Free Blue Moonlight by Vincent Zandri

table that supports a portable television, and beside it, a stand-alonecloset. Behind the closet is the bathroom. Just a shower, sink, toilet, and bidet, not that I’ll need it. On the far right of the bed is a desk pushed up against french windows that open onto the convent and, in the near distance, a view of Florence Cathedral’s dome or Duomo, and far beyond that, the mountain town of Fesolie, which I visited during my last trip here. Spartan accommodations, but the perfect view. That is, if you were a honeymooner and in love.
    Francesco sets down the pack against the bed. He suggests I take a rest. He gives me that look like a lot of people give me in Albany. The one that says,
“I’m aware of that piece of bullet in your head and the fact that you can buy the farm at any time.”
I know the look very well by now. Behind the eyes is the sad knowledge that I somehow managed to survive my own suicide and that now I’m a head case who at times has trouble even trusting himself. After all, I’ve been known to forget things and my decision-making ability is not always the greatest, especially in times of great stress. I can also pass out without the slightest warning. So perhaps some rest is a good idea.
    But I can’t possibly rest.
    My espresso-fueled adrenaline is flowing like electricity through hot wires, and I just got off a plane after almost a dozen hours cruising through the friendly skies. Nervous energy. Moonlight the wired.
    Time to go to work.
    An inventory of the things I need to carry on my person seems like it’s in order. With Francesco standing beside me, I pull my passport from my pocket and set it on the bed. I do the same with my new mobile phone. I take the laptop computer and its power cord from the leather shoulder bag, set it onto the desk,open it, and begin booting it up. Then I pull out my wallet and set it on the bed beside the passport, the mobile smartphone, the Walther .9 mm, and one of the two extra ammo clips.
    Taking a couple of steps back and away from the bed, I stare down at my weaponry and it feels considerably weak to me.
    Turning to Francesco. “I’m prone to carry a small piece around my ankle as a backup,” I tell him. “Would you be able to help out there?”
    He nods, purses his lips. “I might have something you’ll be interested in. If you’ll excuse me.” He exits the room and after a minute returns with a soft leather satchel. Loosening the straps on the satchel, he opens it to reveal a black-plated snub-nose .22 caliber five-shot Colt revolver, and along with it, a twelve-inch fighting knife I recognize as NATO-issue from my own days in the Persian Gulf War.
    “Compliments of Il Ghiro,” he says, exiting the room once more and returning with some duct tape. “Sadly, I have no holster for the .22. But I have plenty of tape for wrapping it around your leg. As for the knife, she can be fixed to your belt.”
    I reach out and gently pat him on the shoulder as a way of saying thanks.
    “Just one more favor,” I beg of Francesco. “Got a pencil I can borrow? And maybe a pad of paper or a notebook?”
    “It’s the simplest things that always go missing.” He laughs. “We will have to remedy that.” Once more he leaves the room and returns with a couple of sharpened pencils, which I stuff inside my leather shoulder bag along with the notebook. Slipping out of my jacket, I set it on the bed. I remove my shirt and toss it into the corner I’ll designate for soiled laundry. Then, grabbing hold of the roll of duct tape, I set my left leg up on the bed. I pull up the cuff and cut off a piece of duct tape and tapethe .22 to my left leg just above the boot top. Pull my pant cuff back over the pistol. Slide my foot off the bed and unbuckle my belt. I remove some of the narrow leather strap from the pant loops and slide on the knife sheath. Then I fish the strap back through the loops and once more buckle the belt.
    I retrieve a clean white shirt from my pack and put