Sugar Pop Moon

by John Florio

  In a different place, Dorothy would have told that editor what she thought of his use of the Lord’s name, but she skipped the lecture and focused on Wilkins, who stood with his mouth slightly open and his eyes sparkling like a fireworks show. He said nothing but his mind was clearly alive with possibilities.

  Dorothy walked to the door. “I hope you do what’s right and stop smearing good people.”

  “I may be a rookie but I’m no dummy,” he said. “If your story’s on the level, I’ll be on it. The name Walter Wilkins comes with a seal of honesty. That’s my pledge to my readers.”

  “Given your age, I hardly think such a pronouncement is justified,” Dorothy said, tossing the end of her shawl over her shoulder and walking out.

  Dorothy had no idea what to expect from a kid like Wilkins, but he certainly had plenty of zeal. If he had half the mettle he claimed, he would go after the crooks and wind up keeping her father off Ernie’s back—which was more than she’d be able to do. It wouldn’t be easy, though. Wilkins would have to figure out a way to get close to her father. And one thing was for sure: Edward Albright didn’t take kindly to snoops.

  I take another belt of sugar pop moon and Denny Gazzara waits for my reaction.

  “It’s the same stuff,” I tell him.

  I’m at the table in Gazzara’s cabin. Santi is across from me, nervously glancing to his left at Freddy, who’s got a pistol trained on his ear. Gazzara is sitting in an armchair at the head of the table, pointing a machine gun at me as I recount the events of the last week. Frank is standing behind me; I can’t see him but I don’t have to. A cold steel muzzle is pressing against the back of my head.

  “I’ve got eighty cases of it,” I tell Gazzara. Then I think about it. “Actually, I’ve got ten cases. And seventy cases of coffin varnish.”

  Gazzara stares up at the ceiling as if my story is chiseled into the raw wooden beams overhead. “So you’re t-t-telling me some crazy goon with a scar on his ear says he’s m-m-me, lets you taste some moon—this moon—and then pulls the b-bait and switch.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  Gazzara looks at Freddy and smirks.

  “Why would I lie?” I add.

  “Because we’ve got a gun p-p-pointing at your boy’s thick skull.”

  “And I’ve got one aimed between your ears,” Frank adds.

  Gazzara looks at me and waits to hear more.

  “What I mean is why would I mess with you if I didn’t think you double-crossed me? I wouldn’t have a lot to gain, would I?”

  A gun goes off behind my head and I nearly jump out of my bleached skin. My ears ring as a few splinters flutter down from the ceiling and I realize Frank has sent a bullet into the roof. He’s so damned close to my head that had he shot me I’d have been dead before I heard the blast.

  Santi is staring at Frank, his eyes wide.

  “Put that away,” Gazzara tells Frank. “You scared the b-bejesus out of me.”

  “And me,” I add. I still hear a tinny whine from the gunshot and I shake my head, as if a whistle might dislodge and come flying out of my ear.

  “Sorry, Whitey,” Frank says, chuckling.

  I think of Pearl sitting at my funeral—not that she’d show up—dressed in black and weeping. If I live through this standoff with Gazzara I’ve got to see the doc and find out the odds that my kid would be a bleached Oreo like me. It won’t matter to Pearl, but the thought of telling her that our children would be normal, garden-variety Negroes makes it worth walking out of here alive.

  “Here’s a question,” I say to Gazzara. “Do you know a Spanish Joe named Hector? He likes to swing a cleaver and he pals around with a little guy with a mustache.”

  “Hector with a c-cleaver?” he asks, laughing.

  To me, it doesn’t sound any nuttier than a stuttering bootlegger holed up at a Christmas tree farm, but that would be lost on him.

  I try a different route. “And you’re sure you don’t know the grifter with one green eye and a scar on his ear?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Gazzara says. “I know who s-sold you the moon. At least, I think I do.”

  At this, Santi perks up. “Well, who the hell is he? Jersey needs to get his money.”

  “His money is the least of the p-p-problems, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What’s your beef?” I ask him. “So you lost a few bottles of moon.”

  He slams his palms on the tabletop. “My beef, you red-faced jigaboo freak, is that I don’t like people ripping m-m-me off.”

  He’s in a lather and every time he gets caught on a word, his eyes bulge.

  “I don’t like them selling my m-m-moon. I don’t like being asked questions. And I d-don’t like having to d-d-defend myself to McCullough. He’s an honest businessman, like me. Now I’ve got to t-t-tell him that even though his bony, b-b-bug-eyed, zebra-nigger-lackey-coon got ripped off buying a truckload of bogus hooch, it wasn’t m-m-me who did it.”

  I’m so angry, I don’t even think. I whirl around and grab the revolver in Frank’s hand. It goes off as I wrestle for it, shooting across the room and popping two bottles of shine. I’m trying to stand up but Frank is beating on my head with his free fist. I yank his wrist and take back my gun, then keep him at arm’s length by training the pistol at his chest.

  I’m ready to shoot Freddy before he plugs Santi, but the kid is already grappling with him. He’s clutching Freddy’s wrists, trying to get at the gun, but he slips and lands with his back on the bench. Freddy puts one hand around Santi’s throat and, with the other, aims his pistol at Santi’s forehead.

  I get out from behind the table and look over at Gazzara, who is aiming his machine gun at me.

  “You really are a f-f-fucking idiot,” he says.

  “No, I’m really not,” I say.

  I pull Frank closer and shove the revolver up under his jaw so hard he must feel its barrel pushing against his tongue.

  Gazzara shrugs. “So what are you gonna do now? Do you ever use that thing or do you just w-w-wave it around?”

  I guess that’s the difference between me and a gangster. Gangsters pull triggers.

  “I won’t use it as long as I can walk out of here with Santi and know I’m square with you.”

  “We’re f-f-fine,” Gazzara says.

  “I’ll take you at your word, even though you’ve got that Tommy gun on me.”

  He chuckles and rests the machine gun on the table. When he pulls his hands away and shows me his palms, Frank’s eyes dart to me.

  “Relax, F-Frank,” Gazzara says. “The man just said he’s not going to kill you.”

  Now he’s calling me a man. A second ago, I was a zebra-nigger-lackey-coon. Amazing how effective a pistol to the jawbone can be, even when you admit you’re not going to use it.

  “Now, back your boy off Santi,” I say.

  “Freddy,” he says to the hood. “Let the kid get up but stay on him.”

  “Take the gun off of him,” I say. Frank’s wriggling under my arm, but I’ve got his neck pinned under my elbow.

  Gazzara shakes his head. “The rod stays. You plug Frank and the k-kid goes down.”

  Santi gets up and wipes his shirt clean, as if he’s got an appointment later on and needs to be presentable.

  “I want the name of the grifter who sold us the piss,” I say.

  Gazzara shrugs. “Fine. His name’s Joseph Gazzara,” he says. “But if you go after him, I’ll kill you.”

  “His name’s Gazzara?”

  “He’s my pain in the n-n-nuts brother. Last I heard he was jacking sugar from Cuba, but I guess he’s back. I mean it, though. You press too hard, I’ll k-k-kill you. He’s a troublemaker, but he’s still my b-brother.”

  “I’m going after him,” I say, “but only to get my money back, no more, no less. Fair enough?”

  Gazzara nods. “You’re still alive,” he says, “so it must be fair.” He’s got nerve, considering I’m the one with the weapon. />
  Frank pulls on my elbow, he needs more air. I loosen my grip a bit, but not enough for him to get any leverage. I’ve already learned not to trust the little prick.

  “Another thing,” I say. “Get Hector off my back.”

  “You mean the guy with the c-cleaver? That’s some funny shit. I wouldn’t help you if I could, but as it t-turns out, I can’t. I’ve got no idea who the f-f-fuck that is.” He palms his bald head and then rubs the back of his left ear.

  “You’re sure he’s not another relative?” I ask.

  “Why would I lie? You think I’m sc-scared because you’ve got a rod on my boy? I’ll rub you out right now. I just don’t w-want to make these guys d-dig your grave in this weather. The dirt is f-f-frozen solid.”

  I know he’s telling the truth and I think about putting the gun on the table. I don’t—I keep it clutched in my right hand. Part of me is itching to put a bullet into Frank’s sinuses, but if I did, Santi would be leaving in a trashcan.

  “I have to ask one favor,” I say. “Keep this quiet. I’ve got to settle up with your brother before Jimmy gets back. I fucked up and I need to straighten things out.”

  “Too late for th-that,” Gazzara says. “McCullough already knows. His boys are asking around about me. And he’s looking for you, too, I hear. Now drop the metal or you’ll b-be eating it for dinner.”

  “Baloney. Jimmy’s not due back until the day after tomorrow.”

  “I said p-put the rod down.”

  I hate to do what he tells me. The gun is all the leverage I’ve got, but I’m a dead man if I don’t drop it. He may not take me now, but he’ll find me eventually, and I’ve got enough to worry about. I let go of Frank and put the pistol on the table. Frank takes a couple of steps away, clearing his throat.

  Gazzara nods his approval. “I don’t know when he was d-due back, but I assure you, he’s in Hell’s Kitchen right now. And he’s not happy. Of course, I’ll straighten out my part.” Then he smiles at me, his round face beaming above his stiff bowtie, and gives me a look that says, but you’re a goner.

  “C’mon, Santi,” I say.

  Santi walks up behind me and we head for the door.

  I stop and tell Gazzara, “Sorry if I fucked you over with Jimmy.”

  “I’m not s-scared of Jimmy f-f-fucking McCullough,” he says. “And if he p-presses my brother too hard, I’ll prove it. You can t-tell him I said that.”

  “He’s not going after your brother and you know it. He’s coming after me. When he does, I’ll give him your message.” I don’t bother mentioning that Jimmy may not give me a chance to speak before he guns me down.

  Santi and I step outside, but I pop back into the cabin, walk over to the wooden table and grab the half-filled bottle of moon.

  If I’m going to be ducking Jimmy while I hunt for Joseph Gazzara and Hector Cleaver, I’ll need something to make my balls bigger.

  Doc Anders leans in and shines his tiny flashlight at my cheeks, which are still smarting from yesterday’s bout with the Princeton wind. I’m leaning back on the black leather couch in his private office, avoiding the glare of the overhead light by staring over his shoulder at the gold striped curtains. The doc has made it clear he’d rather look me over in the exam room across the hall, but we’ve been friends since I started hosting his late-night poker games at the Pour House, and as far as I’m concerned, that gives me the right to be examined in his office.

  I feel more civilized here. The smell of musty old textbooks reminds me he’s smart. Five diplomas hang in polished frames on the wall behind his mahogany desk—the large one is from Long Island College Hospital and proclaims him a Medicinae Doctor. When we’re in the exam room, the odor of rubbing alcohol makes me feel like a specimen—a freak of nature—especially when one of his young clear-skinned nurses is standing next to me, taking notes as the doc ticks off his various diagnoses. He’s not calling out any terminology now, he’s just looking, but by the time we wrap it up, he’ll have spouted a few doozies that are nothing but fancy medical terms for zebra-nigger-lackey-coon.

  If you met the doc at the Pour House, you probably wouldn’t trust him to find his house keys. He’s got kinky white hair that’s greased on the sides but sticks up on the top, a long face with a narrow nose that holds a pair of brown horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and he mutters to himself when he’s deep in thought. But he knows his stuff.

  He pulls down the lower lid of my right eye and tilts my head toward the light.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Doc.”

  I’m not here for a checkup; I know I’m an albino. I’m here to get the lowdown on my genetic future. I need something new to tell Pearl.

  “Hold on, Snowball,” he says.

  I’ve told him to call me Jersey, but I let it slide. He’s heard me called Snowball too many times to think of me by any other name.

  He clucks his tongue twice, mutters something under his breath, and scampers out of the room. I’m not sure what he’s found, but my money says it’s got something to do with a lack of pigment.

  He comes back in and hands me a tube of cream. “Twice a day on your face until the redness goes away.”

  “Swell,” I say. Then I get back to the reason I came. “Doc, if Pearl and I had kids, what are the odds they’d look like me?”

  He straightens up and looks me in the eye, taking inventory of what he finds there: a nagging love for Pearl, along with a pressing need for a clean bill of sperm-health.

  “I thought you two finished before you got started,” he says.

  I’m not sure if he’s answering my question or asking me another. It doesn’t matter because there’s no point in bullshitting him. The doc knows everything about Pearl, as does anybody who sits in front of me at the bar for longer than fifteen minutes.

  “Just answer my question,” I say.

  “Albinism takes on many forms. Even if you were to have an albino child, he or she may have very few symptoms.” He stops for a moment; he’s looking for a way to explain a scientific mystery in plain language. “There’s no knowing,” he finally says, and leaves it at that.

  “I need something better than that, Doc,” I tell him. “I need something new.”

  “It’s not likely that your child would be an albino. In order for that to happen, both parents would need to be carriers.”

  I think of my own parents, the two random carriers that created me. The champ doesn’t like to talk about my mother, but he’s told me enough to fill in the blanks. She broke off from her family when she met my father, then cut out on him right after I was born. She didn’t leave anything behind, not even a clue to my bloodline. The champ knows his own grandmother was an albino, but he’s never laid eyes on my mother’s parents. He doesn’t even know their names.

  I think of Pearl and a smile cracks my chapped lips. “But Pearl’s not a carrier, right?”

  “Probably not,” he says. “But she could be. Anybody could. Albinism is recessive. If Pearl’s great-great-great-grandmother was albino, then it’s possible your child would inherit the condition. Not from you, but from you and Pearl.”

  He looks at me and I think I spot pity in his eyes, but maybe I’m as oversensitive as my skin.

  “It’s unlikely, Snowball,” he says. “I’d bet the house that Pearl’s not a carrier.”

  It’s hard for me to feel good with that answer because I’ve seen the doc bet the house—and lose—about three times a week for the past two years.

  My eyes start shimmying again.

  “Your eyes are still giving you trouble,” he says. It wasn’t a question, so I don’t give an answer. “I’ll give you drops, but they won’t help unless you stay out of the sun and away from bright lights. Have you been wearing your sunglasses?”

  “All the time,” I tell him, even though he probably knows I’m lying. Then I get back to Pearl. “So I should just walk away?”

  He sighs and leans against the side of his desk. “Snowball, uh, Jersey, this isn’t a me
dical issue. Do you want me to answer as your doctor or your friend?”

  “Both.”

  “As your doctor, I’m telling you that in all likelihood your children will be fine. But as a friend, I think you’re beating a dead horse. There’s nothing you can say that will win Pearl over. Walk away.”

  But I’m not ready to move on. “Can you change the way I look?” I ask. Rumor has it the doc helped a few of his friends run from the law by altering their faces. And I happen to know the rumor is true.

  “I can put you in touch with someone,” he says. “But there’s only so much he can do. Change your hair, maybe. Fix in here.” He drags his finger along a tender patch in front of my earlobe. “But it won’t rid you of the albinism.”

  I walk to his bookcase and look into the mirror he keeps next to a photo of his infant son. My cheeks are a random pattern of pink and red blotches. I spent one day in the wind and came out of it a chapped checkerboard.

  “We’re keeping up with it, Snowball.” Then he mutters, “Almost.”

  I want to pound my face with his desk lamp until he tells me I’m normal, but I know he won’t lie to me. I gather up my jacket and hat and leave his office feeling the way I did when I got here: alone.

  Walking home from the subway, I pass the tailor shops, delicatessens, and pawnshops on 125th Street. They’re all empty; nobody in Harlem has a nickel. Usually I make my way down Seventh Avenue but today I turn on Lenox. I’m happy to avoid the Salvation Army Santas—those ringing bells do nothing but remind me that I’ll be spending the holiday on my own. Besides, if Denny’s right and Jimmy got back on Monday, then Jimmy’s triggermen are already out looking for me. I’ll approach my place from Lenox and, if anything smells fishy, I’ll spin around and duck back inside the subway station. I won’t be able to live like this for long, though. I’ve been in hiding for two days and it’s already getting to me. I’m going to have to take a permanent vacation or sit down with Jimmy.

  Walking down Lenox, I spot my father on the corner of 123rd Street. He’s only five blocks from his place—he moved us to Harlem from Hoboken ten years ago. But he’s not heading home; he’s pacing in a small circle. He’s wearing a tan overcoat with wide shoulder pads and a dark brown fedora. He runs over to head me off at the corner of 124th.