Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8) Page 7

  I’m trying to get a look at some of the opened stationary on his desk. From what I can see, they consist mostly of letters from law firms. One stack of papers catches my eye. My eyesight is not the best in the world, but the bold lettering on the top sheet of white legal-sized paper is so thick and stark that I can easily make out the name Schroder listed as a defendant in a civil medical suit. In fact, the more I look, the more I see just how many lawsuits the brain surgeon is contending with at present. No wonder he doesn’t maintain a private office at the hospital. The guy is damaged goods, and that’s putting it mildly.

  He sees me being nosy and he shoots me a look that could melt the paint off the wall.

  “You really know how to make a client feel all warm, fuzzy, and cozy, Dick Moonlight, you know that?”

  “Hey, Doc,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest so that I can feel the bulge my .38 makes through my leather coat, “who said you were still my client?”

  He blinks, almost painfully.

  “You still want me to operate on that head of yours?” he says. “For free?”

  I think about what happened to Miller’s wife on the operating table, and I’m not sure I want Doc Schroder touching me with a Q-Tip much less a scalpel. I find myself wanting to tell him this, but my built-in shit detector tells me to hold off. That I need to find out more info on poor Mrs. Miller before I go off tossing it in his fat face.

  “Let’s call it a maybe,” I say.

  “Then, for the love of God, you will please, please, please, do as I request?”

  “Money,” I say. “You might think about giving me a raise. That is, you wish to reinstate your Moonlight client status.”

  He blinks again. Just as painfully as before. He also sighs.

  “What a horrid day,” he says. “My son gets kicked out of school then arrested for crashing an Elvis concert at said school, and now the Albany Police Department has placed him behind bars. They’re going to arrest him for rape and perhaps even murder when the truth of the matter is that the, now deceased, young woman in question hanged herself. Now I have a private detective who can help me clear my son and he’s trying to extort me for more money.”

  “I wouldn’t call it extortion, Doc. I think I’m worth more to you now than before when I was just your driver and part-time muscle.” I let my arms hang down by my side. “’Course, you don’t want my services, there are other PIs around who can do a good job for you. They’ll also cost you, however.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Okay, how much more, Dick?”

  “Four hundred per day, plus another two hundred each for my associates.”

  He stands.

  “Wait just a minute,” he barks. “That’s outrageous. My lawyer doesn’t even cost me that much.”

  “Who’s your lawyer?”

  More blinking.

  “I don’t have one, yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “So what will it be, Doc? Am I in or out? You client or non-client?”

  “You return my car?”

  “It’s sitting outside right now with my two-hundred per day associate behind the wheel.”

  “Is that so?” he says, standing, his stomach brushing up against the pile of papers. “Okay, deal, Moonlight.”

  “I could ask you to sign a contract.”

  “Can you simply trust me on this one?”

  “That’s the trouble. I’m not sure I can trust someone who buys his delinquent kid beer and cigs or who sponsors a house party full of underage kids fully stocked with booze.”

  “And you didn’t party as a teenager?”

  “Sure I did. But the drinking age was eighteen.”

  “Kids are going to party no matter what the drinking age. It’s a given. Let me ask you something. Would you rather see the kids doing their partying at home or somewhere where they can’t be supervised?”

  “From what I’m told you left them alone.”

  He’s back to shaking his head. Vehemently.

  “The police have that all wrong. I was home. I was upstairs all night on my side of the house while the kids were in the basement. I ran out of red wine so I, stupidly, went out to the all night liquor store over on Everett Road. The police started tailing me as soon as I left my driveway. They stopped me further up the road and slapped me with the DWI. That was around the same time that young woman started shouting rape and pointing an accusatory finger at Stephen. You ask me, it was all a well-planned setup.”

  “Because if you heard her scream when you were still upstairs, you would have come to her aid.”

  “Something like that.”

  I peer into his eyes, try to see beyond those little cracks of white flesh, as if I could somehow recognize some real truth in what he’s telling me. But then, if I’m going to work for him as a detective, I’m going to have to find a way to trust him. Even if that trust doesn’t amount to a hill of stale beans.

  “If you’re being harassed by the police, I’ll find out why. Unless, that is, you can give me a reason first.”

  He shakes his head, assumes an odd smile, and comes around his desk.

  “I can’t imagine why. Jealousy, maybe. I’m successful. I’m good looking. I’m rich. Most policemen aren’t any of those things, wouldn’t you agree, Bruce Willis?”

  “We back to that now?” I say. “Bruce Willis?”

  He reaches out with his right hand, lightly pinches my forearm.

  “Just trying to lighten up the hellish atmosphere,” he says.

  I yank my arm away like it’s been bitten by a snake.

  Schroder looks at his watch.

  “Almost six-thirty,” he says. “Moonlight, you need to take me home. I have something very important to do tonight.”

  I recall overhearing about his meeting at the St. Pious Church not far from his house.

  “Will you be needing me to drive?”

  “Not at all. My engagement is within walking distance from my house.” He pats his belly. “Besides, I could use the exercise.”

  “If you’d like,” I say, “I can see about posting bail for your son. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “I’m not counting on it. I just want you to look into who is personally acting out their vengeance on us Schroders at the APD and why. In the process, you’ll clear Stephen’s name in exchange for your extorted pricing. “

  “What about Detective Nick Miller’s wife?” I pose. “That’s right. I know all about her aneurysm and how she died on the table.”

  He shoots me a look to kill.

  “It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone on the surgical team.”

  “Whatever the case, isn’t it obvious he’s not a big fan of yours?”

  “Okay, maybe he’s the one responsible for coming down on me and my son. If that’s the case, maybe you can make him stop.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. If I’m to approach the cop, I need to do so intelligently. Which means I need to do some detecting. I’ll need to speak to some of your son’s friends. I’ll need to speak to Amanda’s family and her friends. But first, I’ll need to speak to your boy. I assume he’s on his way to Albany County Correctional.”

  He nods, sadly.

  “In the meantime,” he says, “I need to find him the best lawyer money can buy.”

  “Spare no expense, Doc,” I say. “The boy is in big trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, grabbing his suit jacket from off the rack by the door and shutting out the light. “I’m a brain surgeon. I’m practically made of money.”

  Chapter 23

  I follow him out to the car, and, after making an awkward introduction to Elvis, we drive the doc back home. But before we get there, we make a detour to my loft so Elvis can pick up the hearse and follow me to Schroder’s less than humble home. While we’re making the drive from the loft to the North Albany suburbs, Schroder speaks with a lawyer named Jim Royce. He lays out his son’s troubles in rapid-fire sentences. When he’s done, and Roy
ce has a chance to speak, Schroder utters , “Yes, I understand,” and “MmmmHmmm,” a lot as well as, “Well, I suppose so,” and even a, “Well, I’ll just have to pay it, won’t I?” But in the end, as we pull into the driveway of his home, it becomes plainly apparent that Stephen has himself a new lawyer. Maybe not the best one money can buy, but a new lawyer all the same.

  “Your legal counsel say anything about bail?” I ask as we exit the Beamer, and as Elvis pulls into the driveway behind us.

  “He doesn’t think the judge will go for it. For now, you’d just better plan on speaking to Stephen inside the jail.”

  “I will,” I say. Then, “So where’s this big meeting tonight?”

  I’m trying to get a rise out of him, see if he tells the truth about where he’s going.

  “It’s a private matter that’s no concern of yours,” he says.

  “Is it any concern of Stephen’s?”

  “Not at all. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get in a shit and shower before I have to run out again.”

  “Roger that, boss,” I say. “If you need Elvis to drive you in the morning, he’s available.”

  “Will he serenade me as well in exchange for his two-hundred per day and your four-hundred?”

  “He’ll be your teddy bear,” I say, tossing him the car keys.

  “Great,” he says, approaching the house with the keys in hand. “My son is about to enter into a fight for his life, and Elvis fucking Presley is my driver.”

  I get back in the hearse.

  “We’re working tonight,” I say.

  “We got a meeting with your pal, Georgie Phillips, at nine,” Elvis correctly states.

  “I’m moving it to nine-thirty because, first, we’re going to follow Doc Schroder to his little out of the way meeting at the St. Pious Church.”

  “You smelling a rat, Moonlight?”

  “A big, fat, stinky rat, Elvis. From the looks of things, the good doc is being sued up the wazoo by multiple clients, and he’s got the APD on his ass for his having fouled up Mrs. Miller’s brain and life.”

  “The APD watch over one another like brothers in arms, don’t they?”

  “That they do.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t.”

  “We need more beer.”

  “Good point. Head to the grocery store for supplies first.”

  Elvis backs the hearse out, humming the tune to “Heartbreak Hotel.”

  Chapter 24

  Handing Elvis fifty bucks, I tell him to pick us up a case of Bud cans and a pack of smokes for me. I tell him to grab some chips, too. While he’s gone, I sit in the hearse and try to imagine what Schroder could have done to Miller’s wife that caused her to die on the operating table. I might not like the man, but I have to believe he wouldn’t do anything to purposely harm one of his patients. You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know that brain surgery is a risky business. People die on operating tables. It’s a fact of life and death. Dying is the risk you take every time you go under the knife. In any case, I know that in a matter of a couple of hours, Georgie will have the true scoop on what went down in Schroder’s operating room three years ago.

  Elvis returns.

  He opens the door, sets a plastic bag in my lap. Inside it are some Lay’s potato chips and a pack of Marlboro Lights. He opens the back door and slips a case of Budweiser onto the flat platform that once upon a time would support a casket. He pulls out a beer, hands it to me. Then he grabs one for himself. Together, we pop the tabs and take deep drinks.

  “Private detecting is fun,” he says coming up for air, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his meaty right hand. “I could get used to this life.”

  “What and leave Elvis behind? Your redneck public would never forgive you.”

  I grab the pack of smokes, rip off the thin translucent plastic, pull open the cardboard packing. Slapping the bottom of the pack, I expertly pop one single cigarette out and place it between my lips.

  “Should you be smoking, Moonlight?” Elvis poses starting the hearse back up. “I mean, with that head of yours and all?”

  I fire up the smoke with a Bic lighter, exhale a cloud of delicious blue smoke.

  “I’m the last man on earth who should be smoking. The nicotine makes my blood vessels constrict inside my brain.”

  He does that twitchy thing with his lips again.

  “Then why do it?”

  “Smoking helps me cope with life’s and death’s little ups and downs.”

  “And beer.”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  He pulls out of the parking spot and drives across the lot to the road.

  “Which way?” he says at the stop sign.

  I tell him to go right.

  “Don’t die on me, Moonlight,” he says.

  “I’ll try not to. By the way, you got my change?”

  He pulls out a ten, wrapped around a five and some singles. Hands it to me. It’s pretty much all the money I’ve got until Schroder pays me. I slide the money into the breast pocket on my work shirt. We ride in silence, drinking, smoking, and coping all the way to the church.

  Chapter 25

  It’s been dark for nearly two hours by the time we get to the St. Pious Church parking lot. In the interest of stealth, I make Elvis park the hearse on one of the suburban roads positioned perpendicular to the parking lot. We’ll just have to take a chance that Schroder won’t be hoofing it up that particular road.

  “Cell phones on silent,” I say as we exit the car.

  “Got mine on vibrate,” he says. “I store it in my pants pocket beside my ball sack.” He laughs.

  “You’ve got real issues, Elvis. No wonder your girlfriend fucks the mailman behind your back.”

  We head in the direction of the dark brick and wood church. Making sure to stay out of the light that shines down on the macadam from the half dozen light poles located throughout the lot, we take it double-time.

  “Let’s go around back,” I whisper as I head toward the single-story grammar school that’s attached to the church’s backside. Positioning ourselves between a patch of woods and the school’s northern most exterior brick wall, we have a clear view of the open parking lot.

  “Now what?” Elvis asks.

  I look at my watch. It’s ten of nine.

  “We wait.”

  “You bring any beers?” Elvis asks.

  I turn, shoot him a look.

  “I’m not going to answer that,” I say.

  “Just askin’,” he says.

  Another quiet minute passes. Then, a car pulls in. From the beam of yellow light that shines down on it from one of the lot’s lamps I can see that it’s a Cadillac. An old model. Maybe from the late seventies or early eighties. Just like Dad’s hearse. The car slowly pulls forward past the church and towards the dark area of the school. For a split second, I think the driver might pull right up beside us, and I feel a cold chill run up and down my spine. But when he stops and kills the headlights, I know we’re safe. For now, anyway.

  A few seconds later, I spot a short, squat figure ambling spastically towards the Cadillac. It’s Schroder.

  The front two car doors on the Cadillac open and out step two very big men. They’re dressed in polyester track suits and white sneakers. Their hair is thick, black, and slicked back with Dippity-Do, sort of like Elvis’. The one who was riding shotgun is holding a pistol, which he raises up and points in the direction of Schroder.

  “Can you not do that?” the doc barks at the man holding the gun. “This is supposed to be a civilized meeting. What’re you going to do, shoot me?”

  “How do we know you have not been followed, motherfucker.” The man with the gun is talking in a thick, heavy accent. A European accent. He says “We” like “Vee.” I know the accent. I know it well. It’s Russian. Put the accent together with the cheap Euro-trash track suits, the stupid hair, the old Caddy, the guns, and what
to you get? The Russian mob. The Russian mob killed me once. Beat me to death.

  The doc has something in his right hand. It’s a Price Chopper Supermarket shopping bag. In the dim light from the Caddy’s open passenger side door, I can see that the bag is stuffed to almost bursting capacity.

  “I see you have brought a bag of pain release,” says Gun Man. “You nice boy, Schroder.”

  Gun Man stuffs the barrel of his automatic into the waistband of his sweatpants, grabs hold of the bag, reaches inside, pulls out a single pill or maybe a capsule. It’s not easy to tell the difference from this distance. Meanwhile, his driver just looks on in stoic silence. Like a big, bronze statue of Stalin in Red Square.

  “This better not be the fake shit, da?” He cracks open what I now realize is a capsule, sticks out his tongue, sets the tongue-tip on the powdery end of the broken capsule half. His eyes light up. “Ahhh, OxyContin. She is pure shit, no?”

  He hands Stoic Statue the other end of the capsule.

  Stoic Statue grabs it from across the hood of the Caddy, brings it to his nose, snorts it.

  A second or two passes while Gun Man waits in anticipation of his response. When Stoic Statue lets loose with a smile and a slow, “Daaaa . . . Daaaa . . . She is good shit,” Gun Man smiles and shouts, “Hector! He likes it.”

  He grabs the bag, tosses it into the front seat of the car.

  “You have done well, Schroder,” he says.

  “I believe you owe me ten thousand, Vadim,” the doc says.

  The Gun Man/Vadim, slowly draws his automatic again, allows the big silver barrel to brush against the side of his meaty thigh. Meanwhile, Stoic Statue/Hector opens the driver’s side door, packs his giant statuesque self back behind the wheel. In the light of the car, I can see him digging into the plastic bag like he’s going for candy on Halloween night. He’s got two capsules open and snorted in the time it takes to say USSR.

  “We never agree on ten thousand,” Vadim grouses. “Five thousand. No more, da?”

  Schroder takes a step towards him.

  “There are two-thousand capsules there,” he says, a hint of acid in his voice. “Five bucks a pill. That isn’t the street crapola you’re used to, my Russian friend. That is pure stuff, direct from the pharmaceutical company.”