Blue Moonlight by Vincent Zandri

thread.”
    “Love it,” I say. “Compared to your elbow slamming into my balls.”
    He comes back in with a small tray. There’s a surgical needle wrapped in clear plastic and a spool of medical thread also wrapped in plastic. A bottle of rubbing alcohol occupies the tray beside a bottle of Betadine ointment, along with a fistful of cotton balls. Aside from that, the tray also sports a syringe that’s been locked and loaded with something, and one more thing: a drinking glass half full of an amber-colored liquid. Something tells me Francesco has seen his share of wounds before.
    “Drink this,” he says like an order, handing me the drinking glass. “It’s American whiskey. Jack Daniels. Your brand, I believe.”
    “You shouldn’t have, Francesco,” I say, holding the warm glass in my right hand. “Fuck that. Yes, you damn well should have.” Then I add, “Salute!” and down the entire two shots.
    Setting the glass back onto the tray, I feel the calming warmth of the whiskey enter into my system. Meanwhile, Francesco takes hold of the syringe with his fingertips, takes aim with the needle tip.
    “I don’t have to tell you this is not going to be a pleasant experience.”
    “Just…you know…do it. Do. It.”
    He pushes the needle into my finger. The sting shoots up the nerve canal, all the way up my arm, into my neck and head. It brings tears to my eyes.
    “This is a cocktail of antibiotic and tetanus,” he informs. “One can never be too careful in these matters, my friend.”
    The memory of my holding a gun against his nose only fifteen or so minutes ago flashes through my brain. Now I’m allowing him to inject me with some chemical concoction. For all I know, I’ll be paralyzed within a few seconds or just plain dead. But then, what choice do I have? I need this man more than he needs me. It’s a matter of trust or faith. How did my dad describe faith whenever he’d console one of his numerous grieving customers? It’s about believing in something you can’t see, hear, or feel. In this case, my faith in Francesco is more than that. It’s now an official leap of faith.
    The needle extracted, I wipe my eyes with the back of my uninjured hand.
    “These Russian fellows,” he goes on, “they want the same thing you want? What you have been sent here for?” He’s asking the right questions, but I’m sure he already knows the answers.
    I nod while he pats at the wound with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.
    I cringe at the sting, but it’s not quite as bad as having that three-inch-long needle impaled in my flesh.
    “Please be still,” he adds.
    “Yes, the Russians want what I want. Always have.”
    “They are from the Russian government. Mr. Medvedev’s government. Or should I say Mr. Putin’s?”
    More patting on the wound.
    “Jeez, you done there, Francesco? This is worse torture than the Russians’. Worse than your bony elbow.”
    He giggles, pulls away the cotton ball. “But of course,” he says.
    I take a quick glance at the finger. The blood is all gone. But Francesco is getting ready to apply the first stitch. He looks at me looking at him and the finger.
    “This is going to sting. Again.”
    “Got any more whiskey?”
    He retrieves another two fingers for me, which I immediately shoot.
    “You should refrain from too much alcohol while on duty,” he suggests.
    “Never thought about it like that,” I say, once more setting the empty glass onto the tray. “On duty with the FBI in order to save my ex-girlfriend. Save the world. Save my ass.”
    “Yes, it all sounds very strange, doesn’t it, Ricardo.”
    He tells me to set my palm down flat onto the table. Taking firm hold of my damaged pinky finger, he prepares to enter the needle and stitch.
    “I don’t have to tell you about the hurt,” he whispers before beginning, echoing his previous warnings.
    “You are one painful son of bitch, Francesco,” I say. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
    He smirks.
    “Yes,” he