Shoot the Moon Read online

  With all the competence of a medical technician, Robbie probes into the vein with the needle. Without a syringe, he doesn’t have the luxury of pulling back to see if the glass fills with blood. Instead, he squeezes the bulb tentatively for a second, smiles slightly, releases his teeth from the belt, and squeezes the bulb empty. When he withdraws the needle, a drop of dark blood marks the spot.

  Russell dips his index finger into the powder that remains on the pyramid paper and raises the finger to his nose. Holding one nostril shut with his other index finger, he snorts the powder. He repeats the process, changing nostrils, until the pyramid paper is empty.

  A rush begins to spread through Russell’s body. He feels numb, but at the same time warm and happy and safe. He lets the feeling take him, rides with it. He notices that Robbie, who gets off much quicker by shooting, is already beginning to come down, to nod off. Russell turns away from Robbie, back to his own ride. . . .

  * * *

  Goodman awake. Unsure where he is. Sees a ceiling fan overhead. Aware that all he’s wearing is a towel. Remembers the motel room, the bath, the spare tire. Looks at the clock: 4:17. He’s slept for four hours, and he’s blown any chance he had to get to police headquarters, wherever that might be, by 4:30.

  He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and pulls himself to a sitting position. His back reminds him it’s there, but it feels a little better.

  He dials 911 again. A male operator answers after nine rings.

  “Operator twenty-seven,” he says. “What’s your emergency?”

  “I’ve found some drugs,” Goodman tells him.

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  There’s a pause, then the operator’s voice again.

  “If you wish to surrender a controlled substance, you must bring it to police headquarters during normal business hours. We cannot be held accountable for the actions of this or any other agency until you physically surrender the substance.”

  “Thanks,” Goodman says, and hangs up.

  He dials his mother-in-law’s number in New York. She answers on the second ring.

  “Hello,” he says. “It’s me, Michael.”

  “Hello, Michael.”

  “I got your message. What’s with Kelly and these headaches?”

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “I’m in Florida. Fort Lauderdale.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Seeing about a job.”

  “Don’t think for a moment you’re taking my only granddaughter to Florida.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “I didn’t get the job. What about the headaches?”

  “I had to take her to the doctor this afternoon. Who else was going to do it?”

  “What did the doctor say?” he asks.

  “They want to do some tests.”

  “What kind of tests?”

  “Tests. How should I know?”

  “And?”

  “And they need insurance stuff first,” she says. “That’s why I called you. I need the name of the company you work for, and the policy number.”

  Goodman bites his lip. “There is no company, and there is no policy number,” he says. “They canceled my coverage when I got fired.”

  There’s silence on the other end.

  “Let me speak to her, okay?”

  “She’s asleep.”

  “It’s four-thirty in the afternoon.”

  “She was tired. Call back in a couple of hours. I’ll wake her up for supper.” And she hangs up, leaving him holding the phone.

  The thought of supper reminds Goodman that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Though he doesn’t feel particularly hungry, he feels guilty about having spent the entire afternoon sleeping in his room. In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth and combs his thinning hair. He cleans the lenses of his glasses, which tend to accumulate fingerprints. He puts on the same clothes he was wearing earlier; they’re all he’s got.

  The Camry’s hot from sitting in the sun, and Goodman turns on the air conditioner. He gives it a few minutes to cool the interior before starting off. He decides he’s glad he made them give him the pink car. Then he remembers the spare tire. For the first time, the notion occurs to him that this car was obviously intended for someone else, who right about now must be pretty upset. He moves the gear selector to D and pulls out into traffic.

  There’s a shopping mall on his right after a quarter of a mile or so, and he pulls in, finds a parking spot. At a JCPenney, he buys a pair of jeans, a couple of short-sleeved shirts, three pairs of undershorts, and a package of socks. He picks out a black nylon duffel bag and gets on line at a checkout register. Then, almost as an afterthought, he goes back and picks out a second duffel bag, identical to the first, but in the largest size they have. He tells himself he’ll be buying more things sooner or later, and it only makes sense to have two bags.

  His purchases come to $89.55. He tenders his Visa card to the cashier and holds his breath while she swipes it through a machine. But there’s apparently no problem with it: He must not have reached his limit yet. He leaves the store, his arms full with his new belongings.

  He loads everything into the trunk of the Camry, on top of the lid to the spare-tire compartment. Then he starts the car again and pulls out onto the highway in the same direction he’s been traveling.

  It’s a particularly ugly stretch of road he’s on, nothing but gas stations, car washes, fast-food places, and U-Haul rentals. He supposes he should eat something, but he still isn’t really hungry. He spies a Taco Bell on the opposite side. He actually likes Taco Bell food, even the meat they use in the tacos, which looks a little like dog food. He makes a U-turn at the next intersection and pulls in.

  It’s cool inside, and almost empty. He orders two seven-ingredient burritos, no sour cream, and a large Coke.

  “Here?” the girl asks him.

  “Huh?”

  “Here, or to go?”

  “Oh. To go.”

  He drives back to the motel, one hand on the steering wheel, the other steadying the Coke container.

  It’s five-thirty by the time he carries his purchases into his room and sets them down. He locates the remote control for the TV, turns it on, and sits against the headboard of the bed, eating one of the burritos and sipping his Coke as he flicks back and forth between the news and an all country-and-western MTV-type channel.

  He enjoys the burritos, is pleased with himself that he remembered to order them without sour cream, which he dislikes. The Coke is a bit watery from the melted ice, but otherwise not bad.

  He tries to imagine the person for whom the drugs in the spare tire were intended, and how upset he must have been when he discovered that the car he was supposed to have been given had already been rented to somebody else. Then he remembers that he’s given the name of this motel as his local address. For all he knows, the guy may by now have the information and be heading this way. He takes a tiny measure of comfort in knowing that what the guy wants is the car - or, more precisely, what’s inside the spare tire - and not Goodman himself. Nonetheless, he gets up and checks to make sure his door is locked. And to be extra safe, he puts the security chain on. It’s one of those lightweight brass ones, attached to the wooden molding with a couple of half-inch screws. They go for about $2.98.

  The Weather Channel doesn’t seem to want to tell him tomorrow’s forecast. He’s learned that, in southern Florida, that’s a sure sign it’s going to rain. It seems the chamber of commerce forbids anyone from giving out weather reports that don’t call for clear skies and temperatures in the low eighties. He flicks back to the MTV channel, but some cowboy is singing about his faithful Cadillac. He turns the set off.

  He dials his mother-in-law’s number again. His daughter answers in a small voice.

  “Hello, angel. It’s Daddy.”

  “Hi, Daddy.”


  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Grandma said you had a headache.”

  “A little one.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Fine. The doctor said Larus can come with me when I go to have pictures made of my head.”

  “That’s good, angel.” Larus is Kelly’s stuffed animal, her security blanket. It’s almost as big as she is, a sort of a cross between a teddy bear and an elephant. No one can remember where it came from or what it’s really supposed to be.

  “Daddy, when are you coming home?”

  “Soon, angel, soon.”

  “Grandma doesn’t know any good stories.”

  “As soon as I get back, I promise I’ll tell you a real good story.”

  “A long one?” she asks.

  “A long one,” he agrees.

  “With chapters?”

  “With chapters.”

  “All right.”

  “Well, you feel better,” he tells her. “And remember Daddy loves you.”

  “I love you, too, Daddy.”

  “Let me talk to Grandma, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  After a few seconds, he hears his mother-in-law’s voice. “Did you call the insurance company?” she asks him.

  “There is no insurance,” he tells her again. “Do I have to call a lawyer?”

  He ignores that. “What do they think this could be?” he asks her. “The kid’s only six years old.”

  “Six-year-olds can’t get sick?”

  “Take her for the tests,” Goodman says. “I’ll find the money.”

  “You better find the money.”

  He understands it’s important for her to get the last word in. “Goodbye,” he says.

  “Goodbye.”

  “You got anythin’ else?” Robbie asks Russell.

  “No, man, thas it.”

  They had both nodded off, sitting in their corner of the rooftop overlooking 145th Street. Russell awoke first; it took Robbie another twenty minutes. Now, with nothing to keep them there, they stand up, stretch, and head for the stairs. At street level, Russell turns one way, Robbie the other.

  “Later, man,” Robbie says.

  “Later.”

  As he heads back home, Russell reaches into his pocket and closes his fist around the second yellow cap, the one he’s held back from Robbie. The one to get him through the afternoon.

  Goodman decides to let the matter of the spare tire take care of itself. He figures he’ll just leave the car right where it is tonight, parked just outside his room. Whoever’s looking for it will show up sometime during the night. Either they’ll break into the trunk and grab the spare or they’ll simply steal the whole car. In the morning, Goodman will find out which it was, then notify Avis one way or the other. Then, if they’ll let him use his Visa card again, he’ll rent another car and hit the road for New York. End of problem.

  He turns the TV back on, hunts for a movie, and settles on a National Geographic special about a lone wolf migrating north, trying to find his way home. The wolf is hurt, and Goodman senses that it’s not going to make it, so eventually he flicks channels: He doesn’t want to see the wolf die.

  He settles on a baseball game and watches for a full twenty minutes before realizing that it’s the World Series, the Yankees against the Atlanta Braves. He has no real interest in who wins or loses, and he knows almost none of the players’ names. But he somehow manages to get absorbed in the rhythm of the thing: three strikes per batter, three outs per side. It’s not like football or basketball or hockey, where everyone’s in a big rush against the clock. In baseball, you get your three strikes, you get your three outs, you get your nine innings; you can take as long as you need to do it.

  After each half inning, there are commercials for cars and beer. Goodman particularly likes one that shows three frogs who learn to say “Budweiser.” He eats his second burrito; it’s cold, but he enjoys it anyway.

  Sometime around ten, he falls asleep.

  Raul Cuervas pushes his foot down harder on the gas pedal, watches the needle on the speedometer climb to eighty, eighty-three, eighty-five. He looks at the digital clock on the dashboard: 10:49. He knows the Avis counter at the airport shuts down at eleven. He knows he’s still fifteen miles away. He knows he’s not going to make it.

  He knows he’s seriously fucked up.

  He was supposed to pick up the car yesterday afternoon. But the night before, he’d gone drinking with Papo and Julio, matching shots of tequila at Fast Eddie’s. After half a dozen shots, Raul had been feeling no pain. There was this little chiquita kept looking his way, giving him the eye. Finally, he’d gone over to her. They’d talked a while, ended up at a room somewhere.

  He swerves to avoid a slow-moving car, fishtails for a moment as he passes it, leaning on his horn. Fuckin’ old maricóns, he thinks, they oughta get ‘em all off the road, give ‘em a big mall to drive around in, like bumper cars.

  He tries to remember fucking the chiquita, but he can’t. He can remember her tits, though. Stickin’ out real good, with these hard little nipples. . . .

  He notices he’s having trouble keeping his speed up, with even more cars in his way as he gets closer to the airport. He’s doing no better than seventy-five, and it’s already 10:54. Cocksucker!

  He recalls waking up alone this afternoon in some strange motel room, his head throbbing, his wallet gone, not even knowing if he’d got laid or not. And the worst of it was that with his wallet gone, so was the license and credit card Mister Fuentes had given him to pick up the car with. Without which, he didn’t even know the fucking name of the guy he was supposed to be.

  He comes up fast on a pickup truck with no taillights, seeing it at the last minute, swerving around it with his tires squealing. Another one for the fuckin’ mall. He’s down to sixty-five, sixty. Still five miles away, and already it’s 10:58.

  It had taken him all evening to get ahold of Johnnie Delgado and get a duplicate license and credit card. Now he’s gonna get shut down at the counter and have to wait till tomorrow to pick up the car. If the car’s still there, that is. Mister Fuentes is gonna wanta fuckin’ tear Raul a new asshole when he hears about this. If he hasn’t heard already.

  Goodman wakes at around eleven, sees the game is over, that it has been replaced by some postgame analysis show. They’re interviewing some player in his underwear.

  He flicks the TV off, turns off the light, and rolls over. He’s amazed he was able to fall asleep, what with his back and the air conditioner being so loud. But within five minutes, he’s asleep again.

  It’s five after eleven by the time Raul Cuervas pulls into the Fort Lauderdale Airport, almost quarter after by the time he enters the terminal and finds the Avis counter. It’s empty and dark. On the counter is a sign: CLOSED WILL REOPEN 7:00 A.M. WE TRY HARDER.

  He’d like to take the sign and throw it through the fucking plate-glass window behind the counter, but he notices it’s chained to the counter. Figures somebody musta done that once already.

  Raul’s afraid to go home. Johnnie Delgado or Mister Fuentes might be trying to reach him, and he doesn’t want to talk to them till he’s got the car. But there’s no fucking way he’s gonna sit in the fucking airport for eight hours. He decides to take a ride to Fast Eddie’s, see if he can’t find his little chiquita, break her fucking little neck for her.

  Russell Bradford can’t sleep. He lies sweating on the sofa in the living room. The room itself is cold, but Russell knows his sweats have nothing to do with the weather. Russell is getting sick again, which means it’s time to go out once more.

  Though it’s dark, Russell has no real idea what time it is. He guesses it’s around midnight, but it doesn’t really matter: Where he’s going, somebody’ll be working. It’s like that out there.

  He pulls the same T-shirt back over his head, slips into the same pair of Nikes. Pulls on a hoodie and his denim jacket. Silently, he moves about the apartment until he finds
what he’s looking for: his grandmother’s purse. She’s taken to hiding it on the top shelf of the closet by the front door. But Russell suspects she’s not really hiding it at all. Suspects she notices each time there’s money missing from it. Has even heard her arguing with his mother, saying she’d rather the boy take a few dollars from her than be out stealing. Russell is “the boy.”

  From the light coming in the window, Russell can see Nana’s got three tens and some singles. He takes one of the tens, goes to replace the purse, thinks a minute. Takes another ten. Tiptoes out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Goodman gradually becomes aware of daylight slanting through the slats of the Venetian blinds. His first thought is about his daughter, Kelly. He tells himself that her headaches may be nothing more than a child’s way of asking for attention following her mother’s death. It’s been awhile now, but he’s read somewhere that kids can have delayed reactions to these things. And because they find it hard to talk about their feelings, they start having nightmares, wetting the bed, developing stomach cramps and headaches. Makes a lot of sense, when you think about it. He’s pretty sure that’s all this is. He says a little prayer that he’s right.

  He says little prayers like this from time to time, asking for things to happen or not happen, or giving thanks for things that have somehow managed to work out okay. He says them to nobody in particular. He hasn’t been inside a synagogue since he was married fifteen years ago, and doesn’t consider himself a religious man. But he continues to say his little prayers and thanksgivings anyway. And they seem to work for the most part, as long as he’s careful not to ask for too much, and remembers to give thanks when something works out.

  His second waking thought is about the car. He can’t remember hearing any noises outside the door during the night. But that doesn’t mean much: He knows he was tired and that he probably slept pretty soundly. And with the air-conditioning running, he figures he could have missed a plane taking off from the parking lot, let alone a car.

  His bet is that the car itself is gone. That certainly would be the easiest thing for the people to have done, to take the whole car, rather than to start messing around with breaking into the trunk and taking the chance of stealing the tire - something that would also be a lot harder to explain if they got caught at it.