stomach. Somehow I know for certain that Francesco is right.
I say, “It’s possible, or maybe even likely, that Clyne and Barter have not revealed the location of the flash drive to Lola.”
He cocks his head over his right shoulder. “A valid assumption.” He goes for the door. “See the man in the market tomorrow. At the very least he will give you information, which in itself might lead you to the flash drive, inevitably. And, Mr.Moonlight…” He allows his thought to drift off, like he’s hesitant to share it for fear of reprisal.
“What is it?”
“We have another saying in Italy you might like to know.”
“What is it?”
“Be careful which head you make your decisions with.”
I can’t help but smile. “We have that same saying in the US. Or a version thereof.”
“Then you understand my meaning very clearly.”
Lola. Me. Us. My obsession.
“I will meet the man in the market. First thing in the morning.”
“Prudent of you.”
He goes to leave and retire to his quarters down the hall. Or so I assume.
“Francesco,” I call out.
He turns to face me.
“This man,” I say, “he can be trusted? I’m not walking into a trap, I pray.”
He bites down on his bottom lip. “Never trust a soul, Mr. Moonlight,” he warns. “Not even your own.”
He exits my room without taking the whiskey bottle with him.
With my entire left hand throbbing and my midsection still tender, I don’t have a chance in hell of sleeping. I pour another whiskey, pull the desk chair in front of the window, open both sashes along with the thick, wood-slat shutters. The noise, the cool air, and the sweet, smoky smells of the narrow, cobbled street below speak to me. They say,
You are far away from home, Dick Moonlight.
I light a cigarette and whisper back at the voices. “I couldn’t agree more,” I say.
My voice sounds strange and dreamlike in the small room. It makes me feel self-conscious and aware of my existence, as though I were staring at my own beating heart through transparent skin and flesh.
I unfold the small piece of paper Francesco gave to me. I read the name of the man he wants me to see in the morning: Abdiesus. His stall is located on the corner of the Via Zannoni.
Abdiesus…not sure I can trust a man who has the word “die” in his name. But then I don’t have much of a choice. I pocket the paper and sip more whiskey. I think about how strange my life has become in the past few days. How I’ve gone from a boring Sunday afternoon getting drunk in a corner bar while watching the New York Giants beat the Dallas Cowboysin the final minute of the fourth quarter, to spearheading an international mission to retrieve a flash drive that, should it fall into terrorist hands, could potentially spell death and destruction for a whole lot of people. Innocent people. Moonlight the courageous. Or maybe, Moonlight the perpetually in over his broken head.
Listen: I’ve found myself in surreal situations before. But this one tops them all. What I mean to say is, I’m Dick Moonlight, after all. Captain Head Case. Suicide survivor. A man who lives minute to minute due to a piece of .22 caliber hollow-point pressed up against his cerebral cortex. If I die right at this moment with a burning cigarette in my hand and a glass of Jack in the other, it would come as no surprise. So why then choose me for such an important mission?
I guess the answer lies somewhere in between love and expendability.
Lola and I love—used to love—one another as much as any tight sig others can. If I have to guess, I’d say that despite going off with Barter, she still loves me. And if she still loves me, then perhaps she will trust me enough to reveal the location of the flash drive. That is, if Barter and/or Clyne has revealed its location to her in the first place, which my built-in shit detector tells me doesn’t even fall into the ballpark of possibilities. Still, stranger things have happened.
But there’s more to
I say, “It’s possible, or maybe even likely, that Clyne and Barter have not revealed the location of the flash drive to Lola.”
He cocks his head over his right shoulder. “A valid assumption.” He goes for the door. “See the man in the market tomorrow. At the very least he will give you information, which in itself might lead you to the flash drive, inevitably. And, Mr.Moonlight…” He allows his thought to drift off, like he’s hesitant to share it for fear of reprisal.
“What is it?”
“We have another saying in Italy you might like to know.”
“What is it?”
“Be careful which head you make your decisions with.”
I can’t help but smile. “We have that same saying in the US. Or a version thereof.”
“Then you understand my meaning very clearly.”
Lola. Me. Us. My obsession.
“I will meet the man in the market. First thing in the morning.”
“Prudent of you.”
He goes to leave and retire to his quarters down the hall. Or so I assume.
“Francesco,” I call out.
He turns to face me.
“This man,” I say, “he can be trusted? I’m not walking into a trap, I pray.”
He bites down on his bottom lip. “Never trust a soul, Mr. Moonlight,” he warns. “Not even your own.”
He exits my room without taking the whiskey bottle with him.
With my entire left hand throbbing and my midsection still tender, I don’t have a chance in hell of sleeping. I pour another whiskey, pull the desk chair in front of the window, open both sashes along with the thick, wood-slat shutters. The noise, the cool air, and the sweet, smoky smells of the narrow, cobbled street below speak to me. They say,
You are far away from home, Dick Moonlight.
I light a cigarette and whisper back at the voices. “I couldn’t agree more,” I say.
My voice sounds strange and dreamlike in the small room. It makes me feel self-conscious and aware of my existence, as though I were staring at my own beating heart through transparent skin and flesh.
I unfold the small piece of paper Francesco gave to me. I read the name of the man he wants me to see in the morning: Abdiesus. His stall is located on the corner of the Via Zannoni.
Abdiesus…not sure I can trust a man who has the word “die” in his name. But then I don’t have much of a choice. I pocket the paper and sip more whiskey. I think about how strange my life has become in the past few days. How I’ve gone from a boring Sunday afternoon getting drunk in a corner bar while watching the New York Giants beat the Dallas Cowboysin the final minute of the fourth quarter, to spearheading an international mission to retrieve a flash drive that, should it fall into terrorist hands, could potentially spell death and destruction for a whole lot of people. Innocent people. Moonlight the courageous. Or maybe, Moonlight the perpetually in over his broken head.
Listen: I’ve found myself in surreal situations before. But this one tops them all. What I mean to say is, I’m Dick Moonlight, after all. Captain Head Case. Suicide survivor. A man who lives minute to minute due to a piece of .22 caliber hollow-point pressed up against his cerebral cortex. If I die right at this moment with a burning cigarette in my hand and a glass of Jack in the other, it would come as no surprise. So why then choose me for such an important mission?
I guess the answer lies somewhere in between love and expendability.
Lola and I love—used to love—one another as much as any tight sig others can. If I have to guess, I’d say that despite going off with Barter, she still loves me. And if she still loves me, then perhaps she will trust me enough to reveal the location of the flash drive. That is, if Barter and/or Clyne has revealed its location to her in the first place, which my built-in shit detector tells me doesn’t even fall into the ballpark of possibilities. Still, stranger things have happened.
But there’s more to
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