by John Florio
I don’t bother turning around. Every Joe at the bar is staring behind my head in silence. Diego’s black eyes are also trained over my shoulder; he can’t help me because he keeps his gun in his jacket, which is sitting on a case of moon next to the staircase.
Jimmy looks behind me. “What do you want, Denny?”
“Th-this is b-between me and S-snowball,” Gazzara says. “Y-you’ve got your s-s-seventy cases, so sh-sh-shut the f-f-fuck up.”
If I reach for my piece I’ll be dead before my hand touches metal. I keep my head still, afraid to move it.
“Snowball works for me, Denny,” Jimmy says. “If you take him down here I’ve got a problem.” I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him calmer.
I spot Larch out of the corner of my eye. He’s slowly reaching under his jacket, so I start talking, trying to buy Larch some time to pull his revolver.
“I thought we were square, Denny,” I say.
He doesn’t have time to answer. The crashing sound of a battering ram comes from the front room.
“Raid!” Diego screams out from behind the bar. Everybody in the place is scrambling to take a powder, but there’s nowhere to go—cops are spilling into the place through the front and back doors. Only Jimmy and I know the escape routes, and we’re tied up at the moment.
Gazzara takes the gun off my head. He doesn’t have any influence here and he’s not about to take a murder rap. If we were in Philly, I’d be dead.
Jimmy makes for his office in quick strides, dodging panicked customers. I’m hustling down the stairs behind him and Gazzara is on my heels. I’m not sure if he wants to kill me or tail me out of the joint.
We’re about to step into Jimmy’s office when I turn and see Larch grab Gazzara’s right forearm and yank the gun out of his hand. “What’s with the rod?” he says.
“It’s n-not m-mine,” Gazzara says. “You’ve got n-n-nothing on m-me.”
I finger him for Larch. “Officer, this is Denny Gazzara, a business acquaintance from Philadelphia.”
Larch’s eyes widen, as they should. Gazzara is wanted in every state in the Northeast and Larch knows he’s just been handed a nice collar. And he probably also realizes he’s inherited a good-sized shipment of sugar pop moon. At least fifteen cases of the stuff are still stacked in front of the staircase.
Larch calls over a beat cop and I don’t wait for a thank you. I hear Gazzara stammering that he wants his lawyer as I run into Jimmy’s office. I find Jimmy sliding the bookcase away from the wall. We cross the threshold and cover our tracks by sliding the wooden stack of shelves back into position. We step down into the cold, safe, dank air of the ratacombs and cross the basement. Jimmy takes out his keys and unlocks the steel fire door.
“This is getting tiresome,” he says. He’s lost some of his freshness, his eyes are drooping lower than ever before and he has a sweat stain the size of a pancake under each arm of his starched shirt.
A rat circles his feet and he kicks it out of the way.
He opens the door and we enter the basement of 321 West Fifty-Third Street. I’m surprised to see a healthy supply of liquor; there must be two hundred and fifty cases down here. Even in my panic, I’m steamed at what I had to go through to get him moon that he didn’t even need.
We make our way through the row house in the dark, which isn’t too difficult because the place doesn’t have a stick of furniture. Walking out the front door, we stay behind the hedges and stroll the path where I ran into Hector only a week ago. The icy Manhattan wind is still racing across the city and I pull up the lapels of my overcoat to blanket my neck. If I had my cream with me, I’d be lathering it on my burning cheeks.
Jimmy cuts across Fifty-Third Street in his suit pants and white shirt. He’ll lose himself in the crowd that’s gawking at the paddy wagons from across the street.
I walk up the block with my back to the action and tug on the front of my fedora. I’ve got one more stop to make before starting the holiday season. I stroll to the traffic light at the corner of Broadway, my boots crunching the newly fallen snow as Jimmy McCullough, the Pour House, and Denny Gazzara fade into the distance.
The snow is coming down in lazy flurries. There’s a wreath on Pearl’s door, so I knock above it with the knuckles of my good hand. Out of habit, I take a quick look over my shoulder. It just goes to show how your anxiety can rise when a crime lord puts a price on your head.
The instant Pearl opens the door I remember why I used to love her. Her doughy cheeks roll into a beaming smile that belongs on the top of a Christmas tree.
She invites me inside but I tell her no. I’ve finally figured out that chasing a moving target is as fruitless as being one. Besides, I can stand the cold for a while longer. I’m wrapped in a memory of Angela that’s got me so warm I’m surprised my boots aren’t melting the snow beneath me.
“You’re a hero,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she holds up the Philadelphia Inquirer. I should have known she’d have a copy of the paper—my father’s been handing them out to anybody who’ll take them.
“Looks like everything’s jake,” I say, nodding my head. “I’m square with Jimmy, and Larch threw Gazzara in the wagon. He’ll nail him with plenty.”
“I knew you’d figure things out,” Pearl says.
“Yeah, well,” I say. I’m not here for a pat on the back. Since Santi’s funeral Pearl’s been helping Old Man Santiago clean out the Hy-Hat. He wants to close the club but I’ve got another idea.
“About Old Man Santiago,” I say. “I know you’ve been there for him.”
She shrugs as if it’s nothing, but that’s not the case. She did me a favor just by showing up at the Hy-Hat while I was busy with Gazzara and Jimmy.
“I appreciate it,” I say. “But I can take it from here.” She looks hurt and I almost apologize. I didn’t mean it as cold as it sounded.
“So this is how things end?” she asks.
I want to tell her they never started, but it’s not worth the trouble.
I’m surprised to see her eyes watering. She must be crying over the hero on the front page of the Inquirer, because she’s certainly not interested in the real me, the albino she left in the lurch just when he needed her most.
“You’ll be fine,” I say and I’m sure I’m right.
I walk back to the car without turning around, not wanting to see the woman I thought I loved in tears. I know what it feels like to be left alone, and the last thing I expected was to do it to Pearl. My neck is hot with shame, but my plans no longer include chasing after her.
When I get behind the wheel I spot the guy who was necking with her last week. He’s walking to her place and he’s carrying a red box with a gold bow. My guess is that Pearl’s tears will dry up in about fifteen seconds.
I start the engine and head up 124th Street. Once I cross the river, I’ll pull onto Route 25 and drive down to Philly as fast as the Auburn will take me.
Working in a speakeasy at the corner of Juniper and Vine is a woman who doesn’t care about the color of my skin. I’m itching to see if she’s still in the coatroom, standing under that clump of mistletoe, waiting to talk to the albino with the funny name. This time, I won’t let her slip away. I’ll put her in the passenger seat and race her back up here to Harlem to help me run the Hy-Hat. Maybe I’ll even find a retired boxing champion to give the kids some lessons and teach them the discipline it took me so long to find.
I’m finally free because for the first time in my life I’m not hiding from who I am: an everyday Joe who’s doing the best he can with the hand he’s been dealt.
I pull onto the highway and jam the stick into fourth gear. My arm smarts in its bandage but the doc told me it will heal in time. I don’t bother checking the rearview mirror because there’s nothing behind me I need to see.
I’ve got the radio on and Rudy Vallee joins me as I make my way to a place I’ve never been before.
I’m on my way home.
It’s hard not to feel
as if you and I are at the Pour House, nursing one last round before they close up for the night. The stools are empty, the radio’s off, a mound of stained aprons are piled atop the ice cooler. Let’s stay ’til they kick us out.
In the meantime, join me as I raise my glass to a special group of people.
Dan Mayer at Seventh Street Books had enough faith in Jersey Leo to bring Sugar Pop Moon to press. And my agent, Elizabeth Evans of the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency, put the deal together.
Fellow writer Alex Jackson, also Ellen Neuborne, helped me build a novel out of a few meandering pages of prose. And many sciencey friends shared their time and advice along the way—here’s to doctors Greg Plemmons, Dave Page, Tim Doran, and Brian Burnbaum; geneticist Lenore Neigeborn; and the inimitable, irreplaceable optometrist, Arnelda Levine.
Two automobrothers, Larry and Jeff Trepel, gave me the keys to Jersey’s Auburn, along with the other vehicles that rolled through these pages. And speaking of brothers, my own, Bill Florio, eagerly knocked down drafts as quickly as I served them up.
The clock is running out and our glasses are nearly empty. It’s time I head home to my wife, partner, first reader, and biggest fan, Ouisie Shapiro. She believed in Jersey, believed in me, and kept me believing in myself. For that, I offer a humble thank-you and a bottomless heart.
The lights are out, so I’ll say farewell for now. I hope to see you here for Jersey’s next adventure. I’ll be at the bar with the rest of the gang, waiting to pour you a shot of moon.
John Florio is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in print, on the web, and on television. He is also the author of One Punch from the Promised Land: Leon Spinks, Michael Spinks, and the Myth of the Heavyweight Title. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is at work on the next Jersey Leo novel. Visit him at johnfloriowriter.com.