Blind Moon Alley

by John Florio

  I can’t keep lying to her, so I change the subject. “So how are the plans for school?”

  My eyes start to shimmy; I turn away from her and thumb the sweat off the side of my neck to block her view. But from the corner of my eye, I can see she’s not even looking at me—she’s gazing down at her heels and shaking her head.

  “I’m not going any time soon,” she says.

  Maybe Wallace really is out of the picture. I wish I could step in and tutor her, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I spent most of my year in college playing ping-pong at the Hy-Hat and rolling kegs on Ninth Avenue. The only thing I’ve got to offer Angela is the money in my closet, which couldn’t replace her salary for more than six months. I see the frown on her face and promise myself I’ll feed the box more regularly.

  “How about you?” she asks. “Have you ever thought about going back to college?”

  “Yep,” I say, keeping my shaking eyes trained on a rowhouse mailbox as I hand her the same lie I give my father and, once in a while, myself. “All the time.”

  I want to tell her the stone-cold truth—that Reeger’s probably tailing us right now, and that if school were in my plans I’d be attending class. But I can’t stop lying. When she hears I’m thinking of going back, she shows me one of the smiles that I thought she’d reserved only for Wallace.

  My pupils are still shaking as we turn onto Buttonwood, so now I turn my head toward the cracked sidewalk. Angela’s telling me something about the Ink Well’s cash register, but I’m not listening—I’m too busy hiding my eyes and wondering if we’ll do this again tomorrow night. I have my answer when we find Wallace waiting on Doolie’s front steps.

  “Wallace!” Angela says. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

  “I have your books,” he says. Then he turns to me. “Hi, Jersey.”

  I give him a nod, but I can’t bring myself to join the conversation. I’ve been around long enough to know that no schoolbooks have to be read at two in the morning. I’m sure Angela knows that, too. And it’s obvious she doesn’t care.

  I turn to leave and she doesn’t call me back. Instead, she says good-night to the back of my head.

  “Thanks for the company,” she says. There’s a lilt in her words that wasn’t there back on Juniper.

  “’Night,” I say and walk back up Buttonwood without turning around.

  The street is almost entirely in shadow and I welcome the dark; it’s a place where I can be alone, where the sun can’t reach me, where I can pretend I have a full set of chromosomes. I pull my fedora low on my forehead as my eyes well up with tears. I tell myself that Angela and Wallace can have each other—that she’s not for me if school and books and Wallace mean so much to her. And I try to convince myself that Myra is waiting for me, that Johalis is wrong about her, that she has all the innocence and heart that Angela has. As far as I know it might even be true. But I’m not buying it.

  I wipe my eyes as I reach Broad and Callowhill and then, shamefully, duck into Chester’s Chicken Shack. Chester’s is a taxi-dance hall, a place where Philadelphia’s loneliest misfits pony up ten cents to dance with a fallen angel. Reputable it’s not.

  I’ve been here before. I met with Chester about tending his bar but wound up working at the Ink Well. The truth is I didn’t need Doolie’s offer to walk away from this place; I refused to spend my nights working a joint as depressing as this one. I don’t miss the irony that I’m here again, paying to get inside.

  When I open the door, I’m greeted by a musclehead wearing a tuxedo. I wonder if Chester thinks the doorman’s tails will fool people into thinking the Chicken Shack has class or, for that matter, chicken.

  “One dollar,” he says, giving me the once-over. He’s obviously confused at what he sees, and I don’t blame him. Chester’s attracts just about every misfit in Philly, but not a lot of sweaty, chapped albinos with faint yellow haloes under their eyes.

  I pony up my buck and the penguin hands me three tickets: one for admission, one for a dance, and one for a beer. I’ll pass on the beer. Here, I’ll order nothing but Aunt Robertas. After the first one, I’ll forget Angela. After the second, I’ll forget me.

  I walk up the stairs. Chester’s is no bigger than my apartment and the air’s no fresher than a high school locker room. Cab Calloway is blaring through the music box, and twenty men are crammed around the dance floor, watching a middle-aged taxi-dancer grind her hips against a short, sweaty bald guy with an iron hook for a hand. She’s wearing thigh-high stockings and a corset; she looks as if she’s half-dressed for a Victorian ball. Nobody in the crowd is talking; they’re all just staring at the dancer. I guess they’re respecting her privacy.

  When I get to the bar, I order an Aunt Roberta. The tender, a big guy with a shiny face and a drooping mustache, arches a bushy eyebrow. I repeat myself and this time it’s not a question. He shrugs his shoulders, pulls the absinthe, brandy, gin, vodka, and blackberry liqueur, and mixes up a beauty. Then he slides it to me with an apologetic look on his face. I take a pull and it’s exactly what I expected—slightly nauseating but strong as a steam engine. I swear, they could use these things to power street lamps.

  The dancer turns my way while grinding away at her partner. She looks through me, high on something. She’s working hard for her tickets—she’s got a stack of them in the top elastic band of her stocking. But instead of feeling better about myself, which is why I came in, I feel worse—like I’m peeking through a bedroom window at a woman grieving over her younger self. If it were payday, I’d hand her ten bucks so she could take a break for a while. If she got lucky, she’d never come back.

  Myra’s over at the Red Canary and I can get there before last call. She’s not Angela, but it occurs to me she might be more. She’d certainly never leave me feeling as empty as I do right now. Besides, I can have her all to myself for the duration of a chilled martini—and despite what Johalis may think about her, she’s never charged me one red cent for a dance. I slug down the Roberta and give my dance ticket to a college-aged Joe wearing an eye-patch under a pair of thick specs. Then I head for the door.

  When I reach the stairs I bump into an overly made-up platinum blonde with gold hoop earrings. She’s got that Jean Harlow look, the kind you buy at the beauty parlor.

  “Got a light, sweetheart?” she asks me with a smile.

  She’s either one of Chester’s dancers or a hooker—or both. I strike a match and light her cigarette. She leans in toward the flame and puts her hand lightly on mine as she torches her smoke. She’s trying to hook me, but she might as well be selling beach oil—my mind is already out the door. I trot down the stairs and pass the musclehead. I give him the quickest of nods. I won’t be back any time soon.

  The outside air feels fresher than it did when I got here. I walk down Broad, hop in the Auburn, and head across town to the Red Canary. I don’t walk through the door until three in the morning, but when I do, the joint is still going strong.

  Myra just finished her last set of the night, so I wait for her in the bar area. I take the corner table next to the fire exit. From here, I can keep an eye on the entrance and still have an easy out. If Reeger walks in, I’ll sneak out the exit. If Garvey does, I’ll take him to Blind Moon Alley. If they both show, I’ve got trouble.

  The redhead is working again tonight. She must realize Myra will be joining me because she puts two chilled martinis on the table.

  “You’re looking a lot better,” she says with a nod toward my nose. “I can see your face now.”

  I don’t say anything because I’m not sure seeing my face is a good thing.

  She puts two cocktail napkins next to the drinks. “I guess all wounds heal in time.”

  “Not all,” I say.

  Red looks confused but drops the subject. As she hustles off to the kitchen, I spot Myra sashaying across the main room. She’s wearing a snug turquoise number that hugs her chest, clings to her hips, and leaves her calves exposed; her hair is pinned to
the side of her head and falls in loose waves over the opposite shoulder. She takes the seat across from me; her lips look soft and wet in the glow of the table lamp. The piano player launches into “Walkin’ My Baby Back Home,” and I try to forget the way ­Angela’s face lit up when she saw Wallace.

  “Where were you?” Myra asks, slipping out of her heels and sliding them to the side of her chair. “You nearly missed last call.”

  I’d rather not bring up Chester’s Chicken Shack, so I tell her I was unloading a new shipment of moon.

  She takes an envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. “Take it.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Two hundred bucks. Two payments on Garvey’s loan.”

  “I already told you I don’t want it.” I slide the envelope back to her and remember the look of doubt on Johalis’s face when I told him I trusted her.

  “Go on,” she says, putting the envelope in the middle of the table. “I’m done giving it to Reeger, so you might as well have it. Give it to Garvey.”

  “I don’t even know where the hell Garvey is.”

  “You’ll find him eventually. Take the money.”

  “Just pay Reeger,” I tell her. “It’ll keep him off everybody’s back.”

  “No it won’t. He’s all over me whether I pay him or not.”

  She sips her martini and looks at me over the rim of her glass. I can still see the hurt in her eyes, a lingering sadness hiding behind the adult bravado. Right now, she’s the only woman who’s in my corner, and all I’ve got to do to make her happy is pocket the damned money.

  “Go on,” she says. “This is what friends do. They help each other. They make each other feel good.”

  She lifts her stockinged foot under the table and plants it on my crotch. I tell her to stop, that I know what she’s doing. She doesn’t listen.

  “Don’t you want to help me?” she says, looking me in the eye and gently rocking her foot back and forth.

  I should be saying no, but I feel my legs widen to give her more room to play. She wiggles her toes and I’m happy to report that her clubfoot has healed nicely.

  The corner of her lip curls and she says, “Why don’t we talk about it some more in my dressing room?”

  My eyes shake but she doesn’t care; she keeps gazing into them as she moves her foot in quick, small circles.

  I want no part of this. If I take that money, I might as well declare war on Reeger.

  Now she’s rubbing me in long, slow strokes.

  “Sure,” I hear myself say. Then I watch as my hand slips the envelope inside my breast pocket.

  I’m about to button my jacket when Reeger’s mustached goon walks into the bar. A few seconds later, Reeger follows.

  “Looks like I’m already on the job,” I tell her, my eyes on the door.

  She’s savvy enough not to turn around. “Reeger?”

  I nod as I watch the Sarge order a pair of drinks. The tender pours him two whiskeys.

  “Raid?” she asks.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “But let’s not wait to find out.”

  When Reeger and his heavy turn away, I scoot to the fire exit.

  Myra slips her shoes back on and grabs our martinis. “Can’t leave soldiers on the battlefield,” she says and brings me the half-filled cocktails. There’s a twinkle in her eye, and for a brief moment, we’re back in Hoboken running from a pack of twelve-year-old bullies.

  We head down the fire stairs and duck out the back exit. We scramble into the Auburn and drive back to the Ink Well, finishing what’s left of our martinis. We stay off Broad and stick to deserted side streets, some of which I’ve never traveled before. When we reach Juniper and Vine, I pull the car into Blind Moon Alley and park it there, just in case Reeger is tailing us. But he’s not.

  We scoot into the safety of the Ink Well basement and take the stairs up to the bar. I turn on the radio and pour us refills. I don’t bother mixing cocktails; I just plop a cube into each glass and follow with a splash of Gordon’s. Doolie has a jar of paper umbrellas that he likes to put in highballs—he says it distracts people from the heat—so I throw one into each drink and slide one of the glasses to Myra.

  “What’s with the umbrella?” she asks me.

  “Protects me from the sun.”

  She takes her drink to a booth opposite the bar. I follow her, but I never make it to my seat. Within seconds, our lips are locked and we’re feeding the fire she started back at the Canary. This time, it catches like a gasoline bomb. I put the tablecloth on the floor and we go hot in each other’s arms, right there in front of the bar, like two kids on a beach blanket after sundown. When we finish, we lay motionless, staring at the ceiling and cooling down in the breeze coming from Doolie’s electric fan.

  As I look up at the tin sheets between the Ink Well’s beams, I’m trying to sort out my life, trying to figure out how I wound up where I’m at now—and where I’m hoping I land.

  The locals are home, Philadelphia’s sleeping, and I’m here at the Ink Well, ready to take on a crooked cop with an ax to grind. And as night slowly rolls into day, I picture Angela curled up in Wallace’s arms, her head resting peacefully on his chest, beginning the kind of life I wish I had.

  The rain patters on my parlor windows as I flip through the Inquirer. Garvey’s still the big news. Cop Killer Remains on the Loose. The newspapermen have been working overtime to find anything fresh on my friend. They’re still writing about the shooting at the Red Canary, and the shorter articles are covering his time at Eastern State. Of course, all I’m concerned about is the manhunt, which has now moved to Altoona. There, an unemployed railroad worker claims to have spotted Garvey sleeping among a pile of bricks at a construction site. I don’t believe it. Then again, I don’t not believe it, either.

  I go into the kitchen, open a beer, and make myself a sandwich. I’ve got what’s left of Doolie’s turkey, so I toss some dark meat onto a couple of slices of bread and hit it with some ketchup. It’s not fancy, but it’ll stop my stomach from growling. I take the sandwich into the parlor, set it on my desk, and put on the radio. Instead of a news report, I get a woman singing a sultry version of “Embraceable You.” I have no idea who she’s singing about, but I’m right in front of the mirror and can see it’s not me.

  I peel back the window shade and eyeball Ronnie’s. A heavyset oaf in a black bowler and gray raincoat has been sitting on the bench all morning, an obvious standout from the beggars that loiter in front of the place hoping to find some day-old bread in Ronnie’s garbage cans. The oaf has taken his hat off and walked inside; he’s now eating at the counter by the window. I guess he got hungry or wanted to duck the rain. Either way, I’m sure he’s one of Reeger’s boys. When he looks up toward my window, no doubt waiting for Garvey’s face to appear, I wave hello and blow him a kiss. And I wonder why people call me a wisenheimer.

  I’m about to take my first bite of lunch when I realize the dough Myra gave me is in my closet, sitting on top of Angela’s school fund. That’s more than eight hundred bucks combined. I’ve got to get some of that cash out of here. The smart thing would be to put Myra’s money in the Hy-Hat safe, but I’m not planning on driving to New York any time soon. I take a seat at the Underwood and hammer out a note to Calvin, telling him what to do with the cash and to expect more of these envelopes as Myra gives them to me. I stuff the note and the greenbacks into an envelope and scribble the Hy-Hat’s address on the outside. As for Angela’s shoebox, I’ve buried that in the closet, down below a stack of Ink Well menus that Doolie asked me to store up here.

  I leave the apartment to mail the letter, but not before holstering my pistol. When I shut the door, I stick a match in the doorjamb. If it’s on the floor when I return, I’m going to enter shooting.

  I take the stairs to the street and spot a better option than the mailbox. A mail truck is idling on Vine Street. I wave to the driver and he leans out the side of the truck, his face red and sweaty from the heat. W
earing that uniform must be like working in a woolen sleeping bag.

  He flinches when he sees my cheeks.

  “You’re not looking so good yourself,” I say, pointing at his red, sweaty nose before handing him the envelope. He gives me a quick, strained smile and drives off with no idea what he’s got in that envelope—or the problems that it’s caused.

  When I get back upstairs, I find my father knocking on my door, his hat in his hand. I’m sure he’s here because he refuses to enter the Ink Well—unless I’m serving dinner, in which case, I might be able to get his principles to bend.

  “Open up,” he’s shouting at the door. He’s out of breath; he must have run up the stairs.

  “I’m right here, Champ,” I say, taking out my keys. “Calm down.” I eye the doorjamb and see the matchstick is exactly where I left it.

  “I’m calm,” he says while tapping his foot a mile a minute.

  I don’t bother telling him about the envelope I just mailed. There’s no point. I’ve already let him know I’m taking Myra’s payments, and he’s already given me the speech about my neck and how far out I’m sticking it for a woman I hadn’t seen in years.

  When we get inside, I grab my sandwich and ask him if he wants half. He waves me off.

  “Johalis got some news on our friend Reeger,” he says.

  I’m going to either love or hate this conversation. Based on the news Johalis has been finding of late, I’m betting it’s the latter.

  “You remember Louise Connor?” the champ says. “The bankbook?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “What about her?”

  “Turns out she’s Connor’s daughter. Nine years old. She’s blind.”

  “Blind?” I say.

  “Yeah. Reeger’s been givin’ money to her.”

  “Hmmm,” I say. “So he’s not having an affair with her.”

  “Nothin’ like that,” he says.

  He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the crook of his elbow. When the cuff of his jacket rides up his arm, I see the cast on his hand and try to forget how it got there.