by John Florio
“Be sure to give my regards to Gazzara,” I tell him, not sure why I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“Don’t worry about it, I will,” he says without turning around. He walks out into the blustery cold, leaving the door open for Diego to close.
“I don’t like the look of that guy,” Diego says as he shuts the door. “I’m sure he was packing heat but I let him slide like you told me to.”
“It’s okay, he’s gone now.”
Diego nods, but I can see he’s still worried. I scoot to the back room because I don’t want him to see that my hands are shaking.
Santi’s back behind the bar, spiking steins of beer for three out-of-work locals who are cursing Hoover for ruining the country. I walk over and tell them that the next round is on the house. We’re in the red, but I won’t take anybody’s last pennies.
My nerves are still hopping from the run-in with Gazzara’s messenger so I grab an open bottle of bourbon and walk to the end of the bar. Taking the corner stool, I pour myself a double shot and down it. Then I put my empty glass on the bar and wait for my throat to cool.
Santi walks over and joins me. “I don’t know what that guy wanted, but he likes the holidays.”
He hands me a business card that he lifted from the hood’s pocket. It reads Christmas Tree Farm at Princeton and has a drawing of a tree next to a slogan: Holiday Cheer Year ‘Round. It’s missing a name and phone number.
I pocket the card with a fairly good idea of where I’ll be going in the morning.
It’s not quite eleven o’clock and I’ve already been in the Auburn with Santi for hours. We’re on Route 27, almost in Princeton, and he’s behind the wheel. It’s always tough for me to be inconspicuous, but it’s even harder today. Gales of icy wind whipped across 125th Street as if they needed to be back at the North Pole by noon. The cold stung like the dickens and I’m sure my cheeks look as though I tried warming them on a clothes iron.
I put on my fedora and wrap my scarf around my face.
“Santi, can you tell I’m albino?”
“You’re something alright, but I have no idea what the hell it is.” He pulls a blade out of his boot and hands it to me. “Take this, you might need it.”
I toss it on the seat. “I’m fine without it.” I’ve already got my revolver tucked into my waistband and my knucks in the pocket of my overcoat. I’m out of hands.
“You sure you don’t want me to go in?” he says. “You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“You can’t go in,” I tell him for the third time. “You don’t know what Gazzara looks like.”
“You told me he’s got a scar on his ear and two different colored eyes. Not exactly a tree in a forest.”
He’s right, but I can’t let him do my dirty work. As far as I know, Hector is sitting in there, waiting by the door, licking his chops.
I’ve got a plan and it’s not all that elaborate. I’m going into the farm to see if I can spot Gazzara. If I do, I’ll push him to buy back the moon. If he gives me a hard time, I’ll tell him the message is coming from Jimmy McCullough. I just don’t want his boys to spot me first because if he finds out I’m here he’ll slip out the back. At least that’s what I’d do if I had double-crossed a walking blister and he showed up looking for me.
Santi guides the car around a bend and we cruise alongside a tree farm to our right. A voice on the radio says that athletes keep fit by smoking Lucky Strikes and I wish I’d been indulging more often.
A store looms ahead, about fifty yards off the right shoulder of the road, and Santi slows down. The place isn’t nearly as scary as I’d pictured it. It’s a boxy cedar shack with a pair of sliding garage doors serving as an entrance. Two steps lead to a square wooden landing in front of the doors. On either side is a window that lets out a soft glow from inside. The parking area in front is nothing more than hard, frozen dirt that’s been cleared for cars. A burly man in a black ski cap and woolen dock jacket is helping a young kid lift a Christmas tree onto the roof of a Plymouth parked in front of the landing. He’s probably the boy’s father. If he is, he’s giving the kid something I haven’t had since I started at the Pour House: a family on Christmas.
Santi steers the Auburn off the highway, between two utility poles, and onto the unpaved parking lot. The car jostles from side to side as it rolls into the spot next to the Plymouth; the sound of crunching gravel and dirt comes from under our tires as we pull to a stop.
“I’m going in,” Santi says, yanking the brake handle. “Two bucks says I find Gazzara.”
The little bullshitter is out the door in a flash. He takes the two wooden steps onto the rickety landing in a single jump and disappears into the place, sliding the doors shut behind him.
I get out of the car, light up a smoke, and take a deep drag. My heavy gray flannel pants and chesterfield are keeping me warm, but the cold air is biting into the exposed skin on my face and hands as if it’s got teeth. The guy in the ski cap has the tree hoisted onto the Plymouth and he’s tying it to the car with fat twine. The boy looks up at me; he’s got some frozen crust under his nose but doesn’t care.
He smiles at me and says, “Merry Christmas.”
I grin and say the same, wondering if his father knows how good they’ve got it right now.
The bright sunshine makes my eyes feel as though the Feds are holding a lamp to them, so I tug my fedora down to the middle of my forehead. The doc keeps telling me to wear sunglasses, but the damned things make it even harder to see.
I throw down my cigarette, crush it under my oxford, and head inside. I walk into an open, rectangular space that has a cashier’s counter in the back right corner and roped trees displayed in bunches throughout the store. Three lights hang from overhead and I’m grateful that they’re not especially bright. There’s a half-dozen customers in the place; each will surely leave with a tree being that it’s already the fifteenth of December. They’re buzzing about—looking at trees, wreaths, and bushels of holly—and are providing me with a small measure of cover. I spot Santi at the back of the store; he seems to be asking a worker about a tree that can’t be more than four feet tall. Above him, a smiling cardboard Santa holds up a White Rock ginger ale. It’s starting to curl at the edges.
I walk over to a rack of wreaths and stand behind Santi. I keep my fire engine of a face turned toward the wall as I listen to his conversation.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” he’s saying.
“It ain’t mine, but thanks.”
“Ain’t yours? Who owns it?”
“My boss,” the worker says.
Santi’s doing okay without me so I do some investigating of my own, lobster-face and all. There are only two staffers in the place. I head to the one manning the till. Between me and Santi, we’ve got the place covered.
“Excuse me,” I say.
The cashier looks up from the till but doesn’t seem concerned that my face is the color of the cardboard Santa’s leggings. He’s wearing a nametag that says his name is Frank. His look is easy to forget—medium height, not too heavy, brown hair—but his long, yellowing teeth seem one size too big for his lips.
“What can I do for you?” he says.
“I could use a Christmas tree,” I tell him. “But I also need to see the owner. Is he around?”
“I run the place,” he says.
I don’t want to rile him like I did the tender in Philly so I make a point of using my friendliest tone. “Actually, Frank, I’m more interested in a stiff drink than I am in a Christmas tree.”
“Thirsty, are you?” His unshaven face breaks into a smile and he flashes those king-sized ivories at me.
“More than thirsty,” I say. “I’m parched.”
My eyes start shimmying again and Frank avoids them, choosing instead to look over my shoulder.
I lean toward him and lower my voice to a whisper. “I’d love to get my hands on some sugar pop moon, if that’s possible.”
His smile evapor
ates. “Who told you to come here?”
“A gentleman in New York gave me this card,” I say, showing it to him as if it’s some kind of free pass. I hope he doesn’t ask for the guy’s name.
“Yeah, well, we sell Christmas trees,” Frank says. “I don’t know anything about any sugar pop moon.”
I can’t say I expected a different answer. I feel like everybody has a sugar pop membership but me—and it’s really getting my goat.
Santi walks up next to me. “Find anything?”
“Frank here was just helping me pick something out,” I tell him.
Frank looks at me and then at Santi. He’s gotten that we don’t want a tree, but he can’t seem to figure out why we’re so desperate for a shot of moon.
He makes a show of examining some trussed trees marked Blue Spruce. Then he asks me, “Do you like these?” He says it loud enough for those around us to hear.
He keeps talking, so we must be getting somewhere, but I’m too jittery to waste more time. If I weren’t so afraid the store was crawling with hoods, I’d drive my fist into his kidney and force him to tell us where we can find Gazzara.
“I’m looking for a tree that’s away from these people,” I say.
I can tell he’s as jumpy as I am but he’s seasoned enough to keep it under wraps. In his world I could mean big business.
Santi points his chin toward a pair of double doors behind the till.
“Maybe back there,” he says, letting his coat drape open to show Frank he’s not armed. If Frank knew the kid, he wouldn’t be surprised. Santi rarely carries a gun—just holding one turns his knees to jelly.
Frank shakes his head; he’s not bringing us by the till. He motions toward the front door, probably figuring it’s safer to talk outside. He’ll soon wish he could rethink that decision.
He walks out of the shop and we trail him into the blustery outdoors. My face feels like a corn fritter sizzling in a frying pan, but I’m too caught up in finding Gazzara to care.
The parking area is clear, the cars are gone, and our breath is turning to smoke in the frigid air. The father and son must be at home, setting up their tree, having a swell Christmas. I, on the other hand, am standing on the side of a highway trying to get a yellow-toothed tree salesman to finger the bootlegger who sold me a truckload of bogus sugar pop moon. From where I stand, the father and the son have got it made.
“What’s your deal?” Frank asks me.
“What’s yours?” Santi asks.
“I work here, remember?” Frank says, taking a step toward Santi.
I put my hand against Frank’s chest. “Lay off.”
When he stops dead in his tracks I wonder just how scary I look.
“My deal is I want to find some sugar pop moon,” I say.
“That’s a pretty specific drink.”
“I’ve got a pretty specific thirst.”
We’re not that far from the highway, and cars are whipping past us. Each time one passes a gust of dirt sandblasts my face.
“Like I already told you,” Frank says. “You’re in the wrong place.”
“And like I told you, I don’t believe you,” I say. I reach into my coat pocket and slip on my brass knuckles. I don’t want to use them but I will, especially now that we’re standing outside the shop, alone.
“But you know what sugar pop moon is, don’t you?” Santi says.
“Never heard of it.”
“So how do I get a drink?” I ask him.
“You get in your car and drive somewhere that’ll serve you. And good luck. They don’t serve your kind around here.”
“And what is my kind?” I ask him, feeling my anger race from my gut to my fists.
“Fuck if I know,” Frank says. “You ain’t normal, that’s for damned sure.”
I reach out, grab him by his lapels with both hands—the right one wrapped in raw brass—and push him into a telephone pole. I press my hands against his throat and he claws at them to get some air. His eyes are bulging, so I back off his neck and slide my hands down against his chest, keeping him pinned against the pole.
He’s croaking as he sucks for air. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he chokes out. “Or who you’re doing it to?”
I’m too riled to think about the answer. “Santi, open the door,” I say.
Santi heads for the store.
“The car door,” I tell him. I can feel myself coming unhinged.
Santi rushes over to the Auburn and opens the passenger door and I shove Frank away from the pole. I can’t move him more than a few yards because his feet are pressed against the ground and his knees are locked.
“Where are you taking me?” he asks me, still coughing.
It’s an excellent question and I have no answer. I throw him back up against the pole.
“Sing,” I tell him.
“About what?” he asks.
“Denny Gazzara.”
“Never heard of him,” he says.
I need answers and my only hope is that Frank has them. I pin him to the post by pressing my left forearm against his chest. Then I hold my right fist to his face so he can get a close look at the dull, molded brass decorating the base of my fingers.
“You’re gonna miss those choppers,” I tell him, my jaw tight.
Santi comes up beside me. He’s got his hands in his pockets and he’s nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Jersey, this is irreparable,” he says, his voice charged with panic. “You’ve done some messed-up things, but this is unforeseen and irreparable.”
Frank’s not saying anything—he’s clutching my left forearm, which is pushing against his Adam’s apple. He can’t move my arm because I’ve got the leverage and I’m leaning all my weight into him. His eyes are fixated on the brass wrapping my right fist, which is poised in the air next to his left temple.
“Santi, lay a towel down and cover the back seat.”
Frank’s eyes widen even more.
“Where’s Gazzara?” I ask again.
“You’re that albino freak,” he says, his words clipped by the pressure of my arm. “The one from Philly. They said you were white, not red.”
“It’s the wind,” I tell him, as if he cares about my condition.
“We don’t have a towel,” Santi says.
“Then find one,” I yell, surprised at the manic sound of my own voice. Desperation is driving me and, at this point, even I don’t know how far I’ll go.
“Where the hell am I going to find a towel?” Santi asks me. “Look where we are.”
“Go into the shop and get one of the blankets from under the trees,” I say. “I’ll be damned if this cat-got-my-tongue peon is going to bloody up my seats.”
Santi runs off and Frank is still gasping for air. He’s turning red and I get some satisfaction seeing that his face looks no better than mine.
His eyes bulge like golf balls and this time I don’t back off.
“He’s out back,” he manages to choke out through his gritted donkey teeth.
“What?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I heard correctly. I pull back just enough to give him some air.
“Gazzara, he’s out back in the woodshed,” he says. “He’s making moon. But you’re a dead man if you go back there. And I’m a deader one for telling you.”
I take my hands off him and smile. Then I extend my hand—the knuckles still on it—for a shake.
“I won’t say a word,” I say.
Frank is staring at me like I’m Nosferatu. The poor bastard’s got to be spooked for sure.
“Really, pal, you’re fine,” I tell him. “I’m a clam.”
Santi comes running out of the shop with a blanket.
“Dump it, Santi. We’re going out to the woodshed. Frank’s going to get us some sugar pop moon.”
Santi smiles and tosses the blanket onto the landing in front of the store. I’m sure he’s relieved that we’re not going to lay into Frank, but he probably ha
sn’t considered what we’ll have to do to Gazzara if he doesn’t cough up our cash.
I’m on Frank as he leads us around a stack of bundled trees to the back of the store then takes us down a frozen dirt path that winds between two rows of Christmas trees. We walk the green corridor, which is covered with pine needles. The stiff iced branches scratch at our arms and faces. We don’t go more than thirty feet before I start feeling lost, so I slip the brass back into my overcoat and pull out my revolver. I press its short barrel between Frank’s shoulder blades.
“I know you’re packing, you don’t have to jab me with it,” he says. I pull it an inch away but keep it trained on his back.
After we’ve gone about a hundred yards, Frank points to a cabin partially hidden among a random collection of lush ten-foot tall Christmas trees. The place looks like it’s made of logs; it’s the type of cabin I imagine Abe Lincoln grew up in, except this one is bigger. It’s two stories high and seems deep enough to house a few small rooms—or one large still—in the back. The front door is painted black and there’s a plume of smoke coming from a brick chimney on the roof. I can’t help but give Gazzara credit. It’s a nice cover.
I motion for Santi to check behind the cabin. I’m not the smoothest operator, but even I know that distilleries have escape hatches.
As Santi heads around the place his footsteps fade out of earshot.
“Knock,” I tell Frank.
Frank walks to the door but it swings open before he raises his knuckles. A bald guy jumps out—he must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, and he’s got a machine gun pointed right at me. He’s wearing a suit and a dark red bowtie; his head doesn’t have a hair on it and his neatly trimmed Vandyke is waxed into place. He’s got the type of face you’d expect to see on a tin of shaving soap.
“You don’t have to kn-knock, Snowball, we’ve been expecting y-y-you,” he says.
I don’t know if I’m more thrown by his stutter or by the fact that he knew I was coming.
Frank sees that I’m confused and laughs out loud, his yellowed teeth looking as if they’re about to leap off his gums.
“Surprise,” he says.