Blind Moon Alley (21 page)

I wriggle my head and shoulders through the window, then push myself a little farther into the space. If Reeger's here, I hope he doesn't find me now, halfway into the building, squirming through this narrow opening with my arms pinned to my sides. I look down and see that somebody has taken the precaution of blocking the inside of the doorway with a white cushiony sofa, which would have been a smart move assuming a bartender with more moxie than brains wasn't crawling through the transom. I push the rest of my body through the window and drop onto the sofa, landing on the soft seat. It couldn't have gone more smoothly had they blocked the door with a giant marshmallow.

I draw my gun and inch down the hallway toward the main room. Somebody's barking out a chain of curses, and once I get close, I'm sure I've found my man.

My anxiety is seeping out of my palms, drenching the gun's wooden handle. I'm itching to put Reeger in my crosshairs, to hear him beg for his life, to hear him plead for mercy as he swears to never touch Myra or any of my friends again. But I can't make a move until I know exactly what's waiting for me.

I'm an arm's length from the entrance to the poolroom. The air is as wet and thick as engine oil—and as quiet as Calvin's funeral. There are no clacking billiard balls, no music, no voices, no anything. All I hear are the soles of Reeger's shoes squeaking against the tiled floor. My heart is pounding out a drum solo that would make Teddy Brown jealous.

“You think you can strong-arm me?” Reeger says, breaking the silence. I can practically hear the arrogant smirk cross his face. “Big deal. You found some papers.”

His words hang in the air until another voice responds.

“They're proof.” A soft whistle accompanies the words. That's Garvey. He and Reeger must be alone because if the Sarge had any muscle with him, Garvey would be dead.

My mind's racing too fast to come up with a solid plan—and if I screw up, I'll wind up on the lam with Garvey.

“What are you going to do?” Reeger says to Garvey. “Kill me too?”

There's a moment of quiet before Garvey answers.

“Yep.”

That does it. I break into the room, my gun in front of me. Garvey is behind the pool table across from the manager's office; Reeger's in front of the office doorway, right next to a ceiling-high trophy case. They're each pointing a pistol at the other but look toward me when they hear they've got company.

“Put down the gun, Reeger,” I say, extending my pistol in front of me, my elbows locked. “You too, Garv.”

“Snowball?” Garvey says. He looks dumbfounded, as if I'd died and he were looking at my ghost.

“What, you're surprised?” Reeger asks him. “This fucking freak is always showing up where he doesn't belong. It started the day he was born.”

I hear Garvey cock the hammer. For a split second, we're back at Elementary School Four and Garvey is taking on the blood-crazed teachers again.

“Gun down, Garv,” I say, keeping my pistol trained on Reeger.

I can't see shit, but I make my way across the room, winding around the tables, my pistol leading the way, until only one table separates me from Reeger. The sole lamp that shines is the clock with Lewis's smiling face on it. It's three-twenty. Anybody with a life worth living is asleep.

“I said put the rods down.”

Garvey doesn't lower his gun, which I now see is my snubnose. He's got it trained, along with his eyes, on Reeger. With his free hand, he raises a handful of files.

“I got it, Snow,” he says.

I have no idea what he's talking about and I'm not about to ask questions now. I take another step toward Reeger. My heart charges its way up my throat, and my mouth tastes sour.

“Drop the revolver, Sarge.”

Reeger doesn't budge. I cock the hammer but he still doesn't move. Neither does Garvey. We're frozen, locked in a three-man standoff. My eyes are dancing and a bead of sweat rolls down between my shoulder blades. A poster of Bobby Lewis hangs on the wall behind Reeger—it reads
Shoot for the Moon
. I feel as if he's talking to me.

Reeger moves first. He takes a step back toward the manager's office and hides his body behind the trophy case. I no longer have a clean shot.

“Go ahead and shoot, Snowfreak,” he says. “But you better kill me, 'cause if you don't, I'll fuck you over like there's no tomorrow. You'll spend your life in the slammer, curled up in solitary wishing you could shit the warden's cock out of your bloody albino ass. And your boy here will be right next to you, sitting in a barber's chair with cables connected to his fucking head, getting fried like a fucking egg sunny side up. So either shoot that gun and kill me, or make like a nice freak and get your bleached girlie balls the fuck out of my sight.”

I'm grinding my teeth, itching to pull the trigger and stop his mouth from moving. But that's what he wants me to do. He wants me to shoot because he figures I'll miss him. The second after I fire he'll jump out and nail one of us, maybe both.

“You're a lost cause, a goddamned fucking freak of nature,” he's saying, taunting me with the names I've heard since grade school. “Do people like you have balls or are they powder puffs?”

His plan is working. My fingers are so sweaty the trigger feels as if it's been greased. Sweat is running down my lids and into my eyes, stinging my pupils and blurring my vision even more. My temples are pounding, building up a pressure in my forehead that won't get released until I pull this fucking trigger. But I can't get a bead on him.

All of a sudden something crashes behind me. I wheel around and see that the champ has broken through the front door. He and Johalis are coming at us, telling us to stay calm. The champ has his hands extended in front of his chest and keeps repeating that he and Johalis are unarmed.

Reeger's hands are sticking out from the side of the trophy case; he's got his gun leveled at Garvey. My knees are shaking so I lean on a pool table to steady them—but I keep my pistol pointed toward the Sarge, waiting for him to peek his head out.

“Let's all put the guns down and talk this out,” my father says.

“Yeah, Reeger, let's talk,” Garvey says. “Tell them about your little enterprise. How you fucked me over.”

Reeger starts saying something about loan sharks, about how they're the scum of the earth, about how he doesn't care what happens to them or their albino freak friends. My heart is still hammering at my rib cage like a prisoner banging on prison bars. I'm out of breath—I feel as if I've been running for hours even though I've barely moved since I got here. I take two steps to my left to get a better angle on Reeger. He's now got both feet in front of the trophy case and his hands extended a couple more inches. I've got him in my sights. I'm sure I can plug him. I can settle the score for Calvin and for Myra in one shot. I can serve justice. All I've got to do is squeeze the trigger—but I can't bring myself to do it, not if he's not pointing his gun at me. I feel like I'm gunning down an unarmed man.

“Tell them the story, Reeger,” Garvey is yelling. “Tell him how you fucked me over. How you fucked Myra over. How you fuck
everybody
over.”

Reeger barks back and the two of them are shouting over each other. Johalis and my father are telling us to table our rods, but Reeger and Garvey aren't listening—they're still going at it, arguing over who's right, who's wrong, who helped Myra, who hurt her, who's a crook, and who's a loan shark.

Their voices echo throughout the billiard parlor, but their words don't matter. I've got my pistol trained on Reeger as I picture Garvey at Elementary School Four, fighting off those twisted teachers. I think of the cast on the champ's hand, the cotton stuffing that was packed up my nose, and the Madame rotting in jail, bruised and broken. I think of Calvin, his hand squeezing mine, his eyes pleading for justice. And I think of Myra, a prisoner at Philadelphia General, her foot shattered back into 1919.

Nobody is going to stop Reeger unless I do.

I tighten my grip. I aim the gun. But Reeger fires.

The bullet hits Garvey square in the forehead. My friend drops to the ground like a sack of old schoolbooks.

“No!” Johalis shouts and runs over to my fallen friend.

I do the same, my ears ringing from the blast and my heart banging on the back of my throat like a battering ram. I'm on my knees and looking down at Garvey. He's staring up at the ceiling, his eyes open and glazed, a round, red hole above his left eye marking the spot the state had reserved for a live electrode.

I turn and see Reeger leveling his gun at my father. I'm not about to let him take the champ. I brace my hands atop a pool table and train my rod on the Sarge's chest. I'm going to pull this fucking trigger before he does. I'm going to pull it for Calvin, for Myra, for anybody who ever expected me to be a hero—especially Garvey, who's lying on the floor, feet crossed, arms outstretched, a halo of blood spreading out beneath his skull.

“Put the gun down,” the champ is telling Reeger. He's got both hands in the air, trying to calm the Sarge.

Reeger cocks the hammer. The fucking bull is aiming his service revolver at a man whose only weapons are an outdated suit and a three-pound plaster cast.

I shut my eyes when I squeeze the trigger. The jolt goes up my arm and down my gut—I feel it down to my balls. Reeger slumps to the ground, his head leaning against the bottom shelf of trophies, a round bloodstain spreading across the chest of his white shirt. I can smell his insides from here.

“Oh Lord, Jersey,” my father says, running over to Reeger. “It coulda been you, it coulda been you, it coulda been you,” he keeps repeating as he lays Reeger down flat and smacks his face, trying to revive him.

I'm on my knees, shaking. I'm nauseous. I'm freezing. I'm telling myself I had no choice. Reeger killed Garvey and would have killed the champ. Still, I can't shake the idea that I just killed the man a blind girl depends on.

My father comes over and kneels next to me; he puts his casted hand on my back and pats the back of my neck as I choke out sobs.

Johalis is still hunched over Garvey—his eyes are darting from the champ and me to Reeger, then to Garvey. He grabs the snubnose from Garvey's hand, springs up, and swaps it with the pistol I'm holding. Then he picks up the folders on the floor next to Garvey.

“What are you doin'?” my father asks, but we both know the answer.

I want to tell Johalis not to bother saving me, but instead of speaking, I heave. A mouthful of vomit lands on my lap. I run into the bathroom, kick open a stall door, and hurl the rest of my guilt into the bowl. By the time I'm done, Johalis and the champ are standing behind me. Johalis reaches around me, flushes the bowl, and gives me a flask of whiskey to rinse my mouth.

“You okay?” he says as he wipes down the stall door and toilet handle.

I couldn't be further from okay but I tell him I'm fine.

“Then let's get outta here,” he says. “And don't touch anything.”

We hurry through the pool hall as Johalis scrambles through the place trying to wipe every surface we may have touched. He gets the pool tables and doorknobs; he even runs to the back entrance to clean the frame of the transom and the wooden arms of the white sofa. When he comes back to the poolroom, we wind our way through the grid of tables, step over Garvey, and leave by the busted front door, hopscotching through a kaleidoscope of broken glass shards.

The air outside is no fresher than the dank air inside. I take big gulps of it as Homer speeds the Auburn up to the curb. Johalis and the champ scramble into the car, then I do the same, even though the sixth-grader in me is dying to go back inside, turn back the clock, and say thank you to Garvey one last time.

I'm hiding out with my father, Johalis, and Homer in the only place I knew would be safe: the Ink Well. It's still closed; nobody has been here since Calvin's funeral. We sped here in the Auburn and the four of us snuck in through Blind Moon Alley.

We're in the front of the joint, sitting at Wallace's usual table. I have no idea where Wallace is tonight, but I'm fairly certain he hasn't gunned down a bull and gone underground to duck a murder charge. Wherever he is, I'm hoping that Angela is with him—and I'm glad that she's far, far away from this.

I've spent the last ten minutes going through our options. The problem is we have no idea if the cops are after us. Yes, Johalis cleaned up the scene, but who knows what he left behind. I've got the radio on, braced to hear an all-points bulletin mentioning my name. Instead, I'm getting Gene Austin crooning “A Faded Summer Love.”

“Why would anybody question it?” Johalis asks. “Garvey and Reeger were out for each other.”

“True,” I say. I don't bring up the missing file or the idea that some other rogue bull might be looking for it.