Sugar Pop Moon

by John Florio

  “Ya got trouble, son,” he says, nervously looking over each shoulder as if he’d just robbed a bank.

  He grabs my elbow and pulls me under the awning of Pete’s Shoe Repair. He steers me into the vestibule and stands between me and the road. I can’t see past his broad shoulders. He’s hiding me.

  “What’s going on?” I say, tugging my elbow out of his hand.

  “I just went by your place to tell you about Hector. Some thug was there, started questionin’ me, askin’ where you were.”

  “One of Jimmy’s boys,” I say.

  “I knew this would happen.” His voice has a sharp edge to it; he wants to yell but he’s controlling himself. He’s got a right to be ruffled. He’s witnessing his worst nightmare.

  “I can straighten this out,” I say, hoping to calm him down, but my pulse is quickening and the back of my neck is getting hot.

  A car rolls up to the curb and I pull my fedora down over my forehead. My father reaches around me, opens the wooden and glass door to Pete’s and pushes me into the shop. As the door swings open, a sleigh bell attached to the jamb jingles overhead.

  Pete’s shop is painted the color of pea soup and it smells of dust and cowhide. Two heavyset cobblers are working in a room behind the counter. I only see their heads but can tell they’re both swinging small rubber mallets. I take a good look at each of them, just to be sure I’ve never seen their round faces in Jimmy’s company.

  The counter is in front of us. There are shoe supplies—brushes, bootblack, laces, and horns—displayed on the right wall, and a row of four shoeshine chairs along the left wall. We settle into the two chairs at the front of the store, away from the counter. I keep my eyes trained out the window.

  An old white man with large ears and sloped shoulders rushes over with a rag to buff our shoes. Normally, I’d feel for him, hoping he hadn’t been reduced to shining shoes because he lost a million when the market crashed. Now I’m worried that I may soon be joining him on the bread line. I’ve got a bundle of cash socked away inside the hollow leg of my brass bed at home but I’ll never be able to get at it, not with Jimmy’s boys hovering. I can’t go back to the Pour House, either, so I’ll have to live off what I’ve got in my locker at the Hy-Hat.

  “This is a tough one to straighten out without talkin’ to Jimmy,” my father snaps in a hoarse whisper. “The thug at your place meant business.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Not much, ’cause he didn’t know I was your father. Before I buzzed you, he asked if I was a friend of yours. I said no, but he pushed me against the railin’ and asked if I was sure—he even had a picture of you, the one from the Herald-Tribune when your club was raided.”

  That was almost a year ago now. I was hoping my father hadn’t seen it, but I guess that was too much to ask. The story was everywhere. McCullough Locked Up. It made the cover of every daily paper in town and it had my picture front and center. Jimmy McCullough may make the headlines, but I’ve got the mug to sell papers.

  “I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Champ,” I say.

  When the shoeshiner hears the word “champ,” he looks up at my father, but seems disappointed when he doesn’t recognize him. Then he takes out a brush and goes back to working on his heels.

  “I’m in it now, too,” my father says. He’s leaning over and talking so low I can barely hear him. “He pulled a roscoe, so I rabbit-punched him. I didn’t want to beat on the guy, it just happened.”

  I can’t help but smile. “I thought you weren’t going to get involved.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoyin’ this,” he says, shaking his head. “Because I’m not. We’re knee-deep in horseshit.”

  As he talks, I feel the grin drain from my lips.

  “I’d fight for you if I thought you was right,” he says. “But you’re tryin’ to pull me into the gutter. I’m not gonna help you pour your speakeasy booze.”

  We both quiet down as the shoeshiner finishes my father’s oxfords and slides his bench a few inches to work on mine. I keep my eye on the street, but the only two people who have passed the shop were elderly women.

  “What were you going to tell me about Hector?” I say.

  “My friend Johalis knows people in Philly. There’s a gang down there, some kind of occult group. These people think albino bones are lucky.”

  “They should try living in them.”

  “Are you listenin’ to me? This ain’t a joke. They collect albino bones. You know how they get ‘em?”

  I think back to the Excelsior and my throat closes when I remember the front page of Baines’s newspaper.

  “With a cleaver,” I croak out.

  “Damn right, with a cleaver. I was gonna try to help you set that straight but this is evil,” he says. “Listen to me. Stay away from your place and stay the hell away from Philadelphia.”

  Joe Shinebox barely touches my shoes and holds out his hand to be paid. I can’t blame him for not wanting to stick around for this conversation. He waits for his money and I hand him a dime. Shoving it in his pocket, he thanks me and scampers back behind the counter.

  “Okay, there’s some good news here,” I say, trying to calm my nerves.

  “How do you figure that?”

  “First, Hector isn’t a concern,” I say, “at least not right now.”

  “Not a concern? These people are dangerous.”

  “But we’re in New York and Hector’s in Philly,” I say. “Right now, I’ve gotta worry about Jimmy McCullough, and I’m a step ahead of him.”

  “Son, you’re ahead of nobody. If anything, he’s a step ahead of you.”

  “Fine,” I say. “But at least we can figure out what he’s thinking.”

  “How the hell can you do that?” He punctuates his question by slamming the chair’s armrest.

  The two cobblers behind the counter stop their hammering and look over at us. I’ve never been thrown out of a shoemaker’s shop and I don’t intend to start now.

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “Jimmy’s gotta be expecting me to show up at the bar and explain what happened with Gazzara.”

  The champ nods. “It’s your only move.”

  “It’s also a bad one. If I show my face, I’m a dead man. But if somebody went there for me, Jimmy would have to listen because I’d be nowhere in sight.”

  My father glares at me because he knows he’s the only person that could pull it off. I can’t look him in the eye, so I focus on the scar on his forehead.

  “If that’s the case,” he says, his jaw tight, “you’re gonna have to find somebody who’s willin’ to fight your battles for you.”

  “Alright, I’ll just go in myself,” I say. Then I get up and walk out of Pete’s, leaving the door open. I stand on the sidewalk hoping my father will join me. I check every auto that passes Pete’s corner, afraid I’ll spot a triggerman leaning out of a car window and pointing a machine gun at me. Four cars roll by before I hear my father leave the shop.

  “If I talk to McCullough,” he says, “I’m gonna tell him what I think of him.”

  As if Jimmy could care.

  He shuts the door behind him and the bell rings. This time, it sounds less like the jingle of Santa’s sleigh and more like the clang of a fight bell.

  Darkness fell over an hour ago, my father has gone home, and the streets are white from a flurry of snow that’s been falling since sundown. The sidewalks have emptied; those who are lucky enough to have families are with them, eating dinner. Now that the champ and I have broken the ice, I’d love to be sitting with him at his place sharing a bowl of hot beef stew, but I can’t risk running into one of Jimmy’s hatchet men.

  The smartest place to hide out is the Hy-Hat. Santi will fix me up with a mattress and a pillow in the back room until I hash out a plan. I’m skulking to the club with my scarf pulled high. I’m thankful for the snow because winter clothes keep me well hidden.

  I can’t stop myself from taking a short detour and walking past Pea
rl’s place, a basement pad she shares with her mother in a four-story townhouse on 124th Street.

  The streetlight on Pearl’s stretch of sidewalk hasn’t been lit and the path leading to her apartment is pitch black. I hide under a tree and scan the block as best I can. My guess is that one of Jimmy’s boys is nearby, and he either killed the light himself or he greased the lamplighter’s palm to do it for him. I don’t see anybody, but I’m no sucker. Just as I’m about to turn around and head to the Hy-Hat I spot Pearl standing in front of her gate.

  Even in the dark, she’s hard to miss. The lamp from across the street puts her in silhouette and I recognize her broad hips and round chest. My blood warms and I head toward her, careful to walk only in the darkest stretches of sidewalk. I’m not sure what I’ll say. Maybe I’ll let her know that Doc Anders gave me a green light on having kids—like that matters—or maybe I’ll just break down and beg her to give me another shot.

  I’m halfway down the block away when I see she’s not alone. A guy about my age is with her; he’s holding his hat in his hand and chunky snowflakes are landing in his slicked hair. I can tell he’s tall and thin—he’s built better than I am—and his light brown skin is as smooth as a freshly blended malted. He leans over and kisses Pearl. My insides tumble so violently that my throat tastes like acid. I stand there like a fool, watching as he puts his fingers in the hair of the only woman I’ve ever loved. I stay in the shadows, clinging to the one glorious night she almost loved me back.

  There’s a rustling by a tree across the street and I recognize the sound of feet crunching the frost on the sidewalk. That’s my cue. I turn away just as Pearl wraps her arms around her lover’s shoulders and pulls him closer.

  Tugging my hat down low, I slink along the snow-covered sidewalk and head back toward the avenue. The snow’s coming down harder. It hits my face and covers the tears that are turning to ice on my zebra-nigger-lackey-coon cheeks.

  Walter Wilkins tried to shake off his meeting with Dorothy Albright as he shouldered his way along State Street, zigzagging through the maze of suited men hustling in and out of their offices. He couldn’t get over Dorothy’s nerve. She’d stood in front of him, pointing her finger at him as if he’d written nothing but lies. What did she expect him to do after she’d ducked into Ernie Leo’s dressing room?

  One good thing came from Dorothy’s rant, though, and that was her tip on Edward Albright. Walter could just imagine how fed up Dorothy must have been to sic a newspaperman on her own father, but that wasn’t Walter’s problem. His only concern was whether the story was newsworthy—everybody in the Northeast already knew that Albright was a crook, and the truth was that nobody cared. But if Dorothy was right and Walter could nail Albright screwing with the Evening-Star’s prizefighting competition before the Daily Press got wind of it, Walter would be on the front page in as little time as it took the pressmen to pour the ink.

  Walter hadn’t wasted a second. He’d picked up the phone as soon as Dorothy left his office, nearly dropping the receiver when Albright suggested they meet at a local pub. Now, turning onto Prospect Street, Walter ran through the list of questions he had tucked inside his breast pocket. Every one boiled down to the same thing: What the hell was Albright up to?

  Halfway down Prospect, Walter passed the Hartford Club, a swanky place that had stemmed glasses, silk napkins, the works. He’d had a chance to work at a place like that, H. Grant’s of Newark, after high school. But unlike almost every other boy in his class, he’d passed on the opportunity and gone to work shuttling copy at the Evening-Star. Now that choice was leading him past the shiny brass entrance of the Hartford Club and down a sloping dirt road to the humble, boxy architecture of the Iron Horse Tavern.

  The front doors of the tavern were made out of crudely sawn wood. Walter pushed through them and found himself in a room that had about as much light as it did elegance—and it was stingy on both.

  It didn’t take but a second to spot Albright, who was marking time at a round wooden table. His dark blue suit and cream-colored vest were practically a uniform at the Hartford Club, but they were out of place in the Iron Horse. The tavern regulars, judging by their dirty overalls and stained sweatshirts, worked at Luna Park, the amusement center on the other side of town.

  “Hello!” Albright said, standing up and patting Walter on the back. He had the hands of a banker: clean, tanned, and manicured. His knuckles looked as if they’d never been exposed to snow, rain, sleet, or for that matter, the Iron Horse.

  The two sat down. The table was empty, except for Albright’s hat and two mugs of beer.

  “I like it here,” Albright said, looking around as if he were evaluating the marble interior of the Hartford Club. “I’m thinking of buying it. What do you think?”

  Walter’s first reaction was that Albright already had too much money but he kept his opinion to himself. “It’s comfortable,” he said. “I just wouldn’t expect you to like it.”

  “Just because I buy a business doesn’t mean I’d patronize it.” Albright flashed a grin and exposed a row a spotless white teeth.

  Walter would have returned the smile but he couldn’t live with being that phony.

  Albright pointed at the mug of beer on Walter’s side of the table. “That one’s yours.”

  “Swell,” Walter said, but slid the beer aside. He hadn’t forgotten Glenny’s warning that the easiest way to blow an opportunity was by getting liquored up.

  “That was a heck of a story you wrote,” Albright said. “Leo and the dame. Beauty and the beast. Fantastic.” He smiled as he spoke and then swigged his brew. “You’re on your way,” he said, looking at Walter with admiration.

  “Thanks,” Walter said, even though he knew Albright valued him about as highly as a wet cigarette. “I’m thinking of doing a follow-up piece on Higgins.”

  “Smart move. Higgins is training hard, you should see him go at it.” Albright leaned forward and feigned a combination of punches in front of his chest. “What heart. He’s going to be a heckuva champion someday.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Walter said, pulling out his notebook. “Tell me about his plans. Does he want a rematch with Leo right away? When will he be ready?”

  “Leo won’t be a problem,” Albright said, dismissing the notion with a quick shake of his head.

  “You’re not worried?” Walter said. “Higgins took a beating. What’ll he do this time that he didn’t do last time?”

  “He won’t have to do anything. He doesn’t have to fight Leo. Don’t you read your own articles?”

  There was no way Albright could imagine just how much reading Walter had done. Walter had sat in Glenny’s office for hours, ransacking the Evening-Star files. Nothing seemed suspicious about the Higgins–Leo fight, but a story on how Albright had run a lottery without paying out a penny made it clear he had a sweet tooth for rigged games.

  Walter wondered what kind of con Albright was trying to pull now. “The commission only said it was reviewing the situation,” he said. “They’re not about to take Leo’s title just because he got a little too close to a white woman.”

  Albright took a long slurp of beer and studied Walter over the rim of his mug. Then he put down the mug, picked up a napkin, and patted the foam on his lip.

  “Here’s your story,” he said. “Higgins is on his way to becoming champion, and I don’t mean New Jersey. I’m talking about the world.”

  “Higgins will never get a fight with Tommy Burns. He can’t even get past Ernie Leo.”

  “Sooner or later, Higgins will be the world heavyweight champion. You’ll see.”

  Albright polished off the rest of his beer and, judging by the expression on his face, had finished the conversation along with it.

  Walter was desperate to keep Albright talking. “Higgins had trouble defending his right side,” he said. “Any boxer with a decent left will give him trouble.”

  Albright shrugged. “Just keep your eye on my guy,” he said, getting up
and putting on his hat. “He’ll be the champ, it’s a fact.” Then he told Walter it had been a pleasure and walked out of the bar.

  Walter looked over Albright’s quotes and replayed the conversation in his head. Higgins will be the world heavyweight champion. Leo won’t be a problem. How could he be so certain? Dorothy was right: Albright was up to his ears in something, and whatever it was stunk like hell.

  That’s when it struck Walter. He popped his derby on his head and left the bar like a hunting dog who’d picked up the scent of rabbit. There was only one way that crook could be so sure Higgins would get past Leo. He must be bribing the commission. Which meant he was bribing the Evening-Star.

  The newspaper’s boxing commission was due to meet at the home of Foster Werts, a local wannabe politician who’d lost four races for mayor of Newark. Everything Walter had dug up on Werts was fishy, particularly that his mayoral campaign had been paid for by Richard Canfield, the financier who’d been exposed as an underground casino lord two years ago. Canfield was the law’s worst nightmare: he was rich, powerful, and as crooked as a rusty screw. Nobody who claimed to have any integrity wanted to deal with him. Nobody except Foster Werts.

  Walter stood on the carved steps that led to Werts’s front door and looked up at the Victorian mansion. The three-story jewel sat behind four massive oak trees whose leaves were already turning orange and red. It looked like a castle, complete with stained glass windows, turned wood trim, and rooftop tower. Walter had no insight into Werts’s finances, but this seemed like an awful lot of house for a four-time loser who made a living by sitting on state commissions every now and then. He pounded the knocker and waited, not sure what to expect. Werts had agreed to let him sit in on the meeting, but the double-dealer would probably be a lot less hospitable if he figured out that Walter wasn’t interested in what the commission was doing—only why it was doing it.