Tracer Bullet and the Smoke of Libville. Episode 6: The Howl At The Moon

Continued from Episode 5 – HERE

Episode 6: The Howl At The Moon

In the rearview, the neon sign for the Alibi Bar shrank into a smear of blue and red. The rain finally sputtered out about the time I hit the roundabout near St. Gert’s, leaving the streets as shiny and slick as a Jesuit’s pomade. I let the wipers drag one last arc and with a wet groan they froze mid-swipe like they’d given up caring. Pulling up near the chancery, I cracked the window to let the night in. It smelled of ozone, old brick, and the sour reek of a city that never learned how to tell the truth.

I lit a cigarette. The glow caught the cracked dashboard in sickly orange.

Part of me wondered if I should’ve dragged Tommy along, priestly ballast to keep my conscience from floating clean off. But he’d said his piece.

I thumbed the radio on. Some local Catholic station was playing a pre-recorded homily. The voice I recognized, Bishop F. Atticus McButterpants. “…in these uncertain times,” he droned, “we must remain open to accompaniment…to the creative spirit…”

“Ha!” That’s what he called it when he shifted parish funds around like shell games and anointed committees of facilitators to “reimagine” everything the Church used to be.

I clicked a different preset. A cliché saxophone mewled over a languid backbeat, trying so hard to sound sad it was practically begging to be a track in a bad noir flick. I let it wheeze another bar, then turned the knob so hard the dial nearly snapped. Silence felt cleaner. More honest.

The chancery hulked ahead, like a mausoleum where the living paid rent. A single window glowed on the top floor. The bishop’s office. A puddle glimmered in the street ahead, catching the wan glow of the chancery’s security lights. It looked like oil. Maybe it was. Nothing stayed pure in Libville. Not water, not money, not faith.

I rolled past, slow, watching for movement. That’s when I saw him: Fr. Gilbert in his raincoat holding up an umbrella, his other hand gripping a leash like it might jump up and throttle him.

At the other end was Chester, the bishop’s dog. If that label still applied. In the jaundiced sodium glow, he looked like a bull terrier with a rap sheet, the sort that’d give George Booth nightmares, spine bent like bad theology, ears warped like old chancery minutes.

They were halfway across the lot when the clouds split open, and the moon came crawling out, low and as yellow as a nicotine stain. Chester lifted his muzzle and let loose a howl that sounded like it had been saved up since All Hallows’ Eve.

Gilbert glanced around, as if the night might explain itself. It didn’t. It never did.

I eased the Charger back into gear and slipped past them, tires whispering over the wet asphalt.

My smoke was nipped to the finger burn, but I let it smolder anyway. Tomorrow would be a marathon of dirty files, dirtier questions, and lies stacked like poker chips.

A few blocks on, I slid up to a washed-out motor court and doused the headlights, leaving the night to finish the story.

For now, I needed rack time. Even a conscience like mine had to sleep once in a … yellow moon.

TO BE CONTINUED…