Bad Moon Rising

When I finished, Hondo looked out the window at people going to Archie’s gym. He said, “Who is that guy?”

“I’d like to find out. Preliminary checks showed a clean record.”

Hondo said, “How could he know what happened over there?”

“Somehow, he has access to information most people are not privy to. There’s no way he peered into a crystal ball or gazed at the night sky and divined it.”

“Are you sure?” a hint of a grin showed.

“Don’t you start that crap.”

We sat in silence for several minutes, then Hondo said, “Do you think about him?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Uh-huh.”

Who we meant was the fourth Marine on the mountain with us above Shok Valley. He died in the rocket blast that wounded Hondo and Wilson. If his body hadn’t partially shielded Hondo, my friend would be dead as well.

Hondo said, “Private Jordan S. Hammond. Semper fi, Marine.”

Archie came through the door right then and tossed our mail on Hondo’s desk. “I know you two are working on Bodhi’s case, but you need to get to the studio. Seems there’s a crisis with the director and the producers.”

I started to speak, but he held up his hand, “All you’re doing right now is thinking about Amber and Bodhi, and what to do next. You can do that on the way to the studio, so you’re not neglecting them.”

He was right. I said, “You know what it is?”

“Not a clue. I’ll watch your office while you’re gone.”

We nodded, and left in Shamu. I drove through heavy traffic, all the while thinking of Amber and Bodhi. We reached Warner Brothers Studios and passed through the gate, then drove around the various buildings and massive sound stages to the house-like office of Capstone Productions, and for what, we had no idea.

Hondo knocked and the door jerked open. A guy who looked like a frantic, wild-haired Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein said, “It’s a…crisis!” Then he blinked and looked at us, “Who are you?”

Hondo told him.

He made a shooing motion at us with his hand, “Go away, we have real trouble here. Go get security.”

Hondo said, “I’ll just take a look.” He pushed by the man and said, “There’s no blood on the floor, must not be too bad.”

I was a step behind him and asked the frantic guy, “What’s your name?”

“Eugene Helder, Executive Producer.”

“Okay Eugene, what’s the problem?”

He glanced at the closed office door. “In there.”

Hondo said to me, “I’ve got this.” His eyes had that look.

I said, “I want to watch.”

Hondo opened the door and I followed him inside the large office. Papers lay scattered on the floor, and one chair was overturned. The bearded guy who cast us, David Shells, cowered behind his small desk as a big biker-type guy stood over him. The biker was maybe six-six, two eighty, with no shirt and tats on his arms. I saw his ripped tee shirt lying on the floor, as if he tore it off Hulk Hogan style. He said to us, “Get the hell out.”

Hondo said, “Leave, or I’ll hurt you.”

The biker looked Hondo up and down, and I knew he didn’t think he was seeing much: A guy about six-three, and lean. The biker said, “We’ll see about that, tough guy.”

He walked toward Hondo, in no hurry, flexing his hands and ready to rumble. He said