Moonlight City Drive Trilogy

Chapter 5

The sun crested over the Mesquite horizon, and a blast of light woke up Smith in the backseat. He rubbed his eyes and sat upright, noticing Covington was still fast asleep in the front bench.

“Hey,” he said, shaking Covington’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

The Boulevard Killer stirred and stretched. “What time is it?”

Smith looked at his pocket watch. “Almost six thirty. Is it safe for you to go home yet?”

“Yeah. My shift ends at six o’clock, so I would be driving home right about now. Do you wanna come back to the house and meet the family? I could introduce you as a new guy at the dam who just recently moved to Boulder City.”

“Nah. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, hogwash. The wife would love to see I’m mingling with coworkers. She’s always on me, saying it’s unhealthy I work so much.”

“If she only knew, huh?” Smith said. “So how long does it take to get one of the girls back?”

“Back?”

“Yeah. How long for the vultures to do their thing before the girl is part of the group?”

“Sometimes it’s the very next night, and sometimes it takes weeks. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind the time. We can only summon them; we don’t have any influence on their methods.”

“I saw Candy tonight. She tried to play with my fedora.”

“Yeah, about that. It might behoove you to lose the hat, trench coat, and g*n. My wife is pretty, but she’s not stupid.”

Smith removed his outer layers in the backseat as Covington pulled the Rolls onto the roadway.

“Is there anything I should know? You know, about myself? So I don’t blow the cover with the missus?”

“What’s your name?”

“Uhhhh … how’s Todd Arbuckle sound?”

Uhhhh“Nice. And where are you from, how long have you been in Clark County, and what brought you here?”

“I’m from Florida. Let’s say, Sarasota County. I’ve been here three months. And I’m just a free spirit chasing the American dream.”

“Touché! I love it, Todd.”

“Honey, I’m home!”

“Daddy, Daddy!”

“Hey, sweet pea. I want you to meet Daddy’s friend from work. This is Mr. Arbuckle.”

“Nice to meet you, kind sir,” Rose said and curtsied.

“Nice to meet you too, young lady.”

“George!” Maggie called from upstairs. “Is someone with you?”

Smith looked at Covington and mouthed, George?

George?“Yes, dear. A new guy at work,” George Covington answered, ignoring Smith’s silent inquiry of his first name. “Thought he could use some friendly hospitality. He won’t stay too long.”

“I wish I had known, or I would’ve been more decent.”

“I’m sure you’re fine, honey. There’s no rush.” Then to Smith he asked, “Do you want a cup of coffee or anything?”

“Something harder maybe?”

“Is scotch okay?”

Smith nodded and scanned the Covingtons’ home. “Nice place you got here.”

“Yeah, it does the job. We got the two wee ones. Rose and Ray. Speaking of which … Rose? Is your brother up yet?”

“No, Daddy.”

“We just had his birthday last weekend.”

Maggie appeared in the doorway. “I’m terribly sorry for the mess.”

“No need to apologize, ma’am.”

“Can I make you two something to eat? Eggs and bacon?”

“I want eggs, Mommy!”

“That would be just fine, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Name’s Maggie,” she said, extending a hand.

“Todd, ma’am. Todd Arbuckle.”

“You stop calling me ma’am, and I’ll make those eggs!”

“Fair enough, Maggie. Thank you.”

Smith and Covington sat at the kitchen table while Rose played with the radio. She turned the tuner until the static gave way to a clear reception. The melody of Benny Goodman’s clarinet filtered from the single speaker, implying unvoiced descriptions of high hats and arrowed collars and where Rockefellers walk with sticks. Smith froze and directed his attention to the radio.

“Everything okay there?” Covington asked, noticing the change in Smith’s demeanor.

“It’s … it’s nothing. Just that song reminded me of something, is all. No worries.”

“How long have you been working with George?” Maggie asked as she cracked an egg into the frying pan.

“A few … weeks now?”

“Has it been that long? Wow, time flies,” Covington said. “We’ll go on the porch and smoke a morning cigar while breakfast cooks. Send Rose out to get us when it’s ready.”

He tapped Smith on the elbow, and Smith followed Covington into the parlor, where he opened a desk drawer and removed two Cuban cigars. Smith stole a glance at Covington’s wife as he exited the house with his new “coworker.” George offered him a cigar when Smith closed the door and then lit the end of it for him. Both men puffed on their Cubans in silence as the sun exploded the sky into hues of oranges and reds.

“Thanks for having me over. And thanks for the cigar.”

“You’re very welcome. We still have to get you back to Rippetoe’s so you can get your car. But we’ll worry about that later.”

“You have a very nice family.”

“Thank you. But you haven’t met Ray yet.”

“I’m sure he’s just as respectful.” Smith puffed on his cigar and contemplated his next question. “Do you feel like you’re living two separate lives?”

“Of course. You try sitting around and eating birthday cake and watching your son open presents, knowing just twenty-four hours ago you were stabbing some bimbo you had just drilled.”

“And then throw in the Mushroom Cult and a handful of vultures.”

“Then it’s a party!” George said, laughing. He collected himself and continued. “It’s been nice getting to know you a little bit. I’ve forgotten what it’s felt like to have a friend.”

“Is that what we are? Friends? Gotta be the most dysfunctional friendship—”

“Boys, breakfast is ready,” Maggie said, opening the front door. “I’m gonna go powder up, if you’ll excuse me. Rose is already eating, and Ray just woke up.”

“We’ll be in, in a minute,” George said.

Smith took a strong puff of his cigar and gripped his head, grimacing.

“Jeez, you okay?” George asked, taking a step forward.

Smith waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I just get these migraines. They come on suddenly.”

“How bad do they get?”

“Sometimes pretty bad. Sometimes they lead to black—”

“Daddy!” Raymond squealed as the door opened.

“Hey there, slugger. You ready for some breakfast?”

The three males entered the house, and Smith joined the Covingtons for a seemingly normal family breakfast.

“Thank you so much, Maggie. The breakfast was delicious. And you have a fine family. Very lucky,” Smith said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and finishing his coffee.

“Any friend of George’s is a friend of the family. We enjoyed your company, and you are welcome here anytime for breakfast. Or any other meal for that matter.”

Smith stood from the table. “Where’s the toilet?”

“Down the hall, outside our bedroom.”

Smith pushed in his chair and headed down the hallway. He reached the bathroom and peered into the Covingtons’ darkened bedroom. He leaned backward to catch a glimpse of the family, still conversing and eating. Confident he had a few spare moments to explore and investigate George’s private space, Smith bypassed the lavatory and entered the bedroom.

Everything appeared copasetic: unmade double-size bed, white dresser, throw rug on the wooden floor, rocking chair with an ottoman near a writing desk, and the open, private bathroom door leading to an open closet door. Smith took a step toward the entrance of the closet. Squinting—not wanting to turn on any lights—he deciphered the closet’s contents in the darkness. Smith took a deep breath and strained his ears to ensure no one had gotten up from the table to check on him yet. So far the coast was clear. He decided just a little snooping into George’s everyday lifestyle wouldn’t harm anyone, and, if anyone caught him, he would wing it. After all, that’s what he was best at: opening his mouth and letting unrehearsed words fly out.

He stepped into the closet and quickly surveyed the small space. Work overalls, dresses, suit coats, and a slew of other attire hung neatly from hangers. Smith’s focus grazed across the few shelves cluttered with shoes, jewelry boxes, and a hardbound maroon-colored book with weathered page edges. The book looked out of place and like a relic from a long-forgotten era. Knowing he was pressing his luck with time, he slid the book off the shelf to quickly inspect the odd artifact. He stumbled backward a step when he saw that the engraved insignia of the book’s cover closely resembled the design on his flask: the shining eye inside the golden pyramid.

“I’m gonna check on Todd,” Smith heard George say from the kitchen, followed by the sound of chair legs dragging along the hardwood flooring.

Instinctively Smith jammed the book inside his blazer and underneath his armpit, trapping it against his body with his elbow. Successfully scurrying out of the closet, out of the en suite bath, out of the bedroom, and into the hall bath before George could make it to the hallway didn’t seem to help Smith’s heart rate. He delicately closed the door and ran the water in the sink.

“Everything okay?” Covington said from the other side of the door.

Smith wiped the sweat from his forehead and repositioned the book under his elbow so the bulge wasn’t so obvious and opened the door. “Everything’s hunky-dory. But I think I’d like that ride to Rippetoe’s for my Chevy now. My headache is getting worse.”

“Sure thing. Let me grab my keys.”

Smith followed George to the living room, keeping the book jammed against his body in an elbow death grip. Maggie stood to shake his hand after George explained he needed to give Smith a ride to his car, which was parked at their place of employment: the Hoover Dam.

Watching the Rolls drive out of Rippetoe’s parking lot, Smith finally removed the maroon-bound book from underneath his blazer and placed it on the passenger seat of his Chevy. He flipped to the first page and found no title or author name listed. Was it a work of fiction? A textbook? A manual? A book of—

A bird landed on the front of the car and perched, looking like a hood ornament, and cawed loudly. Smith jumped and placed his hand over his heart. After collecting himself, he slapped the windshield to shoo away the bird. With his heart still racing, he reached for his pack of Smolens and lit one before flipping farther through the book.

His fingertips tried to regulate the speed and amount of pages that flipped, but the age and ratty texture of the paper made it impossible to control. Frustrated, he let the pages flop open wherever they may. His eyes grew wide after a bundle of floppy stuck-together pages came to rest. The cigarette dangled from his open mouth, hanging on only by the thin layer of saliva on his bottom lip as he stared awestruck at the subject matter of this particular chapter of the book.

He used his finger to scan the paragraphs in the chapter aptly titled “Mushroom Cult.” Instructions and explanations on how to build an “army of unholy ghosts” who will “march in morbid rhythm, chanting mantras of the dead” filled an entire page of very fine print. He flipped the next few pages and found potions and methods on reincarnation. The chapter ended with what appeared to be an amendment to the original print. Whereas the typeset looked like it had been formed by an old printing press, the added section was scrawled in meticulous calligraphy. The graceful swirls of the capital letters complemented the subtle brushstrokes of the lowercase ones.

Smith whispered aloud the few handwritten cursive words as his finger traced the exquisite sinuosities of the faded writing. “Collecting Impures translates to Longevity. Collecting Virgins is noxious; however, the Book shall appoint a single Chosen Virgin. One attains nonpareil Divinity through the sacrifice of said appointed Chosen Virgin. Absolute assistance of a Caretaker is mandatory at all times to exterminate all Targets, unless probable cause exists that a Target may be the Chosen Virgin.”

He looked up from the book and stared blankly through the windshield at the closed lounge. A thousand questions ran through his head: Was that why Anya collected the dead hookers? Each one adds to the length of her existence? She can’t kill on her own and relies on a Caretaker’s hand? And the Chosen Virgin is the Holy Grail for her, not having to rely on a mortal Caretaker of the book anymore, freeing her from a need for a partner? How does the book pick the Chosen Virgin? Did George ruin Greta from possibly being the Chosen Virgin by deflowering her? And how dangerous is Anya really?

Was that why Anya collected the dead hookers? Each one adds to the length of her existence? She can’t kill on her own and relies on a Caretaker’s hand? And the Chosen Virgin is the Holy Grail for her, not having to rely on a mortal Caretaker of the book anymore, freeing her from a need for a partner? How does the book pick the Chosen Virgin? Did George ruin Greta from possibly being the Chosen Virgin by deflowering her? And how dangerous is Anya really?Opening to the next segment, his gaze caught the word Vulture printed numerous times. A grocery list of chants and procedures appeared before his eyes. Commentaries on why and how and who the vultures can be controlled by filled the next three pages—all typeset, no further postscript calligraphy. He continued to a smaller section, toward the end of the book, and stopped immediately. His hands shook as he removed the dangling cigarette from his bottom lip and tossed it out the Chevy’s window.

Smith slammed the book closed and sped from Rippetoe’s parking lot, anxious to share his newfound comprehension.

With the maroon-bound book tucked underneath one arm, he exhaled deeply to build his courage. He closed his eyes and rapped hard on the door. A moment later, he heard someone move around in the apartment and then pause on the other side of the door, probably peering through the keyhole.

“Go away, Smith.”

“Wynn, you need to see this.”

“Baloney! I’ve seen enough. I’ve heard enough. I’ve … cared enough to last me two lifetimes. I’m not giving you any more of me, Smith. Please, go away.”

meHe sighed and tapped the edges of the book’s discolored pages with his index finger. “I know how the Polaroid trick works.”

Silence reigned on the other side of the door.

Silence …

Silence.

Click! The lock unbolted, and the door crept open.

Click!“Don’t presume, just because I’m letting you in, that I want to see you.”

“Of course not. No,” he affirmed and stormed past her to the dining room table. He set down the book and tapped the cover. “I … commandeered this from the Boulevard Killer’s house.”

“You mean you stole it?” she exclaimed. “How did you get inside his house? What’s he like? Does he have a family? Are they normal? Does he have the skin of dead hookers hanging in his garage?”

stole“Whoa, slow down there, doll. Me and him had some conversations together, and he invited me to his house for breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less. His wife and two lovely children were home, and we broke bread together. I asked to use the toilet and detective-ed around—”

“You snooped.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Detective-ed. And found this book in his closet.” He took his hand off the cover so Wynn could inspect it. “Look here.” He flipped to the segment on suggestive hallucination. “Read that. The Polaroid was just an illusion for only you and me—a catered mirage, if you will.”

Detective-edWynn read the chapter in earnest, only remembering to breathe when she consumed the final word on the matter. “So, he’s a wizard or something?”

“He says he’s in cahoots with a group of ghouls—although I think they seem closer to a herd of mummies without the wraps than zombies—who materialize in physical form of their earthly bodies. They’re called the Mushroom Cult and are led by what I believe is a witch. Here.” He opened the book to the chapters about the cult and their leader’s immortality.

“Do you believe him, or do you think he’s just deranged?”

“He certainly believes it. I haven’t witnessed anything out of the ordinary yet though,” Smith said, nervously scratching the back of his neck and hoping Wynn couldn’t tell he was fibbing.

“But you have. We both have. The Polaroid.”

“I’ve already thought of that. And, while you’re correct, I’ll sleep better at night believing he’s only mastered the art of that particular spell.”

“I thought he was the love of your life,” she teased.

“I think you know who that is.”

“Yeah, too bad she’s still missing.”

Smith gritted his teeth to keep from lashing out and slapping the condescending retort right from her mouth. But, he came here to reconcile. To use the book and the specific entry that explains the hallucinations as a catalyst to engage in normal, civil conversation again. He knew he had already wasted his last concrete chance with her; he was just running on fumes now.

“Are you going to turn him in now?” she asked.

“I’m shocked! I would think this revelation would steer you further away from wanting him incarcerated. You’re not curious to find out what makes this guy tick?”

further“You know what curiosity did to the kitten. And I can’t believe you, Smith. Why do I feel like this is all a ploy so you can justify continuing to admire this sicko from afar and to somehow recruit me for it too. Gosh, I just never learn!”

know“Look. I don’t want to keep going down this path with you. I’m sick of how, every time one of us flies off the handle, it escalates the other one, and we both wind up angry. That’s not productive for anyone. We’re a good team. Both professionally and … outside of work. I’d hate to lose that.”

Wynn remained silent and nodded. Smith was afraid to continue talking and say something to muck up any headway he may have made this afternoon, so he collected the book, tucked it under his arm, tipped the brim of his fedora with two fingers, and headed toward the door.

“Three days,” she said when he reached for the doorknob. He stopped without turning around. “Three days, Smith. I’ll give myself three days to decide whether or not you ever hear from me again.”

He nodded, keeping his back to her, then opened the door and disappeared down the hallway with the book cradled safely under his arm.