Blind Moon Alley (10 page)

“It's perfect,” she says. “Garvey will get the money and you can keep Reeger off my back. You're the only one who can do it.”

The gin is softening my senses and I want to be the guy she thinks I am. I want to step up and protect her the way Garvey did for me. But I can picture how Reeger would react if he found out I started taking the payments, and I don't like the way the story ends.

“I'm the wrong guy,” I tell her.

“No you're not,” she says. “I know you; you'll figure something out.”

I shake my head. “I'm sorry, Myra. There's a reason I've got the door locked. We're talking about Reeger.”

She leans over and kisses me on the mouth, slipping her tongue between my teeth. I can smell the pomade in her hair and a tangy, perfumed sweetness coming from her bare shoulder.

My first thought is that she needs help and will do anything to get it. My second thought is that I don't care. I put my arm around her as our tongues dance a slow tango and I pull her closer. I see my hand against her shoulder: my skin, pale and raw, against hers, smooth and brown, radiant and soothing.

She traces her tongue across my face and over the bridge of my nose; she breathes lightly on my scab and I feel my face flush. Her hair teases my forehead as she palms the side of my face and then drags a fingertip along the rim of my ear. I'm intoxicated by the taste of her lips, the smell of her skin, and from thinking that it's possible she still wants me the way she did at the Hotel Theresa.

She guides me out of the booth, leans back on the table, and pulls me on top of her. I turn away from the kitchen, away from the soiled apron that hangs there waiting for the coat checker with the tiny bald spot. Then I look into Myra's hazel eyes and wonder if I'm really the only one who can undo the years of scorn that still haunt her.

She used to say that we'd find peace—that we'd run away to a place where we'd be free of bullies. Maybe she was right, and maybe this is it. Maybe the Ink Well—this dark, shuttered, two-bit colored speakeasy—is our refuge. Maybe we've found Santa Monica.

Or maybe she just wants someone to stand between her and Reeger.

CHAPTER 6

An early morning rain cooled the city streets, but now the sun is back—it's baking the asphalt dry and pushing the temperature up over a hundred. I'm riding on Market, heading to Madame Curio's, and the Wanamaker building towers over me.

A radio report says the manhunt for Garvey is moving down the Susquehanna from Harrisburg to York, but some state cops are still lingering here in Philly. It's hard to miss their blue coats, brass buttons, and bobby hats. I just passed two in front of Broad Street Station; there were four more near the Excelsior Hotel. Unless they're planning on driving over to Filbert Street and having their palms read, they won't be bumping into Garvey any time soon.

It's been two weeks since Myra and I revisited our childhood vow at the Ink Well table, and neither one of us has spoken with Garvey. We're probably better off staying clear of him, not because of the state cops—they have no interest in Myra or me—but because of Reeger and his boys. There's no telling how many eyes are on us.

But the Madame called Johalis in the middle of the night, rattling on about needing to see me right away. She should have tried calling me at the Red Canary. She would have found me in the back dressing room, sharing a shaker of gin with my old classmate. She also would have found the classmate asking me to take Reeger's payments again, and me saying no, again.

When I reach the stoplight at Bowers, I tighten up when I see four city bulls clustered around a streetlamp. I quickly realize they're not part of the stakeout; they're at a crime scene. A dead man's legs extend beyond a row of hedges; a squirrel crawls along his shin and stops to lick at his exposed ankle. The bulls are looking down at the corpse, their faces twisted in disgust. The tall, skinny one turns away—he takes off his hat, leans over a blood-splattered garbage can, and heaves his guts up. My guess is that Lovely left his signature on that corpse—only his kind of twisted sadism can prompt a reaction like that one. When the light turns green, I pull away and don't look back.

I continue down Market, then turn onto Filbert, a desolate, two-block stretch of abandoned shops and aborted dreams. I pull up to Madame Curio's, a hole-in-the-wall that was a candy store before the market crashed, and park next to a gumball machine that won't see a kid, or a gumball, as long as the Madame is running the operation.

I check to be sure that mine is the only heart beating on Filbert. All is clear, so I kill the engine and duck under the Madame's awning. A note on the door reads, “By Appointment Only.” There's no sign of the Madame, so I pick the lock with a broken bobby pin I find on the floor and slip inside. The hinge squeaks so loudly I'm surprised the state bulls back on Market don't come charging.

The foyer is unlit, but thanks to a slice of daylight coming through a tear in one of the curtains, I can see it's empty. I don't blame the Madame for shutting down. If I were hiding Garvey, I'd do the same.

My eyes shimmy as they adjust to the darkness. I know the hallway to my left leads to the Madame's chamber—a small room furnished with little more than a folding table and a crystal ball. I'm glad the champ's not here to see how easily my oxfords find their way across the checkered tiles.

I'm not even at the threshold when the Madame steps out of the hallway, alone. I can barely make out the curly brown locks that spring out from under her turban or the thick lines of makeup that streak across her eyebrows and lips. I hope she's having the same trouble seeing me. My nose is healing, but my eyes still have yellow haloes hanging underneath.

“Snow . . . Jersey,” she says. Her voice is soft and carries the hint of an apology.

I avoid the awkwardness.

“I let myself in,” I say, nodding toward the door. Then I add, “Johalis said it was important.”

“It is,” she says and walks across the foyer to double-lock the door. “Go on ahead.”

The hallway is pitch-black, but I inch my way toward the back room and she follows two steps behind. It's hot and grimy in here and the back window is sealed shut. I wipe the sweat from the side of my nose with my shirt cuff and hope she's got a fan going in the back. I can't imagine how in hell anybody could survive in here, but then I realize that Garvey is used to an eight-by-twelve-foot cell. For him, these are luxurious accommodations.

I'm about to walk into the room when I hear a muffled cry from the other side of the door. It's a sickening sound, like somebody struggling to breathe. Garvey? I take a step back and grab for my gun. I touch its handle but don't get any farther. Somebody yanks my arms from behind and shoves me hard against the wall.

“Hello, Snowball,” he says.

It's fucking Reeger. How the hell he tracked Garvey here I'll never know.

He lets go of my arm and jabs a revolver into my neck. I keep my hands at my side, useless, as I listen to the desperate whimpers coming from the other side of the door.

Reeger reaches around my back and takes my gun from its holster. Then he pops the cylinder and dumps the bullets on the floor. The metal slugs ping on the Madame's hard tiles and roll down the hallway, taking my hopes with them.

“C'mon on inside,” Reeger says. “I'll read your fortune.”

He opens the door and pushes me, then the Madame, into the room. Before following us, he tosses my gun onto the floor behind him.

The Madame's table has been pushed aside. On it a lamp burns—it's not bright but it's strong enough to cast a yellowish glow throughout the space.

The source of the whimpering sits six feet in front me, smack in the center of the room. It's Homer, strapped to a folding chair, a handkerchief wrapped around his head and under his tongue. He's been beaten up, but he's still managing to wail through his gag. The desperate groans coming from behind his bound tongue turn my stomach.

The only good news is that Garvey is nowhere to be found.

There's a goon standing behind the table with his arms crossed. I recognize his mustache; he's the guy from outside Ronnie's Luncheonette. I'm guessing he's a bull, maybe filling Connor's shoes as Reeger's new partner. He's a big guy, about six-three, with a jaw as square as a lunchbox. He's got a revolver in his shoulder holster, and I'm guessing he had it pressed against the Madame's forehead when she dialed the phone.

I look at the Madame and she looks to the floor. She tells me she's sorry. “I didn't want to do it,” she says.

“Shut that whore mouth,” Reeger shouts and smacks his knuckles across her face.

The Madame's leathered skin darkens and her eyes go black.

“Fuck you,” she says and spits in his face.

He goes to hit her again but I grab his hand. He windmills his arm, twisting his hand from my grip.

I clench my fists at my side.

“Enough,” I say.

I'm expecting the worst, but Reeger doesn't swing, he just glares into my eyes, his nostrils flaring and the scar on his cheek turning a deep crimson. His left ear is swollen and I hope that's where the champ's fist landed when it broke.

“Love your friends, do you?” Reeger says, his jaw tight.

He's scowling at me and I wonder what's coming next. I find out when he walks over to Homer and raises his revolver to my friend's left temple. Homer's eyes go wide. He starts wailing again—he's stomping his feet, and his cries sound like they're coming from a caged animal.

“You've got five seconds to tell me where Garvey is.” The Sarge has a crazed look about him, as if he's itching to pull that trigger whether I answer or not. I don't know what the Madame told him, but I can see she got Garvey out of here in one piece, somehow.

“Calm down, Reeger,” I say. Sweat is rolling down my forehead and into my eyes. I want to thumb it away but I'm afraid I'll set Reeger off if I move an inch. “I've got no idea where Garvey is, and that's the truth.”

Reeger cocks the hammer.

Homer puts his chin to his chest and whimpers. Spit rolls off the handkerchief and puddles in his lap.

“I guess Homer came here to get his palm read?” Reeger says. “Or his pole yanked?”

Reeger has no idea how right he is. Poor Homer probably did come here to pay his way through the night—just like so many other misfits in Center City—never realizing he took a tail with him.

“I'll tell you the little I know,” I say. “But you've got to put the gun down.”

Reeger lets up on the hammer but keeps the gun on Homer.

“All the way down,” I say as calmly as possible.

He brings the gun down, but the goon in the corner unholsters his.

“Talk,” Reeger says, the revolver at his side.

“I know your boy Connor wanted Garvey's payments. At least that's what Myra Banks told me. Now Connor's dead, so you're taking over, collecting the payments instead.”

Reeger's jaw goes tight and the sides of his neck turn crimson. He raises the gun to Homer's head and my friend starts yelping through his gag again. “Start telling me what I don't know, or I'm pulling the trigger,” he says. Then he jams the barrel against Homer's ear and shouts at me. “Where the fuck is Garvey?”

“How the hell should I know?” I say, my voice losing the calm tone it had earlier. “He's on the run. He didn't check in with me when he left.”

Reeger sizes me up.

“It's the truth,” I say. “I've got no idea where he is.”

I guess he believes me because he lowers his revolver. Of course, I've still got the issue of the armed goon in the corner.

“This isn't the end,” Reeger says. “Garvey's got to answer to me.”

“That's your business,” I tell him. “But for chrissakes, let Homer breathe.”

I walk over to Homer, keeping my hands in the air where Reeger can see them. I start undoing my friend's gag, but I have trouble working my sweaty fingers through the tight knot. After a few twists and tugs, I finally wrench the cloth out of his mouth.

Homer takes deep breaths. “Oh god oh god oh god,” he says between gulps of air.

I wipe the back of his long neck with a dry corner of the handkerchief. Then I reach for the rope around his wrists, but Reeger grabs my arm.

“That's enough,” he says.

“Christ, Reeger. His fingers are turning blue.”

I reach for the ropes again and Reeger lets me undo them. He's not risking anything considering he's the one holding a gun.

Once Homer's hands are free, my friend rubs his wrists and slowly bends his fingers to bring them back to life. Then he wipes his palms on his shirt as the Madame comes over to untie his feet.

I turn back to Reeger. “As far as I'm concerned, our business is done.”

I put out my hand but he leaves it hanging.

“We're done when I say we're done,” he says. He's leaning so close to my face I can see the small blue veins on the sweaty bulb of his nose.

I walk out the door and pick up my gun, which is lying on the floor with its chamber open. I don't have the nerve to look for the bullets, but in the dim light coming from the table lamp, I see that one round is still lodged in the cylinder. I think of Connor's game of Russian roulette as I close the piece and wrap it safely in my palm.

“Let's go, Homer,” I say.

My friend gets up—he's wobbly—and shuffles toward me. But after two steps, he wheels around and jumps Reeger, grabs his wrist, and tries to take the revolver out of his hand.

The fucking simpleton.

He's wrestling with Reeger; they're swinging the revolver in large arcs above their heads. Reeger's goon grabs at Homer, but I raise my gun and point it right at his temple.

“Don't try it,” I say. “There are still a couple of shots in here.”