by John Florio
“I said, sit,” Albright barks, stabbing his index finger toward two chairs in front of his desk.
They sit, but Gazzara’s shooting me a look that could load a Tommy gun.
“What’s he d-doing here?” Gazzara says, pointing at me. He wants to pounce on me so badly his leg is twitching and he’s squirming on the edge of his chair. I wish I had two working arms so I could get up and sock him across his stuttering mouth. If he comes at me, I’m going to kick him square in the giblets, just like I did to Hector.
“That’s Snowball,” Albright says, walking around the side of his desk and leaning on the edge of it with his hip.
Gazzara lunges at me and I spring to my feet, but Albright pushes him back into his chair.
“You owe me money, Denny,” Albright says.
“I’m not p-paying you. That w-wheel is r-rigged.”
“You owe me money,” Albright says again. “And you’re not walking out of here unless you pay me tonight.”
With that, Gazzara’s eyes widen. For the first time since I laid eyes on him, I spot fear on his smug face.
“We’re talking thirty l-l-large!” Gazzara says.
“That’s right, and I want it tonight. Cash.”
“This is a j-j-oke.”
“It’s no joke,” Albright says. “I hear you’re lousy at paying your bills.”
I look at the champ and wonder if he’s getting any satisfaction out of watching Albright square his twenty-four-year-old debt.
“Who said th-that?” Gazzara asks. “I’ve never had a t-tab I didn’t pay.”
“Snowball here told me,” Albright says. “He says you crossed him. And when you cross Snowball, you cross me.”
Gazzara’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can practically hear his thoughts stuttering.
“He says you owe him seventy cases of sugar pop moon,” Albright says. “He bought eighty, but only ten were any good. Are you saying he’s lying to me?”
“He k-k-illed my brother,” Gazzara yells out as his back slumps. His agony is so palpable I think he might break into tears. He should only know how guilty I feel about pulling that trigger. I killed a mother’s son.
If Albright is moved by Gazzara’s pain, he’s not showing it. “Your brother was going to chop him up,” he says. “I think Snowball’s reaction qualifies as self-defense.”
He waits for an argument but Gazzara is mute. “So you’re on the hook for seventy cases of sugar pop moon to Snowball. And thirty large to me.”
“I d-don’t have the thirty large n-now.”
“Okay, you don’t have to pay me now,” Albright says, shaking his head to convey he’s a reasonable man. “You can stock Snowball with sugar pop moon until your debt to me is paid off.”
Denny’s lips twitch and the vein running up his forehead bulges and turns blue. He stammers, but not one word comes out of his arrogant, stuttering mouth.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Albright says. “Of course, if it’s a no, you’ll be dead by midnight. And it would be a shame for you to miss Christmas.”
I feel juiced with power over Gazzara. Still, as the piano player bangs out “Deck the Halls” in the parlor, I find myself wishing I’d never worked at the Pour House, never gone down to Philly, and never run into the Denny Gazzaras of the world. I’d gladly give up the joy of watching Gazzara beg for his life if I could run through my teen years again. This time around, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be at the Hy-Hat, watching Santi decorate the Christmas tree with a string of popcorn and his painted chess pieces.
Albright claps his hands and rubs them together as if we’re all excited about the free moon. “So where do the cases get delivered?” he asks me.
“The Pour House,” I say.
“McCullough’s already been paid,” my father says.
It’s time I came clean. “I never gave Jimmy the money,” I say. “I gave it to Old Man Santiago so he could bury Santi.”
I’m braced for the worst, but my father smiles at me as if he just found out that his years of preaching have taken hold. Maybe’s he’s forgotten that we’re sitting in a gambling parlor, strong-arming a stuttering mobster for free booze.
“So seventy cases to the Pour House?” Albright asks again.
The street doesn’t have many rules but it does have a few, and I know I can’t leave Gazzara’s bill at seventy cases. I’ve got to bring the hammer down on him or I’ll be his patsy for the rest of my living days.
“And seventy cases to a speakeasy at Juniper and Vine in Philadelphia,” I say.
“Okay,” Albright says. “Seventy cases every two weeks to the Pour House and the joint in Philly.”
My father shakes his head, confused. “Every two weeks?” he says. “For how long?”
Gazzara didn’t ask and neither did I. We both know the answer.
Albright shrugs. “For life,” he says, as if he’s not asking for much.
“I don’t need all that moon,” I say and my father grins again. “Just seventy to the Pour House and the same to Philly.”
Albright looks at me, his thin lips turned downward, probably disappointed that I don’t have his killer instinct.
“Okay,” he says. “Two deliveries. Seventy to the Pour House. And three hundred to Philly.”
“Three h-hundred?” Gazzara asks.
“And another seventy cases to me,” Albright says. “I hear it’s good stuff.”
Gazzara looks horrified. “If I’m spilling all that b-booze, then y-y-you and I walk away for g-good,” he says to Albright.
I’m actually hoping Albright agrees because Gazzara’s ready to go off like a Roman candle. At this point he’s so humiliated he’d probably welcome the bullet that would rub him out.
Albright nods. “That’ll square us. And it’ll square you and Snowball.”
I walk over to Gazzara and extend my good hand.
“Shake his hand,” Albright says.
I don’t know if I’m proud or embarrassed that the man’s my grandfather.
Gazzara grips the tips of my fingers and gives a quick tug, as if he’s afraid he’ll become an albino by touching me. His hands are hot and his nostrils flare when his fingers hit mine. Our score isn’t settled.
“Wonderful,” Albright says. “When can we expect delivery? I’m thirsty.”
Now I know where I got that wisenheimer gene.
“It’s a lot of m-m-moon,” Gazzara says, his jaw tight.
“Tomorrow morning’s perfect,” Albright says, smiling and slapping the side of his thigh as if it were Gazzara’s suggestion. Then, he adds, “Deliver to Philly first.”
It’s a shrewd move. Philly’s the big delivery, he wants to be sure it arrives.
Gazzara gets up and his shadow does the same.
“You’ll get your f-fucking m-m-moon,” he tells Albright.
Then he and the goon walk to the door. The pit boss follows, along with Albright’s triggermen, who have holstered their pistols but still have their herringbone jackets unbuttoned.
Albright pours a round of whiskey and this time my father takes a glass. His hands are shaking, but he downs a hit of booze and steadies them. Albright does the same—minus the trembling fingers.
“Meet with McCullough before the shipment arrives,” Albright says to me. “He needs to know why he’s getting it, and he needs to hear it from you. Settle up with him, man to man.”
I nod and slug a shot of Albright’s whiskey. Then I rest my head on the couch and wait for the liquor to dull the pain radiating from the hole in my shoulder. Albright is looking at me, smiling, obviously happy with himself for saving me. He raises his glass to toast our success and I put yet another glaze on my tongue so he can relish the moment. But I already know this is the last time I’ll call on him. Albright is a shark, same as Gazzara, and I don’t have the genes to swim in their waters. All I want to do is walk away—no guns, no cleavers, no triggermen—free to go back to the simplicity of my old life.
It’s Ch
ristmas morning and I’m in cabin 11 at the Cozy Cottages rubbing cream over my blistered jaw. My father is asleep on the couch; I’m sitting on the edge of the bed as Johalis squeezes his gloves and boots into a packed leather bag. His work is done, but he’s still not buying that Albright got Gazzara to bury his grudge so easily.
“Gazzara will never completely walk away,” Johalis says.
I don’t disagree, but I need at least seventy cases of liquor to arrive at the Pour House to shake Jimmy off my back.
“You don’t think he’ll cough up the moon?” I say.
“He’ll deliver because he wants to even up with Albright,” Johalis says. “I’m just not convinced he’s done with you. But I suppose we’ve got to take him at his word.”
“I hope his word is strong,” I say. “But just the same, I won’t push it. Once Jimmy’s got his booze, I’ll stay out of Philly.”
I’m disappointed because I find myself missing the dim lights of the Ink Well. I was hoping to drive down and visit Angela before New Year’s, just to see if she was still checking coats and soothing souls. She had a way about her that made me feel hopeful, which is not something I could ever say about Pearl.
“Too bad, because you’re a hero down there,” Johalis says, flipping me a folded copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer.
I read the headline that stretches across the front page. Son of Former Boxing Champ Saves Kidnapped Boy. There, below the big block type, next to a photo of Tommy Sudnik standing in front of his row house on Chatham Street, is my mug.
“Your father put me in touch with the reporter, a guy named Wilkins. I gave him the story the day after we went to Saint Mark’s. Wilkins said he owed your father but I had no idea he’d go hog-wild. He caught up with Sudnik’s mom and even chased down Father O’Neill at the church. I’m surprised he didn’t find you at Albright’s casino.”
The champ has cashed in on a lifetime of goodwill and I wonder if I’d ever be able to do the same in return. I look at him on the frayed orange sofa—his stitched-up leg hoisted onto the coffee table as snores come from his proud, scarred face, and I smile, surprised I remember how.
“So no more worrying about cops?” I ask.
“The clean ones love you,” Johalis says with a shrug of the shoulders. “Gazzara still owns the dirty ones but that’ll always be the case. The investigation is officially closed.”
“And your debt is paid,” I say to him, nodding toward the champ.
He dismisses me with a wave of the hand. “Call me any time,” he says. “This isn’t about debt.” His voice is as thick and rich as ever. I’m telling you, those pipes could woo a dog off a meat wagon.
We shake hands and he grabs his bag. Before he leaves, I tell him I want to keep the paper so I can bring it with me to the Pour House. If Gazzara delivers the moon and I can square things with Jimmy, I just might hang it up behind the bar.
I step into the Pour House a few minutes before noon. It’s hard to relax knowing Jimmy’s still after me, but the familiar smell of the joint—a combination of beer, steak, and moon—seduces me as easily as Pearl’s outstretched arms. Diego runs over to me and clutches my good shoulder in both of his hands. He’s looking behind me, nervously twitching his neck back and forth to see if he’s been set up.
“Relax, Diego,” I say, stomping the snow off my boots. “I’m not going anywhere.”
My tone seems to calm him down, but he’s still jumpy. “Sorry, Snowball. Jimmy keeps telling us to bring you in.”
I’m ready to tell him there’s a difference between grabbing me here and “bringing me in” but I let it slide.
He keeps hold of my arm and leads me past the pocket doors as if I need help finding Jimmy’s office. The kid’s so keyed up he doesn’t even pat me down. If he’d given it a moment’s thought, he’d have realized I’d never show up here without packing heat. My revolver’s tucked inside my sling and my chesterfield’s draped over it.
We circle behind the bar. There’s a good-sized crowd singing along with Guy Lombardo as the radio plays “I’m Confessin’ that I Love You.” It’s Christmas, so my guess is they’re all confessing it to somebody who’s not here.
Larch is in the group, not in uniform, but probably still on the precinct clock. He smiles at me, the bridge of his red nose wrinkling up like the snoot of a bulldog, and holds up his glass. It’s half-empty, probably a dry Rob Roy, light on the ice. Diego should be filling it, but he’s more concerned about leading an armed man to Jimmy. I nod at Larch but can’t pour for him now.
When we get downstairs, Diego knocks on Jimmy’s door and then opens it. We walk in and Jimmy looks up from his green leather high-back chair, his heavy eyelids rising in surprise.
“Snowball,” he says. “I’ve been wondering when I’d see you.”
I’ve always managed to respect Jimmy, but seeing him now, after what’s gone down over the past two weeks, fills me with nothing but contempt. My father’s been right all along. An honorable man works for a buck—Jimmy bankrupted his soul for a thousand.
As usual, he’s wearing a shirt and tie; his shirt is starched so smoothly it looks like white butcher paper. He has his gabardine jacket hanging on the back of his chair. The three bookcases behind him are filled with ledgers and old newspapers; a fourth holds rows of books but it’s only there for show—it doubles as the emergency exit to the ratacombs.
He motions for me to take a chair and tells Diego to leave the room and shut the door behind him. Knowing Jimmy, he’s already worked up new ways to torture me. I lower myself onto one of his hard wooden side chairs and keep my right arm as loose as possible in its sling. If he takes one step toward me I’m going to pull out my revolver and start shooting. My left hand’s not accurate, but it can still squeeze off six shots pretty quickly.
“I won’t be staying long, Jimmy. I’m just here to tell you that you’re getting your moon. It’s coming today.”
Jimmy leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I heard you made quite a commotion getting it back, but I wasn’t sure whether to believe it. That Philly story stunk as bad as Sister Hannigan’s twat.”
He’s staring at me, no doubt trying to spot a glitch somewhere in my expression. I’m trying to stay calm but my heart is pounding its way up my throat. Every time I exhale I let out a long, slow whistle. When my eyes start to shimmy, he turns away. Jimmy could never stand it. On the day he hired me he told me that my pupils made me look like some kind of magical coon sorcerer.
I can’t take the charade any longer so I get up and head for the door.
“The story’s true,” I say. “But I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me. I couldn’t let Gazzara kick me around.”
I’m hoping he’ll agree with me but I hear his desk drawer slide open. When I turn around, he’s got a pistol trained on my gut.
“I’ll believe you when the moon gets here,” he says. “If it doesn’t, I don’t have much choice. How would it look if I let you take my money and walk away?”
I can’t say I didn’t expect this. I sit back down and plant my feet on the floor. I don’t miss the irony that I’m now waiting on Gazzara to save my ass after he tried so hard to shoot it clean off my albino legs. I cross my arms so that my fingers are touching the butt of my gun. If Jimmy fires I’ll get off a shot or two myself. In all likelihood, neither one of us will leave the room alive.
Jimmy keeps his pistol on me as he grills me on the fine print: the tree farm, the cellar club, the Cozy Cabins. He’s all ears when I talk about Denny’s operation, but I can tell he’s having a tough time swallowing the part about Hector.
“He was out for my legs,” I tell him. Even I hear how outlandish it sounds.
“It’s not adding up, Snowball,” Jimmy says. The look in his eyes says he’s going to rub me out right now.
I grip my gun and start talking a mile a minute. I’m telling him about Tommy Sudnik, not that he gives a damn the kid was nearly butchered. The revolver’s curved wooden ha
ndle is warming in my palm and I’m rattling on about Tommy—readying myself to put a hole in Jimmy’s forehead—when Diego rushes in and says that Denny’s crew is unloading palettes of moon from a truck out front. Jimmy slips his pistol into his waistband and walks to the door, so I relax my trigger finger.
“They’re dumping the cases onto the street in broad daylight,” Diego says.
Gazzara’s boys may know Philly, but they sure don’t know New York. Our cops don’t mind if you open a speakeasy, but they don’t want you advertising it.
“I told you they weren’t geniuses,” I say to Jimmy, wiping the sweat from my palm on my pants leg.
We walk through the Pour House and Jimmy tells Diego and Antonio to grab the cases off the street and run them into the ratacombs faster than Sister Hannigan can flash her tits. Then he walks me to the bar and shakes my good hand.
“We’re square,” he says to me.
I exhale from the bottom of my gut. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath since the bogus shipment arrived two weeks ago.
Diego and the boys have their jackets off and are piling the cases by the staircase before bringing them downstairs. If it were up to me, I’d have them in the ratacombs already.
“Hey, Diego,” I say, “Why stack them here?”
Diego looks confused, not sure if I’m back on the job or about to be rubbed out.
“He’s right, Diego, get them downstairs,” Jimmy says, patting my good shoulder. “But first, fill a couple of glasses.”
Diego smiles. He pulls a bottle of sugar pop moon and pours two double shots.
Jimmy holds his in the air. “To Snowball, back at the Pour House.”
I clink his glass, but it hits me that I wouldn’t work here again if he tripled my pay. I’m done with Jimmy. Still, I like knowing we’re jake so I swallow the fresh moon. It goes down as smooth as I remember it.
“Gazzara makes some damned good moon for a stuttering lowlife,” I say.
I feel the cool touch of metal on the back of my head. “F-fuck you, S-snowball.”