Mister Moonlight

“Well, another crackin’ solution for a franchise in trouble, Ringo,” Hollingsworth McVey says, slapping Ronin “Ringo” Ryland on the back.

Ringo drops his head, his Beatle-esque hairdo covering his sad brown eyes. “I wish we could have done things differently.”

“No other way, duck,” Hollingsworth replies in a pert English accent. “In order to turn a profit this year, Bell, Book, and Candle had to close most of their stores. Who in their right mind opens up a hundred and seventy-five new age stores anyway?”

“Closing a hundred fifty of them may have been a bit extreme.”

“Nah, it was righteous, mate.”

“Twenty jobs per store. That means three thousand people will lose their jobs.”

“A third of those people will retire comfortably. Another third will get golden parachutes, “Hollingsworth says.

“And it’ll be tough luck for the employees who actually do the real work. They’ll be on food stamps. I feel like a butcher, Hollingsworth, like I’m trimming the fat off a slab of corned beef.”

“It’s not easy making the necessary hard decisions, Ringo. You’ve been doing it for a dozen years, you’re my go-to mate,” Hollingsworth says, buffing his gold cuff link against his imported jacket. “It’s because of you that my second business, merging struggling companies, has taken off. We just merged several veterinary offices to form an animal hospital and general care clinic. Some kid’s cocker spaniel is going to be happy we did that. We got the money from the Bell, Book, and Candle audit. I know your role sometimes feels like an endless cycle with you having to play executioner but try not to think of the jobs you’re cutting. Think about the jobs you’re saving.”

Hollingsworth looks through the folders piled on Ringo’s desk, picking up the thinnest one. “How are things going with the Bruno family’s publishing company?”

“The father wants to keep the newspaper and the magazine. The son wants to cut the paper and two-thirds of the staff, and have the remaining writers work from home.”

“So, what’s your recommendation?”

“The son is right. The family is meeting next week,” Ringo says. “The son is bringing his lawyer, and the father is bringing his.”

Hollingsworth notices Ringo’s woeful expression.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you take some time off until then? Sharpen your axe. I’m going to need you to be your usual ruthless, analytical self after the Brunos are done battling it out.”

Sitting on a bench looking across the East River into New York City, Ringo wonders how he can be successful and still feel so empty.

A shapely jogger approaches him. Recognizing Maren Coverdale, his downstairs neighbor, Ringo puffs up his scrawny 180-pound physique, patting down his Beatle haircut.

“Hi Maren!” he shouts.

Frowning, Maren jogs in place. “Do I know you?” the twenty-eight-year-old blonde says in a no-nonsense Brooklyn accent.

“It’s me, Ringo Ryland, I live upstairs.”

“Oh, hi, Mr. Ryland. I’m used to seeing you carrying a briefcase and frowning.”

Despite being only three years her senior, whenever Maren calls him Mr. Ryland, Ringo instantly feels decades older.

“So, what are you doing?”

“I’m… I’m jogging.”

“I mean what else?” he asks awkwardly.

“Gonna share a bottle of wine with some girlfriends. Don’t worry, Mr. Ryland, we’ll keep the noise down,” Maren says jogging away.

“Mister Ryland,” Ringo murmurs. “She’s never even considered getting to know me. I’m just as invisible to her as somebody living in Palookaville.”

Ringo’s hair droops in front of his eyes. Brushing it aside, Ringo catches a glimpse of a book sitting on the end of the bench.

“Hmm…’Local Legends of Mystery’…. I bet this sold a million copies.”

Ringo opens the book, glancing at the chapters. He chuckles at the thought of The Werewolf of Canarsie, the Giant Ants of Grand Central Station, and the Spuyten Duyvil Devil. One entry, Mr. Moonlight, piques his interest.

Thumbing through the chapter, he learns that Mr. Moonlight grants the wishes of anyone who summons him by singing his name.

Ringo remembers that his mother had a Beatles album featuring the quirky, Latin-flavored tune.

Taking a deep breath, Ringo bellows, “MISTER Moooon light!”

A passing couple snickers. “Poor guy,” the man says. “Must be on the pipe.”

A diminutive man with wizened features in a snappy grey suit sits down next to him.

“You called?”

The man flashes an elfin smile.

“Did I summon you?” Ringo asks.

“Better than most, I must say. You sang that first word with almost as much enthusiasm as John Lennon did.”

“I really don’t feel like being catfished today, buddy.”

“You’re tired of always having to play the bad guy, of having to cut jobs and close doors while your boss gets to play the good guy. On the personal side, you’re infatuated with Maren Coverdale, and wonder why she doesn’t pay any attention to you.”

“Oh, you’re good. So, if you’re really Mister Moonlight, you can change my life.”

“That’s what I do, Ringo. I give poor schlubs like you the ability to see the future. Let me show you how it works. Close your eyes.”

Ringo finds himself in a church, placing a ring on a woman’s finger. He looks up at Maren’s megawatt smile.

Guests crowd the pews, grinning with approval as Maren says, “I do.”

Ringo kisses Maren.

When he opens his eyes, his lips are still puckered.

“Nice imitation of a mackerel,” Mr. Moonlight jibes.

“That’s really going to happen?”

“Yep. Fulfilling your request may cause a few gaps in your memory, but you’re going to get the woman you desire.”

“Sign me up!”

Let’s go to your apartment and draw up a contract.”

Ringo gives the spritely man the once-over. “You’re not going to try and rob me, are you? I know judo.”

“No, you don’t.” Mr. Moonlight replies. “In fact, you only had two fights your entire life when you were a kid, and you got trashed in both. That Dawn Briggs was a real tornado, wasn’t she?”

“I’m going to want a lot of money.”

Mr. Moonlight sighs with resignation. “Wealth is always the first request. Say, have you got any eggs?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good. We’ll talk details over a plate of scrambled eggs.”

Ringo rolls over, his head throbbing from the six beers he’d quaffed the night before with Mr. Moonlight. His stomach gurgles angrily, threatening to return the two plates of scrambled eggs he’d scarfed down.

Opening his eyes, Ringo stretches, his hand grazing against the back of a woman lying next to him.

The sheets rustle as Maren yawns, smiling at him.

“Good morning, babe,” Maren says.

“What…What are you doing here?”

“That’s a funny thing to say to your wife,” she replies. Kissing Ringo on the forehead, she climbs out of bed.

Ringo searches the room for proof. A wedding picture sits on top of a hand-carved 19th Century French Provence table along with photographs of smiling unknown relatives and friends.

Maren comes back into the bedroom wearing an extravagant Ellen Tahari outfit. “Are you going into the office today or are you going to let your real estate agent lackeys make you millions?”

“I’ll call Hollingsworth. I was thinking of taking the day off.”

“Who?”

“Hollingsworth McVey. You know, my boss? The British guy I complain about all the time.”

“I know you like to kid me about not knowing anything about your business, but I do know you’re the owner. I’m going to get my hair done, have lunch with Lisette, and then we’re going shopping at Bergdorf’s.”

Maren reaches for Ringo’s wallet on the end table. Pulling out a credit card, she blows him a kiss. “Don’t forget, we’re having our anniversary party tomorrow night at the Water Club. A hundred-plus guests. Seven years is what, copper? I’ve had my eye on a copper bangle with diamonds at Mayberry’s. That’ll work as the right gift. Oh, Melody’s still at my mother’s. Love ya!”

Before Ringo can ask who Melody is, Maren is gone.

Ringo’s head is still spinning by the time he gets to Belmont Racetrack. He picks seven winning horses in a row.  Having prepared for his financial windfall, he packs his winnings in a suitcase he brought from home.

As Ringo heads for the exit, his path is blocked by three frowning, broad-shouldered men in identical black suits. The two larger men have broken features and ravenous eyes. The third has a milky blue eye, a large, crooked nose, and tousled blonde hair.

“My name’s Ice Pick. This here’s Alwyn and Entwistle. You may be unawares, pipsqueak, but you’re today’s big winner. That makes you eligible for our high rollers club.”

“I’d… I’d rather not be in any club right now,” Ringo replies.

Turning to Alwyn and Entwistle, Ice Pick says, “He thinks he’s gotta choice!”

The three rough men bellow threateningly.

“Dues is twenty grand,” Ice Pick says. “C’mon, squirt, pay up. We know you took the track for ten times that today.”

Ringo clutches the briefcase against his chest. “I won it fair and square.”

Ice Pick lets out an amused chuckle. “Nobody wins every race they bet on fair and square. We don’t know what system you’re usin’, but when we figure it out, there ain’t gonna be enough dues to keep you from endin’ up the way old ponies do.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ice Pick, but I don’t understand.”

“They shoot horses, don’t they?”

“Great flick,” Alwyn says.

“A cinematic gem,” Entwistle adds.

“So, you ready to pay your dues?” Ice Pick asks.

“All I have to say is, MISTER Mooooonlight!”

“Excellent vocal range,” Entwistle comments.

Mr. Moonlight walks into view, pushing Ice Pick aside to get to Ringo.

Cocking his dead eye at Mr. Moonlight, Ice Pick says, “I seen you somewhere before. You one of Giorgio Luppino’s bag men?”

“I’m just a problem solver. And I see you boys are having a cash flow problem,” Mr. Moonlight replies.

“Yeah, we want his cash flowin’ into our pants,” Alwyn says.

“Well, I’ve got a solution.”

Reaching in his suit pocket, Mr. Moonlight pulls out a stack of money. “Twenty grand.”

Ice Pick checks the money with his good eye. “Fine. Now here’s the deal. The pipsqueak finds another racetrack to fleece.”

“Try Yonkers Raceway,” Alwyn suggests. “They serve a buffet to die for.”

“Yeah, a culinary delight,” Entwistle adds.

“And I won’t be delighted if I see you here again, get it?” Ice Pick says as he and the others turn away.

“Thanks. I owe you,” Ringo says to Mr. Moonlight.

“You sure do. How about you start with some scrambled eggs?”

Ringo watches Mr. Moonlight polish off a second plate of scrambled eggs.

“Do you ever eat anything else?” Ringo asks.

“Eggs have protein, and they help prevent stroke. Of course, that’s all moot since I’ve been dead for a hundred years. Each of us gets to eat one dish we love.”

“Us?”

“You don’t think I’m doing this gig by myself, do you?”

“I’m sorry about that business at the track,” Ringo says.

“Didn’t I tell you to start off small and not draw attention to yourself? You might as well have never played cards and won the World Series of Poker! Every time we give one of you dissatisfied schmoes the gift to see into the future you get greedy. Give me the briefcase.”

Ringo slides the briefcase across the diner’s floor to Mr. Moonlight. Placing it in the booth next to him, Mr. Moonlight pockets half the cash.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking my cut. Did you read the contract? Or did your jump into a different lifestyle scramble your memory, no pun intended. I get half of everything you make over fifty grand. Since you can see into the future you should have seen that coming.”

“…But it’s mine…”

“You looked into the future to pick the winners. Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder could’ve done that. You shouldn’t be your own charity. You should spread your money around, and do some real good with it.”

“What do you need money for?”

“The snack machine. Nothing’s free, Ringo, not even if you’re a local legend.”

“You’re just being a smart ass.”

“Yes, I am. Almost everybody we give the gift to wants to be wealthy. It’s maddening. By taking your money, I’m just redistributing the wealth, taking it to give to the other greedy knuckleheads.” 

“I’ve got a bigger concern,” Ringo admits. “I’m having problems remembering what happened over the past seven years. I’m missing all the good parts.”

“Maybe there weren’t any.”

“And who’s Melody?”

“Your daughter.”                                                                              

A three-tier Tiramisu cake is brought out. Jumping up and down, Melody grabs her mother’s hand.

“Can I blow out the candle?” she asks.

“After my speech.”

Ringo taps his knife off his champagne glass, quieting the room.

“Ronan, or Ringo as we all know him, fell for me seven years ago, literally. He lived upstairs. Ringo was so shy, I barely noticed him. He said hello to me one day as he was walking down the stairs. He tripped, bouncing all the way down the steps. I went with him to the hospital. I thought he was concussed because he proposed to me. Well, he eventually wore me down and here we are!”

The crowd guffaws. Ringo feels as foolish and empty as he did before Mr. Moonlight granted his wishes.

The cake is wheeled to the center of the Water Club’s opulent dining room. Melody jumps into Ringo’s arms.

“Can I have a cake this big when I turn nine?” Melody asks.

“Why not when you turn eight?”

The blue-eyed, golden-haired pixie seems momentarily stunned before breaking into laughter.

“Oh, Daddy, you’re so funny. You know I’m already eight.”

“MISTER Mooooonlight!”

Ringo is still hyperventilating when Mr. Moonlight knocks on the front door.

“How was the party?”

“Enlightening. You said Melody was my daughter.”

“You provide for her, send her off to school, and take her to the park. That sounds like a dad to me.”

Holding back his anger, Ringo says, “The math doesn’t work. Melody’s eight. Maren and I got married seven years ago.”

“Isn’t she like a daughter to you?”

“Yeah, somebody else’s daughter.”

“You marry the girl, you marry the family. How about cooking up some scrambled eggs?”

“It’s really disturbing that a man whose five foot four can put away so many eggs,” Ringo says, watching Mr. Moonlight shovel in his last fork full. “This isn’t going the way I thought it would. You took half my money, and the woman I love is a spendthrift who had some low life’s kid.”

Sighing, Ringo closes his eyes. An image of Maren walking down the street holding Melody’s hand enters his mind. Traffic zips past them as they cross the street.

Melody pulls Maren to the window of a toy store. The pair laugh, marveling at the talking elephant in the store window.

The sound of a wailing siren draws nearer.

A stolen Mustang runs a light, followed in dogged pursuit by a police cruiser. Tires screeching, the Mustang T-bones a taxicab, and the two shattered cars skid across the street toward the sidewalk.

Maren turns her head to see the twisted wrecks coming at her and Melody.

She has just enough time to cover Melody’s eyes.

Ringo flinches.

“I’m back in the kitchen.”

“You’ve been here the whole time,” Mr. Moonlight replies.

“They’re going to die!”

Mr. Moonlight’s nails leave indentations in the dashboard of Ringo’s Corvette as he weaves through traffic.

“You may not have much of a future if you total this car!”

“What are you worried about? You can’t die,” Ringo replies.

“I can if I’m scattered in pieces. Slow down!”

Ringo slams on the brakes. Mr. Moonlight’s head bounces off the dashboard with a dull thud followed by a loud expletive. “What now?”

“The road’s blocked off!” Ringo yells, jumping out of the car.

Ringo pushes through the crowd but is halted by a police officer.

“That’s my wife and daughter!”

The police officer lets Ringo through, looking past the trailing Mr. Moonlight as if he can’t see him.

Ringo bends over Maren, cradling her broken body. A detective tears Ringo away as he begins to scream.

A picture of Maren and Melody’s crumpled bodies is burned into his mind.

“…You gave me the power to see into the future…,” Ringo says.

“Yes. But there are some things about the future you can’t change.”

Ringo props his mahogany-colored Brunello Cucinelli shoes on his desk.

“It’s been three years since Maren and Melody passed,” Mr. Moonlight says. “How does it feel to be a multi-millionaire?”

“Empty. I’ve come full circle. I begged you to get me out of my mundane existence only to end up in another one. The two things I wanted most were the things that gave me the least amount of pleasure.”

“Maren would have taken every dime you made. You didn’t need to see into the future to realize that. Your true loss was Melody. And you could have helped people with your wealth. Instead, you helped yourself.”

“I see that now.”

“You’re so obsessed with money you can’t see what’s about to happen.”

The intercom sounds.

“Yes, Ms. Spinelli?”

“There’s a man here who insists on seeing you.”

“Who is it?”

“Hollingsworth McVey.”

Ringo looks at Mr. Moonlight, who emphatically nods no.

“I’m in a meeting.”

Ringo hears the man cursing as he rushes toward his office.

He moves to the door intent on locking it as Hollingsworth appears, pointing a .45 at him.

“You bought my company! You threw hundreds of veterinarians and animals out into the street!”

Hollingsworth fires three shots. Ringo looks down, watching his blood spread across his monogrammed shirt.

Mr. Moonlight adjusts Ringo’s tie.

“There. Now you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Your first assignment.”

A voice cries out, “MISTER Moooonlight!”