Moonlight City Drive 2

1: GARDENIA’S FAMILY RESTAURANTVicki rubbed her hands and bounced on her tiptoes, darting her eyes up and down the busy downtown Salem street. She shivered and tugged her overcoat snugger when the wind blustering from the water over Pickering Wharf prickled her skin. She returned to wringing her hands together, the skin on her knuckles cracking from exposure to the cold winter elements. “I knew I’d be stood up,” she said with a thick puff of steam exiting her mouth. She shook her left hand so her watch would fall below her sleeve’s seam. “Yep. Ten minutes late. This is the last blind date I go on. I swear.” She kicked a dirty-gray snowball across the sidewalk and turned to head to her car in Gardenia’s parking lot—the restaurant’s sign illuminating her backside—but instead she collided into someone’s chest. Vicki stepped backward. “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry.” “Don’t worry about it, kid,” replied the old man wearing a trench coat. “Mind if I bum a smoke?” Vicki shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I-I don’t smoke. I’m sorry, mister.” “Bullshit. You bought your first pack today so your blind date might think you’re cool.” The old man’s voice emphasized cool to sound like a melodramatic high-schooler. Vicki’s eyes grew wide. The old man shuffled one step forward. “I believe your boss retained a new client today. An Eva Smith? Looking for her grandfather?” Vicki placed a hand over her opened mouth. “The Wharf Killer. How do you know about that?” The old man’s index finger tapped his temple. “Because I’m smart.” Vicki glanced at the passing cars. Too much traffic and too many people are about for him to snatch me in plain view, aren’t there? Smith’s wrinkled and weathered finger pointed to Vicki’s jacket pocket. “A smoke, please?” Vicki’s shaking hand reached into her pocket and retrieved the box of Smolens. She unwrapped the cellophane and handed the box to the old man. Smith lit a cigarette and exhaled a mixture of steam and unfiltered smoke. “Your blind date won’t show tonight.” “Is it okay if I leave, mister? I just want to go home.” Smith extended his hand toward Vicki. “Are you scared of me?” She flinched and glanced over his shoulder at Gardenia’s parking lot. “Fine, fine. Go. It’ll save you additional wasted time and any further embarrassment.” Vicki ducked her head as she stormed past the old man. “Sorry it didn’t work out for you, Vicki. He just wasn’t ... right for you.” Smith stood in the same spot, puffing his cigarette, as he watched Vicki get into her car and exit the parking lot without checking the oncoming traffic. Her back tires squealed as they found traction in the snow-covered roadway. Smith tossed the half-smoked Smolens into a snowbank and headed for the entrance to Gardenia’s. “Good evening, Mr. Smith,” the hostess said. Smith nodded and smiled. “Any room at the bar tonight?” “Absolutely. Go right ahead.” The retired private eye tipped his fedora and moved past her toward the back of the restaurant. Just before he reached the red-cushioned bar, he detoured to the jukebox in the corner. He reached into his breast pocket and fished out two nickels. After he inserted them into the slot, he entered the memorized code for his song of choice. “Smith!” the bartender yelled from behind the beer taps. The detective flashed an open hand in lieu of a full-fledged wave. The jukebox played his chosen song, and the singer had just described Rockefellers walking with sticks and umbrellas when Smith reached an open seat at the bar. “Fain, how are you, my good man?” Smith asked. “Can’t complain. The holidays have certainly helped business.” Smith nodded. “Something about the season brings out the drunks in all of us.” Fain chuckled. “I’m not complaining. Your regular poison tonight?” “Yes, sir. Double it up.” Fain poured two whiskeys, each straight up into a separate glass, and slid them toward Smith. The detective removed his fedora and placed it on the threadbare stool next to him, then raised his glass. “To the holiday season.” Fain lifted his glass of water. “To job security!” The two men toasted, and Fain flung his dish towel over his left shoulder. “How’s Travis and his kids?” “He dropped them off earlier today. Them grandkids are having a sleepover tonight at our place. Wynn’s at home with them, making cookies.” “And you’re here, drinking.” “I had some … business to take care of tonight.” “You back detectiving?” “Is that even a word?” Smith asked, chuckling. “I guess you could say that, but, the real question is, have I really ever stopped?” Smith finished his first glass of room-temperature whiskey just as the jukebox fell silent again before Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell” graced the restaurant with its sing-along chorus and loud guitar hooks. Smith grimaced and shook his head. “Music these days, huh?” “The world moves on, you know? Whether you move with it or not,” Fain replied as he restocked the shelves with clean and dry martini glasses. Smith took the first swig of his second glass and closed his eyes. “There was a band—a jazz band—that would play regularly at Rippetoe’s, my go-to bar back home, a long time ago. The Anacostia Trio. Now that’s what I call music. But I fear those days of live classy music in smoke-filled lounges are gone.” Fain shook his head. “It’s a different time.” Smith removed his pocket watch and checked the time. “Well, sir, it’s time to make my way to the homestead to play Grandpapa.” “Don’t be a stranger.” Smith slid off his stool, finished his second glass in one gulp, and replaced his fedora on his head. He smacked his tongue against his lips to clear any residual alcohol and straightened his posture. “I won’t, Fain. And merry Christmas, if I don’t see you.” “And a happy New Year too.” “Yeah, yeah. Happy New Year and all that jazz. Good gravy, why don’t we just wish each other a happy Valentine’s Day too and make out while we’re at it?” “Get outta here, you old fogy.” Smith flipped Fain the middle finger as he turned toward the front of Gardenia’s. Fain chuckled behind him just as that pretty boy with the perma-sneer screamed through the jukebox speakers about how she wanted more, more, more. Smith eased into the driver’s seat of his Pinto and closed his eyes. The muffled sounds of traffic mixed with the giggles and cheer of the holiday-season pedestrians momentarily soothed his brain. After a moment of taking in the ambience of Gardenia’s parking lot from inside his car, Smith opened his eyes and adjusted the rearview mirror, bringing into view the face of a decrepit witch from his back seat. “For Pete’s sake, Anya! I swear you’ll be the death of me by showing up like that.” Anya leaned forward and raised the black veil covering her pale face and lifted it over her head. She cackled and slid between the front bucket seats and sat next to Smith. “We’ve been working together for how many decades now? You’d think I wouldn’t surprise you anymore.” “Working together.” Smith chortled. “That’s a good way of putting it.” Anya tsked at him and placed a bony hand on his knee. “Who do you have out tonight?” he asked. “A small crew. Cyana and Pum’kin are leading the charge in the red-light district.” “Mine’s over there in the Dumpster.” Smith used his chin to gesture toward the large green trash receptacle on the other side of the parking lot. Anya leaned back into the passenger seat, removed her hand from his leg, and sighed. “What?” Smith asked. “What is … Oh, don’t f*****g tell me—” “I can’t use him.” Smith twisted his body so his torso faced Anya. “What do you mean, you can’t use him? Scumbag was using blind dates to prey on young girls. If anything, he’s exactly who you can use.” “It’s more complicated than that. I’m very selective of my choice of bantlings.” “Oh, this is just rich, Anya. I’ve helped you grow the Mushroom Cult into over one thousand strong, with no regard for how low of a bottom-feeder they are, and now you start having standards?” Anya peered out the passenger window, remaining silent. “What’s wrong with him, Anya? Why isn’t he worthy enough to be part of your pathetic coven?” The witch returned her venomous gaze to Smith, peering at him. “God, I hate you. You’d think after all these years we’ve spent together and through the countless girls we’ve turned, you would’ve used some obvious common sense to notice there are no men within my ranks.” Smith glanced at his fingers and used his index finger to pick at a hanging cuticle on his thumb. “I’ve noticed. I just assumed you were sexist.” Anya reached into the back seat and retrieved the weathered hardbound book. Placing the large artifact in her lap, she petted the maroon-colored front cover, like it were a cat. “The book is pretty specific about who the vultures will collect and return to me cleansed and reborn.” “Let me see.” “Excuse me?” “Show me, Anya. For decades, I’ve obeyed blindly, never questioning what you tell me the book says. For all I know, the book’s pages are blank, and you’re just making up s**t as it pleases you. Let me see where it says that.” Anya hugged the book against her black-laced garments and spat mockingly, “For one, Detective, if memory serves me correctly, you had the book for quite some time. So, if anyone should know these pages are not blank, it would be you. I’m still not sure how much of the book you actually read.” Smith remained silent, fiddling with the calloused skin around his cracked fingernails. “Alright,” Anya said. “I can see this conversation is pointless. Just as that young man’s death was.” “That young man was using blind dates to drug and shack up with young girls. He sounds like grade-A prime meat for your cult, if you ask me.” “Has he killed any of these girls?” Smith gripped the Pinto’s steering wheel with both hands. “I-I can’t be 100 percent sure. I’ve been tailing him for a few weeks, and I only seem to track him after he’s left the girl unconscious and r***d or after the room has been destroyed with no one left inside.” Anya slid closer to Smith. “Do you think it was in those times when he killed the girls?” “Why do you care so much all of a sudden?” “Well, if you were smarter, you could’ve pinned the Wharf Killer moniker on him. Let everyone think he’s the one doing your work ...” Anya’s voice trailed off. “Well, speak of the devil.” Smith glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a Salem Police Department cruiser enter Gardenia’s parking lot. “They’re getting closer to finding out the truth, Smith. It won’t be much longer before the fuzz put two and two together, or you get careless and leave bread crumbs right to your front door. And how will Wynn react to the SWAT team kicking in her front door and face-planting her elderly husband into the Oriental rug at gunpoint? You had a scapegoat—a perfect person to frame—right at your fingertips, and your f*****g pathetic righteousness got in the way. Again.” Smith’s gaze followed the squad car as it pulled into an empty slot and as its taillights went dark. “Will you give him to me then?” Smith asked. “Ho-ho-ho! So, Mr. Holier Than Thou has turned on his own convictions, has he?” Smith, without removing his attention from the officers exiting the patrol car, placed a hand on Anya’s bony thigh. “You know as well as I do that my days are short. Eighty-five is just around the bend and through the first door on the right. I can feel it in my bones. Plus I can only imagine how spending forty years with the likes of you has shaved a decade off my life. I’m asking this one favor, Anya. Give me the boy. Give me the boy and get Stepp to buy into the cult, and I’ll disappear from our partnership forever.” “Take Wynn on that Alaskan cruise she’s been begging you for since the sixties?” Smith chuckled. “You’re such a wench.” “Who is it?” Anya craned her neck to see out the back window. “Taylor and Raynard.” “Business? Or are they getting drinks on duty again?”