Blind Moon Alley (8 page)

I run over to the Auburn as the fireworks rumble overhead. While I'm leaning into the car, I give Garvey my snubnose and tell him to keep it strapped to his ankle from now on. I also tell him to clam up on where he got it; I can only imagine what the champ would have to say if he found out I wasn't only hiding Garvey but arming him. Then I grab a bottle of sugar pop moon from under the seat and tell Garvey to follow me.

We race up Ludlow to Johalis's place and duck inside. The apartment isn't big, but it's comfortable. There's a kitchen and a parlor in the front; Johalis says he's got two bedrooms and a bathroom in the back. The place is filled with carved wooden furniture, and I'd bet my bottom dollar the warehouse doesn't even know it's missing.

Johalis tells Garvey to go on back and take a shower, and then clears a space in the parlor so the three of us can sit around the marble coffee table. Over Johalis's shoulder is a wooden grandfather clock, and next to that, a beveled mirror on the far wall. I avoid the mirror—I can just imagine what a day in the sun has done to my cheeks.

I put the bottle of moon on the table and Johalis goes to the kitchen for some glasses. When he comes back he's got a pack of Lucky Strikes in one hand and four shot glasses in the other.

“None for me,” my father says. Apparently, he's okay with helping a convicted cop killer flee the country but thinks downing an illegal shot of moonshine is going too far.

Garvey comes back into the room, toweling his beard and wearing nothing but his unwashed boxers. His legs are as bony as his chest.

“I'll get you some clothes in a minute,” Johalis tells Garvey and motions for him to sit. Then he pours three shots of moonshine, lights a Lucky, and tosses the rest of the pack to Garvey.

“Thanks,” Garvey says. “For the smokes, and for the cover.”

Johalis lets out one of his warm belly laughs. “We haven't covered anything yet. But we'll try.”

“Just for the record, I didn't gun down that bull, at least not the way they said I did,” Garvey says to Johalis. “You're helping me, so I want you to know that.”

“Accepted and agreed,” Johalis says and clinks his shot glass with Garvey's.

I join the two of them in the toast and we down the moon. As it heats my chest, I try to push Angela out of my mind.

“If we can hide Garv,” I say, “we've got a chance.”

Johalis nods, but not with any kind of confidence.

He turns to my father. “You'll take the second bedroom, Ernie.”

I can see my father doesn't want to intrude, but he's got no other choice.

“I'll make it up to you,” the champ says.

Johalis dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “I'll also pick up your clothes from New York. You're gonna need them.”

“Where's Garv going to hole up?” I say. “It can't be at the Ink Well. Reeger is on it day and night. We were lucky to get out.”

“That's why you shouldn't go back,” my father says.

I wish the champ could understand that this is more important than my safety or his concept of a legit day's pay. “Those people are depending on me,” I say.

“Jersey's right,” Johalis says, “He's got to go back. Otherwise Reeger will start looking for him, track him here, and we'll all get nailed. Let Reeger stay focused on Jersey and the Ink Well. We'll put Garvey somewhere else.”

He's obviously got a plan and I have no idea what it is. Maybe it's better that way. All I can do is hope that Johalis is as sure-handed as that smooth voice makes him out to be.

We pour another round of moon, and the liquid oils our spirits. Garvey starts talking about elementary school; he shares with the champ and Johalis a bunch of stories that haven't crossed my mind in years. The four of us laugh the night away, and for the first time since I visited my old friend at Eastern State, we're free of the specter of guns, badges, and electric chairs. I sip another shot of moon and let the shine coat my tongue. The fireworks crackle overhead, and I wonder if Angela is there to see them.

CHAPTER 5

I rang the bell for last call a half-hour ago. It feels strange to close the bar at one o'clock, but it's a weeknight and Doolie wants me to cut back on the late hours. He's worried I can't protect the place, but I'm not going to let him down again. I've got Johalis working the bar with me on weeknights and Homer manning the door on weekends. And we've got backup: the champ is only ten minutes away at Johalis's place. I'd hate to call him while his right hand is in a cast, but he'd only need his left to take down half the sixth precinct.

As for the Hy-Hat, I've put Calvin in charge until further notice. I even let him and Rose live out of a room in the back of the club. Of course, I couldn't let him take the job without telling him the truth about Reeger.

“You're a savior,” he said, his unshaven cheeks creasing as he smiled. “I'll return the favor someday.”

“Just keep the place going,” I told him. “And that means steering clear of Reeger, so be careful.”

“Don't worry,” he said, downing his Rob Roy so he could run home to tell Rose of their good fortune. The look on his face made the bags under his eyes seem pounds lighter, as if I'd erased eighteen years of clock punching with a single paycheck.

I tell myself I gave Calvin the job as a favor to Doolie, but the truth is I did it for myself. I filled an empty pocket and it felt good.

Of course, nothing will be back to normal until Garvey is off my hands—and out of the country. For now, we have him stashed with Madame Curio, a hooker who doubles as a palm reader in a shop about a mile from Wanamaker's department store. I'm ashamed to say I know her place. Yeah, there were times I was low enough to lose myself in her gin-soaked whispers. Thinking about those nights makes me want to scrub myself with soap, but I muscle through my shame by reminding myself that the Madame is helping me save Garvey's life—which makes her one of us. Besides, her shop is a perfect hideout. It's in a desolate area—every storefront on the block is boarded up—and the Madame has never, ever sung to a bull.

I sweep the floor while Johalis mixes a whiskey sour for Wallace. Our usual late-night straggler has spent most of the evening sitting alone, reading
The Maltese Falcon
. He's a student at Penn and already has the look of a professor: nappy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a prominent Adam's apple that juts out over a navy-blue necktie. He spends the summer months shuttling files at City Hall, but the day will come when he'll be making headlines. Any Negro they let into Penn is bound to do a lot more than tend bar.

“A last splash for the soul,” he announces as he stands by the bar and watches Johalis drain a shaker into his rock-filled cocktail glass. I want to ask him about the
Falcon
—why he's reading it, if it's good—but I'd be too embarrassed to admit that I haven't picked up a book since I left school five years ago. I've often told my father that leaving college put a roll of cash in my pocket, but I've never admitted to losing my soul in the process. I promise myself that I'll go back someday. But I know it's a lie.

Wallace drops his money on the bar, takes the drink, and goes back to his table.

Johalis grabs the coins and dumps them into Doolie's register. “You off to the Red Canary?” he asks me as he stacks the shakers and locks up the register.

“That's the plan,” I say.

Angela spent the evening waiting tables; she hangs her apron on one of the hooks behind the bar and as she reaches up, her dress rises toward her knee. I'm tempted to ask her if she'd like a ride home—I'm heading toward her place anyway—but I decide to wait until the tape is off my nose.

“'Night, Jersey,” she calls out. When she says my name, there's a lilt in her voice that's as sweet as a violin.

My eyes start jiggling again, so I lean toward the cash register and straighten a stack of coasters.

“'Night,” I say.

She heads to the front room and I see she's got some books under her arm; she must have started prepping for the high school entrance exam. She and Wallace leave the place together, strolling with the kind of four-legged gait that only comes with practice. I try convincing myself that a bookworm like Wallace wouldn't be interested in an uneducated speakeasy coat checker, but my heart knows otherwise.

I wish Angela were a cheap flapper so I could hate her, but she's not and I don't. She's no floozy and Wallace is a good-enough Joe. My throat goes tight and I swallow hard. When I look up, Johalis is staring at me. He knows why I'm quiet, but he's too nice a guy to say it.

“Closing time,” he says.

“Yep.”

“You sure you don't want backup?”

He's afraid I'll run into trouble at the Canary, but he doesn't know my history with Myra.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” I say.

We lock up the bar and Johalis heads down Vine. I walk up Juniper as visions of Angela and Wallace burn my soul. When I get in the Auburn, I peel the tape off my nose guard even though my face still hurts like hell and large yellow-purple stains linger around my eyes. Fuck it.

I start the engine and pat my shoulder holster to feel the six cylinders of security that are lodged within it. It's not my rod—Garvey has my snubnose—but Johalis got me this one and he swears it's accurate, powerful, and untraceable. I can't imagine Reeger will be waiting at the Canary, but I'm still not about to walk in there cold.

The Red Canary is only a couple of miles from the Ink Well, but it might as well be in another universe. The joint fills the upper half of a brick building off Rittenhouse Square on Pine Street. It's two floors of gambling, music, booze, and women—right in the swankiest part of town. Still, if you didn't know it was there, you'd never find it. Heavy burgundy drapes keep the Feds from seeing through the windows, and thick plaster walls stop the music and laughter from hitting the street. The place never did well as a restaurant, but it's been pulling in big bucks ever since Lovely turned it into a speakeasy.

The entrance is an unmarked fire exit in the back service alley, which is something I didn't realize until I saw a pair of drunken lovebirds sneak out the door. I slipped inside after they left and ventured up the metal service stairs to the top floor.

Now I'm sitting at a table for two; I've got my back to a cream-colored plaster wall that's so smooth it shines like glass. In the middle of the room is a square bar manned by three tenders and surrounded by suits, rummies, and platinum blondes. Across from the bar, in the far corner to my right, a piano player is pounding out a folk song I remember the champ singing to me when I was a kid.

A leggy waitress with red hair and a snug blouse asks me what I'd like. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to know that she's on the menu. She's smart to choose me—I'm alone, banged up, and an albino—any hooker worth her weight in salt would be trying to close this deal. But tonight, there's only one woman who can mend the cut I'm nursing, and she's on the other side of town with a whiskey-sour-drinking bookworm.

I tell the redhead I'll take a double shot of her best gin as I scan the place for Myra.

“Sugar, I hope you're not here to even some kind of score,” she says, nodding toward my nose.

“I would,” I say, “but Dempsey's too scared to show up.”

She rolls her eyes and starts to walk away, but I call her back and ask her if she knows Myra Banks.

“She's on in a few minutes, Sugar.”

“The name's Jersey,” I say. I can see she doesn't care; names have no place in her line of work. She's already heading off to another table, her hips rocking from side to side.

I spot five suits sharing a bottle of whiskey at the bar. Judging by their narrow lapels, they're cops. Under normal circumstances, I'd write them off as garden-variety street bulls, but Reeger's got me nervous. I eye them for a while, but they don't seem interested in detecting anything but another round of scotch.

The piano player finishes his tune with a flourish and calls out for Myra to join him. A woman sitting at the bar stands up, downs the rest of her champagne, and walks through a roomful of diners to the piano.

So this is what's become of Myra Banks. It's only been five years, but she sure has changed. The first thing I notice is her foot. She must have left that special shoe of hers in an operating room, because she's wearing a pair of open-toed silver pumps and her gait is steady and strong. A hip-hugging sequined dress covers one of her shoulders but leaves the other exposed—smooth, brown, and inviting. Her hazel almond-shaped eyes are working overtime, twinkling under the muted chandeliers.

The lights dim even more as Myra glides into the circular glow of a small stage lamp. She begins singing “Hello, My Lover, Goodbye,” and the piano player accompanies her with soft, rolling chords. Now I understand how she got twenty grand out of Garvey, and how she became part-owner of the joint. Her voice is as lush and warm as cashmere, and that dress is as curvy as a mountain stream.