Whatever the reason she planted the shit on me really doesn’t matter anymore. What’s important now is that I get to her before Denis and his merry gang of warped TSA agents kill my ex-girlfriend.

  I set myself behind the wheel of the 1978 Moonlight Funeral Home Cadillac hearse and fire her up. I pluck my passport and boarding pass from my coat pocket. Sliding the boarding pass out, I focus on the boarding time for the half-past midnight transatlantic flight.

  11:40 PM.

  It’s now 8:00 PM in the evening. That leaves me with not a hell of a lot of time to get down to New York City, hook a left, and drive into Queens where JFK is located. I should be able to make the drive in two and a half hours. Theoretically speaking, that is. But if there’s a holdup — a breakdown on the highway or a traffic jam — I’m entirely screwed. Lola is screwed.

  Of course, I could place a call to her, warn her. But I don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. Plus, there’s the matter of us currently not being together. But then, not being together is the least of it. Lola doesn’t want to hear from me about anything. If I were to call her right now, warning her of an insidious plot cooked up by some corrupt members of the local TSA to kill her unless I produce an Italian drug dealer, she’ll just tell me to take another sip. Then she’ll hang up on me and leave the phone off the hook, or whatever the digital equivalent of leaving the phone off the hook is these days.

  I feel the anger welling up inside of me.

  Truth is, I just want to get to Adriana and drag her sweet little ass back here, dump her in the laps of those the three blue uniformed creeps. I can’t say I’m entirely averse to ruining her travel plans even if they are for the sake of being with her boy. She set me up, after all. Maybe she attempted the gift of a sweet blowjob, but pinning a drug deal on me that carries with it the potential to put me behind bars for a decade or more just ain’t worth it.

  In all honesty, I want revenge as much as Denis and crew want their drugs.

  I make a check of the gas gauge.

  The tank is full.

  My luck is gaining altitude already.

  That in mind, I back out of the parking spot and slowly motor my way to the guard shack. When I hand in my long term parking ticket to the college age kid working behind the glass, he shoots me a smile from under a thin black beard.

  “Decide not to take the trip, dude?” he says.

  “Something came up.”

  “That’s fifty bucks.”

  Just hearing the words coming from his mouth pisses me off.

  “I’ve only been here for six hours.”

  “Sorry, dude. Once you park your car, it’s fifty bucks. This is long term parking. Ain’t my fault you decided not to go on your vacation.”

  Vacation ...

  I reach into my back pocket, pull out my wallet, hand him my Amex.

  He runs it, hands me back the card along with the receipt.

  “No need to sign anymore,” he says behind a wide smile. “Everything’s digital, man.”

  “I remember when television only had three channels.”

  The kid looks at me like I’m from outer space.

  I throw the hearse in drive, punch the gas pedal, smell the rubber burning on my tires.

  8.

  I pull out onto the suburban road that will lead me to the highway. As I hook a left, it all becomes clear to me. Crystal clear. What’s to prevent me from going after Lola right now, stealing her away from the university lab, and protecting her from the TSA goons? It would just be a matter of me getting to her before they do, and I’m the one with the wheels. Maybe Lola won’t like seeing me, and maybe she’ll resist when I tell her that her life is in danger and that she has no choice but to come with me. When push comes down to shove, I have no other choice but to try and save her.

  Do it now.

  Turning the wheel sharply to the right, I pull up onto the soft shoulder. Then, spinning the wheel the opposite direction, I make a three-point turn and start heading the other way, balls to the wall.

  I’m not driving for more than a few seconds when my cell phone rings.

  I glance down at the caller ID.

  It’s a number I don’t recognize. For a brief instant, I think I’ll let the call go, focus on getting to Lola. But then, a little voice inside my gut tells me to answer it. I thumb on Answer and press the phone to my ear.

  “Whaddaya take me for, Moonlight? A low-life piece of scum?” It’s Beer Gut Denis. My entire body deflates like the Hindenburg going down in a plume of flames. “Wait,” he goes on. “Don’t answer that. For some reason, I’m thinking that from where you’re sitting behind the wheel of your dad’s prized hearse, the question is rhetorical.”

  “What do you want? I’m driving.”

  “In the wrong direction.”

  He’s got the hearse LoJacked. What the fuck were you thinking, Moonlight? He might be corrupt, but he’s a still a cop ...

  “So what the fuck are you going to do about it? I’m only a few miles away from Lola. You’re down inside that cave of yours blowing your brains out.”

  “This is what I’m going to do,” he says. “Stay on the line.”

  The line clicks over like I’ve been put on speaker. I’m hearing someone or something struggling. A woman, fighting someone off. Then comes a shriek that is quickly muffled, but not enough to prevent a gut splitting scream from getting through, as if someone is hurting her. Hurting her bad.

  Adrenaline pours into my skull, and blood pumps so fast through my veins I feel as if I am levitating.

  Denis comes back on the line.

  “This is what can happen,” he says.

  He hangs up. But then comes a chime that indicates an MMS message has been sent my way.

  I fumble the phone in my hand while driving. I manage to open the message. It’s a photo that’s just been snapped. It’s a finger. A woman’s index finger, one end a bloody stump, the other a long, red-painted, professionally manicured nail. A finger that’s just been cut away from its hand at the bottom knuckle.

  I pull off the side of the road, open the door, jump out and vomit onto the asphalt.

  Holy Christ, what the fuck am I dealing with here? Animals. I’m dealing with fucking animals. I have no choice. No choice but to do what they want or the next thing to get cut off might be Lola’s head ...

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I get back in the car.

  The cell chimes again. This time, it’s an SMS.

  Do the right thing, it says. For Lola’s sake.

  No choice.

  In the dark of the night, I turn the wheel sharply to the right and make a second three-point turn. I head south towards the highway that will take me to JFK and the Italian woman who is ruining my life, and, quite possibly, ending Lola’s.

  9.

  Driving.

  New York State Route 87, or what’s better known to most as the Thruway. The major north/south artery that follows the Hudson River line.

  The facts are starting to catch up to me.

  Why does Denis want this particular drug dealer back in his sights so badly? If Adriana is gone, why not just make a deal with someone else? Why go to the trouble of making me hijack her and bring her back? Is it really worth cutting off Lola’s finger? There’s more than one drug supplier in Albany who’s capable of delivering big bags of decent grade cocaine. Trust me on that. I used to be a cop. Cops get the best cocaine from the best suppliers. It’s a perk of the job.

  Denis’ motives don’t make sense until it dawns on me that maybe, just maybe, he’s working for the same people who employ her and now she’s gotten away, and the employer wants her back, or else Denis faces some pretty harsh music. Sleep-with-the-fishes kind of music. Possibilities and questions. Questions and possibilities. What’s the answer?

  Only one answer.

  Don’t let Adriana get on that plane to Rome.

  Time check.

  8:30 on a warm, cloudless night, my namesake moonlight shining down on the Thruway, bathing the pavement in its soft yellow rays. But then, my rearview fills with glaring white light. Two separate spots of LED light. Who, and whatever, is behind me has pulled up right onto my tail.

  I flick the small device located on the underside of the 1970’s era mirror so it assumes another angle, thereby deflecting the harsh white headlight. It also allows me to get a look at who is riding up my ass at seventy-five miles per hour.

  It’s not a cop, as far as I can tell. I also have my doubts that it’s Denis or any members of his merry gang.

  By the looks of it, the car is a Lincoln Continental, color unknown. I make out two silhouettes placed in both the driver’s seat and the shotgun seat respectively. Driver’s got a round head, his hair flat. That is, if he has hair. Shotgun’s face is thinner, more ovular. His hair appears to be spiked, like a punk rocker, or some kid with one of those faux-hawks.

  I feel my heart jump so that it lodges itself inside my neck, directly beside my Adam’s apple. Another surge of adrenaline soaks my brain; a buzzing radiates throughout my fragile skull.

  I tap the gas, feel the big eight cylinder’s RPMs roar to life beneath my body.

  The speedometer hits 80 miles per hour.

  Driver and Shotgun hit the gas, too, their front grill coming even closer to my back bumper.

  I tap the gas again.

  85 mph.

  They do the same.

  When I next peer into the rearview, I not only see the silhouettes of two men, I make out the shape of something else as well. A shotgun. Maybe a sawed-off, pump-action shotgun.

  I don’t have a gun.

  I turn the wheel quickly to the right, veer into the right lane, and floor it.

  There’s a car right beside me.

  The driver has to slam on his brakes or else I’m going to sideswipe him.

  I want to say I’m sorry, but how the hell can I do that?

  The random car blocks the path of the Lincoln, which allows me to put some distance between me and what looks to be a certain ambush. It’s then I see the rest stop up ahead. Maybe I can pull into it and find a place to hide. That’s when I decide to do something really stupid, considering I’m driving like a maniac on a crowded three lane highway. I kill the lights on the hearse. The vehicle’s finish is jet black. Even in the moonlit night, it will be hard to spot in the dark by anyone coming up on me from behind. But then, that’s exactly the point.

  When I come to the rest stop entry ramp, I make certain not to engage the column-mounted directional. I just veer off and make my way for the back of the facility.

  I take the road that hugs the inner perimeter of the parking lot, head for the back of the brick and wood, single-story combo restaurant, bathroom, and overpriced knickknack shop facility. There are three big blue dumpsters situated behind the building. I guide the hearse into the narrow space between the dumpsters and the building’s exterior wall, kill the engine.

  I realign the rearview so I can get a clear view out the back window. No one on my tail. No Lincoln Continental that is. For now, I’m in the clear.

  I check my watch again. It’s going on nine o’clock. Time is nose diving.

  Who are these assholes on my tail? And how do they know enough to follow me? Someone must have tipped them off? That someone being one of the members of the corrupt TSA.

  I need a weapon.

  Something lightweight and portable. Something I can fit in my pocket. If I hurry, I can head inside the facility, maybe grab something to use as an equalizer. It’s possible I might even find a pocket knife for sale.

  Slipping out of the hearse, I head around to the front of the building and go inside.

  The place is sparsely populated at nine o’clock. To my right is a series of fast food restaurants — Arby’s, McDonald’s, Nathan’s Famous Hotdogs. I scan the condiments station and see nothing I can use as a weapon. Not even a plastic knife. I notice some plastic spoons and forks, but I’m not sure either would constitute lethal.

  There’s a shop located to my left-hand side. It sells T-shirts and sweatshirts that all say the same thing. “I Love New York.” I don’t love New York right now. Right now, there’s someone in New York who wants to kill me, and if that someone kills me, then someone else is going to kill Lola. And I can’t allow that to happen.

  I go to the shop and scan the numerous racks of soda, chips, peanuts, candy, magazines, newspapers, and so much over-priced junk it makes my buzzing head hurt. Then I see a section devoted entirely to first aid. There are Band-Aids and small bottles of Advil and toothbrushes. Something else catches my eye. Dental Floss. Not only the garden variety little square box of dental floss but something entirely different.

  Oral-B Floss Picks.

  The little bastards are shaped like the fangs on a rabid dog, only much longer. Maybe a couple of inches of rigid plastic that finishes in a point so sharp it should be listed as a dangerous weapon. So sharp, in fact, that dollars to donuts it will pierce a man’s flesh should you use it like a shank and stick him with it. What’s more, they’re plastic. I’ll be able to make my way through a metal detector with them going unnoticed. Or, even if they are noticed, there’s no law against my transporting personal dental hygiene supplies on a commercial airliner. Man’s gotta keep his teeth clean, after all.

  It ain’t perfect, but for now, I’ve found my weapon.

  I grab the package off the rack, bring it up to the counter. There’s an elderly woman working the register — a retiree who probably couldn’t stand the post-retirement time on her hands. She’s short, heavy set, and her hair is thick, gray, and curly. There’s a pair of reading glasses strung over her neck by a thin gold chain. The glasses rest against a pair of double Ds that look like they’re growing out of her stomach.

  I set the package down. She stares at it.

  “How are we this evening?” she asks, her voice slow and old. Like she’s on ludes.

  A scattering of people move in and out of the facility. As many coming as there are going. No one, in particular, catches my attention until two men walk in through the glass doors and stop in the center of the floor, only a few feet away from the wide open first-floor gift shop entrance, which is closest to the facility doors.

  One man is short and thin, his black hair spiked high. It’s night-time and he’s wearing wraparound sunglasses like joggers and road construction workers wear during the day. The guy beside him is bigger. Taller and wider. His head is bowling ball round, and his salt and pepper hair is slicked back on his head with gel. Or what do the girls call it? Product. Both are wearing cheap black tracksuits, their jackets zipped up to their chins. Nike Airs for footwear.

  “How are we today?” repeats the clerk.

  “Can you just ring me up now? I’m in kind of a rush.”

  “Just trying to slow things down a bit,” she exhales, while slowly picking up the package of floss picks. “Everyone is in such a rush these days. Sometimes, it pays to slow things down, stop and smell the flowers. You get to be as old as me one day, you’ll be glad you did.”

  She methodically fingers the reading glasses, raises them up, slides them onto her nose.

  Behind her, the two goons are looking in my direction. I feel a start in my heart. I glance away, lowering my head. But when I look up again, they’re still staring at me. Directly at me.

  “Can you fucking hurry?” I say. “Excuse my French.”

  “Language, young man,” she says, scanning the plastic package. Then, “Five fifty, Mister In-a-rush-foul-language-pants.”

  I pull out a ten from my jeans pocket, slap it onto the counter.

  The two goons are entering the shop. They’re not taking casual strides, but instead, power walking in my direction, their eyes planted on my presence.

  I pick up the package and start walking the opposite way, toward the second entry closer to the public restrooms.

  “Sir, your change,” says the clerk.

  “Restitution for my foul mouth,” I call back, jogging through the exit and back onto the rest stop’s main floor.

  That’s when I hear someone shout, “Hey you! Moonlight!”

  I turn.

  It’s Spike Hair.

  He’s got his right arm extended towards me, his index finger pointed directly at me like a stream of flame is going to shoot out of it as if we were in the Harry Potter movies.

  Two or three people stop to look.

  I do the only thing I can do under the circumstances.

  I about-face, make for the Men’s room.

  10.

  As far as I can tell, the joint is mostly empty, which isn’t unusual at this time of night with the vacationers tucked into their hotel and RV beds. I scan the long row of enclosed toilets and choose one toward the center. Entering it, I close the door and engage the lock. Then, hopping up onto the toilet, my two feet supported by the white ceramic rim, I squat down while ripping open the pack of floss picks. I pull one out, position it in my right hand with the rounded flossing portion of the pick assuming the role of the handle, like the grip on a derringer. Shoving the rest of the package into the left-hand pocket on my leather coat, I wait for the sound of footsteps.

  Footsteps and something else to go with them.

  The unmistakable mechanical, solid metal-on-metal sound of an automatic being locked and loaded.

  “Lock the door behind you,” one of them says. The voice is loud and deep, so I’m guessing its Bowling Ball Head.

  The door slams closed. I hear the deadbolt locking.

  Then, I hear something that steals my breath away.

  A bullet leaving its chamber. Rather, a bullet leaving a chamber that’s got a silencer screwed onto it. The bullet pierces the metal door on one of the stalls to my right.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9