Sugar Pop Moon

by John Florio

  “I’ve met Denny. Spent a little time with him in Princeton.”

  “Then you know he’s trouble. Joseph is another story.”

  Johalis sips his bourbon, moistening his golden vocal cords. He winces after he swallows, his eyes turning even farther downward as his face crinkles.

  “Joseph Gazzara’s name pops up everywhere around here,” he says. “He’s burned a lot of bridges. If that worries him, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps pulling his two-bit scams and his brother keeps bailing him out.”

  “He pulled one of those scams on me,” I say, my voice losing its strength, “And it worked.”

  Johalis lets out another hearty laugh. “I’m sure he gets a lot of people, don’t let it bother you. How’d he take you?”

  I tell him about the sugar pop moon and he doesn’t interrupt. When I finish, he leans back and rubs his chin.

  “So you’ve got to find Joseph and get your dough back.”

  “Impossible?” I ask.

  “Nothing’s impossible,” he says. “But guys like Joseph Gazzara tend to move around a lot. I’ll put some feelers out and see what comes back. I’ll also do some more digging on Hector, not that I’m eager to find out much more about him.”

  With that, Johalis clinks my glass with his and downs the rest of his bourbon. I pay Doolie and we go to the coatroom, which is barely visible behind the Christmas tree. Angela’s waiting for us inside the room; she hands Johalis his overcoat and gives me my chesterfield. Her whiskey sour sits untouched next to a rack of empty hangers on the counter behind her. On the doorjamb above her head, a lone piece of mistletoe dangles.

  I give her a half-dollar even though I’m trying to hold on to whatever I’ve got in my pocket. She smiles as she palms the coin.

  “Have a nice night,” she says and gives me a kiss on my right cheek. My blood courses to my face as if it wants to rush out of me and pour onto her.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say, wondering whether she, too, will be spending the holidays alone.

  I stand there for a moment but then follow Johalis out the door. When we hit the frosty winter air, he pulls up the lapels of his overcoat and shakes my hand.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he says before walking down Juniper toward city hall.

  I think about going back inside to chat with Angela, but I don’t. The last thing she needs is to get caught up with a walking blister who spends the better part of his days on the lam from Jimmy McCullough. I wrap my scarf around my neck, tug on the brim of my hat, and thrust my hands into my pockets. My black leather gloves are in my left pocket—which is where I left them—but in my right pocket I find a matchbook cover for Emilio’s Trattoria on the south side of town. Angela’s name is scrawled on the torn cardboard. At first, I’m excited because I think she wants to see me again, but I soon see the message is about Joseph Gazzara. She’s got a line on him and she’s passing the info on to me. I owe her one.

  I stuff the note back into my pocket and put on my gloves. Then I turn into the wind and head back to the Auburn as the raw wind blows my cheeks to smithereens.

  Ernie knew that sooner or later a newspaperman would come knocking. It only made sense; his face had been on the front page of the Evening-Star two days in a row. He was sorry he’d opened the door.

  “Ernie Leo, right?”

  The reporter smiled, which only made Ernie trust him less.

  “Yeah, I’m him.”

  If winning the title had taught Ernie anything, it was that reporters didn’t care a lick about a Negro champion. They’d never even bothered to interview him after the fight. Instead, they’d flocked to Higgins’s dressing room and gave the Irishman the ink for losing. Now this reporter appears at his door, no doubt following up on the story that painted him out to be nothing but an uppity nigger lusting after white women.

  “I’m Walter Wilkins, Evening-Star,” the reporter said as he stood outside Ernie’s doorway, his raincoat damp and his brown derby dripping water onto the floor. This was the newspaperman who’d written the article, the man who’d tossed a stick of dynamite into Ernie’s life. He couldn’t have been a day over eighteen.

  Wilkins peeked into the room, probably looking for something racy like a corset or a pair of leggings that would make for a good headline. Ernie let him look; there was nothing to see.

  “Mind if I come in?” Wilkins asked. He tapped a folded Evening-Star against the side of his leg, not seeming to notice the rainwater spilling down his arm or the smell of burning tobacco wafting up from the cigar store downstairs. “If you’ve got a second, I’d like to talk to you about the Jersey championship.”

  “What about it?” Ernie said, ready to shut the door at the first mention of the so-called mystery woman.

  Wilkins glanced at Ernie’s hand on the knob. “I’m not here about the sister in the trainer’s room,” he said. “I promise.”

  Ernie wanted to believe him. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if Wilkins asked him a couple of questions about the fight and went back on his way. But if Wilkins wanted to bring him down, especially with another story about Dorothy, things could get worse than they already were. Ernie knew he should shut the door, but he couldn’t close it in the guy’s face.

  “In here,” he said, promising himself he wouldn’t give Wilkins any information that could come back to haunt him.

  The room fit just enough furniture to make Ernie comfortable—a daybed, a side table, and an armchair left by the previous tenant. The autumn rain pattered against the room’s only window, which looked out onto Grand Avenue.

  “My friends call me Walter,” the reporter said as he took a seat on the daybed.

  “Okay,” Ernie said, far from convinced that Walter was a friend, or even friendly. He sank into the armchair and waited for the first question.

  “Ernie,” Walter started, shifting his weight, “I, umm, I owe you an apology.”

  “Why’s that?” Ernie said, certain that the Evening-Star was about to thump on him again.

  “I know the piece I wrote got you in hot water with the commission. I needed a story, and it never occurred to me that they’d take it out on you.”

  The guy had no idea of the trouble he’d caused. Ernie couldn’t even buy a cigar without being pestered.

  “It’s done now,” Ernie said.

  Walter shook his head. “Not as far as Dorothy Albright is concerned. She really let me have it. It’s not as if everything she said is true, but she got me thinking.”

  Ernie’s stomach flipped. He’d done everything he could to keep Dorothy’s name a secret. “Why was she talkin’ to you?”

  “She showed up at my office,” Walter said. “Told me she was the woman in your dressing room and that I botched the story.”

  Ernie panicked, but Walter shot his hand out to stop him from speaking. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to print it, I promise.”

  Afraid he’d say the wrong thing and make things worse for Dorothy, Ernie tried to keep his mouth shut. But he deserved some answers.

  “She say where she was stayin’?” he asked. He knew she’d disappeared a couple of weeks ago because Willie Brooks had heard as much from Edward Albright, but he figured she’d be running from the newspapers, not to them.

  “I have no idea, I only saw her that once,” Walter said. Then a smile crossed his face and he offered Ernie the newspaper he’d been clutching. “But she’ll like this. You will, too.”

  Ernie took the paper and flipped it in his hands. Then he tossed it onto the floor next to his armchair.

  “Don’t you want to see it?” Walter asked, the lines on his forehead rising in surprise.

  Ernie wasn’t about to admit that he couldn’t read. “I seen enough.”

  “Well, all I can tell you is that the commission won’t take your title now, not after that,” Walter said, nodding his chin toward the paper.

  Ernie fought the urge to kick Walter into the street and run down to the basement to find Mrs. Reilly, the
cleaning woman, so she could read it to him.

  “What’s it say?” Ernie said, hating that he had to ask but unable to stop himself.

  Walter looked at the paper lying by Ernie’s feet and his facial expression went from bewilderment to realization. He didn’t comment on Ernie’s ignorance and Ernie was grateful. Instead, he leaned forward, put an elbow on his knee, and pointed at the paper.

  “It says you were assaulted with a folding chair on your way out of the ring. It says you conducted yourself like a champion. It says that my prior article had gotten it wrong, and that I was to blame. It’s the kind of piece that will help you keep your title.”

  Ernie hated to disappoint Walter—he seemed like a nice guy, but he was no match for a crook like Werts.

  “Don’t matter what it says,” Ernie said. “If they want to take back the title, they’ll take it.” Then he muttered, “Same goes for my money.”

  “But don’t you care? Don’t you want to know why the commission wants it back so badly?” A mischievous grin stretched across Walter’s lips. “I do.”

  Walter sure was full of hope, but there was stuff he didn’t know, including how far things had gone with Dorothy the night of the Higgins fight. Eventually, Werts would find out and nail Ernie—and he wouldn’t need Walter’s article to do it.

  “It’s in my contract,” Ernie said. “Conduct unbecomin’ a champion.”

  “Are you sure you read it carefully?” Walter glanced toward the untouched newspaper on the floor and then looked back at Ernie. “Let me take a look at it. Maybe you missed something.”

  Ernie’s secret was out, so he had nothing to lose by showing Walter the contract. It was on the side table, wedged under the base of his reading lamp. Normally he’d have thrown it away but this time he’d decided to hold onto it until he got paid. He pulled it out and gave it to the reporter.

  Walter skimmed through the two sheets, the dry parchment crinkling in his hand. Then he looked them over again, more carefully the second time.

  “The handwriting is really loopy, hard to read,” he said. “But I can tell you there’s nothing in here about conduct unbecoming a champion.”

  “Nothin’?” Ernie said. He knew the commission was crooked, but he never expected they’d lie about something like a contract.

  Walter shook his head, an apologetic look on his face.

  “Look, Ernie, I’m trying to do what’s right, but I need help unraveling this mess.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook. “You know the people involved. You’ve got to give me some names. I need something to go on.”

  Ernie wanted nothing more than to see Walter bring down the commission. He needed that twenty dollars—he was low on food and a month behind on his rent. But the greenhorn was in over his head.

  “Can’t you tell me anything?” Walter asked again, practically begging for help.

  Ernie’s thoughts returned to Dorothy. He’d fallen for her somewhere along the way—he realized that now—and he wanted to help her any way he could. She must believe in this kid; she was the one who’d sent him here.

  He nodded toward the notebook. “I got some names,” he said.

  A grin crossed Walter’s square jaws.

  “One condition,” Ernie said, holding up his index finger. “Ya gotta keep Dorothy out of it.”

  “Fair enough,” Walter said. Then he opened his notebook and started scribbling.

  Glenny ground his cigarette into an ashtray. It took a lot to sell him on a story, especially one with New York’s most connected gambler in it. He and Walter were in the Evening-Star’s bullpen: Walter was in his usual seat; Glenny had a foot up on Crager’s chair. Crager had spent the day out of the office—he was trying to drum up a story about a rash of sick elms in Elizabeth Park. Here was Walter handing his boss a bona fide scoop, far ahead of the Daily Press, and Glenny wasn’t sure he wanted it.

  “You’re telling me that Richard Canfield runs the Higgins syndicate? He owns Higgins?” Glenny asked. He cleaned his spectacles with the cuff of his shirt and then put them on, wrapping the loops of the wire frames around his ears.

  “It’s a great story, sir,” Walter said, exasperated.

  “I guess that means I should run a story saying Canfield bribed the commission in big, fat, juicy type on page one?” With that, Glenny moved his outstretched palm through the air as if the headline were right in front of him. Then he whacked his fist against his knee. “That’s asking for trouble, dammit.”

  Walter barely let him finish. “You told me that nobody messes with the Evening-Star,” he said, his words getting louder and faster as his frustration rose.

  “And I still believe it. But we better be damned sure we’re right when we print that our own paper is playing dirty.”

  “We’re not saying that,” Walter said. “We’re saying that Richard Canfield has the commission in his pocket.”

  “The commission is our commission,” Glenny shouted. “And you want to print that they’re taking away Ernie Leo’s belt for no good reason.”

  “That’s right,” Walter said with a stiff nod. “And that they lied about it.” If his boss okayed the article, he’d nail that Foster Werts but good.

  Glenny pulled on his lower lip and stared at the ceiling.

  Walter egged him on. “You’re the one who always told me to dig until we have all the bones.”

  “And I meant it,” Glenny said. “But this could make us look really bad.” He sighed and tapped his thumb against his chin. “How many sources do you have on this?”

  Walter had been waiting for that question. He knew Glenny wouldn’t trust him, especially after he’d sourced the first story with nobody other than that young guard who wouldn’t give his name.

  “This is different than the last story,” Walter said. “No guesswork. No innuendo. I have it thoroughly sourced. I just can’t tell you where I got it.”

  “It’s Leo, isn’t it?” Glenny said.

  Walter’s jaw dropped. If Glenny had any doubt, Walter’s reaction just squashed it.

  “And you think he’s trustworthy?” Glenny asked, smirking. He paced in a small circle and shook his head. “Wilkins, you can’t source a story like this by talking with Leo, he’s got too much riding on it.”

  “Ernie Leo isn’t lying.” Walter was surprised by how much conviction spilled into the tone of his voice. “His story makes perfect sense. We already know that Canfield paid for Werts’s political campaigns.”

  “It doesn’t matter, you gotta get it somewhere else,” he shouted. “Find somebody else who says the commission is out to help Canfield or Albright or Higgins—anybody! And make it somebody who’s not involved, for Chrissakes. If it’s legit, I’ll go with it.” Then he smacked the desk in front of him as if the sound of flesh on wood somehow made his decision irreversible.

  Walter knew he’d never get anyone other than Dorothy or Ernie to rat out a bigwig like Canfield. He had only one shot. He had to shadow Albright. Or Canfield. Or both.

  I’m sitting in the Auburn with my eyes trained on the red doors of Saint Mark’s church. Angela had written few words on the matchbook, but they said plenty. Joseph Gazzara runs Saint Mark’s on Locust Street. I have no idea how she knows Gazzara, or what he could be running at an Episcopalian church, but I don’t question the details. In one sentence, she’d managed to give me the lowdown on the grifter, which beat anything Johalis had to offer. Once I settle up with Gazzara, I’ll make it up to her, somehow.

  The brick steeple and stained glass arches of the church loom over Locust. About a dozen locals are milling around the front door but I can’t make out their faces from where I’m sitting. I get out of the car and Philly’s icy air makes my eyes feel like they’ve been doused in bathtub gin. I wonder if my burning eyes and blistering cheeks are payback for having my boss hauled away in a bogus raid.

  I’m on South Seventeenth Street—only about a hundred yards from the church—but the men and women climbing the steps
are hidden under wide-brimmed fedoras and coquettes. I make my way to the church grounds and spot a young priest with curly black hair. He’s about my age and I think about chatting him up, but he’s got a group of grade-schoolers circling him. He could probably clue me in on Gazzara, but I’d rather avoid the attention. Instead, I fall in step with a white-haired priest who is shuffling toward the entrance. He’s got a cane in his right hand, and judging by the way he’s leaning on it, he shouldn’t try walking without it.

  He stops and introduces himself to me as if I’d asked. “Father O’Neill,” he says.

  “Jersey Leo,” I tell him, avoiding the name Snowball as if I’ve got any kind of cover.

  The padre’s skin is a rosy pink. Time has beaten up his body and rotted his teeth. He’s got a brown mole in the center of his left cheek that’s tough to ignore. His eyes, though, are still young—they’re as blue and lively as those of an adolescent boy’s—and they’re staring at my ravaged, blotchy face from behind a pair of heavy black glasses.

  “Yellow hair,” he says to me, his breath turning to smoke in the late December air. “An albino.”

  “I was, but I converted.”

  “A funny albino,” he says, correcting himself. “And you’re here for our evening services.”

  “Good guess,” I say and he smiles. I’m trying to figure out if he wants to be a detective or a mind reader. Either way, he won’t impress me unless he guesses that I’m here to find a grifter with two different colored eyes and a warehouse full of counterfeit booze. He resumes his walk and I tag along on his right. I keep my left arm poised to catch him in case he teeters over.

  “I’m hoping to meet a friend of mine,” I say. “Maybe you know him. Joseph Gazzara.”

  The bridge of his nose wrinkles like a prune as he scrunches his eyes to think.

  I try spurring his memory. “He’s got one brown eye and one green eye. And a scar on his ear.”