Under a Killing Moon

UAKM — CHAPTER SEVEN

The rain had let up, and clouds the color of fresh bruises mottled the cold, bloody sky. It was late afternoon, and the daylight was fading quickly as I flew home. It was December 7, and the days were getting shorter and grayer. I’d read somewhere that, at this time of year, primitive cultures had feared the sun was dying. For weeks prior to the shortest day of the year, the people would exhort their deity du jour to spare them and bring back the sun. Then the days would start to lengthen again, and everyone would celebrate (generally with some type of orgy), eat and drink to excess, and maybe sacrifice a few virgins for good measure. New Year’s celebrations hadn’t changed much.

The only difference was that now we knew the sun wasn’t dying — it was killing us.

Between the eroded ozone layer and the radiation-saturated atmosphere, we were all helpless chunks of stew meat in a large, toxic Crock Pot. I heard rumors that the government was going to enact a “time reversal,” switching business hours from A.M. to P.M. It seemed like a healthy idea to me, having people sleep through the most hazardous part of the day, but it wouldn’t affect me like it would most people. I’d always been a night person.

As I started my approach to Chandler Avenue, I saw that the unmarked police speeder hadn’t moved. I circled around and landed on the other side of the Brew & Stew. If the cops happened to see me in the diner, so be it. I was ravenous to the point of apathy. I climbed out of the speeder and locked it up.

It was almost dark now, and the street was quiet, except for the sound of occasional raindrops plopping into greasy puddles. The air was wet, and the smell of damp earth was thick. Ahead of me, the warm light from Louie’s café reflected off the slick pavement like a welcome mat. The wind picked up, and I raised my collar. I was glad for the warmth of my overcoat. I’d had it for a long time and wore it wherever I went. It was my big, khaki-colored pal who never asked stupid questions or wanted to leave until I was good and ready.

I felt a pleasant anticipation, like I always did when I went to the Brew & Stew. Louie LaMintz ran a joint that wasn’t for everyone, but it suited me fine. There was always some savory aroma billowing in from the kitchen, maybe a lamb stew or a batch of spicy chili. Almost any time of day or night, there were at least two or three loyal patrons bellied up to the bar, arguing some topic with beery breath. Everyone had their own reason to love Louie’s diner. The beer was always ice cold, and as for the Armageddon blend… well, it was the kind coffee that would’ve made Juan Valdez cry for mercy. You couldn’t help but feel welcome in the diner. It didn’t matter that Louie and most of the regulars were Mutants.

I paused just outside the double doors and thought about the nearly empty wallet in my back pocket. Louie never seemed too concerned about running me a tab — he said he knew I was good for it — but it didn’t make me feel any less parasitic. Rationalization had always been one of my dominant traits — the others being a lack of patience and inappropriate spasms of sarcasm — but there were no two ways about it: I was freeloading. For an instant, I considered going back to my office and toughing it out.

As I turned away, I spotted a shiny penny lying on the sidewalk, a few inches from the toe of my wing tip. I bent down and picked it up. I was hungry, thirsty, and a stone’s throw from being utterly destitute, but now I had a lucky penny.

The door burst open, and I heard raspy, drunken laughter over the smooth sounds of Mel Torme crooning The Christmas Song. A warm gust of air escaped from the brightly lit café as a young couple walked past. The mouth-watering smells of hot chili and corn bread, mingled with icy-cold beer and after-supper cigarettes, cut through my resolve like a hot knife through butter. I caught the door and stepped aside.

The diner wasn’t full, maybe twenty people, but it was lively. Glenda, Louie’s only employee, was making the rounds with a serving tray the size of a manhole lid, heavily laden with full plates and mugs. She was no LaDonna, but she was good. Louie looked up from behind the bar and waved. I took off my hat, noticing a sprig of mistletoe hanging over the door, and walked to the bar stool at the far end of the counter. Louie gave me that warm, ugly grin and leaned forward, round belly pressed against the bar and meaty paws splayed on the countertop. With his Kiss the Cook apron tied over a tight, white undershirt, and a disposable paper food-services hat perched on his battered head like a cupcake wrapper on a cantaloupe, Louie cut quite a dashing figure.

“Take a load off, Murph. What can I getcha?”

I slid onto a shiny vinyl-colored counter stool and pulled out my crumpled pack of Luckies. “A tall beer and the love of a good woman.”

Louie winked at me, reached for a frosty stein, then drew the draft with a fluid ease I could only admire. Louie elevated the simple act of dispensing beer to an art form.

“Don’t know if I can help ya with the woman, Murph. He turned and slid the nectar in front of me. “Though, I don’t know if you noticed — Chelsee’s over there in the corner.

And she’s alone.”

I turned and saw Chelsee sitting sideways in a booth with her legs up on the seat, reading a paperback. Her wavy blond hair just reached the shoulders of a thick, cream-colored pullover sweater. With her dark brown Levis and high-top hiking boots, she looked soft and warm and rugged, all at the same time.

There would be time for rejection later. I turned back to my mug of beer and pried a Lucky Strike out of the pack. As I reached for my lighter, Louie struck a match and held it to the battered end of my cigarette. The Brew & Stew had a No Smoking section. It was just outside the front door. Louie believed that the air outside would kill you just as fast and wouldn’t provide any of the pleasure. As Louie blew out the match, I picked up the icy glass in front of me and drank deeply. Louie watched happily as I set the beer down and took a deep drag on the Lucky Strike.

“Thanks, Louie. I should have some work soon, and I’ll settle up with you first thing.”

It sounded optimistic, but I’d been saying the same thing for weeks. Louie just grinned and shook his head. “How many times have I told ya, Murph. You don’t gotta worry about it. Pay me when you can.”

The big Mutant reached under the bar and set a menu in front of me. “Now, you look like you need somethin’ substantial, you know, stick to your ribs, and I ain’t takin’ no for an answer.”

A sudden bellow from the other side of the café forced Louie to excuse himself. I glanced down at the menu, but remembering my earlier vision, I already knew what I wanted. I took another drink and noticed a face staring back at me from behind the bar.

For a moment I wondered who the old guy was. Then, with all the grace of tumbling down a flight of stairs, I realized it was me. I was not aging well. And it was probably too late for Oil of Olay to have any real effect. I peered over my shoulder at Chelsee. No wonder she always shot me down whenever I asked her out. I looked old enough to be her… older brother.

Louie returned, wiping his hands on the apron around his ample waist. “What’ll ya have?”

“How’s the chili tonight?”

Louie grinned maliciously. “This batch turned out real good. I’m serving it with a side of Rolaids. I can get ya a nice big bowl in two shakes of a lamb’s tail… if you’re up to it, that is.”

Them were feudin’ words. “Bring it on, Louie. Make it a double. And be sure to scoop it off the bottom. I don’t want any of the watered-down stuff on top.”

Chuckling, Louie waddled through the swinging doors into his laboratory of culinary wonders. He popped back out thirty seconds later, balancing a salad bowl full of chili, a piece of cornbread the size of Gideon’s Bible, and a teacup full of whipped honey butter.

Setting the food in front of me, he reached under the counter for a spoon, a knife, and a stack of napkins. Then, with a flourish, he reached into a pocket in his apron, pulled out a half roll of antacid tablets, and tossed them onto the counter.

As Louie watched attentively, I picked up the spoon and dipped it into the steaming hot chili. The concoction was loaded with chunks of tender beef, peppers, and tomatoes. I lifted the spoon and, after blowing on it for a few seconds, took a hearty bite. The chili was thick and tasty. As I savored the rich texture and blend of flavors, a tingling sensation began to swell at the back of my mouth, and then, without warning, it erupted into flame and blazed across my tongue like a storm-blown prairie fire. As I lurched forward and grabbed the glass of beer, Louie chortled and poured me another draft. “I told ya it was a good batch.”

After draining the first beer, I picked up the fresh one and drank half of it. I broke off a piece of cornbread and dabbed honey butter on it. Partial feeling returned to my mouth.

“Bravo, Louie. I think you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

Louie nodded happily and motioned for me to eat, eat. More cautiously now, I returned to the chili. It definitely pushed the limits of my spicy threshold, but I managed. It certainly was delicious. Louie poured himself a mug full of Armageddon and leaned against the counter. “So, where you been?”

I took another gulp of beer. “Mexico City. I thought I had a case, but all I ended up with was a goose egg and another four thousand miles on my odometer.”

Louie nodded sympathetically. “Sorry to hear that, Murph.” He paused to sip his coffee.

“You sure missed some excitement around here.”

I looked up, my mouth full of chili. Louie took another sip.

“It’s this damn crusade. Got everyone all worked up. I had a couple windows busted out and some graffiti. Rook got it worse. Had someone break into his pawnshop and mess the place up a bit.”

I didn’t bother to ask if anyone had called the police. The cops didn’t concern themselves much with what happened in the Old City, especially in the Mutant sections.

Louie took another sip of java and shrugged. “But it ain’t nothing’ we can’t handle. We set up a neighborhood watch, so I’m hopin’ it ain’t gonna be a recurrin’ problem.”

I blew lightly on a heaping spoonful of chili. “As long as those cops are parked outside, you shouldn’t have any trouble. Speaking of which, you have any idea what they’re doing here?”

The big Mutant shook his head. “Nope. They’ve been comin’ in a few times a day, but I can’t get a thing out of ’em.”

“Well, let me know if I can help out with your neighborhood watch.”

Louie set his mug down and turned to refill my beer. “I will, but I think we got it covered. At least they didn’t do nothin’ to Chelsee’s newsstand.” He turned around and set the full glass in front of me. “Which reminds me, when you gonna go out with that girl?”

I slathered butter on another piece of cornbread.

“I don’t know. Maybe when she quits knee-jerking me every time I bring up the subject.”

Louie grinned and picked up his mug. “Well, I ain’t no love doctor, but I’ll tell ya what I think. Chelsea’s a lot like one of them videodisc players. Once you get the skinny on how they work, they’re a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, well, I have a hard time operating an answering machine.”

On cue, the young lady in question suddenly appeared on the bar stool beside me.

“Hey, Tex. What’s going on?”

I dabbed my sweaty forehead with a napkin, wiped my hands, and reached for the pack of smokes. “Louie’s guiding me through the little known ninth circle of jalapeno hell.

Want some?”

I glanced up at Louie, who was smiling broadly. Chelsee peered into the bowl and shook her head. “No thanks. I’m not a big fan of legumes.”

Her perfume was pushing my buttons. Chelsee, oblivious as ever to my heartfelt longing, turned to Louie and asked sweetly for a vodka tonic. As Louie mixed her drink, she turned to me. “So, what’s the good word? Got any new cases?”

I packed my cigarette on the counter and dug the Zippo out of my pocket. “Not really.

Though I did come across something kind of odd this afternoon.”

I took out the blue card I’d found in the mail that morning. “What do you think about this?”

I handed the card to Chelsee. Louie finished mixing her drink and twisted around to take a look. After a moment he glanced up at me. “What is it?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. Came in the mail with no name or return address.”

Chelsee was looking at it intently. “Maybe it’s a license plate number. Or a VIN.”

Louie shook his head. “Too many… what d’ya call ‘em… characters… for a license plate. And there ain’t enough for a VIN.” He squinted at the card. “Lemme see … eight, nine, ten. There’s ten characters. If ya don’t count the plus sign and change them letters to numbers, could be a phone number… you know, with an area code. What would it be? 2… 9… 5… 2,2,6,1,1,8,4. Lemme grab a white pages.”

Louie hurried off to the kitchen. Chelsee set the card in front of me and leaned an elbow on the counter, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. I swiveled slightly and looked straight at her. She smiled and motioned with her eyes toward the index card. “Kind of like a riddle, huh? I like riddles.”

“I’m sure you do.”

I turned my head and picked up my glass of beer. When I looked back at Chelsee, she had a feigned expression of shock on her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Consider it a special riddle, from me to you.”

Louie backed through the kitchen doors with an open phone book in his hands.

“I don’t see a 295 area code listed here.” He ran his finger to the bottom of the page.

“No, nothin’.” He closed the book and set it under the bar, a hint of dejection on his broad face. “Maybe it’s some kind of international code.”

“Don’t worry about it, Louie. It was a nice idea, but I don’t think it’s anything as simple as a phone number. I’ll give my personal psychic a call and see if she can sense something useful.”

Chelsee smiled and stood up with her drink. “Well, I’ll leave you two handsome guys to your manly conversation. I’ve got to get back to my book.”

I turned around on the bar stool and leaned back. “Let me guess. Damp Passion. The torid story of a stunningly beautiful model turned neurosurgeon, who must choose between the sincere but dull billionaire who loves her, and the impossibly handsome and innocent fugitive accused of murder, with whom she has tasted the ripe fruit of forbidden love.”

Chelsee raised an eyebrow.

“Actually, I’m reading The Collected works of O. Henry. You know, like the candy bar.”

She spun around, her hair bouncing attractively, and I couldn’t help but stare as she returned to her booth. She gave me a brief glare before blocking her face with the book.

I turned back toward Louie, who was shaking his head.

“You sure got a magical way with women, Murph.”

A vid-phone beeped in the kitchen. Louie excused himself and went to answer it. I picked up the blue card and looked it over again. BXK+A261184. A serial number?

Maybe I had to sleep on it. I stifled a yawn as I slipped the card back into the pocket of my overcoat, and decided that I should probably hit the hay early. As I collected my smokes and lighter, Louie stuck his head through the swinging doors.

“Hey, Murph. Call for ya.”

I’d never gotten a call at the diner before. Intrigued, I walked around the bar and into the kitchen. Mac Malden’s puffy face filled the vid-phone screen. It looked like he was calling from an outside pay vid-phone. “I tried your office first.”

“I’m not there.”

Mac rolled his eyes. “No kidding. Look, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a week now. Actually, a lot of people have. I’ve been calling your office since I got your message. I figured I’d check the Brew & Stew and see if I could catch you before the boys on stakeout do.”

So my hunch had been right. “How’d I get so popular all of a sudden?”

Mac ran a hand nervously over his mustache. “Look, I’m going out on a limb here. I’m telling you this ‘cause I think they’re going after the wrong guy, and if you get a head start, you might be able to do something to cover your ass. Just remember — I didn’t make this call. If the commissioner finds out I’m warning you off, he’ll have me walking the Mission District beat with a rubber gun.”

“Well, since you’re not making this call, how about if I don’t ask you what it was I did.”

The fat cop glanced over his shoulder as someone passed by, then looked back into the camera. “You know Roy O’Brien, right? The Colonel?”

That came out of the blue. “Sure. We go way back. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Good friends?”

“Used to be. We haven’t had much to do with each other for quite awhile, though.”

Mac squinted through his already squinted eyes. “Why’s that?”

“We had a bit of a falling out about fifteen years ago.”

“A woman?”

I laughed. “Yeah, right. It was during a case. I was learning the ropes and thought I knew everything. The Colonel broke a few incidental laws and I blew the whistle on him. The ethics board suspended his license for six months. Surprisingly enough, he canned me.”

Mac snorted. “You got off easy.”

“Well… live and learn. I’ve always done everything the hard way.”

Mac nodded. “So you haven’t talked to the Colonel since he gave you your walking papers.”

The fat cop wasn’t very crafty. I knew this was leading somewhere and decided to come clean. “Actually, I did talk to him a couple weeks ago… at my office. Showed up out of nowhere. I think we buried the hatchet. So to speak.”

Mac nodded slowly, creating a modestly uncomfortable silence. I was starting to get a funny feeling. “Is there something you want to tell me, Mac?”

The cop stuck a Merit under his mustache. “The Colonel disappeared about a week ago… around the same time you did.”

“So what? Maybe he’s on vacation. I heard that one time he stopped off at a convenience store, talked the counter girl into quitting her job, and showed up two weeks later with a slight limp and a Roadrunner tattoo.”

Mac blew out a long stream of smoke. “Not this time. We got a call from some lady whose dog showed up with a finger in its mouth. A human finger. It’d been cut off at the third knuckle and the print was still good, so we ran it. Turns out the finger belongs to the Colonel. We’ve been looking ever since, but we haven’t found the rest of him.”

“Nice.”

Mac nodded like a man who’d seen too many corpses to care anymore. “The commissioner and his special unit searched his office personally and found your name, along with not much else. According to Drysdale, that makes you murder suspect number one.”