Blind Moon Alley (18 page)

A group of teens are playing punchball on 127th Street, so I wait for them to finish a rundown before easing past them. I park in front of a fire hydrant and walk up the block. The front room of the Hy-Hat is empty, but I figured today would be slow. Normal people can't wait to be outside on days like this. Me, I'm standing by the curb, the scarf blocking the summer rays from hitting my face, as I keep rehearsing the words I'll use to tell Calvin I can't afford to pay him any longer. Maybe I should start by suggesting he tend bar at the Ink Well.

I open the door to the club, lose the dark glasses, and take a look at the room where the champ broke the one tool of his trade, his hand. The place is quiet and empty. The dummy bag hangs limply. The pool tables sit idly. There's something depressing about a game room without kids—it reminds me of a smile without teeth.

A cry comes from the kitchen, a primitive call for help. It sounds like a woman. I draw my gun and scurry around the ping-pong tables, staying on my toes and avoiding spilled peanuts and a rogue cue ball. Then I position myself outside the kitchen door, waiting to hear the gravelly evil of Reeger's voice. But I don't hear the Sarge. All I hear is that agonizing wail.

I enter quickly, pistol first. Broken plates and open cans of food litter the floor. Calvin is stretched out on the ground, his right leg bent beneath him. His wife Rose is leaning over him, her palms pressed up against his chest, her fingers soaked with blood. When she moves her hands, I see the bullet hole. It's in Calvin's throat—blood is squirting out of his neck and Rose is pushing harder on the wound, trying to stop the hemorrhage. She keeps rearranging her hands, hoping to stumble upon a magic position that will stop the bleeding—but she's not finding it. She looks up at me and starts to speak but no words come out. Black mascara runs down her cheeks and a trail of saliva oozes off her round bottom lip.

“Calvin,” I hear myself shout. I feel as if this can't be real, that if I walk outside and re-enter, Calvin will once again be working the dummy bag with Billy Walker. I fall to my knees over him; I can feel Rose's shoulders shaking as she sobs. I roll my scarf into a makeshift pillow and slide it under Calvin's head.

He tries to speak but no words come out, only a gurgling sound.

“I'll call Doc Anders,” I tell Rose and race to the phone in the office. I get the doc on the line and tell him what's going on. He says he'll be here in a few minutes, but even that seems too long for Calvin to hold on.

I dash back to the kitchen and find Rose hunched over Calvin, her head bent, her attention darting back and forth from Calvin's eyes to his chest.

My friend's blood has splattered onto nearly everything in the room. It speckles the sink and the refrigerator; it's pooling under my knees. I pick up a crumpled napkin from the floor and wipe a sweaty red streak from his forehead. Then I look him in the eye and make sure he's staring back at me. The dark bags under his lids are swelling and I'm afraid this is the last time we'll speak.

“Hang in there, Calvin,” I say and grab his hand. “We don't want you going anywhere just yet.”

He squeezes my hand so I know he can hear me. I turn to the door hoping to see Doc Anders, but Calvin squeezes my hand again. This time he doesn't let up. He wants my attention and I know why.

“Reeger?” I ask him.

He blinks his eyes and I take that as a yes. My guess is that Reeger showed up looking for Garvey. He probably started throwing his weight around and Calvin didn't take too kindly to being bullied. I'll never know exactly what happened here, but the facts are unimportant. I promise myself that if Calvin dies I'll take care of Rose. And Reeger.

“I'll give the Sarge your regards,” I say to Calvin.

He gives my hand another squeeze—he likes the idea—but the sound of screeching tires interrupts our conversation. The doc comes running into the club; his nurse is with him. They strap a contraption that looks like a gas mask over Calvin's mouth and slip a stretcher under his body. They're calling out medical phrases to each other and I have no idea what they're saying. I feel helpless and stupid. These two can save Calvin's life; all I can do is promise to drop a hammer on a badge. The champ has been right about a number of things—one of them is that throwing a gas bomb at a fire only makes the flames bigger.

Doc Anders works on Calvin as Rose sits silently, twisting the fingers of one hand in the palm of the other. I can see her mind racing through her past with Calvin—and her future without him.

The doc and his nurse strap Calvin to the stretcher, lift him off the floor, and carry him out of the kitchen and through the game room to the front door. But I know the look of defeat and the doc has it etched around his sagging eyes and across his taut lips. It's too late. Calvin is dead.

I was supposed to be heading west with Myra today but spent the morning at Laurel Hill Cemetery. The sun beat down on Calvin's open grave, frying the burnt grass around the ditch to a yellowy brown. I found shelter in the shade of an oak tree as the priest delivered his eulogy, telling us that Calvin had left us for a better place. As ugly as Philly can turn, I couldn't stomach hearing that death was an attractive alternative, and I bet that Calvin would agree with me. Rose wept openly as she looked down at the petal-covered coffin. Doolie stood by her side as he said good-bye to his childhood friend. Three Negro men were there—three-quarters of Calvin's quartet—their heads bowed, their eyes shut in prayer. I leaned against the oak tree, my hat pulled low to stop the sun from broiling my skin—and to hide the shamed look on my face. Everybody there blamed me for Calvin's death and I couldn't disagree.

After the burial, Doolie opened the Ink Well so Calvin's friends would have a place to grieve, and even though nobody invited me, I came. I felt I owed it to Calvin. I can still feel the regulars staring at me. Angela hasn't even said hello.

Doolie's behind the bar. Homer is also here—Doolie likes having him on staff to man the door. Rose is sitting across from Wallace at table one, staring into the cigarette smoke that swirls in front of her face, its trail as wispy as the memories she'll now be carrying. Her hair, which is normally wet with pomade and combed down over her forehead, is pointing straight up toward the heavens. There are also some faces I don't know, most likely Calvin's friends or family. They're eating lunch at the other tables—the place is full, but for all the wrong reasons.

Out of respect, Doolie turned the radio off and unplugged the music box. He's got the electric fan buzzing, but it's not strong enough to beat the heat. Nor is it loud enough to drown out the clanging noises coming from the construction crew on Vine Street. Despite the racket, everybody is speaking in hushed whispers. Grief has already knocked us down and it's still throwing punches. This is a solemn time for the Ink Well, and it's killing me that I can't mourn Calvin's death with the others, that I feel responsible for his death and for his family's pain. I no longer feel comfortable in the place I called home—even to say good-bye.

The champ is with me and I appreciate the support. We chose a booth in the back of the joint so as to not to interfere with the other mourners. I've got a bourbon in front of me and the champ is working his way through a double seltzer on the rocks. I recognize his blue jacket and maroon necktie; it's the same combo he used to wear when he represented the Colored Merchants Association in Harlem back before the market crashed. I can see that one of the brass buttons has been replaced—it doesn't quite match the others. Beads of sweat dot his chin as he urges me to stick to my plan and run away with Myra. I guess Johalis hasn't been spreading any of those stationhouse rumors because my father is really singing Myra's praises.

I tell him my plans haven't changed—but that I'm postponing them a week or two so I can settle my score with Reeger.

“What's that gonna get you aside from the 'lectric chair?”

“I can't walk away from this, Champ,” I say, nodding my head toward the mourners in the front room. “I owe it to Calvin. It's my fault he's dead.”

“Your fault? What'd you do? You gave the man a paycheck. Yeah, he was at the Hy-Hat, but that's 'cause you gave him a job.”

I want to believe him, but when I glance over his shoulder at the locals who are looking at me—the troublemaker who put their friend in Reeger's crosshairs—a blanket of guilt dampens my spirit. “He died because he was working for me, Champ.”

“I know it,” my father says. “But you couldn't have stopped it. Reeger was lookin' for Garvey, plain and simple.”

“So?”

“So Reeger's comin' down on anyone and anything around Garvey, including you.”

I sip my bourbon and think about it. Garvey was pushed into gunning down Connor—and now Reeger wants a pint of Garvey's blood. The champ is right.

“Why do you think I been helpin' you?” my father says. “You got caught up in Garvey's mess. He didn't get caught up in yours.” He reaches out with his casted hand and pats my forearm with his calloused fingertips.

“Leave town with Myra,” he says. “Go tomorrow. Let Reeger and Garvey settle this. You're not part of it, Son.”

I look at his plastered hand, his mismatched brass button, the scar over his eye. The man has his dignity and has always fought for mine. He wouldn't tell me to walk away from a battle that was justified. I'll always wonder how he's able to see so clearly between right and wrong, and why it's always been so difficult for me, his own flesh and blood.

“Okay, Champ,” I say. “You win. I'll leave tomorrow.”

We sit and nurse our drinks, staying a while out of respect for Calvin. But there's no longer anything here for me. The magic of the joint was never in what you were doing, but how you were doing it. And right now, I'm doing it alone.

I tell the champ to go on ahead, that I'll settle our tab and meet up with him later. I walk up to the bar and put a few bucks down. That damned newspaper still hangs on the back wall—except now it's been taped back together. I can't imagine it will stay there for long.

Doolie comes over and slides my money back at me. “Thanks for showing up,” he says.

I tell him I appreciate all he's done for me and I leave the cash where it is. Then I wait until Angela's in the kitchen before crossing the dining room to leave. I have no idea if she would have said good-bye, but I'm sparing myself the blow of getting an answer I don't want.

As I walk out, the only person who looks my way is Homer. He stops me just as I reach the door.

“You need help with anything, you just call,” he says and shakes my hand, his eyes focused somewhere over my head.

I tell him he hasn't heard the last of me, but I'm lying. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning with Myra, straining to spot a better future somewhere on the horizon.

I step out of the dim light of the Ink Well onto Juniper. The construction crew around the corner is going full steam ahead; it sounds as though the workers are filling a hole with cannonballs. The noise is a refreshing change from the hushed tones inside the Ink Well.

As I cross the street and head to the florist, I take off my fedora and let the rays singe my face. For one brief moment, I'm not hiding. The doc's cream is in my pocket but I leave it there. Myra knows me for who I am and I'm not going to let go of her. I'll bring her flowers tonight and we'll leave this place for good in the morning. This is my chance and I'm taking it. The sun broils my cheeks; it burns my skin with the sting of truth. And freedom.

I stroll up the stairs carrying a box of roses. I'm leaning on my father's words—
You got caught up in Garvey's mess
—but I still can't help but feel responsible for Calvin's death. I look at the flowers in my hand and remind myself I'm not just another guilty conscience seeking absolution. I'm not a cheating philanderer bringing flowers to an unsuspecting dame, nor am I a two-timing widower placing them on my dead wife's grave. And I'm certainly not Lovely, who makes a habit of dropping full bouquets on the bleeding, mutilated bodies of the penny-ante crooks foolish enough to double-cross him. All I am is an everyday Joe letting my old classmate know that I'm done swallowing the taunts and jeers I've spent my lifetime choking down—and that I'm ready to prove it.