Shoot the Moonlight Out, page 7
CHARLIE
I need you to hold something big for me,” Charlie says to Max Berry.
They’re sitting in Max’s cramped shithole office in Bay Ridge. Charlie has the black duffel bag at his feet. The bag that he snatched from Junky Greg. He’s brought it to Max’s for safekeeping because he needs to tie up Greg and Rainey’s loose ends and Max’s is where he always brings his money. Since Charlie got back from Florida last summer, he’s come to depend on Max more than ever. Max is his bank. Charlie’s never had this much. Plus, there are the drugs. He certainly can’t stash it at his apartment. The trunk of his car would be exceedingly stupid too. He considers Max’s place a haven. A lucky spot. Sure, people come around, but nobody messes with Max because he’s protected. The irony isn’t lost on Charlie. Max pays Stacks Brancaccio for protection, and Charlie just killed Stacks’s no-good junky son, stole his score, and is now squirreling it away in Max’s office where it will be safe because of the protection provided by the Brancaccios.
Max is fidgety. He has one of those small milk cartons he swears by on the desk in front of him, and he’s taking nervous swigs. All the things he’d hoped for out of the day, Charlie bringing extra drama into his life probably wasn’t one. “What’re we talking about here?” Max says. “I don’t need trouble.”
Max has a new kid working for him. Probably about eighteen or nineteen, fresh out of high school. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the desk, packing CDs into padded shipping envelopes. He’s wearing headphones, bopping his head to some droning hip-hop. As long as Charlie has known Max, he has some kid or another working for him. Usually fifteen or sixteen years old, a student at Our Lady of the Narrows, where Max went to school. Max is an atheist, but he looks back longingly on his Catholic school days and seems to want to relive them by inviting these boys to work with him. Max vibes weird, off in some way, but Charlie’s pretty sure he’s not a kid-fucker or anything. This one’s older. The son of a guy Max had gone to high school with is what he’d said when he introduced the kid. “Tell your little pal to take a walk,” Charlie says.
Max turns on his chair, reaching out and tapping the kid on the shoulder.
The kid lowers his headphones, presses stop on his Discman. “What’s up?” he asks.
“Bobby, do me a favor,” Max says. He digs a twenty out of his pocket and hands it to the kid. “Run over to Key Food. Get me four or five of my milks, a bag of Twizzlers, and a Twix. You get something for yourself too. Charlie, you want anything?”
“I’m good,” Charlie says.
Bobby stands up. He tucks the twenty in his pocket, puts his headphones back on, and heads out the door, chugging along to the rhythm of whatever he’s listening to.
“Good kid,” Max says. “Dumb maybe, but good. I already told you Danny Santovasco’s his old man, right? You know Danny? He went to OLN with me. We ran track and did stage crew together. Hard to believe I ever ran track.”
“I don’t know the guy, and I can’t picture you running track.”
Max nods, takes another swig of milk. “I’m afraid to ask, but what’s the trouble?”
“I need you to hold this bag for a while, that’s it. I’ve gotta go to Jersey to take care of something.” He knocks on the arm of the chair he’s sitting in.
“That’s not wood you knocked on,” Max says.
Charlie taps his crotch. “I got some wood right here. Perpetual wood. You ever walk around with a chubby all day long? That’s my conundrum. I got these nonstop good ideas, and my wang stays inflated over them.” He picks up the bag at his feet, nodding his head in the direction of the black safe on the table in the corner. “Just throw this in there.”
“What’re you getting me into here?” Max asks.
“You’re not involved. You’re just holding something. You know this is my lucky spot. You know I trust you more than I trust anybody else.”
“Come on. You’ve got nowhere else to go. You’ve burned every bridge there is to burn.”
True enough, Charlie thinks. The last decade of his life has felt like one big burning bridge. First there was his wife and his wife’s family, then there was everyone and everything in Florida, and now, back in Bay Ridge, he’s managed to make enemies where he didn’t even know there were enemies to make. Max is the only one he can depend on.
Charlie’s intention, after getting out of Florida alive, was to come home and make a different kind of name for himself. He didn’t want to just be the guy in the papers. The money he’d inherited from his wife after she died hadn’t lasted as long as he’d hoped—it’d bought him the place in Florida, a car, a boat, and many good nights on the town, but it went fast, and he got tied up with guns and drugs and was locked up for a stretch. After he was released he came home and started plotting. As a kid, he’d dreamed of being big like Stacks Brancaccio. But he keeps running into brick wall after brick wall. All he wants is to rise in the ranks, bathe in dough, have one of those mansions with cement lions at the end of the driveway, a new wife (preferably a non-English-speaking Russian), maybe a fleet of cars, some guys taking orders from him. Instead, he wound up loan-sharking, with shitbags like Greg his only clientele. Dreams and reality are two different things—that’s all he’s learned in his thirty-seven years on the planet. Still, here he is with this score. It’s not everything, but it’s something big.
“You gonna tell me what’s in the bag?” Max says. “Or you expect me not to look?”
“You can look,” Charlie says. “Nothing unusual. Not a bunch of hooker scalps or anything. Good old-fashioned dough and drugs.”
“And I get raided by the FBI, what happens then?”
“You’re not getting raided by the FBI. Come on. That was gonna happen, it would’ve happened already. It’s definitely not gonna happen in the next few weeks.”
“A few weeks is how long you want me to hold this stuff?”
“Probably not that long. A few days. A week or two tops.”
“And who’s looking for this stuff? Not the Brancaccios, I hope. You know I pay them off. Stacks sends a guy once a month. It’s usually Fleabag Freddie. Maybe they sniff out you were here.”
“Nobody knows we know each other from before Florida.”
“That’s what you think.” Max drains the last of his milk. “What’s in Jersey?”
“Swamps, Springsteen, Whitney, the Devils.”
“Good one, smart guy. You said you’re going to Jersey to take care of something.”
Charlie considers how deep he actually wants to get with Max here. After taking the bag and leaving Greg shot full of poison, he tracked down Rainey in Owl’s Head Park. Charlie wanted to know where exactly the bag came from, whether or not Don and Randy were even real. Greg had said they were rich kids they’d blackmailed, but Charlie didn’t trust anything Greg said. He knew Rainey to be slightly less scuzzy. He was a wannabe Brancaccio from way back, but Stacks wouldn’t give him the time of day. It made sense he figured this bag was his way through the gates officially. He was pissed, like Greg said, but he was also a man whose allegiance could easily be shifted. Rainey could be convinced that Charlie was making a big move, that he needed someone at his side. Rainey just wanted to feel important. Charlie made him feel that way. He promised him a seat at the table. He said to forget Greg and to hop on board the French Express. Rainey liked that kind of talk. He wanted in. He gave up everything he had on the guys in Jersey. Full names and last known addresses. Rich kids indeed. The sons of politicians. Wrapped up in some scheme. He and Greg had lifted a hard drive full of sensitive info. The guys were somewhere in Atlantic City, hiding out. When Rainey finished talking, Charlie shot him, left his body on a half-pipe ramp in the park. Dumb fuck. Charlie’s plan now is to eliminate Don and Randy so they don’t come hunting for their money. Rich kids get ideas. They hire people. They’re probably hiring people right this second. Those people find out Greg and Rainey are dead and start digging around hard, they might show up at his door. Killing Don and Randy cuts off trouble at the pass. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Charlie says to Max now.
“One more question,” Max says.
“Shoot,” Charlie says.
“You get pinched or killed, I got this package here, what do I do?”
“That happens, and it’s a long shot, you hold it for my ghost, okay? I’m just kidding. Buy yourself a lifetime supply of milk and Twizzlers. Or whatever you spend all your dough on. Buy your little Bobby a corsage and take him out dancing.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I’m busting your chops. I’m not getting pinched or killed. Remember, back before I split for Florida, I did you that favor. I paid a visit to that guy who hassled you. I tracked him down.”
“You didn’t even have to do anything. He was a wreck. Half dead.”
“Still, a favor’s a favor. Consider this a favor. Above and beyond.”
Max stands up. He comes over and takes the bag, unzipping it to confirm what Charlie’s just said. He brings it over to the safe and spins the combination dial, making the stops he needs to make. Click. He opens the heavy door and stuffs the bag inside. It’s a tight fit, but it’s in there with whatever else he keeps hidden away. Some dough, sure, but Charlie bets he has some illicit nudie shots in there, maybe blackmail material of his own. Who knows with Max? Guy could be into anything under the sun. He closes the door and spins the dial wildly to make sure it’s nowhere near the last combo number.
“There,” Charlie says. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“I got my limits,” Max says.
Bobby comes back in with a white plastic shopping bag drooping from his hand. Discman tucked in his shirt pocket, headphones down around his neck. “I went to Chico’s on the corner instead of Key Food,” he says to Max.
“Key Food’s cheaper,” Max says.
“I know, but the place on the corner is closer.”
“Chico’s is no good.”
Bobby shrugs. He plucks a tall boy of Rolling Rock from the bag and gets back to his stack of CDs and shipping envelopes.
“That’s what you got yourself?” Max asks. “A beer? That’s your lunch? You’re a growing guy. You need nutrients.”
“Twizzlers and Twix—that’s nutrients?”
“The milk’s got everything I need.” Max reaches into the bag for another carton. He peels open the cardboard and drinks.
Charlie gets up. He does have a chubby. He wasn’t lying about that. He gets very excited over things. Now he’s thinking about Jersey. He’s thinking about eliminating trouble. He stuffs his hand down his pants and readjusts. Bobby has his headphones on again. “Thanks for being my guy,” Charlie says to Max, giving him a high sign.
“Sure,” Max says.
“You still got that piece in your desk, right? Just in case.”
Max nods, focused on his milk.
Charlie leaves and goes out to his car, double-parked at a hydrant, unticketed. He gets behind the wheel. His gun’s in the trunk in a toolbox, a silencer nearby that simply gets screwed into place. In the cup holder there’s a matchbook from the Bridgeview Diner, where he had breakfast after a night of not sleeping. He’s going to Atlantic City now. He’ll get a motel. Scope things out. Move smart. Be clean and efficient. Erase the problem before the problem comes to him. The stuff’s safe with Max.
Maybe he’ll gamble too. He took thirty grand from the bag for spending money. It’s in the toolbox with his piece. He’s thinking about slots. Lights spinning. Sitting down at a poker table. Seeing a show. Flirting with waitresses. A few drinks. Mixing what might be perceived as work with pleasure. He heads for the Verrazano now. In a few minutes, he’ll be across the bridge in Staten Island and then he’ll be in Jersey. He has the future to think of. When this is done, when he’s back in Bay Ridge and has retrieved the money from Max, the next step will be clear. Everybody’s going to know his name.
JACK
The writing class has opened something up in Jack. When he’d seen the flyer for it, he thought of Amelia. That was why he’d decided to give it a shot. He’s always been a reader but he never really tried to write anything other than letters here and there. After Amelia died, he took to writing her letters every week. He’d bring them to her grave and read them to her and then he’d hide them in a shoebox in his closet. It helped. He figures more writing can’t hurt. Plus, he likes Lily. She reminds him of Amelia. She’s what Amelia could’ve been. A neighborhood girl who went to college with the dream of writing, and it paid off. She’d won a contest. She’d published stories. She’s working on a novel. He wonders if that was what Amelia would be doing right now, plugging away on a novel. He wonders if she might’ve really finished the one she’d been working on. He can’t imagine that many high school kids do.
Jack’s feeling just how alone he is again. The house reverberates with his aloneness, seems to be deteriorating by the second as a result. It was run-down when Amelia was alive. Now, it’s worse. Broken windows, crumbling porch, leak in the roof, faucets that drip, mold that grows, sad smells emanating from forgotten spaces, collapsing ceilings. He has to remind himself to try to do basic things. When a light bulb blows, it stays blown. When a handle breaks, it stays broken.
All of Jack’s time is in the house these days, except for daily walks to Coney Island to get some air in his lungs. He quit his job with Con Ed after Amelia died. He survives off the cash he’d saved to set her up, payments for the services he provided, stashed in that safe-deposit box at the bank. He stopped drinking at the Wrong Number, choosing to drink at home with the TV or radio on. He stopped his side work too, letting Max Berry be and never following through with Mary Mucci. Max had figured out who he was and sent a guy—Charlie French—to talk tough to him regarding the Mucci situation. This was maybe three weeks after the accident. Jack let himself take Charlie’s threats, told the empty-eyed bastard he was out of the picture, forget it. It signaled the end. Nobody else bothered him with jobs. They knew the tragedy he’d gone through, the hand he’d been dealt.
Jack goes into Amelia’s room now. He hasn’t touched a thing since the day of the accident. The blinds on the window have grown dusty. The yellow walls somehow yellower. He looks at the posters taped over her bed. A couple of that Irish band she liked, the Cranberries. One’s the cover of her favorite record, No Need to Argue. The other’s from the show she’d gone to at Jones Beach in 1995. She liked that singer a lot. Then there are pages ripped from magazines. Bands, movie stars. Most of them unfamiliar to him then and still unfamiliar to him now. He knows that one actor she loved, River Phoenix. A big foldout poster of him hangs crookedly over her headboard. She was broken up when he died. And there was that actress, Winona Ryder. Amelia used to rent Mermaids all the time. Even he liked that one. There’s also her map of the world, pinned with all the places she wanted to visit.
The bed is just as she left it. Unmade. Checkered quilt that Janey bought at some stall on Eighty-Sixth Street bunched close to the wall. Yellow sheets ruffled. Boots on the floor at the foot of the bed. Three identical pairs of those Doc Martens she liked so much.
His mother’s old Royal typewriter—the one he’d taken up for Amelia from the basement—is on her desk. The same page she was working on rolled in there. Not much written. Just a few sentences: May hated Matthew for what he’d done. She wanted to blow up his house and blow up his car. She wanted to poison his mother.
On one side of the typewriter, there’s a boombox and a stack of CDs and cassettes. The Cranberries, Hole, Sinéad O’Connor, Erykah Badu, Soul Asylum, Natalie Merchant. On the other side is a tower of books. Kathy Acker, Katherine Dunn, Hubert Selby Jr., Irvine Welsh, William S. Burroughs, Sam Shepard, Jim Carroll. He’d heard some of the names along the way, mostly from her, but he doesn’t really know what most of them are about. All the times he’s come in here in the last five years, he’s looked at the books and tapes and CDs and thought about reading them and listening to them as a way of communing with Amelia. What’d she like about them? What was there for him to learn about his daughter that he didn’t know hidden in these books and songs? Then he’d be reluctant to touch them, to move or change a single thing. He’s wanted everything to remain just as she left it.
He traces his fingers over the spines of the books again. Thinking now is finally the time. The book on top is Kathy Acker’s Blood and Guts in High School. What a title. He remembers Amelia talking about that one. Maybe he’ll start there. He’ll bring the book down with him to the living room later and pour himself some whiskey and try to connect with her across this great distance through a book she’d read and liked.
He opens the top drawer of the desk. It’s neatly organized, split into two compartments. A thin package of typewriter paper and a fresh ribbon in a box on the left side. Some typed pages next to that. He’s looked in this drawer before but he could never bring himself to read what Amelia had written of the novel. It felt like it might be some sort of betrayal.
Now, finally, he decides to read it. Something about the class. It’s more on May and Matthew. Their whole story, from meeting at a bowling alley to their first date at the movies to sleeping together to dinners with their parents to breaking up. It moves, really moves. She was so good. A natural. He wonders how a kid could even write the kinds of things she was writing at eighteen. Her mother dying gave her some kind of wisdom that most kids lacked, he guesses. She was an old soul. It shows in her writing. He wishes she’d been able to write her whole life.
He takes the piece of paper out of the typewriter and puts it in the drawer with the rest of the novel. He feels like he’s rattling the cage of heaven, but he knows Amelia won’t mind. He rolls a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter and taps the carriage return. He closes the drawer, and scooches closer to the desk so his forearms are leaning against the edge and his fingers are poised over the keys of the typewriter. He’s going to work on his story for Lily’s class. Probably the ribbon’s dried out, but he’ll give it a shot, see if this old dusty bastard has any life left in it. It feels good here, sitting in Amelia’s room with some purpose.
