Dark of the Moon
© 2024 by Walter Reimer and E.O. Costello

Thumbnail art by  Pashtelle


Fifteen


It was a good thing I brought my notepad with me, because I took a list of things back to Barclay Street. Needless to say, my editor was not happy, but I wasn’t happy either, so it sort of balanced out.

I was midway through my first article when the managing editor called me into his office. “Have a seat, Knocko,” he said, and as I sat down he asked, “How are you doing with the article?”

“About halfway through,” I replied. “What’s up?”

He passed me a sheet of paper in his usual crabbed handwriting. “Here’s a few more things to write about, and I need you to snap it up. The Boss has approved a second special edition.”

My eyes went wide. “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. So get cracking.” He waved a hand, and I headed back to my desk before he could say anything. I sat down before I read through his notes and spent a few moments blinking before I tore the paper out of my typewriter so I could start over. By the time I had centered a new piece of paper into the typewriter, I had an idea of what I could write.

The article’s headline, FOURTH POLICE ATTACKER ARRESTED, was a good way to grab the readers’ attention. The article itself was a fairly objective account of how Artabanov had been turned in by concerned citizens among the werewolves in New York. Yes, I said that he’d been ‘turned in,’ which was true as far as it went.

Thanks to a quick powwow with Inspector Cunningham and someone from the Commissioner’s Office, I was allowed to add that Artabanov had been questioned. Again, it was true as far as it went.

Halfway through the article someone brought me a sheet of teletype paper with news from the UP office in Washington. The NYPD had told the State Department, and they had filed a formal protest with the Soviet Embassy in Washington. The Russians were keeping schtum apart from demanding the release of their two citizens. Yeah, the injured werewolf had been identified by now.

I wrote a second article that included these two nuggets of information and also included a brief editorial in which I applauded the werewolves for helping the police, implying that the NYPD appreciated the help. At the same time, I reminded the readers that the NYPD looked down on vigilantism, and quoted Inspector Cunningham saying that “No one has the right to take the law into their own hands – or paws.”

That was a quote, by the way. I didn’t make it up.

Everything was ready, including a copy of Artabanov’s passport photo, and the presses rolled on time. There was an all-night diner a few blocks away, so I asked my editor if I could step out for a cup of coffee. He agreed, on condition I bring him back a sandwich and that I’d be back in time to read the first copies from the print shop.

The diner had a couple night owls in it, and the guy behind the counter seemed happy to see me. I ordered coffee and a sandwich, and one to go for my editor.

I had just taken the first sip of my coffee when someone sat down beside me. “Hey, Knocko.”

I glanced to my left, and there was Armbruster, big as life. “Hey, Dick. Bit off the beaten path for you. They let you out early tonight?”

He snorted and ordered coffee. “Wanted to talk.”

“With me? I’m honored.”

“Hmmph.” His coffee was delivered; he stirred cream and sugar into his coffee and took a sip. “Saw the Russian guy.”

“Yeah?”

“Looked a little rough.” He gave me a sidelong look.

“Maybe he resisted arrest,” I deadpanned. “But now the cops have two of the murderers, so things will settle down, and – “

“And nothing,” Armbruster said as he put his mug down. He waited until I had my sandwich, and the bag containing the sandwich I’d ordered for my editor. “I heard from one of the cops at Centre Street – that bum was delivered, he wasn’t arrested, and by your furry friends.” He took a deep drink of his coffee. “And if you think things are over, they’ve just started. I’m going to keep on telling everyone who reads the Daily News that werewolves are a menace, and – “

“And I think you should leave, friend.”

I straightened up on my stool as Armbruster twisted to his left to glare at Wally, who had taken a seat. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

Wally smiled. “No one special. Just the guy who’s telling you that you should leave.” He grinned, showing teeth.

“You know who I am?” Armbruster growled.

“Why? You forget or something?” I almost laughed at that, and Wally said, “All I’m saying, Sport, is that you should go peddle your papers.”

Armbruster squinted at Wally. “You a furball?” The word made one of the night owls sit up and look in our direction.

“Me?” Wally laughed in Armbruster’s face. “That’s a rich one. I’m just a friend of his,” and he pointed at me.

Armbruster swung around to glare at me. I shrugged. “We go back a ways.” I noticed that Wally hadn’t actually answered the question. He’ll make a good lawyer.

The guy behind the counter walked over and asked Wally, “You want something, Mack?”

“Got any Rheingold?”

The guy snorted. “Diner, not bar, friend, and if you don’t know the difference I think you better get on home.”

Wally shrugged and grinned. “Cup of coffee, then.” The guy shook his head and went to get the coffee, and Wally gave Armbruster the eye. “What? You still here?”

Armbruster tensed a little. “Free country.”

“Yeah. Fought to keep it that way, too. Which means he’s – “ and he jerks a thumb at me “ – got the freedom to be left alone by mugs like you, capisce?”

Armbruster sniffed, threw some money on the counter to pay for his coffee, and said to me, “Be seeing you around, Knocko.”

I nodded. “Don’t be a stranger, Dick.” He scowled and left the diner.

One of the night owls got to his feet and started toward the door, but stopped when Wally sniffed and stuck out an arm. “Hey.”

The guy looked at the arm, sniffed, and cocked an eye at Wally. “What?”

“He ain’t worth it.”

The guy seemed to think about it for a moment before he shrugged and went back to his seat.

“Wally.”

“Yeah, Knocko?”

I smiled as I finished my sandwich. “Thanks.” I paid for my coffee and the sandwiches. “See you around.”

“See ya.” I left and headed back to the World-Telly.


***


The special edition hit the newsstands that morning and sold out by lunchtime. Thanks to me squaring the story with the police, there were very few questions the other papers could ask.

Which, I’m sure, really made Armbruster and his bosses at the Daily News mad as wet hens. Dick called me the day Terhune’s family statement was printed, but in this case the silence from 42nd Street was deafening. Suited me just fine.

A few of the other reporters in the city room congratulated me, both for the exclusives and for not getting myself killed.

Yeah, about that, I went down to Saint Peter’s at lunchtime and had a priest hear my confession.

When I got back to my desk the phone rang. “Walshe,” I said after I picked it up.

“Mister Walshe, Nathan Adams here.”

I immediately shifted the handset to my shoulder, pinning it between my shoulder and my left ear as I reached for my pad and a pencil. “Yes, Mister Adams?”

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

That made me blink. “No,” I replied.

“Good. I was wondering if you could come to a small gathering at Gino’s, up on Lexington Avenue. Say, at six tonight?”

“I suppose so. What’s going on?”

“The selection of a new Alpha.”

I almost dropped the phone. “Seriously?”

“Yes, quite seriously, Mister Walshe. We’ve decided to have the process described in the World-Telegram, and you can also bring a photographer.” He gave a soft chuckle. “I imagine your editor will agree that the opportunity shouldn’t be missed.”

I snorted. “Are you kidding? He’d drive me uptown himself.”

Adams chuckled. “You’ll find a cab waiting in front of your building on Barclay Street at five-thirty, and you might recognize the driver. Enjoy your dinner, Mister Walshe.” The lawyer hung up, and I followed suit before getting up and going to see my editor.


***


Sure enough, there was a cab idling at the curb as the photographer and I stepped out of the building, and I recognized the driver. “Phil!”

The werewolf, not Shifted, smiled at me. “Hiya, Pete. Get in.” Me and the photographer got, and he cocked an eye at his rear-view mirror before pulling out into traffic. Someone behind us sounded his horn and Phil grumbled, “So’s your old man,” as he hit the gas pedal.

“We’re not going to be late,” I said. “It’s only up – “

“On Lex, yeah,” Phil said. “Still take about twenty minutes or so. Ever eat at Gino’s?”

“Can’t say as I have,” I said.

I saw a knowing grin in the mirror. “It’s good, trust me.”

Gino’s was just north of Bloomingdale’s, and Phil dropped us off at the corner of Lexington and 60th so we could cross the street safely. “What do I owe you?” I asked him.

He snorted. “I’m getting paid for this, no worries.” I tipped him anyway before me and the photographer headed for the restaurant.

There was a sign in the window that said Closed for Private Party, but we were expected. I had forgotten to ask about dress code for the dinner, but although nearly everyone in the room was wearing a suit the atmosphere was very casual. We were shown to a small table and while the waiter delivered the menus I did a quick headcount.

By the time a bottle of wine arrived and was opened, I had counted sixty guys in the restaurant. Appetizers were being served, and with all the low-voiced conversations going I really had trouble figuring out who was who. I guessed that introductions were being made, and after ordering I decided to circulate a little.

A lot of them recognized me from my articles, and it was hard to take notes from all the handshaking I was doing. I gathered that the men in the room were all werewolves, the Alphas of major packs from Boston to Washington D.C. and from New York to Pittsburgh. The Pittsburgh Alpha was also voting proxy for the packs west of the Mississippi.

One guy from Hartford pointed at the prancing zebras on the wallpaper and got a hearty laugh when he said, “That wallpaper’s making me hungry.”

“Yeah,” another from Poughkeepsie said. “This a werewolf joint?”

“Nah,” a third said, “but I’m with you – it’s givin’ me an appetite.”

I went back to my seat and watched what was going on. The members of the gathering would talk amongst themselves at each table, then would talk to those at adjacent tables or get up and circulate. No one Shifted, which struck me as odd, although it might have been thought of as provocative.

Neither me or the camera guy ate much, even though it was on the house, but everyone else was enjoying a full-on meal. The photographer leaned across the table and asked, “How are they going to pick the new guy?”

I shrugged. “Beats me.”

By the time dessert rolled around, I started noticing a pattern. After some conversation at a given table, one man there would either talk to the table nearest him or get up and go over to a table in a back corner. This happened more times for it to be mere coincidence, although there was a lot of traffic to and from a certain table, where one guy seemed to have an objection. After maybe another half hour everyone in the room stood up.

Except for one fellow at the corner table. He was a tall, spare guy, maybe about fifty, and he Shifted.

Everyone else in the room Shifted as well, and the photographer took several pictures as the ones standing up tipped their heads back and howled before applauding the new Alpha.

I joined in the applause, and one guy wove his way through the crowd to me. “You Pete Walshe?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Jack Mercer, from Baltimore,” and we shook hands. “The new Alpha wants to talk to you.”

I smiled. “An interview?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I bring him along?” I asked and gestured at the photographer.

“Sure! Everyone needs to see who he is. C’mon.” Champagne was being brought out as he led us around the tables to where the new leader of all the werewolves sat. “Pete Walshe, this is Ralph Akelewicz, the Alpha,” Mercer said.

“Honored to meet you, Sir,” and I extended a hand.

The werewolf took it. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mister Walshe,” Akelewicz said with a slight smile. “Have a seat and let’s talk.”

I sat and the photographer took a few pictures as a waiter served us both coffee and a plate of amaretti cookies.





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