Blind Moon Alley

by John Florio

  “Reeger’s takin’ the money for her,” he’s saying. “He’s payin’ her way at some school for the blind.”

  “I don’t buy it,” I say. “You can’t tell me that Reeger’s a decent Joe.”

  The champ shakes his head. “Maybe he’s not. But he’s takin’ care of the kid.”

  I want to tell the champ that Reeger’s up to something, but he’s going to ask me how I can be so certain. And I won’t have an answer.

  He shakes his head in frustration with me.

  “I told you not to take those payments, goddammit,” he says. “You think you’re helpin’ that gal of yours, but you’re not doin’ any such thing.”

  “She’s not my gal,” I say, but even I know that’s not the point.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Son, you’re screwin’ with the police. Bad ’nough we’re helpin’ Garvey, but now you’re takin’ Reeger’s money. You’re givin’ those boys the right to come after you.”

  “It’s not Reeger’s money,” I say.

  “It’s not yours neither!” the champ says, banging his hat against the side of his leg. He’s pacing around the room, his frustration bubbling over.

  I’m still trying to swallow the news about Louise Connor. “Is Johalis sure Reeger’s giving all the money to the kid?”

  “Aren’t you listenin’ to me?” he says. “Yes, he’s givin’ it to a blind girl. And he’s gonna come lookin’ for it.”

  I’m not sure what to say. I just mailed Calvin two hundred bucks that was supposed to be paying a blind girl’s tuition. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m starting to feel like the bad guy.

  CHAPTER 9

  It’s not even seven o’clock but the one-shot drinkers have already come and gone. You could set your watch by them. They come in at five-thirty, spend a few bucks to revive their souls, and then head home at six-thirty, recharged and ready for dinner. At eight o’clock, we’ll get wave two. They’ll be the ones I know best—the misfits, the outcasts, the forgotten. They don’t come here to avoid home. They come here to find it.

  Doolie is in the kitchen. He’s not cooking—no sane person would want to be stuck in that kitchen in this heat—but he’s carving a ham he baked early this morning. He’ll assemble a few dinner platters, which is smart. Whatever doesn’t get eaten tonight will become tomorrow’s lunch special.

  It’s Wednesday, so Angela is doing her weekly double shift. The long day has drained the bounce from her gait, but she still manages to flit over to Wallace, who’s sitting alone, reading Black No More. I’ve never heard of the book, but he’s got no more chance of waking up white than I do of strolling the beach with a suntan. He’s nursing a whiskey sour, and I feel like sending him an Aunt Roberta, just to watch him lose his composure for a while.

  For the moment, I’m not worried about Reeger stopping in for a surprise visit. I’ve got Johalis working the bar and Homer guarding the door. Homer’s not even supposed to start until eight o’clock, but the poor bastard’s so eager for another shot at Reeger that he’s been coming in early and stopping by on his off-days. Personally, I don’t find myself missing the Sarge all that much.

  The one guy who’s not here is Garvey, and frankly, if he showed up, life would get a lot simpler. I’d fill a flask with moon, drive him to the Hy-Hat, give him whatever cash we’ve got in the safe, then get him out of the country. After that, I’d start passing Myra’s envelopes on to Reeger, and Garvey would never be the wiser. But until I know my friend is across the border, I’ve got no choice but to keep taking Myra’s dough. Garvey will need that money. At least Louise Connor has schoolteachers watching over her. Garvey’s living on the street. Nobody could survive out there without any cash. If I don’t help him, he’ll wind up getting caught. And killed. And they won’t screw it up this time.

  Two newlyweds sit down at the corner of the bar. They tell me their names are Harold and Georgia Wilson and that they just got married at City Hall. They’re looking to celebrate.

  “What kind of champagne do you have?” Harold asks. He’s got rich brown skin, and when he laughs, his fleshy cheeks shake. I can see why Georgia fell for him.

  “Only one kind,” I say, “and it’s got no label.” I take a look at their worn clothes—the frayed seams on the lapel of his suit, the patched tear on the shoulder of her green dress. “Tonight, it’s on the house.”

  Harold and Georgia light up as if I told them I’d be driving them to Niagara Falls in the morning.

  I fill two flutes with our house champagne and change the radio station. I’m looking for something appropriate for a newly married couple and find “All I Want Is Just One Girl.” I turn it up and tell them it’s in honor of them. They raise their glasses and toast each other.

  We’re low on absinthe, so I open the trapdoor and walk down to the sub-basement to get a fresh bottle. I see the cases that Garvey arranged into a makeshift armchair and wonder where he is now. I hope he’s eating.

  As I’m rummaging to find the liqueur, I hear a pop upstairs. It’s a gunshot for sure. I instinctively reach for my pistol but my apron’s empty—I left my rod in the back of the cash register drawer. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I slip on my knuckles and creep up the spiral stairs. Then I crawl out of the hatch and crouch in the shadows, peeking over the bar.

  Reeger’s here and he’s packing heat. Worse yet, he’s not alone. He’s got two uniformed bulls standing behind him and both are armed—the bald guy has pulled out his service revolver; the freckly one with the scar across his ear is holding a hunter’s rifle. Everybody else in the joint—our staff and customers, the people I’m being paid to protect—are huddled in front of the booths, their hands in the air. That includes Doolie, the new Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, Johalis and Homer, and Wallace and Angela.

  This isn’t a shakedown. It’s a raid and I know the drill. The gunshot was aimed at the ceiling to get everybody’s attention. Now they’ll pile us all into a paddy wagon and take us to the precinct to book us. I’m just not sure what game Reeger is playing. If he wanted to shove me around, he didn’t need this much muscle.

  Johalis sees me in the shadows and arches an eyebrow—should I shoot?—but I give him a slow shake of the head. The champ is right; we can’t pull out a gun every time there’s trouble, especially when the roughnecks are wearing badges. Look at Garvey—he did that very thing and wound up on his way to Old Smokey. Besides, one guy can’t outblast three bulls, not when one of the bulls is holding a rifle and tickling the trigger with his index finger.

  I look back at Johalis and motion toward Homer, who’s punching his own thigh and looks as though he’s ready to go off like a Roman candle. Keep your eye on him.

  Reeger shoves Doolie against the wall; he’s asking him where he keeps the moon, where he keeps the money, and where he’s keeping Garvey. It hits me that Reeger is screwing with my friends because he thinks I care more about them than I do about myself. And he’s right. But he’s going after them with his badge and, to me, that’s fighting dirty.

  Homer can’t swallow it any more than I can.

  “Fucking Reeger scumbag,” he blurts out and pushes past Johalis.

  He charges at the Sarge but never makes it. The freckled bull slams him in the temple with the butt of his rifle and Homer drops to his knees, holding his head in his hands, spewing curses at Reeger.

  “Motherfucking badge-sucking cockhead,” Homer barks out as he holds his bruised forehead.

  “Don’t let him up, Parker,” Reeger says.

  Fuck this. I let my knucks drop into my apron pocket and pull out my cash register key. I slip it into the drawer and turn the metal as gingerly as a safecracker, trying not to make a sound. I don’t need to tell Johalis what I’m doing. He pulls his gun and points it at Parker’s head.

  I give the key a solid twist—I’m going to cover Johalis—but the damned thing jams. I try it again, but it doesn’t budge.

  Johalis looks Parker dead in the eye. “Go ahead and arrest him,” he says, his pistol an
inch from Parker’s forehead. “But you ain’t gonna beat on him.”

  The bald cop levels his revolver at Johalis and tells him to back off.

  “Go ahead and shoot,” Johalis tells him, “but if you do, I’m taking your pal Parker with me.”

  The bull keeps his gun trained on Johalis, and Johalis keeps his on Parker.

  “Let Homer get back on his feet,” Johalis says, “then we can all calm down.”

  “Let him up,” Reeger tells Parker.

  Parker looks disappointed—I guess he was looking forward to a nice, cozy bloodbath. He hands the bald bull his rifle and smacks a pair of cuffs on Homer’s wrists. As Homer gets to his feet, Parker twists the metal bracelets.

  Homer falls back to his knees in pain.

  “Scumsucking peckerhead,” he yells, spit flying out his mouth.

  Johalis thumbs his gun’s hammer and presses the barrel to Parker’s skull. “Try it again and you’ll have another eye socket.”

  Parker backs off and Homer gets up unassisted. He looks like a drunken dancer as he tries to find his balance with his hands cuffed behind his back. Once he steadies himself, he pulls back his sloped shoulders, raises his chin, and walks to the door. I’ll hand him one thing: he’s not afraid of Reeger, Parker, or their fucking paddy wagon.

  The bald cop takes Johalis’s pistol and tucks it behind his leather belt. I’m half-expecting him to belt Johalis to kingdom come, but he doesn’t. I guess bullies know enough not to beat on dogs that bite back.

  “All right, niggers,” Reeger announces. “Let’s get this straight. We know you’re hiding Garvey so you’re all going to sit in a jail cell until you tell us where he is.”

  Reeger looks toward the bar and I’m no longer in shadow.

  “Look who it is,” he said. “Garvey’s buddy, Snowball.”

  I see the fear on Angela’s face and know that I won’t be able to lie my way out of this one.

  Reeger tells the bulls to load the gang into the wagon so he can deal with the albino freak. They file everybody out the door, and as they do, I hear a woman crying—it’s either Angela or the new Mrs. Wilson. I’m glad Myra’s not here.

  The Sarge comes over to the bar, his gun at his side. I’m half-afraid the look in his eyes will burn the skin on my forehead.

  “What can I get you?” I ask him.

  He ignores the wisecrack. “I hear you’re more than a lying two-faced albino nigger freak. Now you’re a fucking banker, too. Is that right?”

  He leans his hands on the bar. If he raises the one holding the gun, I’m going for his throat.

  “Isn’t that right?” he shouts, his voice losing control and the lines on his forehead turning red. “You’re a fucking banker?”

  “What do you want from me, Reeger?” I’m trying to keep my voice calm to avoid working him into any more of a lather.

  He leans forward and shouts into my face, his spit spraying my cheeks. His breath smells of cheap booze. “I want Garvey,” he says. “And I want my two hundred dollars.”

  He’s punctuating his words by banging his gun against the top of the bar. If that metal goes off, it’s going to blast me right through the chest. He slams it on the counter again, but this time he does it as he’s walking around the bar.

  “And I want interest,” he says, now only two feet in front of me. “Your whole gang is going to stay locked up until I get Garvey, and my money, and the vig. They’ll rot in there without food, clothes, nothing. I swear I’ll cut them off, you fucking albino jigaboo freak. I scrape shit like you off my shoe every goddamned day. I’m not about to let you make a sucker out of me, you piece of lying shit fucking monster.”

  He rips at the Inquirer clipping on the wall, pulling at the tape and tearing the paper down the middle.

  “I can’t even look at this crap,” he barks. “Your fucking face makes my stomach turn.”

  The headline is shredded. My face is ripped—half of it hangs forward like a flapping tongue in need of a drink. I’d rather Reeger tear the whole thing down, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I care.

  “There’s some money in the register,” I say.

  “I’ll take it. Now.”

  I reach for the punch button, wondering if it will do a better job of opening the drawer than the key. I hit it with the butt of my hand and the drawer opens to the distinctive sound of a register bell.

  I look down and there’s the gun, the shiny .38-caliber eraser that Johalis gave me, resting in the back compartment, its trigger so easy to pull. I’m one move away from ending this whole charade. But if I do, I’ll wind up on trial for killing a cop. I’m picturing a two-seat electric chair frying Garvey and me at the same time.

  I reach into the drawer and pull out all the cash that’s in there. Forty bucks. Not bad for seven o’clock on a weeknight, but not enough to settle up with the Sarge. I shut the drawer and hand Reeger the bills. I’m tempted to ask for change but I keep my mouth shut.

  “That’s better,” he says, snickering as he pockets the cash. “Now where’s my two hundred bucks?”

  I can’t say I didn’t expect to be screwed.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” I say.

  “You’ll find more,” he says with a snide chuckle.

  I take off my apron and ball it up. “Fuck you, Reeger. Just take me in.” I dump the apron and the brass in it on the ice machine.

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do, Bleachy.”

  He pokes his piece into my spine, and as we leave, I picture Angela sitting in a jail cell, scared, sweaty, and hungry. It’s my fault she’s there; I can’t help but feel as if I gave her up to protect Myra. I’d do anything to turn back the clock, to relive the day when Angela saw me on the front page, the day she asked me to work the bar to keep her and Doolie safe. But time keeps moving and I’ve yet to figure out how to stop it.

  I put my arms over my head as Reeger shoves me toward the door. The last thing I see before he shuts the lights is my face on the front page of the Inquirer. Proud, confident, and smiling.

  And ripped in two.

  CHAPTER 10

  Reeger didn’t cart us to our local stationhouse; I guess he figured we’d greased too many local cops to stay there for long. He brought us out to his district by the docks so his fellow bulls can book us.

  The minute we got here it hit me that all of these precincts share a certain smell—a combination of perspiration, dust, and greed—and this one has got it in spades. I’m steeping in it. My shirt is plastered to the bottom of my sweaty spine, my oxfords are sticking to the floor, and my lungs are filled with that rank stationhouse air. No wonder cops spend so much time at speakeasies. They’ve got to wash these places off their souls.

  There are eight bulls manning desks in the main room; not one appears to be in any kind of hurry. I’m waiting for the old guy—his badge reads Thorndyke—to get off the phone and finish my paperwork. Behind him, two young bulls are leaning back in their desk chairs eating cheesesteaks; the others are booking barflies like me. The scene will be the same later tonight, except a wave of hookers will have replaced us rumrunners.

  I haven’t seen my friends from the Ink Well. By the time Reeger dragged me in here, they had already been arrested and fingerprinted. I can hear them calling out from the holding pen along with other prisoners—their pleas come from the hallway in the far corner of the room. They’re asking for food, water, and toilet paper. The clearest voice belongs to Johalis—it blends in about as smoothly as a baritone in a children’s choir. He’s asking for a shot of whiskey and I’m not so sure he’s joking. It wouldn’t matter if he were asking for eternal youth—not a single bull is listening. Except Thorndyke. He’s acting like he’s a tough guy, but he looks up from his typewriter every time a woman’s voice calls out from that holding pen. There’s a human being hiding under that uniform. Trust me—nobody can read a cop like a criminal.

  I’m itching to get in that cell to explain things to Angela, not to mention the n
ew Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, who broke no law other than celebrating their future. But now Thorndyke is on the phone, chatting with his wife, wondering what they’ll cook for their granddaughter tonight. I suppose the good news is that I’m no longer dealing with Reeger. The Sarge handcuffed me to a hot water pipe outside the bathroom and then left me to chase after a hijacker at the Race Street Pier. I thought I’d be stuck there all night, tied to that red-hot piece of metal, but the desk sergeant passed me on to Thorndyke. Considering how the evening started, waiting for a cop to finish his grocery list is a step up.

  Thorndyke hangs up the phone, takes off his wireframe eyeglasses, and dries the sweat off his ears with a handkerchief. Then he puts the specs back on, reaches into his bottom drawer, and pulls out two sheets of fresh carbon paper. He also takes out a framed picture of a young girl and places it on the desk next to a stained coffee mug, angled in my direction. The kid can’t be more than five. She’s got a smile that’s an inch bigger than her face, along with the unmistakable white hair and pinkish eyes of an albino. I want to tell Thorndyke she’s a cute kid, but I follow his lead and ignore the photo.

  “Name?” he says.

  I’m not surprised he’s asking. The Sarge brought me in here as if he’d just bagged Lovely, pushing me into a chair and shouting to every bull in the precinct that they could finally book that piece of albino shit, Snowball. But he never uttered my given name.

  “Jersey Leo,” I tell Thorndyke.

  He nods and pecks at his typewriter with his two index fingers, talking as he hunts for the letters. “You’re the guy who saved that albino kid, right? The one from Port Richmond?”

  “So they tell me,” I say.

  He nods. “I know who you are,” he says, his amber eyes showing no resemblance to the girl in the photo.

  When he asks my race, I tell him I’m half white and half Negro—and I brace myself for a zebra joke that never comes. Instead, he asks my occupation. It’s a tricky question and I handle it as delicately as I know how. I tell him I own the Hy-Hat in Harlem. He types in social club owner without questioning why a businessman from New York would be working the bar at a joint in Philly. I’m starting to like Thorndyke; he doesn’t run with the other bulls.