and find my Bic lighter. Triggering the flint, I light up the cigarette and feel the tar and nicotine enter back into my life again like long lost lovers.

  Sitting there behind the wheel listening to John Lennon sing the words to “Happiness is Warm Gun,” I feel the cigarette do its work, lowering the flame on my blood from a rolling boil to a gentle simmer. My head’s still spinning from having passed out and from all the adrenalin that’s swimming through the veins, capillaries, and nerve endings. Like I said, I’m not entirely sure why I ran up one side of Schroder and down the other like I did, but I’m sure the memory of Lola had a lot to do with it. The memory of Lola and the new memory of a young woman I’ve never met, but for whom my heart cries in despair.

  I also have to remember that I’m a professional, and my client’s private affairs and the accusations made against his son are absolutely none of my business. But now that I’ve made it my business, it’s cost me a lucrative private contract for simply driving a man around for a while. Moonlight the stupid and the hot headed.

  There’s another reason for my flying off the handle at Schroder.

  The reason harkens back to my youth. I hated bullies then, and I hate bullies now. I was never the tallest or biggest boy in the bunch so I tended to get pushed around a lot on the school bus and in the playground. It could get pretty rough and more than once I came home with a blackened eye and a bloodied lip. It wasn’t until I started playing Pop Warner Football that I began to develop a much thicker skin and some muscles to fill it.

  Then one day, towards the end of my first football season, a red-faced, red-haired Irish boy by the name of Patrick cornered me up against the brick wall of the auditorium. Raising up both his hands, he began snapping quick punches at my chest. It hurt like hell. It also pissed me off. Taking him entirely by surprise, I grabbed hold of his hair, then proceeded to throw him into a headlock. I tossed in a couple of uppercuts, bloodying his nose and more importantly, sending him away in tears, screaming, “Asshole!”

  But from that day forward I was never picked on again. It still didn’t mean that I hated bullies any less, however. In some ways, having had my revenge on one particular bully made me hate them even more. Because now I not only despised them, I found them pathetic.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that Stephen is a bully. There’s also no doubt in my mind that’s he’s also pathetic and in need of a decent thrashing which might have been provided by his father long ago. That is, his father was willing to take on the awesome responsibility of actually being a father. Or, maybe I’m being harsh and old fashioned in my view of child rearing. But then, who am I to talk? My ten-year-old boy lives all the way across the country with his mom. So much for me being a good dad. Shit, maybe Doc Schroder is right. Maybe the kid has been falsely accused, and I’m jumping to conclusions based on the black comedy I witnessed this morning when we picked the kid up from the prep school with a six-pack of beer and a pack of smokes to greet him.

  My phone rings and vibrates. With the cigarette planted between my lips, I pull the phone from my pocket, glance at the readout. It’s Fat Elvis reporting in like old faithful. I thumb Send.

  “Whaddaya got for me, Elvis?”

  “That kid you were talking about? The brain surgeon’s son? He’s tearing the joint up.”

  Over the cell phone speaker, I can hear some commotion going on. Not music coming from a live Elvis impersonation band, but shouting, and even an occasional scream.

  “What’s happening, Elvis?”

  “The kid came in drunker than a skunk, started knocking people over, screaming about how his dad owns the school and he can shut it down if he wants. He knocked over the snack table. Christ, he capsized the punch bowl.”

  “Not the punch bowl.”

  “Yes, sir, the punch bowl. I had to stop my set right in the middle of ‘Hound Dog.’ And I love doing ‘Hound Dog.’ My fans love it.”

  “You got fans at a high school? Kids even know who the real Elvis is?”

  “’Course they do. They think I’m the real Elvis.”

  “You’re warped, you know that, Elvis? Where’s the Schroder kid now?”

  “Fighting it out with some chaperones. But the cops are on their way.”

  “So am I,” I say, hanging up.

  Chapter 15

  Fuck me, but I’m getting involved in something that’s not my business when, instead, I should be returning the Doc’s car or else risk arrest by an APD that already hates my guts. But, those same guts are speaking to me. They’re telling me to get to the bottom of Stephen and his dad. Because if they did have anything to do with a teenage girl’s humiliation and suicide then I want nothing more than to see their suburban castle come tumbling down. It’s not a question of revenge over having been bullied as a little boy or defending a now deceased young woman who resembles a younger Lola. It’s a question of right versus wrong.

  Turning the wheel to the left, I pull out and head up the State Street hill in the direction of The Albany Academy for Boys.

  By the time I pull into the roundabout outside the stately brick and marble academic institution, the cops have already arrived. Two blue and whites are pulled up onto the circular spot of grass, their flashers going, radios blaring. One of the uniformed cops is standing outside the cars as if guarding them.

  “Is Elvis still in the building?” I ask as I exit the hearse.

  The tall, thin cop issues me a glare like, Are you serious?

  “Get back in your car and drive away,” he orders. “We have a situation in the school.”

  Just then, the wood entry doors fly open. I see Stephen being dragged down the marble stairs, his hands cuffed behind his back, two more uniformed cops doing the dragging. The kid is so drunk his feet don’t work, and the tips of his black Converse sneakered toes are nailing every marble stair tread on the way down. He’s also screaming something in his own particular version of a teenaged drunken slur. If I listen closely, I can tell he’s screaming about being picked on. Could it be that the bully-slash-date rapist-slash-drug and booze addict is trying to turn the tables on the APD?

  I take a step forward as they near the bottom of the staircase.

  “You been pickin’ on me ever since my dad fucked up that lady’s head . . . That ain’t my fault. That’s my dad’s fault. I ain’t my dad.”

  They get to the bottom of the stairs. The kid can hardly stand, but he’s still struggling. That’s when I recognize the cop holding to Stephen’s left arm. It’s the donut-fed cop from outside the Albany Rural Cemetery gates. The one who was trying to give me a tough time about nearly bringing down the entire APD. The one who kept calling me crazy. He removes his grip on Stephen’s arm and elbows him in the soft underbelly.

  Stephen doubles over and begins to vomit beer onto the pavement.

  The school door opens again, and Elvis emerges. He’s dressed in a tight white jumpsuit with a black cape wrapped around his shoulders. As the thick, black-haired and sunglasses wearing impersonator begins descending the steps, his belly bounces up and down against his thick silver pro wrestlin
g belt.

  “Moonlight!” he shouts. “Elvis is officially leaving the building and the shit storm it houses. I don’t care if they pay me or the Teddy Bears. I just want out.”

  “I can see that,” I say as the cops begin dragging Stephen towards the awaiting cruiser.

  Now spilling out of the open school doors are a couple dozen teenagers, all young and bright-eyed and full of smiles over the excitement of seeing a bully like Stephen facing arrest. Behind me, a car pulls into the turn-around. I make an about-face and see that it’s an unmarked APD cruiser. The car makes an abrupt stop, and the passenger side door opens. That’s when Detective Miller exits the car.

  Elvis comes up beside me. I can smell his cologne. Old Spice mixed with a body odor that’s been fermenting for days.

  “Jesus, Elvis,” I say, taking a step forward. “Grab a shower already.”

  “Was wondering if I could use yours, Moonlight. Now that the gig is shot all to hell, and I ain’t got nowhere to go tonight what with the Marriott cancelin’ us out.”

  Miller approaches, his eyes not on me, but on Stephen as the kid is shoved into the back seat of the second cruiser. The boy has been officially silenced since having taken the beefy cop’s elbow to the gut. The car door shuts behind him as the uniformed cops slip into their respective cruisers.

  Miller turns to me, his steely gray eyes giving Elvis a glare.

  “Hell’s going on here?” he says. “It’s like I walked onto the set of a Farrelly Brother’s movie. Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest.”

  “Looks like the Schroder kid has given you the excuse you need to book him,” I say.

  “I helped,” Elvis says, smiling. He’s doing that corner of the mouth, trembling-lipped thing that all Elvis impersonators must perfect if they’re going to be considered any good. He’s also adopted a karate man stance with both hands held out like he’s about to do a Kung Fu on somebody.

  “Moonlight,” Miller says, under his breath. “Can I see you for a minute? Alone?”

  “Sure thing, Detective.”

  “Wait for me in my ride while I try and explain to the kid why we’re taking him in.”

  I turn and head for the unmarked cruiser.

  “Hey, what about me?” Elvis barks.

  I stop, pull out my car keys from my leather coat, pull off the key to my loft, toss it to him.

  “Go back to my place and catch a shower,” I say. “Wait for me until I get back.”

  “That mean I’m still working for you?”

  “Just get yourself cleaned up, Elvis.”

  Opening the back door on the cruiser, I slip myself inside.

  Chapter 16

  For a moment, I just sit there eyeing the scene through the window. I see a 1990’s era light blue Mercedes convertible half pulled onto the curb of the turnaround and half-parked in the road. I take the car to be Stephen’s. An expensive ride no doubt provided by the old man for absolutely no cost. No teenager ever bought a Mercedes, even a used one, on the proceeds from a paper route. In my head, I’m adding a DWI to the list of crimes Miller is nailing the kid with.

  Pulling my eyes away from the car, I check to see if any messages have been left for me on my cell. Turns out, there’s been several back to back calls from Doc Schroder. Go figure. He’s also left a voice message. I dial *86, punch in my four-digit message code and await a voice that feels like someone is scratching a blackboard with their fingernails.

  “Mr. Moonlight . . . Or tell you what. Let’s dispense with the formalities at this point and allow me to call you Dick. Is that okay, if I call you Dick?”

  I hate the sound of the D-word coming from his mouth, even if it is my Christian name or a derivation thereof. But it’s better than him calling me Bruce Willis. Rather, it’s better for Bruce Willis that he stop calling me Bruce Willis.

  He goes on: “I’m of the understanding that my son has gotten himself into even more trouble at his school where he is strictly forbidden, by suspension rules, to enter. I understand that this new set of circumstances makes things look worse than they really are. But you have to believe me when I tell you Stephen has been wrongly accused of date rape, and even more wrongly accused of aiding that sweet young lady, Amada Bates, in her suicide. Nothing could be further from the truth. That said, Mr. Moonlight, I still need you. Not only to be my driver but to investigate what the hell is going on in Albany and why myself and my son are being harassed by the police. Please call me back to discuss.”

  He ends the message.

  While I watch Miller get out of the back seat of the second cruiser and slowly approach the one I’m seated in, I think about resuming my work with Schroder, and what it will entail. I know it will entail some sort of trust in the brain doctor. By trust, I will have to go with the assumption that there is at least a shred of truth in his belief that he and his boy are being railroaded by Albany’s finest and that he had nothing to do with that poor girl’s suicide.

  Some private detectives can work for a client without believing in them or their innocence. My friend and former prison warden turned private detective, Jack Marconi, can do that. The late Johnny Cochran worked for OJ without believing in his innocence, and he managed to get the Pro Football Hall of Famer off. Maybe it’s just me and my fragile, bullet carrying brain, but I need to develop a trust in my clients if I’m going to represent them and their causes. I don’t always work for good money, but I do always try and work on behalf of what’s right. And therein lies the difference between myself and other private dicks. I’m not a saint or a boy scout even, but death can come for me at any moment, and if it happens to show up one minute from now, I want to know that I can face the big maker in the sky with some semblance of a clean conscience.

  Miller opens the shotgun seat door, sets himself down, closes the door behind him. Up ahead, the two blue and whites take off from the turn-around, sirens blaring, on their way to the South Pearl Street Precinct.

  He turns around, looks at me with his long, hard face.

  “Sure you wanna still be working for the Schroder boys, Moonlight?” he says.

  “You never called me back,” I say.

  “I was busy,” he says. Then, turning to his ever silent driver. “Miss Albany Diner.”

  The blue APD uniform-wearing driver turns over the engine, pulls ahead.

  “Too early for dinner and too late for lunch,” I say.

  “Always a good time for coffee,” Miller says. “And we need to talk for a bit. We’ll bring you back to your ride afterward.”

  “I got a choice in this matter?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m the cops.”

  “No choice,” I say.

  We ride in silence all the way to the diner.

  Chapter 17

  The Miss Albany Diner is located not far from where I live in the abandoned Port of Albany. It’s a crusty, old, trailer-style diner that was installed down on Broadway in the middle of what used to be an energetic community of steel mills, lumber yards, fabric factories, and more until the business owners started subbing everything out to the Mexicans and the Chinese, leaving the downtown urban area a ghost town of crumbling brick and metal buildings.

  But somehow the diner has survived by becoming a favorite early morning greasy spoon for the construction workers heading north to build the new cookie cutter neighborhoods on every available piece of bankrupt farmland the developers can buy up for a song. Miller goes ahead of me and takes a table in the back that seems to have his name on it, even though he has his pick of the empty joint.

  Leaving my black leather coat on and the shoulder-holstered Browning .38 it hides, I sit down across from him and wait for him to speak first. He takes a moment to adjust his perfectly ball-knotted tie so that it hangs a tad looser around his tight neck. If I have to guess, I will peg Miller for a three to five mile per day runner. An everyday runner. A runner who needs to get his fix more for what it does for his brain than it does for his body. He’s neat, if not fastidious, in both appea
rance and manner which, of course, means he’s the complete opposite of me and my old black leather coat, black combat boots, and jeans.

  He raises his right hand to get the waitress’ attention. Before the sixtyish woman can make her way around the counter, he barks out, “Two coffees! Nothing else!”

  “What if I want bacon and eggs?” I say.

  He cocks his head.

  “Order bacon and eggs then.”

  “No, thanks. Just wanted to gauge your reaction.”

  “Still the same old wisecracking, Moonlight,” he says, offering a hint of a smile through the corner of his tight mouth. “How’s that head of yours?”

  “Same. I could die at any moment.”

  “Just don’t do it here, okay?”

  “I’ll try not to. I wouldn’t want to embarrass the APD.”

  “You tried to bury us once, from what I hear. Exposed a pension scam. A lot of cops went down. But that was before my time with the department. Heard you wrote a book about it. Moonlight Falls. Clever title.”

  “I did the right thing. Would do it again, too. Got a problem with that?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I’m probably the only Albany cop who admires what you did, Moonlight. I would have done the same.”

  The old woman brings our coffees, sets them down in front of us.

  “Nothing to eat?” she says.

  “This is a coffee only meeting,” I say. “Police rules.”

  “Cops,” she says, turning, heading back to the counter.

  I set my eyes back on Miller.

  “So, now that we’re through making out with one another, what can you tell me about the Schroders and is there any truth to the kid raping the State Senator’s daughter?”