Shoot the Moonlight Out by William Boyle

Author:William Boyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2021-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHARLIE

Charlie’s been comped a room at the Tropicana, where he’s spent a few days gambling. He’s lost enough that they gave him a suite on the top floor. He’d initially struck out with the old addresses that Rainey had given him for Don and Randy. Condos. They’d moved on. Rainey had said they were hiding out somewhere, but Charlie needed to confirm that. His first thought was that maybe they were content to chalk up getting ripped off as a loss or simply unwilling to go after a Brancaccio, no matter how much of a pinhead Junky Greg was. Even if that’s the case, he knows they need to be dealt with. Trouble incubates.

He’d put out feelers. Paid a guy he knew via some old Florida connections to do the legwork so he could gamble and make moves on waitresses. The guy’s name is Rufus. He’s just had Charlie paged over the casino’s PA.

Charlie meets him at reception, nursing the last of a Rusty Nail brought to him by a waitress named Dolly with green eyes and sparkly makeup and shoulders that looked to be carved out of stone.

Rufus is a tall man, maybe six-four or six-five, and he’s wearing a laser-red windbreaker and a cap from a blueberry farm in South Jersey. He has on one leather glove and shoes that don’t match.

“You found them?” Charlie asks.

“Sure did,” Rufus says. “They’re hiding out from their families at a motel called the Sandbar on Arctic Avenue. Room nine. Look like real yuppie types, but they’re slumming it. Must be on the skids. Think they’re still gonna get that call from your man, Junky Greg.”

Charlie thanks him. He reaches into his pocket and comes out with a fold of bills, counting off five hundreds and passing them to Rufus, who pockets them and then turns, limping as he walks away, disappearing into a crowd of bused-in old timers.

Charlie stops at a payphone and calls information and asks for the Sandbar Motel’s number. They come back with it and want to know if they should patch him through. He says that’d be good, waiting through a few rings until someone at the Sandbar picks up. “Yeah?” the woman says, her voice grizzled and lonely and angry.

“What’s your address?” Charlie asks.

She says the numbers and then wants to know if Charlie needs a room.

“I’d like that. I need room eight or room ten. Can you do that? I’m on a lucky streak. Those are my numbers.”

“Bud, the joint’s mostly empty. You can have either. Just not three or nine. Which will it be? Eight? Ten?”

“Give me eight.”

“How you paying?”

“Cash. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll be waiting with bells on,” the lady says, and then she’s gone, the line dead.

Charlie goes up to his suite and punches in the code on the safe. He gets out his gun, screwing the silencer into place and puts it in the deep inner pocket of the light summer jacket he’s wearing. It’s a new jacket. He bought it at a fancy shop in the casino.

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