Shoot the Moon

Chapter Twenty-One - Honor Among Thieves

I took a cab uptown to 110th Street when I left the Animal Medical Center. I walked over to take a look at Mickey Dolan's former place of employment. It was a simple street typical of the area except it was deserted and dead quiet. The usual musical murmur and shout of a Hispanic neighborhood was missing on that block. Everywhere the garbage cans were lined up and covered, the sidewalk swept. It was like any of the organized crime neighborhoods in town. The residents tiptoe in and out, afraid to raise the dust. A nice safe place to live.

I walked past the building down the street and leaned on the corner of a building and kept watch with a small pair of binoculars I'd brought along. Cruz's building had thin designer blinds pulled down over each double-glazed tinted window. There were no signs, not even a small brass plaque by the door, nothing to draw attention except a discretely placed security camera aimed at the front stoop.

After an hour I was ready to quit when a familiar figure turned the corner walking fast. He stopped at the doorway of the building and pressed the bell. He was nervous, actually wringing his hands as he waited. It was my old alcoholic friend, Veeva Stackpoole's Charley Royce. Everyone was working an angle on this deal.

Charley was nervously looking up and down the street. Then he suddenly bent down to speak into the intercom. He jerked upright again and snatched at the door as they buzzed him inside.

He came out forty-five minutes later. He was walking like a man with a mission and money in his pocket. He turned the corner and headed south on First Avenue. I picked him up again by going to the first bar in sight. I looked through the window and saw Charley throwing back a glass of whiskey. He had two more and then he came out and got into a cab headed south. I didn't follow. I knew what Charley would do. He would spend the evening drinking himself into the mindset of a cinder block. If they had given him a couple of hundred bucks, it would be a long night.

I wondered what he told them in return. How much had Veeva trusted him?

I walked back uptown and wrote out a short note asking for a meeting concerning the disappearance of Mickey Dolan and certain records. Mickey being what he was, I didn't want to promise anything until I had the hard drives in my hands. I left the note vague but giving the impression that I could be of help to Mr. N. "Buddy" Cruz. If I could broker the deal, it might save my life. In case Teddy Dexter had neglected to do me that favor.

Then I walked right up to the front door and rang the bell. When the door opened it was The Ghost, in his Country Music Awards leather jacket and gray ostrich skin boots. And I remembered the scar and the black bandito mustache from that night his friend did a heavy bag workout on me. I handed him my message. He took it from me like a snake interrupted while digesting its lunch. That's sleepy and slow.

"You know where to find me, right?"

His eyes slowly closed and opened.

"Cruz can leave a message at that number."

Again with the eyes. We stared at each other.

"That's all," I said.

The Ghost closed the door.