Moonlight City Drive

2: The Uninvited Guest-1

2: The Uninvited GuestSmith kicked his office door again while he jiggled the keys stuck in the dead bolt. He slammed the doorframe with the palm of his hand hard enough that one of the nails securing his nameplate to the door fell to the floor. He quickly grabbed the swinging sign before it dislodged from the second nail.

“C’mon, you good-for-nothin’ bastard. Turn!”

Smith twisted the key as hard as he could and heard a popping noise as the locking mechanism finally gave way. He pushed open his office door and entered the dark room. He tossed his keys onto his desk; they slid a short distance before a stack of time-faded papers and case-file folders abruptly stopped them.

Flicking the light switch, the room illuminated with an anemic-brown glow from the single dusty bulb. He took a step toward the coffee percolator on the windowsill, and his toe caught the corner of a tied-up pile of newspapers dating back at least ten years.

Smith exhaled loudly with a frustrated grunt and kneeled beside the newspaper bundle; the air escaping from his lungs carried the stench of day-old consumed alcohol, topped off with more last night that led to closing time this morning. He really hadn’t slept. He napped for a couple hours, then came here. He removed the Swiss Army knife from his pants and cut the twine, freeing the newspapers, watching as they avalanched to the floor.

He used his palm to shuffle and smear the newspapers around his office floor. His gaze quickly scanned his name plastered on all the headlines, praising the ex-deputy-now-turned-private-eye for all the scum he had gotten off the street, as well as locating abducted kids, reuniting long-lost biological parents of orphans, and exposing spouses who may have forgotten their vows. Smith had seen more than he cared to remember while he had been a sheriff’s deputy and could now safely check the box marked Seen It All since becoming a private eye.

He burped without opening his mouth, letting the stale odor of alcohol find its way out through his nostrils instead. He vigorously rubbed his nose to lessen the sting.

His gaze landed on a more current newspaper on his desk chair. He grabbed the paper and unfolded the front page, sighing as he scanned the article’s first few paragraphs, describing the tragic torching of the Siegel Home for Wayward Children two nights ago, now deemed an arson case by the Las Vegas fire chief; the newspaper chronicled the event as one of the worst tragedies in the city’s recorded history. The beginnings of a smirk—maybe even a real smile—formed on the corners of Smith’s lips as he silently applauded whoever had torched the place, ridding the city of the imminent release of dozens of hooligans; their inevitable rescindment into society only to stain it further was good enough for Smith to commend the mystery arsonist.

Smith tossed aside the newspaper and snaked his way around the clutter blanketing his office floor toward the percolator, stopping to hang his brown fedora and gray trench coat on the coatrack. He scooped two heaps of coffee grounds into the brown-stained basket. After filling the reservoir with water—a handful of dried grounds slipped through the holes of the basket—he inserted the pump stem and plugged in the coffeemaker. Within seconds, the mixture of grounds and water comingled in the canister.

Smith pulled out his desk chair and sat down. The seatback gave out, and he flailed as he caught himself from flipping over. He grabbed onto his desk with one hand and tightened the adjustment knob of the chair with the other. He scooted closer to the desk, lit a cigarette, and removed his revolver from his shoulder holster.

He let his gaze wander through the thin trail of smoke to the skyline outside the window. The city was alive tonight. He could feel it. He leaned back and closed his eyes as he reveled in the wailing sirens in the distance mixed with the conglomerate sounds of buzzing neon signs and engines rattling the metal frames of cars below. This was his city. Down to the last bottom-feeder who walked the alleyways at night—this was his city. Always had been. Always will be.

The percolator gurgled, signaling its brewing had finished. Smith grabbed his coffee mug that his previous secretary—back when he could afford one—had given to him for his forty-fifth birthday. Wynn had even monogrammed the mug with TOP g*n FOR HIRE on both sides.

Smith tossed the remnants of yesterday’s coffee into the trash can next to his desk and filled the mug from the freshly brewed pot. He sighed in pleasure as the warm liquid hit his stomach and then ran a fingertip over the stenciled words decorating the mug. “Oh, Wynn. You always were so good to me. Maybe one day I’ll make this business into something worth a damn again, and it’ll be like old times, you and me.”

Smith opened the top folder on the pile atop his desk and balanced his lit cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “Another missing teenager. Runaway cases are not worth my time for the money.” He tossed the folder into the trash can and sifted through the pile. “These bimbos and their cheating husbands. So damn cliché.”

An unopened yellow manila envelope addressed to him slid from underneath the top file onto the floor. He picked up the envelope and noticed there wasn’t a return address. Swiping his finger underneath the crease, a paper-clipped picture fell out with an attached letter, asking for help to locate a missing wife. Smith rubbed his temple in small circles to alleviate some of the pressure from his hangover and crumpled the stationery into a ball and tossed it at the trash can. It bounced off the rim and landed on the floor among the other numerous discarded papers and items scattered everywhere.

The first sign of dawn rose like pale death creeping in and ate the retreating shadows. The office slowly grew brighter with the natural light.

Smith’s olive-green rotary phone rang, startling him as the sound cut through the silence. He used his fingertips to wipe a few beads of sweat off his brow and picked up the receiver. “Detective Smith.”

“Good morning. I hope I’m not bothering you so early in the morning,” a female replied.

“No, not at all,” he answered.

“Good, good. I … I have a dilemma, Mr. Smith.”

Smith heard a teakettle whine in the background. He rubbed the inside corners of his eyes and frowned. Everyone has a dilemma, or they wouldn’t be calling him. He quickly scrolled through the roulette of social afflictions this woman might need his services for: a******y, fraud, missing family cat.

He took a drag of his cigarette. “I’m not taking on any new cases, ma’am. My caseload is a little hectic right now,” Smith lied. Taking on any kind of trivial case would surely send him over the brink into complete and utter boredom and disgust.

“My grandson is the Boulevard Killer.”

Smith’s body stiffened as he swiped stacks of case files and inquiries off his desk to locate a pen. He opened the middle drawer of his desk and found a pencil. “Go on, Mrs … .?”

“Covington. Eva Covington. I have a photograph I’d like you to see. I didn’t want to chance sending it through the post. I imagine you’re a very busy man, but I’d like to bring it by your office, if you’re willing to take a look at it.”

Smith made a mental note to maybe call Wynn sooner rather than later to offer her job back.

“I’d be very interested to hear your story, Mrs. Covington. Could you—”

“Eva. Please call me Eva, Mr. Smith.”

“Could you come this morning?”

He heard the teakettle’s scream abruptly silenced as Eva poured herself a cup.

“You come highly recommended, Detective. Even by some of your peers.”

“You’ve talked to other d***s?”

“I’ve hired other PIs. None of them stayed on the case longer than a few days before quitting. They felt they weren’t right for the job. But all of them said to contact you.”

“I must admit, you have my attention.”

“Would an hour from now be too early?”

Smith looked at his pocket watch. “That would be perfect.”

Eva hung up with a goodbye, and Smith didn’t respond before pressing the switch hook to activate a dial tone. He dialed Wynn’s number from memory, listening to the pulse tone as the rotary wheel spun after each number was dragged in a circle. After a few rings, Wynn answered the other end of the line. Smith thought it sounded like uncoordinated hands fumbled the receiver and then dropped it.

“’Ello?” a sleepy Wynn answered.

“Wynn, I’ve been thinking—”

“Smith? What time is it?”

“I dunno. But I was thinking—”

“This doesn’t sound like a party line.”

“It’s not. I paid to have a private line installed in the office.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Christ Almighty, if you’d let me finish.”

She cleared her throat but remained silent this time.

“I want you to come back to work.”

“Same rate?”

“Same rate.”

“When do you need me to start?”

“In less than an hour. I have a new client coming in.”

“Typical you. Some things never change. But I love you for it.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“You’ll know if I show up or not.”

Smith sighed. “I guess I deserve that answer.”

Wynn hung up the phone, and Smith watched the sun peek over the top of the city’s skyline. He took a sip of coffee from his TOP g*n FOR HIRE mug and thought about the scumbags going to sleep now that the day had broken, while the office zombies emerged from their castles to take over the city for the next dozen hours … until the cycle started again.

The city was only alive at night.

Wynn took a deep breath as she stood in front of Smith’s closed office door. She heard him rummaging around, and the familiar sound of his neurotic tendencies made her question accepting his offer to return to work. She hung her chin on her chest and wrung her hands together in anticipation. She knew, once she knocked and was let back into the office, she would also be entering his personal world and everything—good and bad—that came with being in his life again. Mostly the bad: He is still married. He is still a drunk. He is still spouting whatever hateful things that fall from his mouth because his brain is not in gear.

“Okay, Wynn. You can do this. You can look him in the eye again. It’ll be different this time. You’ll make it different this time.”

She raised her fist to knock and held her breath. Her heart skipped a beat when her knuckles connected with the wooden door three times.

“Hold on,” she heard him yell from the other side.

The door swung open, and he stood there, disheveled as always.

“Rough morning?” she asked, stepping into her old workplace.

He pivoted sideways to let her enter. “More like a rough night. Burned the midnight oil on both ends this time.”

“Still haven’t learned how to slow down, I see. I was surprised to hear from you.”

Smith closed the door, making her decision final. “I might have a new case, and I don’t think I can investigate this one alone.”

“So you need me now?” she said and removed her coat.

Smith took it from her and hung it on the coatrack in the corner. “I’ve always needed you.”

“Baloney,” she retorted.

“Fine. Then you’ve always needed me.”

“Oh, you’d love to believe that.”

Smith took a step closer to her. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Wynn refused to answer. The silence electrified the space between them. Smith grabbed her blouse and pulled her into him, consuming her lips with his. Wynn put her hand on his chest, lightly pushing him away to break the embrace, but she found her lips didn’t want to cooperate with her resistance.

An avalanche of familiar warmth spread over her body, comforting and relaxing her. Then she tasted the stale alcohol, and her stomach wrenched. Just as quickly as the warm memories had arrived, the taste of his breath flooded her with all the reasons why she had left in the first place. This time she pushed hard enough to separate their kiss.