Blue Moonlight (25 page)

I’m listening to Boris, but I’m looking out onto the crowded Belt Parkway that’s taken over from the Van Wyck. With every word he speaks, with every bit of spittle that sprays against my ear, with every micro-ounce of rotten-garbage-like halitosis vapor that passes by my nostrils, the rage inside of me builds
like a volcano about to erupt. It’s just a matter of controlling it, and releasing it when the opportune time arrives.

It. Will. Arrive.

Zumbo doesn’t take the turn for the FDR that runs along Manhattan’s East River. Instead he passes over the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge and onto the Deegan for the ride north toward Albany. In the meantime, I’m trying to get a better look at the second man sitting in the back, his piece aimed at Lola’s liver. The quiet one. I’m also trying to get a look at her. She has hardly spoken a word since we left the airport. I know she must be frightened out of her mind. But I need to see her to make sure she’s OK. I need to see him to get an idea of what I’ll be dealing with.

That’s when I get an idea.

“Hey, Zump,” I say. “It’s cool, I been calling you Zump? Listen, man, I know time is short and all, but I gotta tell you, if I’m gonna buy it, I’d like to do it with an empty bladder.”

“You can hold it, I think.”

“Well, there’s a little more to it than a simple wee-wee, I gotta say. And it wouldn’t be very pleasant. How can I put this delicately?”

“You can speak your mind, Moonlight,” Zumbo says. “We’re all friends here. Well, maybe not Boris and Mr. Personality back there. But the rest of us are.”

“Fuck you, Mr. Zumbo,” Boris says, jabbing me once more with the pistol. When he says “mister,” it comes out sounding like a snake: “Meeessster.”

“It was a long plane ride,” I say, “and it’s a brand-new day, and well, Mother Nature calls.”

Zumbo nods. “I get it. Gotta poop, don’t ya?”

“Can’t get one past you, Zump. You’re too sharp.”

“That’s what some dipshit told me after I paid him ten grand to pilfer the final exams at Quantico. That I might have actually passed the tests without cheating. But I didn’t want to take that chance.”

“I agree. You would have aced them without having to cheat, Zump. But it’s good to have a contingency plan in place. Smart thinking.” A sigh, and a pained squirm in my seat, like I’m desperately trying to hold in Mother Nature. “So whaddaya say, Zump? How do I spell relief here? Trust me, I’m not planning anything other than guaranteeing you and our international friends a clean, shitless ride. So to speak.”

Zumbo laughs. “Tell you what, Moonlight,” he says. “Since you’re so mature about this whole dying thing, I’m gonna stop at the next rest stop and allow you to pinch one final long, curly, satisfying loaf. How’s that sound?”

“Jeez, thanks, Zump. It’ll make for easy cleanup later on when I’m finally gone too. If you get my meaning.”

He laughs again. “Yup, no one likes picking up a stiff with shit in his drawers.”

Up ahead on the right is a sign for the next rest stop. It’s ten miles away.

Ten miles for me to make a plan so that Lola and I can live and Zump and company can die horrible, painful deaths.

We drive in silence.

Until Zumbo slaps the steering wheel. “Well I’ll be doggoned,” he says. “All this time I never thought once about asking you for the flash drive. Can you believe that, Boris? I never even asked once. But then, neither did you. You soccer-loving pussy.”

The barrel jabs the back of my skull once more. “I thought of asking for fleshy box,” Boris grumbles. “Just assume we take it off him when he is dead.” Perking up. “And my football is not pussy galore. It is hard man’s sport.” Laughing. “No helmets or padding to ease pain,
da
?”

“No helmets, no tackling, no scoring more than three lousy points a game,” Zump points out. I can’t help but think how right he is, despite our circumstances. Then he adds, “I think it’s best to grab the zip-thingy now. Makes things easier.” Holding out his right hand, palm up. “Let’s have it, sweetie.”

I begin digging in my coat pocket. I feel one of the two plastic baggies. I feel something else too. My cell phone. The ringer is turned off. Only the vibrator is on. They never took it off of me when I got in the car. I pull out one of the baggies and drop it onto the floor by my feet. On purpose.

“Silly me,” I say and exhale.

When I twist and bend down to retrieve it, I can see that Mr. Personality is a small, thin man with a shaved head. He’s got little cancer whiskers wrapped around his tiny little lipless mouth that are supposed to serve as a chin beard and mustache. His eyes are glass and his face tighter than a snare drum, the skin pale. I’ve seen killers in prison, stone-cold killers, and that’s exactly who Mr. Personality reminds me of. Someone who can kill you slow with a knife and maybe enjoy a nibble on your flesh in the process. He’s holding an automatic on Lola, who’s been gagged with a big white handkerchief. No wonder she hasn’t had anything to say.

I pick up the flash drive and hand it to Zumbo. “All yours,” I say.

We pass a sign that says three miles until the rest stop.

“Just hold it another couple minutes, sweetie,” Zumbo says, pocketing the flash drive into the chest pocket on his Hawaiian shirt. “Bet you’re seriously turtling that loaf.”

“It’s a sure test of my potty training,” I say.

We pull into the rest stop. It’s one of those places that features a McDonald’s as the main restaurant and a greasy chain pizza joint as a healthier alternative. Zumbo pulls into a spot at the back of the lot. Sneaky.

He kills the engine.

“OK, here’s the deal,” he says, turning his big body to face us all. “I’m gonna take Moonlight into the crap house. And so we don’t have any other little side trips, Boris, you and Mr. Personality get to take the little lady to
her
bathroom. Maybe you can try and pinch one too, honey.”

“What about following woman into crapper?” Boris says. “Can’t simply walk in ladies’ crapper.” He says “what” like “vhat.”

“No windows or exterior doors on these bathrooms, I happen to know. She’s not going anywhere. And anyway, she’s not out in three minutes, I’ll go in after her myself since I’m a big-shot federal agent and you’re just a commie with a bad knee,
capice
?”

“
Capice
…what is
capice
? Polish?”

“No, it’s Italian, you stupid fucking soccer-loving one-kneed commie Ruskie. Now let’s get moving. I don’t have all day. We have a couple executions to attend, not to mention a double burial of sorts.”

Zumbo opens his door and shifts his big weight out onto the parking lot. I get out and so do Boris and Mr. Personality, pushing Lola out before him.

“I don’t think I have to remind you to behave, sweetie.”

“You don’t, Zump. A man knows when it’s time to call it a life. Especially me.” Making like a pistol with my right hand, pressing extended index finger against the scar on my temple. “I just want to enjoy one final constitutional.”

He sets his gargantuan hand on my shoulder, pinches it, lovingly. A little too lovingly. He smiles, tells me to go on ahead of him. He wants to watch me walk with my cute little butt cheeks pinched tight.

Well I’ll be dipped in shit. The Zump…the big football player…the macho New York Giant…he really is a fairy.

I toss him a wink. “I’ll try, sweetie,” I whisper.

The rest stop is crowded with weekend travelers trying to get in some late-season fall foliage gazing. So is the men’s room. Zumbo heads straight to an unoccupied wall-mounted urinal.

“Take care of business, Moonlight,” he says to me while pulling himself out and producing a steady flow that spatters against the porcelain. “Just remember, I’m right here watching. Or listening, anyway.”

I locate an empty stall and close the door behind me, securing it by turning the bolt. I don’t bother with slipping off my coat, nor do I pull down my pants and attempt to appease Mother Nature. I just sit myself on the toilet seat while reaching for my cell phone inside my coat pocket. I start in on a text to Agent Crockett.

Zumbo and Russians kidnap us. Going to kill us. On Northway 87 above NYC. Ramapo. GPS this number.

I thumb Send.

I know it’s silly to wait for an immediate reply. I’m also hoping they have an automatic GPS set up for the cell. It’s an FBI-issued mobile phone, after all. How can it not be traceable? I know it’s only a matter of a few seconds before Zumbo’s big fat head peers down at me from over the side of the stall. I listen to the men and boys coming and going from the men’s room, the
sound of toilets and urinals flushing, sink faucets spilling water, hands slapping the wall-mounted hand dryers, the jet-plane-like sound of the hot air spewing out the stainless-steel nozzle.

Through the narrow half-inch opening between the stall door and the partition closer, I spot three huge, beer-lubed, blue-and-red New-York-Giants-jersey-wearing fans peeing in the urinals. Must be a special Thursday night game on the NFL Network. All three of them are shooting Zumbo these glances like they recognize him. And maybe they do.

I know I need to do something, but I have no idea what.

Until I see the bit of discarded newspaper lying on the floor a few feet in front of me.

“M
AN
P
ULLS
G
UN ON
P
ASTOR
D
URING
S
UNDAY
S
ERVICE
!” reads the headline.

It comes to me then like a gusher erupting from my insides.

“You fall in, sweetie?” Zumbo barks. “You got a date with the devil, don’t forget.”

“On my way, Zump,” I say, standing. The toilet flushes electronically despite my not having used it. Opening the stall door, I step on out and face the football fans.

“
GUN!
” I scream.

In a word, the place goes berserk.

Most of the men run for the exit. But the three Giants fans stand their ground, zip up, step away from the porcelain urinating fixtures, and line up like they’re linebackers and I’m the littlest Dallas Cowboys quarterback in the business.

“Not me!” I scream. “Him!” I point to Zumbo. “Look! He’s got the fucking gun!”

They turn to him. Zumbo’s holding an automatic in his beefy hand. They’re not mistaking him for a football great now.

Zumbo’s face is a mask of anger and violence. Doesn’t matter how big he is or that he’s armed. They fearlessly set themselves side by side, form-tackle position—knees bent, shoulders cocked, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Go for the knees!” I scream. “He’s got bad knees!”

Zumbo raises up his automatic like he’s about to shoot his way out of a perfect goal-line defense, instead of plowing through it with head, shoulders, and thrusting legs. The three Giants fans don’t wait for him to shoot. Acting like a well-trained defensive unit, they gang tackle the former fullback, sending him careening back against a sink and a mirror, shattering both. He fumbles the automatic and it drops to the tiled floor. I jump into the scrum, snatch up the gun, and coldcock
his bulbous head. He’s out like a light with both eyes wide open. Or maybe I killed the motherfucker.

“You boys hold him right there,” I tell them. “Damn shame too. Another pro football player turned to the dark side.”