Blind Moon Alley (14 page)

“Where were you?” Myra asks, slipping out of her heels and sliding them to the side of her chair. “You nearly missed last call.”

I'd rather not bring up Chester's Chicken Shack, so I tell her I was unloading a new shipment of moon.

She takes an envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. “Take it.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Two hundred bucks. Two payments on Garvey's loan.”

“I already told you I don't want it.” I slide the envelope back to her and remember the look of doubt on Johalis's face when I told him I trusted her.

“Go on,” she says, putting the envelope in the middle of the table. “I'm done giving it to Reeger, so you might as well have it. Give it to Garvey.”

“I don't even know where the hell Garvey is.”

“You'll find him eventually. Take the money.”

“Just pay Reeger,” I tell her. “It'll keep him off everybody's back.”

“No it won't. He's all over me whether I pay him or not.”

She sips her martini and looks at me over the rim of her glass. I can still see the hurt in her eyes, a lingering sadness hiding behind the adult bravado. Right now, she's the only woman who's in my corner, and all I've got to do to make her happy is pocket the damned money.

“Go on,” she says. “This is what friends do. They help each other. They make each other feel good.”

She lifts her stockinged foot under the table and plants it on my crotch. I tell her to stop, that I know what she's doing. She doesn't listen.

“Don't you want to help me?” she says, looking me in the eye and gently rocking her foot back and forth.

I should be saying no, but I feel my legs widen to give her more room to play. She wiggles her toes and I'm happy to report that her clubfoot has healed nicely.

The corner of her lip curls and she says, “Why don't we talk about it some more in my dressing room?”

My eyes shake but she doesn't care; she keeps gazing into them as she moves her foot in quick, small circles.

I want no part of this. If I take that money, I might as well declare war on Reeger.

Now she's rubbing me in long, slow strokes.

“Sure,” I hear myself say. Then I watch as my hand slips the envelope inside my breast pocket.

I'm about to button my jacket when Reeger's mustached goon walks into the bar. A few seconds later, Reeger follows.

“Looks like I'm already on the job,” I tell her, my eyes on the door.

She's savvy enough not to turn around. “Reeger?”

I nod as I watch the Sarge order a pair of drinks. The tender pours him two whiskeys.

“Raid?” she asks.

“I don't think so,” I say. “But let's not wait to find out.”

When Reeger and his heavy turn away, I scoot to the fire exit.

Myra slips her shoes back on and grabs our martinis. “Can't leave soldiers on the battlefield,” she says and brings me the half-filled cocktails. There's a twinkle in her eye, and for a brief moment, we're back in Hoboken running from a pack of twelve-year-old bullies.

We head down the fire stairs and duck out the back exit. We scramble into the Auburn and drive back to the Ink Well, finishing what's left of our martinis. We stay off Broad and stick to deserted side streets, some of which I've never traveled before. When we reach Juniper and Vine, I pull the car into Blind Moon Alley and park it there, just in case Reeger is tailing us. But he's not.

We scoot into the safety of the Ink Well basement and take the stairs up to the bar. I turn on the radio and pour us refills. I don't bother mixing cocktails; I just plop a cube into each glass and follow with a splash of Gordon's. Doolie has a jar of paper umbrellas that he likes to put in highballs—he says it distracts people from the heat—so I throw one into each drink and slide one of the glasses to Myra.

“What's with the umbrella?” she asks me.

“Protects me from the sun.”

She takes her drink to a booth opposite the bar. I follow her, but I never make it to my seat. Within seconds, our lips are locked and we're feeding the fire she started back at the Canary. This time, it catches like a gasoline bomb. I put the tablecloth on the floor and we go hot in each other's arms, right there in front of the bar, like two kids on a beach blanket after sundown. When we finish, we lay motionless, staring at the ceiling and cooling down in the breeze coming from Doolie's electric fan.

As I look up at the tin sheets between the Ink Well's beams, I'm trying to sort out my life, trying to figure out how I wound up where I'm at now—and where I'm hoping I land.

The locals are home, Philadelphia's sleeping, and I'm here at the Ink Well, ready to take on a crooked cop with an ax to grind. And as night slowly rolls into day, I picture Angela curled up in Wallace's arms, her head resting peacefully on his chest, beginning the kind of life I wish I had.

The rain patters on my parlor windows as I flip through the
Inquirer
. Garvey's still the big news.
Cop Killer Remains on the Loose
. The newspapermen have been working overtime to find anything fresh on my friend. They're still writing about the shooting at the Red Canary, and the shorter articles are covering his time at Eastern State. Of course, all I'm concerned about is the manhunt, which has now moved to Altoona. There, an unemployed railroad worker claims to have spotted Garvey sleeping among a pile of bricks at a construction site. I don't believe it. Then again, I don't not believe it, either.

I go into the kitchen, open a beer, and make myself a sandwich. I've got what's left of Doolie's turkey, so I toss some dark meat onto a couple of slices of bread and hit it with some ketchup. It's not fancy, but it'll stop my stomach from growling. I take the sandwich into the parlor, set it on my desk, and put on the radio. Instead of a news report, I get a woman singing a sultry version of “Embraceable You.” I have no idea who she's singing about, but I'm right in front of the mirror and can see it's not me.

I peel back the window shade and eyeball Ronnie's. A heavyset oaf in a black bowler and gray raincoat has been sitting on the bench all morning, an obvious standout from the beggars that loiter in front of the place hoping to find some day-old bread in Ronnie's garbage cans. The oaf has taken his hat off and walked inside; he's now eating at the counter by the window. I guess he got hungry or wanted to duck the rain. Either way, I'm sure he's one of Reeger's boys. When he looks up toward my window, no doubt waiting for Garvey's face to appear, I wave hello and blow him a kiss. And I wonder why people call me a wisenheimer.

I'm about to take my first bite of lunch when I realize the dough Myra gave me is in my closet, sitting on top of Angela's school fund. That's more than eight hundred bucks combined. I've got to get some of that cash out of here. The smart thing would be to put Myra's money in the Hy-Hat safe, but I'm not planning on driving to New York any time soon. I take a seat at the Underwood and hammer out a note to Calvin, telling him what to do with the cash and to expect more of these envelopes as Myra gives them to me. I stuff the note and the greenbacks into an envelope and scribble the Hy-Hat's address on the outside. As for Angela's shoebox, I've buried that in the closet, down below a stack of Ink Well menus that Doolie asked me to store up here.

I leave the apartment to mail the letter, but not before holstering my pistol. When I shut the door, I stick a match in the doorjamb. If it's on the floor when I return, I'm going to enter shooting.

I take the stairs to the street and spot a better option than the mailbox. A mail truck is idling on Vine Street. I wave to the driver and he leans out the side of the truck, his face red and sweaty from the heat. Wearing that uniform must be like working in a woolen sleeping bag.

He flinches when he sees my cheeks.

“You're not looking so good yourself,” I say, pointing at his red, sweaty nose before handing him the envelope. He gives me a quick, strained smile and drives off with no idea what he's got in that envelope—or the problems that it's caused.

When I get back upstairs, I find my father knocking on my door, his hat in his hand. I'm sure he's here because he refuses to enter the Ink Well—unless I'm serving dinner, in which case, I might be able to get his principles to bend.

“Open up,” he's shouting at the door. He's out of breath; he must have run up the stairs.

“I'm right here, Champ,” I say, taking out my keys. “Calm down.” I eye the doorjamb and see the matchstick is exactly where I left it.

“I'm calm,” he says while tapping his foot a mile a minute.

I don't bother telling him about the envelope I just mailed. There's no point. I've already let him know I'm taking Myra's payments, and he's already given me the speech about my neck and how far out I'm sticking it for a woman I hadn't seen in years.

When we get inside, I grab my sandwich and ask him if he wants half. He waves me off.

“Johalis got some news on our friend Reeger,” he says.

I'm going to either love or hate this conversation. Based on the news Johalis has been finding of late, I'm betting it's the latter.

“You remember Louise Connor?” the champ says. “The bankbook?”

“Yeah,” I say. “What about her?”

“Turns out she's Connor's daughter. Nine years old. She's blind.”

“Blind?” I say.

“Yeah. Reeger's been givin' money to her.”

“Hmmm,” I say. “So he's not having an affair with her.”

“Nothin' like that,” he says.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the crook of his elbow. When the cuff of his jacket rides up his arm, I see the cast on his hand and try to forget how it got there.

“Reeger's takin' the money for her,” he's saying. “He's payin' her way at some school for the blind.”

“I don't buy it,” I say. “You can't tell me that Reeger's a decent Joe.”

The champ shakes his head. “Maybe he's not. But he's takin' care of the kid.”

I want to tell the champ that Reeger's up to something, but he's going to ask me how I can be so certain. And I won't have an answer.

He shakes his head in frustration with me.

“I told you not to take those payments, goddammit,” he says. “You think you're helpin' that gal of yours, but you're not doin' any such thing.”

“She's not my gal,” I say, but even I know that's not the point.

“Doesn't matter,” he says. “Son, you're screwin' with the police. Bad 'nough we're helpin' Garvey, but now you're takin' Reeger's money. You're givin' those boys the right to come after you.”

“It's not Reeger's money,” I say.

“It's not yours neither!” the champ says, banging his hat against the side of his leg. He's pacing around the room, his frustration bubbling over.

I'm still trying to swallow the news about Louise Connor. “Is Johalis sure Reeger's giving all the money to the kid?”

“Aren't you listenin' to me?” he says. “Yes, he's givin' it to a blind girl. And he's gonna come lookin' for it.”

I'm not sure what to say. I just mailed Calvin two hundred bucks that was supposed to be paying a blind girl's tuition. I don't know how it happened, but I'm starting to feel like the bad guy.

CHAPTER 9

It's not even seven o'clock but the one-shot drinkers have already come and gone. You could set your watch by them. They come in at five-thirty, spend a few bucks to revive their souls, and then head home at six-thirty, recharged and ready for dinner. At eight o'clock, we'll get wave two. They'll be the ones I know best—the misfits, the outcasts, the forgotten. They don't come here to avoid home. They come here to find it.

Doolie is in the kitchen. He's not cooking—no sane person would want to be stuck in that kitchen in this heat—but he's carving a ham he baked early this morning. He'll assemble a few dinner platters, which is smart. Whatever doesn't get eaten tonight will become tomorrow's lunch special.

It's Wednesday, so Angela is doing her weekly double shift. The long day has drained the bounce from her gait, but she still manages to flit over to Wallace, who's sitting alone, reading
Black No More
. I've never heard of the book, but he's got no more chance of waking up white than I do of strolling the beach with a suntan. He's nursing a whiskey sour, and I feel like sending him an Aunt Roberta, just to watch him lose his composure for a while.

For the moment, I'm not worried about Reeger stopping in for a surprise visit. I've got Johalis working the bar and Homer guarding the door. Homer's not even supposed to start until eight o'clock, but the poor bastard's so eager for another shot at Reeger that he's been coming in early and stopping by on his off-days. Personally, I don't find myself missing the Sarge all that much.