Blind Moon Alley (4 page)

“I don't either,” I tell him, even though I'm not sure what I think. I'd like to believe Garvey was set up, but he never addressed it when I visited the pen, and the folks who were at the Red Canary that night said he shot the bull in cold blood.

I refill Homer's glass when a broad-shouldered palooka in a baggy blue raincoat and dark fedora walks through the door. Normally, I wouldn't look twice except he's white. He's not a local bull—I already know all of their faces. He must be some kind of thug, maybe a stickup artist. For the first time since I left New York, I miss bartending at the Pour House. At least Diego had my back, working the door and frisking for metal.

As the guy makes his way to the bar, beads of sweat coat his creased forehead. A scar on his left cheek resembles a blood-red caterpillar, and he's got a bulb at the end of his nose that looks as if it's gone a couple of rounds with a knitting needle.

“Whiskey,” he says in a scratchy voice and lights up a ciggy. “A double, rocks.”

“Coming up,” I say. I throw four cubes into a glass and drown them.

I slide his drink across the bar and he's careful not to touch my hand when he grabs it. I'm used to it; everybody's afraid to catch what I've got.

He downs his whiskey and slides his glass back at me. I fill it again, same ice.

Homer looks confused. He gazes at the oaf and then steals a glance at me. I suppose he's thinking I should do something, but I'm not being dealt much of a hand.

The oaf looks at the front page of the
Inquirer
hanging ­be­­hind the bar. “You must be that albino,” he says, nodding toward the paper.

“You must be a genius,” I say, wondering why my tongue is always a half-step in front of my brain.

He's got a few inches on me, so I put him at six-two. I curse myself for not having my gun tucked under my apron; it's sitting with my brass knuckles behind the ice bin, doing me no good.

Homer slips his right hand under his gut and into his pocket. I don't know what he's packing, and I'm hoping things stay calm enough that I never have to find out.

“That'll be two bucks,” I say.

The guy's lips stretch into a smug smile and he plunges his hand into his pocket. I'm expecting to see a gun, but he pulls out a badge.

“Jack Reeger,” he says, flashing the metal at Homer and me. “But you boys can call me Sarge.”

So this is Reeger. He's not about to tell me he'll let up on Myra, so I wait for him to tell me why he's here. And what it will cost me to get him to leave.

He takes a drag on his smoke and blows a cloud between us, where an implied threat hangs in the air.

“Where's Garvey?” he says, with a tone as light as a friend asking for a dime.

I look at the clock. It's five past midnight.

“Dead,” I tell him. Then I add, “Sarge.”

Reeger's face crunches. He leans on the bar, his cigarette bouncing on the corner of his lips when he speaks. “You were there tonight, right? There can't be two of you.”

“There can't be two of anybody,” I snap back. “And yes, I was there. Now I'm here.” I nod at his hooch. “You owe me two bucks.”

My heart's dancing fast enough to headline at the Cotton Club.

Reeger pounds his fist on the bar. “He's not going to walk away,” he shouts, the corner of his upper lip twisting as he barks. “Now tell me where he is, you white-bleached jigaboo freak whatever the fuck you are.”

He reaches into his jacket and this time I'm sure a gun is coming out. Homer doesn't wait to find out. He pulls a utility knife from his pocket and presses the steel blade to Reeger's neck, right under his jaw. I clench my fingers against the smooth brass rail that wraps the bar. I'm convinced the Sarge's windpipe is about to start hissing like a steam whistle.

“You best pay,” Homer says, his eyes aiming straight up toward the ceiling and the vein on the side of his neck bulging. “Fork over the two bucks.”

“Calm down, Homer,” I say, but the look in my slow friend's eyes says he wants to cut Reeger to the floor, badge or no badge.

Reeger's lids narrow. He reaches into his breast pocket, making a show that he's not pulling a gun. As he pulls out his billfold, he swings his elbow directly into Homer's throat. Homer's blade clangs to the floor and he's gasping for air.

I go for my gun, but Reeger lunges over the bar and grabs my collar with both hands. Homer's on the floor across from the bar, croaking.

Reeger pulls my face so close to his that I can see a hair shooting out of the scar on his cheek. “I'll take a look around if you don't mind.”

Then he wraps his right hand behind my head and slams my nose against the brass railing in front of the bar. I feel like I've been hit by a speeding subway train. I lift my head up; my temples are pounding and I smell blood trickling out of my nostrils.

The room is spinning, but I can tell Reeger has a gun and he's pointing it between my eyes.

He says, “You screw with me, I won't only drop the hammer on Garvey, I'll nail you and the retard.”

He walks to the back of the joint and looks into the kitchen before poking his head under the tables in each of the booths. He must be satisfied we're alone, because he crosses the barroom and walks over to Homer, who has crawled in front of a table in the front room. Homer is on his knees, clutching his Adam's apple.

Reeger pushes his gun behind Homer's ear. “Nighty-night, Retard.”

I'll never get over the bar in time to stop Reeger from pulling the trigger. Homer must realize the same thing, because he looks at me and starts bawling.

“My name is Homer,” he rasps through his sobs before shutting his eyes and waiting for the bullet.

I can't turn away—I feel as though somebody has to watch Homer when he dies to prove he was ever here at all. My teeth are clenched and I'm ready for the pop of Reeger's pistol. Instead, all I hear is the click of an empty chamber.

Reeger chuckles. “You've got more luck than brains,” he tells Homer.

Then he kicks Homer in the rib cage and walks to the door, leaving the poor guy curled up on the floor, clutching his side. When Reeger grabs the doorknob, he stops and turns to me.

“Send Garvey my love,” he says. “Snowball.” He walks out, leaving the door open behind him.

Homer hobbles through the front room, shuts the door, and slides the deadbolt.

Blood is leaking into the back of my mouth; I'm trying to stem the flow by pressing my nose with the bottom of my apron. Homer stumbles behind the bar, throws a dishrag around a couple of fistfuls of ice and gives it to me. The look in his eyes tells me I'm in bad shape.

I hold the rag to my face as I tilt my head back and stare at the water pipe that runs the length of the tin ceiling. The music on the radio cuts out and an announcer reports that death-row inmate Aaron Garvey escaped as he was being driven to the electric chair at Rockview Penitentiary. According to the newsflash, Garvey made it past two armed guards. One, James Milmo, is in the hospital.

Under the dishrag, as blood tickles my throat, my lips stretch into a smile.

CHAPTER 3

Angela comes out of my kitchen with two tall glasses of fresh iced tea.

“Where's the sugar?” she asks, her voice soft as the hum of the small table fan on top of my radio.

“There isn't any,” I say. “I'm running low on everything. I'll stock the kitchen tomorrow.”

She looks at me like I'm kidding, but I mean it. I'm not bad with a skillet in my hands; I used to do a lot of cooking for the kids at the Hy-Hat. I'm about to ask her to come back for dinner next week, but my eyes start shimmying. I block her view by pressing the bag of ice to the bridge of my nose.

I've spent most of the last two days in the same position: stretched out on the couch with my head on a pillow and my nose on ice. I know the risk that comes with hospital paperwork, so I asked Doolie to track down a Philadelphia doctor willing to do a house call at a juice joint. The best he could come up with was a trainer from a boxing gym in South Philly. The guy knocked on the back door of the Ink Well right after I locked up last night. He was no doctor, but that didn't slow him down. He tilted my head back, pinched my nose between his fingers, and popped the bone back into place. He said it was a clean break and that I'd be as good as new once I heal. That doesn't help me as I sit here, in front of Angela, with a pair of purple half-moons hanging under my eyes and two sticks of cotton plugging up my nostrils. Every time I sneeze, I feel like I've been shot through the temples.

Angela waits as I sit up. I put the bag of ice on the floor and try not to stare at the green cotton skirt clinging to her hips. It's the same skirt she wore the day she convinced Doolie to hire me, showing him the
Inquirer
, telling him how I'd rescued that kid from Port Richmond, and warning him about a couple of roughnecks who'd been at the bar the previous week looking for trouble. She thought the joint needed some protection and convinced Doolie that I was the man for the job. I hope she doesn't think less of me now. She believed in me, and when you're missing a chromosome or two, that feels more special than it should.

“Your sugarless tea, sir,” she says and hands me my glass.

I take a swig, and even though I can't taste much, the chilled liquid feels good rolling down my throat.

“Mmm, good,” I tell her.

“You're going to need some food,” she says before taking a seat across from me in my armchair. She crosses her ankles and cradles her glass between her palms. “I'll bring some dinner up later.”

We sip our tea in silence. I know she's hoping I'll tell her more about my busted nose, but I've got to keep handing her the same line I've been giving Doolie: a fight broke out at the bar and some guy, an ex-boxer with a cauliflower ear, came at me. He broke my nose but I managed to wrestle him out the door. I'm not sure Doolie believes me but I'm sticking to the story. I even covered my tracks by swearing Homer to secrecy. I can't tell the gang at the Ink Well that Reeger is targeting me because he thinks I'm hiding a convicted cop killer. That would put everybody in constant fear of Reeger. And Garvey. And me.

“You still worried?” I ask her.

“Of course I am. Look at you, Jersey. You look awful.”

I'm glad the name Snowball has vanished along with Garvey, but hearing Angela talk about my ugly mug hurts in a place far deeper than the bridge of my nose.

“What if that man comes back looking for you?” she asks me. “What will you do then?”

I can't tell her the truth. And I can't tell her that I know how to handle myself, not while I'm holding an ice bag against my busted nose.

“He'll never find me,” I say. “Because I'll be here, drinking iced tea with you.”

A smile crosses her face but it doesn't stick.

I try a second time.

“I promise I'll call Doolie if the guy shows up again,” I tell her, hoping my tone is soothing enough to stop her from digging for more. “Really, I'll be fine.”

She goes into the kitchen to refill the ice bag, so I don't have a chance to ask her if she's still considering going back to school. We used to talk for hours about my year at City College, why I quit, and why saving the Hy-Hat was more important to me than earning a degree. She treated me like some kind of professor because I'd walked into a college classroom. I didn't deserve it, but I'd sure like to see that look on her face again.

I get up and peel back the shade on the window that faces Vine Street. The bench in front of Ronnie's Luncheonette hasn't been empty since Reeger rearranged my nose. This morning, a guy with a mustache sat there, eating breakfast. Now an old dame is in his place—she's got a Bible in her lap but she's not reading it. I wasn't born yesterday. It's ninety degrees out there and Ronnie didn't get this kind of business in the heart of spring.

Angela comes back with a fresh bag of ice and I take it.

“You might be right,” I say, holding the sack against my face as I return to the couch. “Maybe we should get a second man at the Ink Well, just until I'm back on my feet.”

I can see the relief wash over her. “You're not as dumb as you look,” she says, smiling.

If that impressed her, she'd be really dazzled to know that I've already got the man for the job. He's eager, trustworthy, and strong—and he can't stand bulls. I just have to be sure he won't go crazy and press a utility knife up against anybody's throat. Again.

It's Friday night at the Ink Well. The joint is dimly lit and fully stocked; the radio is playing softly behind me. Things are returning to normal: we've already served the wave of factory workers who come here to revive their souls after spending eight hours on an assembly line.

So far, the only interruption to the room's chatter was a radio update on Garvey. The state police think he's moving west—a woman says she saw him on a bread line in Harrisburg. Everybody at the bar stopped to listen before doubling down on whiskey and calling Garvey a scumsucking murderer. The only one in his corner was Homer; he kept punching his thigh and asking me how Garvey might dodge the cops and make it out of the country. I didn't have an answer. I'm wondering if Garvey does.