by John Florio
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me where Garvey is.” The Sarge has a crazed look about him, as if he’s itching to pull that trigger whether I answer or not. I don’t know what the Madame told him, but I can see she got Garvey out of here in one piece, somehow.
“Calm down, Reeger,” I say. Sweat is rolling down my forehead and into my eyes. I want to thumb it away but I’m afraid I’ll set Reeger off if I move an inch. “I’ve got no idea where Garvey is, and that’s the truth.”
Reeger cocks the hammer.
Homer puts his chin to his chest and whimpers. Spit rolls off the handkerchief and puddles in his lap.
“I guess Homer came here to get his palm read?” Reeger says. “Or his pole yanked?”
Reeger has no idea how right he is. Poor Homer probably did come here to pay his way through the night—just like so many other misfits in Center City—never realizing he took a tail with him.
“I’ll tell you the little I know,” I say. “But you’ve got to put the gun down.”
Reeger lets up on the hammer but keeps the gun on Homer.
“All the way down,” I say as calmly as possible.
He brings the gun down, but the goon in the corner unholsters his.
“Talk,” Reeger says, the revolver at his side.
“I know your boy Connor wanted Garvey’s payments. At least that’s what Myra Banks told me. Now Connor’s dead, so you’re taking over, collecting the payments instead.”
Reeger’s jaw goes tight and the sides of his neck turn crimson. He raises the gun to Homer’s head and my friend starts yelping through his gag again. “Start telling me what I don’t know, or I’m pulling the trigger,” he says. Then he jams the barrel against Homer’s ear and shouts at me. “Where the fuck is Garvey?”
“How the hell should I know?” I say, my voice losing the calm tone it had earlier. “He’s on the run. He didn’t check in with me when he left.”
Reeger sizes me up.
“It’s the truth,” I say. “I’ve got no idea where he is.”
I guess he believes me because he lowers his revolver. Of course, I’ve still got the issue of the armed goon in the corner.
“This isn’t the end,” Reeger says. “Garvey’s got to answer to me.”
“That’s your business,” I tell him. “But for chrissakes, let Homer breathe.”
I walk over to Homer, keeping my hands in the air where Reeger can see them. I start undoing my friend’s gag, but I have trouble working my sweaty fingers through the tight knot. After a few twists and tugs, I finally wrench the cloth out of his mouth.
Homer takes deep breaths. “Oh god oh god oh god,” he says between gulps of air.
I wipe the back of his long neck with a dry corner of the handkerchief. Then I reach for the rope around his wrists, but Reeger grabs my arm.
“That’s enough,” he says.
“Christ, Reeger. His fingers are turning blue.”
I reach for the ropes again and Reeger lets me undo them. He’s not risking anything considering he’s the one holding a gun.
Once Homer’s hands are free, my friend rubs his wrists and slowly bends his fingers to bring them back to life. Then he wipes his palms on his shirt as the Madame comes over to untie his feet.
I turn back to Reeger. “As far as I’m concerned, our business is done.”
I put out my hand but he leaves it hanging.
“We’re done when I say we’re done,” he says. He’s leaning so close to my face I can see the small blue veins on the sweaty bulb of his nose.
I walk out the door and pick up my gun, which is lying on the floor with its chamber open. I don’t have the nerve to look for the bullets, but in the dim light coming from the table lamp, I see that one round is still lodged in the cylinder. I think of Connor’s game of Russian roulette as I close the piece and wrap it safely in my palm.
“Let’s go, Homer,” I say.
My friend gets up—he’s wobbly—and shuffles toward me. But after two steps, he wheels around and jumps Reeger, grabs his wrist, and tries to take the revolver out of his hand.
The fucking simpleton.
He’s wrestling with Reeger; they’re swinging the revolver in large arcs above their heads. Reeger’s goon grabs at Homer, but I raise my gun and point it right at his temple.
“Don’t try it,” I say. “There are still a couple of shots in here.”
The goon growls and lunges at me. I pull the trigger but the chamber is empty. I take two steps back and squeeze again. This time I send a bullet into the closet door. He freezes. So does Homer, who was banging Reeger’s armed hand against the wall, and the Madame, who was biting the bottom of Reeger’s leg.
I train my empty gun on the oaf’s head and grab the revolver from his holster. I walk over to Reeger and take his, as well.
“Homer, my car’s out front. Take the keys from my pocket and meet me there. Madame, go with him.”
Homer does as he’s told and the Madame follows, a little shaky on her feet.
“I’m leaving now,” I tell Reeger as a puddle of sweat forms under the wooden handle in my palm. “Your metal will be up front.”
I back out of the room but then step back in. “And Reeger, I really don’t know where the fuck Garvey is.”
I leave again, this time backing my way all the way down the dark hallway. When I reach the foyer, I open the chambers on both police revolvers, palm the bullets, and dump the guns on the Madame’s display case. Then I trot out the door and toss the bullets into an open sewer.
The Auburn’s right where I left it. Homer’s behind the wheel and the engine’s running. I hop into the passenger seat and Homer takes off as the Madame lets out a barrage of curses behind me.
“Cocksucking bull,” she shouts as she pounds her fist on the back of my seat.
“What the hell happened?” I say. “Where’s Garvey?”
“I have no fucking idea,” she says. “He got out the window right before Reeger broke through the lock, goddamned scumsucking bull.”
She continues to blow off steam, cursing and punching, but once we turn onto North Redfield, fully out of Reeger’s shooting range, I tune her out. I roll down the window and put a scarf across the side of my face to protect it from the sun. Then I put on the radio and change the station until I find something slow enough to calm my nerves. A hot, humid wind is blowing into the car—it’s thick and stale—and nowhere in it is there a trace of my old friend Aaron Garvey.
My father’s bruises are healing and he’s starting to look like his old self again. His collar is starched and he’s wearing a brown three-piece suit, even though he had to take a razor to the lining of the jacket’s sleeve to get it past his plastered hand. He’s sitting next to Johalis; the three of us are alone at the Ink Well sharing an early steak dinner. As we eat, I’m catching them up on my run-in with Reeger at Madame Curio’s.
“Goddammit, I should’ve known it was a setup,” Johalis is saying. “I shouldn’t have let you go there alone.”
The champ puts down his fork and knife. I’m not sure if he’s too upset to eat, or if he has given up trying to cut his meat with one hand. I’d offer to help, but I know he wouldn’t let me.
I pour myself a finger of Gordon’s and tell them the rest of the story—how I had one bullet left in my gun, how I freed Homer. Then I tell them about Homer jumping Reeger.
“Dammit, sounds like Reeger was okay at that point,” Johalis says.
I nod. “I think he believed me. But after Homer went at him, I was right back where I started.”
I down my gin. It’s pretty good stuff, far better than the bathtub garbage that’s been floating around town lately. I grab the empty ice bucket, bring it to the bar, and refill it. It hits me that Homer has no idea of the trouble he’s caused. He’s back at his place in Fishtown, itching to get back here and man the door, too dull-witted to see how overmatched we are. As for the Madame, she’ll have to work the street until the heat on her shop cools down.
I bring the bucket back to the table, toss three fresh cubes into my glass and drown them in Gordon’s. Then I do the same for Johalis. I don’t pour for the champ—he’s working on a seltzer—but I give him some fresh ice anyway.
“I have no idea where Garvey went,” I say and take a slug of the fresh gin. Damn, I’m having a hard time keeping my glass full. “He could be anywhere.”
“He’s running,” the champ says, fumbling with his fork as he tries to spear a piece of steak. “He’s outmanned and outgunned.”
“And outbadged,” I say.
My father nods and munches on his food, his plump lower lip bouncing as he chews. The guy on the radio is talking about a near-riot at a milk and bread line in South Philly. Meals are hard to come by, and I’m proud I’m able to give my father the T-bone he’s eating now.
“Garvey’s not running,” Johalis says, putting his fork down and sliding his plate toward the center of the table. “He’s going after Reeger.”
I tell him I disagree, but he stands up and paces the room, talking louder and more quickly. “From what you told me, Garvey’s had it in for Reeger from the start. He won’t rest until Reeger goes down, and he knows you’re not going to do it.”
I picture the look in Garvey’s eye when he spoke about Reeger and realize Johalis is right.
“Then I’ve got to get to Garvey first,” I say. “He doesn’t stand a prayer of nailing Reeger—those bulls will shoot him on sight. I’ll give him whatever dough I’ve got and get him the hell out of the country. It’s his only shot at staying alive.”
“You might be right,” the champ says slowly. He’s weighing his words, as if I might be tricking him into breaking the law. “Keep Garvey away from Reeger. And you stay away from him, too.”
“The problem’s going to be finding Garvey,” Johalis says.
“I’ve got to try,” I say.
“How are you going to find him?” the champ asks. “Even the police can’t track him down.”
He’s right; half the state cops are looking for Garvey. But we’ve got a leg up on them.
“We know where he’s heading,” I say.
“I’m listening,” the champ says.
When I don’t answer, his eyes widen. “I just said stay away from Reeger,” he says. “You’re in no more shape to tangle with him than Garvey.”
“How else can I find Garvey if I don’t stay on Reeger?”
“Jersey’s right,” Johalis says to my father. “If he wants to help Garvey that badly, this is the way.” He takes a swig of gin as if it will make the thought of chasing Reeger easier. “We’ll stay on Reeger. Garvey’s bound to show up sooner or later. When he does, we’ll grab him and get him out of the country.”
The champ punches his good hand on the table, then leans forward and looks me in the eye. “You’re gonna get in even deeper. Son, promise me you’ll stay clear of that cop.”
“I’ll only look for Garvey,” I say.
The champ tells me I’m ducking his question, so I start to explain, again, why I have no choice, but stop when I realize he’ll say that there are always options. I let it rest. He’ll cave because it’s the only plan we have that’s worth its weight in table salt. He just needs a few days to get used to the idea. If he would drink some gin, I’d have him onboard in ten minutes.
Johalis looks at me and nods. We’re on, with or without the champ. I feel better, less confused, now that we have a plan, regardless of how questionable it may be.
A slow waltz is playing on the radio and the music and liquor wash over me. My nerves calm and my spine relaxes as my father finishes his meal. I drain the bottle of Gordon’s into my glass, same ice. Then I lean back, put a fresh shine on my tongue, and remember how Myra and I had once spoken of growing old together, how we’d have a home where our kids could play in the backyard. Then I picture Angela hiding her apron whenever Wallace walks through the front door, running to greet him before he even makes it to a table, fawning over him whenever he pulls out another one of those blasted books.
I take a healthy slug of Gordon’s and it burns my windpipe like kerosene. Sometimes I feel as empty as that bottle on the table.
The sun is cooking New York City as I turn onto 127th Street. Two spindly boys in undershirts and suspenders are tossing a ball back and forth in the middle of the street; four pigtailed girls in checkered dresses are playing jump rope. I inch around them and pull to the curb in front of the Hy-Hat. I can already see that Calvin has gotten the club back on track. The sidewalks are swept clean. The windows gleam. And the sounds of clacking billiard balls and kids’ voices spill out of the front door onto the streets of Harlem. It’s hard to believe this is the same club that Reeger lit up on the Fourth of July.
I just left the doc’s, where he told me for the thousandth time that I’m an albino. He also told me—again—that I have to keep using his cream, so I grease up my cheeks and ears before throwing a scarf around my neck and slipping on my dark glasses. A woman is walking up the block with a young girl, so I wait before getting out of the car. Kids have a hard time warming up to the likes of me—they haven’t lived long enough to understand true ugliness.
Once they pass, I grab the bottle of King’s Ransom I packed for Calvin and head over to the Hy-Hat. The joint looks the same as it did during my teen years—it’s filled with local kids eating sandwiches, dealing cards, playing chess—and I remember why I love it, why I struggle to keep it alive. I take my glasses off to get a better look at the old place and spot Calvin with Billy Walker by the dummy bag. Calvin’s holding up a pair of leather training mitts, and Billy is swinging at them as if they stole his lunch money. The teen’s dark-brown neck is soaked. His back is far more muscular than I remember—the gangly kid is finally growing into his shoulder blades. Right now, Reeger couldn’t seem farther away.
When Billy sees me, he stops swinging. “Hey, Snowball,” he says. “When you coming back to New York?”
“Soon enough,” I say. I don’t tell him the day I leave the Ink Well is the day this place goes under.
Calvin gives me a smile as he slips out of the mitts. “Hiya, Boss,” he says, smiling and exposing a row of cramped yellow teeth. The bags under his eyes are still dark, but his pupils have reclaimed the spirit the Baldwin plant had stolen from them.
“What about Mr. Leo?” Billy says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the crook of his arm. “When’s he coming back?”
Calvin’s face drops. It couldn’t be more obvious how much he likes his job—and how badly he needs it.
“I’m keeping him pretty busy in Philadelphia,” I say.
Billy’s obviously disappointed, but he doesn’t respond, he just goes back to work on the dummy bag. As he bangs away, Calvin and I walk into the back office, which also serves as an emergency guest room from time to time. His straw boater sits on the desk, so I guess he’s still hoping to find some paying work singing at a local barbershop. I promise myself I’ll carry him as long as I can.
Rose is out getting groceries, so we’re free to talk.
“Any sign of Reeger?” I ask him.
“Not a peep,” he says, shrugging. “I hope I never run into that guy. I’m worried about the kids. And Rose.”
I’d tell him Reeger wouldn’t bother any of them, but I remember how hard the bastard came down on the Madame. Instead, I give him the bag with the bottle of King’s Ransom and watch his mood pick back up.
“Your pay’s in there, too,” I tell him.
He pulls the envelope out of the bag and I can tell he feels like a charity case. “I’ll find work soon,” he says, his eyes averting mine.
“I hope you don’t,” I say. “I need you here.”
His chin lifts and I hope it stays there.
I’ve got the Hy-Hat’s rent money with me, so I open the club’s safe and put the cash on a dwindling stack of dough we keep there for emergencies. I see Calvin’s got a gun in there, too. He needs it to protect the kids, but I wonder
if he’d have the moxie to pull the trigger should the heat come down.
“Okay, Calvin,” I say, closing the safe. “All looks good.”
I’m about to leave the office when he calls me back.
“Hey, Jersey,” he says. Then he lowers his voice and asks me, “Have you heard from Garvey?”
I’m glad I don’t have to lie. “Nope,” I say. “But I hope he’s still alive.”
Calvin nods. “Me, too. I’ll bet he didn’t do nothing to that cop.”
“You might be right,” I say.
As I walk out through the game room, I take a good look around. All of these young kids are making friendships that will last a lifetime. I wonder if one of them will wind up hunting down his buddy to get him out of the country and save him from the electric chair.
CHAPTER 7
It’s two-thirty in the morning and I’ve got the Auburn idling on South Philip. Maple trees line the block and a lone streetlamp lights a short stretch of sidewalk.
I’m watching Reeger’s house with the champ and Johalis; we’re convinced Garvey is going to show up tonight. Myra called me an hour ago—she told me Garvey had tracked her down at the Canary, that he’d been hiding in the alleyway hoping she’d give him some cash. She gave him all she had—twenty bucks—but warned him that Reeger was inside the joint, half in the bag and throwing his weight around.
“All Garvey kept asking me was what time Reeger would be leaving,” she said, her voice unsteady after seeing what had become of our old friend.
I told her not to worry, that Garvey wouldn’t do anything stupid. But the second after I hung up the phone, I dialed Johalis. My hunch was that Garvey would head straight here to wait for the Sarge, gun in hand. Johalis had the same hunch.
I’m looking at the two-story brick rowhouse and trying to think like Garvey. Aside from crawling through a window, the only way to get into the place is through the front door. I’ll bet that Reeger, being a cop, has a deadbolt on it. And I’ll double-down that Garvey—being a death row inmate who broke out of Eastern State—found a way around it.