Blind Moon Alley

by John Florio

  “That’s the short version,” I say. “The long version includes the part that says it takes money to run, and he doesn’t have any.”

  “So how can I help?”

  If she knows where this is heading, she’s as smooth as the booze she’s pouring.

  “He needs the dough back,” I say. “The twenty grand.”

  She gives me a troubled nod. “Makes sense,” she says. “But I don’t have it anymore. I used it to buy into this place. And when you do business with Lovely, you don’t buy out.”

  “But you were going to pay Garvey back, right? Where were you going to get that money?”

  She stares into her glass as if she’s about to read tea leaves but doesn’t come back with an answer. There’s more to this story, and getting her to open up will be about as easy as shucking a clam with a dollar bill.

  “Hey, I’m in this, too,” I say. “I ran into a cop named Reeger. He’s out for Garvey and he doesn’t care who he mows down to get at him.”

  She’s barely listening. She’s looking out the window at the blinking lights on Rittenhouse. I’m not sure how I wound up here—grilling Myra about Garvey’s money—and my guess is that she’s wondering the same thing. I down the drink. It burns my chest and I enjoy it.

  She doesn’t bother turning her head when she speaks. Normally, that would get my goat, but in this case, I’m grateful that she’s talking at all.

  “I did something really stupid.”

  “Who hasn’t?” I say.

  A crash comes from the bar. People are shouting and glass is breaking. I’ve been around speakeasies long enough to know these sounds. It’s a raid. I’d like to meet the cop who decided to drop a hammer on Lovely. The bull must have nuts the size of cantaloupes.

  A voice yells from the barroom. “I’m looking for Aaron Garvey and a white nigger freak called Snowball.”

  Myra turns to me, her eyes wide open. “That’s Reeger,” she says.

  Could Reeger have followed me here? I hear him working his way through the joint, shaking down the waiters for the skinny on Garvey. I pull out my gun and wait by the door. I’m no triggerman, but if Reeger comes at me I’m going to plug his sinuses. I’m about to open the door, but it hits me that Garvey wound up on death row for doing the same thing I’m thinking of doing now. I re-holster the rod and look for a way out.

  I motion toward the window. “Where does that fire escape lead?”

  “The back alley,” she says. “But Reeger’s probably got a guy down there.”

  I slip out the window, but my eyes start shaking as they adjust to the darkness.

  Myra leans out of the building behind me. “I’m coming, too.”

  She kicks off her pumps and follows me down the fire escape—she’s so close I can smell her perfume. The humidity has slickened the iron rungs, and the leather soles of my oxfords are slipping with every step. When we reach the bottom landing, I take a look around. There’s not a bull in sight, so we drop down into the alleyway and scoot back to the Auburn. She jumps into the seat I had reserved for Angela.

  We pull away, leaving Reeger back at the Red Canary. I’ve got my eyes peeled for cops, but Myra’s laughing like a kid who just bolted out of the school cafeteria doors for summer recess.

  Myra’s leaning on the Ink Well bar as I scoop some ice into a shaker. I thought about bringing her to Madame Curio’s so she could settle things with Garvey, but I couldn’t risk being tailed. I snaked through side streets, circled City Hall, and snuck into the bar through Blind Moon Alley. We’re here for the night. I’d let her sleep at my place, but we’d have to step outside to go upstairs. And I’m not unlocking that door until sunrise.

  It’s my first time inside the Ink Well after closing time, and I like it more than ever. Rudy Vallee is on the radio—“If I Had You”—and the flickering candles on the front tables bathe the place in a soft glow. There must be fifty guys back at the Canary who’d want to trade places with me right now, tucked away down here, alone with Myra. And yet all I can think about is how much I wish it were Angela sitting behind that martini glass.

  Myra nods toward the newspaper that put my face on Philadelphia’s doorstep. “I’m not surprised,” she says. “You always had it in you.”

  I forgot how nice it felt to impress a woman—and I’m glad it’s Myra. “Thanks,” I tell her.

  She walks through the joint as I pour two fresh martinis. She’s still in her sequined dress, shoeless, and I wish I had some comfortable clothes to offer her. I wonder what she’s thinking as she takes in the place. It’s a far cry from the Red Canary, which buzzes with gamblers, dancers, and spenders until the wee hours. Me, I prefer this.

  I drop an olive into each glass. “So Garv needs money,” I say. “Badly.”

  “I know,” she says with her back to me. She’s examining the glossies of Duke Ellington, Jack Johnson, and Ethel Waters hanging over the booths across from the bar. She’s a silhouette in the subdued light; her dress shimmers along her hip. “And I do owe him the twenty grand.”

  “At least we all agree on that,” I say. I bring the martinis to the booth closest to the front room, nearest the fan, and she joins me.

  We sit across from each other; she leans her back to the wall and raises her legs onto the padded bench.

  I raise my glass. “To Elementary School Four?”

  “To never going back,” she counters.

  We clink glasses and sip our martinis. They’re ice cold, but not frigid enough to cut the heat down here.

  “So can you get it?” I say. “The twenty grand?” This is the third time I’m trying—I asked in the Auburn, too—and I’m getting tired of the half-answers.

  “Like I said, I gave it to Lovely for a piece of the place—not that I’ve ever gotten anything for it aside from a bunch of free drinks. He’s got the money and I can tell you he’s not about to give it back. It’s not like I bought stock or something.”

  “So that’s what you meant when you said you did something stupid?”

  She leans her head against the wall and looks up, sighing.

  “Well?” I say.

  I guess she realizes no raid is going to cut her off again, because this time she keeps talking.

  “I was going to pay Garvey back in installments,” she says. “A hundred a week.”

  “He told me,” I say.

  She lets out a bitter chuckle. “Everybody wanted those payments. Connor wound up dying for them.”

  “He told me that, too,” I say.

  “Well, now Reeger’s muscled in. He’s taking them—and he bumped them to one-twenty-five. And I’ve been stupid enough to pay him. But what am I supposed to do? Call the cops?”

  Garvey said Reeger was coming down on Myra, but he didn’t know how bad things had gotten. The Sarge is doing more than evening a score, he’s generating a revenue stream. And I’ve got to give him credit—he’s doing it without squaring off against Lovely.

  Myra takes another belt of gin, but there’s no drink strong enough to get her out of this mess.

  “Garv doesn’t need all twenty grand,” I say. “Can’t you get some cash off Lovely, maybe five or six grand, so Garv can get out of the country?”

  Even I hear how ridiculous I sound. Lovely would dismember a penny-ante crook who crossed him for fifty cents. I remember Doolie telling me about a gambler who was into Lovely for eight grand. The poor bastard left the hospital missing his left ear and bottom lip.

  Myra answers me with a smirk.

  “I’m just trying to help Garv,” I say. “Are you forgetting how many times he saved our butts?”

  “I like Garvey as much as you do,” she says. “But the only place I can get that kind of money is off Lovely. Even if he gave it to me—which he won’t—I’d be left paying him and Reeger. I’d be dead in no time.”

  She’s right. Sooner or later she’d miss a payment to one of them, and either way, she’d make up for it with her life.

  The radio begins playing “
Every Day Away from You” and it reminds me of the gang up at the Hy-Hat, playing ping-pong, listening to the music box. It’s only been a few days since the champ was up there, but it feels like ages ago.

  Myra sits up and looks at me. “I’ll pay you instead of Reeger,” she says, her eyes brightening. “And you can get the money to Garvey, one payment at a time.”

  She shimmies out of the booth and paces the floor in a wide circle; she’s got the look of a scientist stumbling upon the secret of eternal youth. Her words pick up speed as the idea forms in her head.

  “It’s perfect,” she says. “Garvey will get the money and you can keep Reeger off my back. You’re the only one who can do it.”

  The gin is softening my senses and I want to be the guy she thinks I am. I want to step up and protect her the way Garvey did for me. But I can picture how Reeger would react if he found out I started taking the payments, and I don’t like the way the story ends.

  “I’m the wrong guy,” I tell her.

  “No you’re not,” she says. “I know you; you’ll figure something out.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Myra. There’s a reason I’ve got the door locked. We’re talking about Reeger.”

  She leans over and kisses me on the mouth, slipping her tongue between my teeth. I can smell the pomade in her hair and a tangy, perfumed sweetness coming from her bare shoulder.

  My first thought is that she needs help and will do anything to get it. My second thought is that I don’t care. I put my arm around her as our tongues dance a slow tango and I pull her closer. I see my hand against her shoulder: my skin, pale and raw, against hers, smooth and brown, radiant and soothing.

  She traces her tongue across my face and over the bridge of my nose; she breathes lightly on my scab and I feel my face flush. Her hair teases my forehead as she palms the side of my face and then drags a fingertip along the rim of my ear. I’m intoxicated by the taste of her lips, the smell of her skin, and from thinking that it’s possible she still wants me the way she did at the Hotel Theresa.

  She guides me out of the booth, leans back on the table, and pulls me on top of her. I turn away from the kitchen, away from the soiled apron that hangs there waiting for the coat checker with the tiny bald spot. Then I look into Myra’s hazel eyes and wonder if I’m really the only one who can undo the years of scorn that still haunt her.

  She used to say that we’d find peace—that we’d run away to a place where we’d be free of bullies. Maybe she was right, and maybe this is it. Maybe the Ink Well—this dark, shuttered, two-bit colored speakeasy—is our refuge. Maybe we’ve found Santa Monica.

  Or maybe she just wants someone to stand between her and Reeger.

  CHAPTER 6

  An early morning rain cooled the city streets, but now the sun is back—it’s baking the asphalt dry and pushing the temperature up over a hundred. I’m riding on Market, heading to Madame Curio’s, and the Wanamaker building towers over me.

  A radio report says the manhunt for Garvey is moving down the Susquehanna from Harrisburg to York, but some state cops are still lingering here in Philly. It’s hard to miss their blue coats, brass buttons, and bobby hats. I just passed two in front of Broad Street Station; there were four more near the Excelsior Hotel. Unless they’re planning on driving over to Filbert Street and having their palms read, they won’t be bumping into Garvey any time soon.

  It’s been two weeks since Myra and I revisited our childhood vow at the Ink Well table, and neither one of us has spoken with Garvey. We’re probably better off staying clear of him, not because of the state cops—they have no interest in Myra or me—but because of Reeger and his boys. There’s no telling how many eyes are on us.

  But the Madame called Johalis in the middle of the night, rattling on about needing to see me right away. She should have tried calling me at the Red Canary. She would have found me in the back dressing room, sharing a shaker of gin with my old classmate. She also would have found the classmate asking me to take Reeger’s payments again, and me saying no, again.

  When I reach the stoplight at Bowers, I tighten up when I see four city bulls clustered around a streetlamp. I quickly realize they’re not part of the stakeout; they’re at a crime scene. A dead man’s legs extend beyond a row of hedges; a squirrel crawls along his shin and stops to lick at his exposed ankle. The bulls are looking down at the corpse, their faces twisted in disgust. The tall, skinny one turns away—he takes off his hat, leans over a blood-splattered garbage can, and heaves his guts up. My guess is that Lovely left his signature on that corpse—only his kind of twisted sadism can prompt a reaction like that one. When the light turns green, I pull away and don’t look back.

  I continue down Market, then turn onto Filbert, a desolate, two-block stretch of abandoned shops and aborted dreams. I pull up to Madame Curio’s, a hole-in-the-wall that was a candy store before the market crashed, and park next to a gumball machine that won’t see a kid, or a gumball, as long as the Madame is running the operation.

  I check to be sure that mine is the only heart beating on Filbert. All is clear, so I kill the engine and duck under the Madame’s awning. A note on the door reads, “By Appointment Only.” There’s no sign of the Madame, so I pick the lock with a broken bobby pin I find on the floor and slip inside. The hinge squeaks so loudly I’m surprised the state bulls back on Market don’t come charging.

  The foyer is unlit, but thanks to a slice of daylight coming through a tear in one of the curtains, I can see it’s empty. I don’t blame the Madame for shutting down. If I were hiding Garvey, I’d do the same.

  My eyes shimmy as they adjust to the darkness. I know the hallway to my left leads to the Madame’s chamber—a small room furnished with little more than a folding table and a crystal ball. I’m glad the champ’s not here to see how easily my oxfords find their way across the checkered tiles.

  I’m not even at the threshold when the Madame steps out of the hallway, alone. I can barely make out the curly brown locks that spring out from under her turban or the thick lines of makeup that streak across her eyebrows and lips. I hope she’s having the same trouble seeing me. My nose is healing, but my eyes still have yellow haloes hanging underneath.

  “Snow . . . Jersey,” she says. Her voice is soft and carries the hint of an apology.

  I avoid the awkwardness.

  “I let myself in,” I say, nodding toward the door. Then I add, “Johalis said it was important.”

  “It is,” she says and walks across the foyer to double-lock the door. “Go on ahead.”

  The hallway is pitch-black, but I inch my way toward the back room and she follows two steps behind. It’s hot and grimy in here and the back window is sealed shut. I wipe the sweat from the side of my nose with my shirt cuff and hope she’s got a fan going in the back. I can’t imagine how in hell anybody could survive in here, but then I realize that Garvey is used to an eight-by-twelve-foot cell. For him, these are luxurious accommodations.

  I’m about to walk into the room when I hear a muffled cry from the other side of the door. It’s a sickening sound, like somebody struggling to breathe. Garvey? I take a step back and grab for my gun. I touch its handle but don’t get any farther. Somebody yanks my arms from behind and shoves me hard against the wall.

  “Hello, Snowball,” he says.

  It’s fucking Reeger. How the hell he tracked Garvey here I’ll never know.

  He lets go of my arm and jabs a revolver into my neck. I keep my hands at my side, useless, as I listen to the desperate whimpers coming from the other side of the door.

  Reeger reaches around my back and takes my gun from its holster. Then he pops the cylinder and dumps the bullets on the floor. The metal slugs ping on the Madame’s hard tiles and roll down the hallway, taking my hopes with them.

  “C’mon on inside,” Reeger says. “I’ll read your fortune.”

  He opens the door and pushes me, then the Madame, into the room. Before following us, he tosses my gun onto the floor
behind him.

  The Madame’s table has been pushed aside. On it a lamp burns—it’s not bright but it’s strong enough to cast a yellowish glow throughout the space.

  The source of the whimpering sits six feet in front me, smack in the center of the room. It’s Homer, strapped to a folding chair, a handkerchief wrapped around his head and under his tongue. He’s been beaten up, but he’s still managing to wail through his gag. The desperate groans coming from behind his bound tongue turn my stomach.

  The only good news is that Garvey is nowhere to be found.

  There’s a goon standing behind the table with his arms crossed. I recognize his mustache; he’s the guy from outside Ronnie’s Luncheonette. I’m guessing he’s a bull, maybe filling Connor’s shoes as Reeger’s new partner. He’s a big guy, about six-three, with a jaw as square as a lunchbox. He’s got a revolver in his shoulder holster, and I’m guessing he had it pressed against the Madame’s forehead when she dialed the phone.

  I look at the Madame and she looks to the floor. She tells me she’s sorry. “I didn’t want to do it,” she says.

  “Shut that whore mouth,” Reeger shouts and smacks his knuckles across her face.

  The Madame’s leathered skin darkens and her eyes go black.

  “Fuck you,” she says and spits in his face.

  He goes to hit her again but I grab his hand. He windmills his arm, twisting his hand from my grip.

  I clench my fists at my side.

  “Enough,” I say.

  I’m expecting the worst, but Reeger doesn’t swing, he just glares into my eyes, his nostrils flaring and the scar on his cheek turning a deep crimson. His left ear is swollen and I hope that’s where the champ’s fist landed when it broke.

  “Love your friends, do you?” Reeger says, his jaw tight.

  He’s scowling at me and I wonder what’s coming next. I find out when he walks over to Homer and raises his revolver to my friend’s left temple. Homer’s eyes go wide. He starts wailing again—he’s stomping his feet, and his cries sound like they’re coming from a caged animal.