Blind Moon Alley (22 page)

I go behind the bar and pour myself a double shot of whiskey, no ice. I'm in my old spot, the place I stood serving moon the night the pay phone rang and disrupted my peace. The joint hasn't changed—the muted lighting, the soft radio, the glittering glass bottles are all still here—but the guilt hanging over me has me thinking only one thing: I'm the one the state should be frying. I take a gulp of booze; my throat's raw from vomiting, and the whiskey burns going down. With a little luck, it'll be strong enough to wipe my conscience clean.

“Maybe nobody will dig too deeply,” I say, trying to convince myself along with the others. “They'll want to believe Reeger took down Garvey. They'll make him a hero.”

I bring the whiskey bottle to the table and the champ pours himself two fat fingers.

“We killed a cop,” he says. “They're gonna care.”

He shoots down the brown and tightens his jaw when it lands. We're finally having a drink together, but we're doing it for all the wrong reasons.

Homer gets up from his seat. “So what now, Jersey?” he says. The poor simpleton still thinks I've got answers. He's nervously smacking his cap against the side of his thigh as he waits for me to speak.

“I guess we sit here and hope the cops buy it,” I say.

“What if they don't?” he says.

Homer's worried for me—but he has no idea how deeply he's been sucked into this, too. I killed the cop, but he drove the car.

“Then we run,” I say. “Same as Garvey.”

“Garvey's dead,” my father says.

There's no way to respond, so I don't. I go to the kitchen to get us some food. Doolie cleaned out the icebox before shuttering the place, but I find a dozen eggs and some bread and make us an early breakfast. It's not much, but it'll get us through sunrise.

When I bring the food to the table, Johalis is smoking a Lucky and looking through the folders Garvey found at the pool hall. He's sorting through notes scribbled on cocktail napkins, newspaper margins, and ledger sheets.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, arranging the torn pages as if he's doing a jigsaw puzzle. The wrinkles around his eyes look deeper than before. I try to convince myself it's the lighting.

“Doesn't matter what you got there,” the champ says. “We're guilty. And we're on the run.”

“We may be running from more people than you think,” Johalis says. “It looks as though Reeger was in deep with some pretty crooked bastards.”

Homer walks around behind Johalis to look over his shoulder. “Jersey knew he was crooked,” he says.

“But he didn't know the half of it,” Johalis says. Then he looks up toward me. “Did you know Reeger was in business with Lovely?”

Again, I have no answer. But it doesn't matter, because he's not expecting one.

“Lovely's name is in here. So is Garvey's. And Myra's. These numbers add up to a hell of a lot more than what you saw in those bankbooks. This is no small-time operation. There's over a hundred thousand here, easy.”

My father turns to me. “Maybe we can show that to the police. Nobody can blame us for gunnin' down a dirty cop.”

I shake my head. “Champ, I'm not going to walk into a police station and tell them I gunned down a bull, even if he was dirty.”

“I s'pose not,” the champs says. He gets up and paces the room.

Homer's still smacking his cap against his leg. “He had it coming,” he says. His tone is angry, as if he wants to find Reeger and kill him again.

“It doesn't matter if he was crooked as an ice hook,” I tell him. “We just gotta hope nobody pins that murder on us.”

“Who says they won't?” the champ asks.

“Who says they will?” I answer.

Johalis pours himself a shot of booze.

“Either way, I'm going to look into this,” he says, putting the papers back in the folder before downing the whiskey.

“Nobody on that list is gonna speak to you,” I say with a shake of my head. “Even the ones who are alive.”

“Don't worry,” Johalis says. “I've got a buddy at the stationhouse. He'll shoot straight with me.”

Johalis didn't give me a name and I'm not about to ask. But he must know the bull pretty well, because snooping around a stationhouse and asking about a crooked cop is like trying to dig a garden spade into marble.

“Great,” I say. “When you speak with him, ask him what the hell we've gotta do to get the Madame out of the pen.”

“I'm trying,” Johalis says.

“Then try harder,” I say. I hear the edge in my voice and apologize to Johalis. I'm frazzled, but it's not his fault.

“I just wanna get her out,” I say.

“Try keeping yourself out first,” my father says.

An emergency report interrupts Duke Ellington on the radio. The announcer says there was a shooting at Bobby Lewis's Billiard Parlor on Fitzwater, and that escaped convict Aaron Garvey was killed by police sergeant Jack Reeger. Garvey, the voice says, had been hiding in the back room of the billiard parlor, surviving on food left in the kitchen, when Reeger stumbled upon him. Reeger tried to bring Garvey to justice, but a fight broke out and the fugitive shot Reeger in his left lung. As he lay dying, the heroic policeman managed to unholster his revolver and get off one last shot, hitting the hunted man in his forehead and killing him instantly. The sergeant, the voice says, will be promoted posthumously; a ceremony will be held on Saturday in Rittenhouse Square.

I'm digging my fingernails into my palms as the announcer continues. He's now reading a message from the chief of police telling the citizens of Philadelphia that the streets are again safe. I'm holding my breath until the report ends, hoping there's no mention of my name. Finally, when the announcer finishes and Bing Crosby starts singing “I Surrender, Dear,” my fingers go limp and I exhale.

“I think we're clean,” I say.

“We're free?” Homer says. I don't answer, but he raises his glass and downs whatever's in it. If my glass weren't already empty, I'd do the same.

“We ain't free,” the champ says, “'Cause we're not sure of nothin'.”

“No, we're not,” I say. “But we don't have to stay here. Let's go home. If anybody runs into trouble, call the others.”

“Jersey's right,” Johalis says. “Anything beats hiding out here.” He takes a pull on his Lucky and snuffs it in the ashtray. “I'll do some digging and let you know what I find.”

The champ sees he's outnumbered. “I guess we have no choice,” he says, shaking his head. “I'll stay one more night with Johalis and go back to New York in the morning.”

“Good idea,” I say. “I'll stay here in Philly for a while.”

Neither Johalis nor the champ is surprised. They know I'll be here until Myra leaves the hospital—even if I have to carry her out on my back.

We shake hands and head out of the joint the same way we came in: with our heads down and our guards up. I tell the champ we'll talk in the morning before he leaves for the Hy-Hat.

Then I sneak over to the main entrance and creep upstairs to my apartment. Once I'm inside, I lock the door and go to the window. I can't help myself. I pull the shade and take a peek at Vine Street—if any bulls are tailing me, I want to know.

The rising sun is turning the sky a soft shade of orange. A row of pigeons stands at attention along the gutter of the building across the street. And down below, sitting on the bench in front of Ronnie's, is Reeger's mustached friend, his eyes trained up at my place.

CHAPTER 13

Myra's half-asleep in her wheelchair, her plastered right leg extended in front of her as I push her into the hospital's sun room. A strong metal fan sends a cool breeze across the space as I wheel her to the window. She looks far less glamorous than she did at the Red Canary. Spilled food stains her hospital gown; a roadmap of bloody lines crosses the whites of her eyes. I'm finally with the real Myra, and as far as I'm concerned, she outshines any lipsticked, spotlighted kewpie doll at the Canary, including the one she used to be.

“It feels good to be out of bed,” she tells me, her words thick from a morning dose of laudanum. I'm happy she'll be off the stuff in a couple of days.

“I'll be better soon,” she says.

There's no need to tell her she might not make it all the way back up the hill. There's also no point in spilling the story about Garvey or Reeger. I sit next to her, keeping my face and hands in the shade as she soaks up the luscious afternoon sun.

A heavyset nurse with a white dress, white hat, and sturdy calves brings in lunch. I help Myra eat, cutting her sandwich into small, bite-size pieces, putting them in her mouth, and making sure she chews before swallowing. When Myra finishes her meal, I wash her hands with a damp cloth and rub cream on her fingers. Then I brush her hair off her forehead and wheel her back to Room 311 where she can get some sleep.

Two fresh-faced nurses are waiting to put her into bed. Both are wearing all-white uniforms, right down to their ivory shoes.

“We're running away,” Myra tells them, a lopsided smile on her lips. “Shhh. It's a secret. Just me and Snowball.”

She looks at me as if I'm Ramon Novarro and I feel my face flush. I motion to the nurses that my friend is drugged and loopy.

I give Myra a kiss on the forehead and tell her I'll be back tomorrow. Then I walk out of the hospital and onto the streets of Blockley, wondering why I felt I needed to make an excuse when Myra said we were running away. I guess I didn't think anybody would believe that Myra would take up with the likes of me. Maybe even I don't believe it; maybe Johalis's warning is still tossing and turning in the back of my mind, making me restless and unable to sleep. But I do know one thing for sure. I'm three blocks from the hospital and my heart is still back in Room 311, kissing Myra's forehead.

I get in the Auburn just as Rudy Vallee launches into “That's When I Learned to Love You.” The breeze dries the sweat in my hair and cools my neck. I picture Myra and me on the sands of the Pacific. I've got my pants rolled up; Myra's wiggling her toes in the sand and the surf bathes her unmarked feet. We wrap ourselves in each other's arms and tumble on the beach, the blazing sun tanning my bronzed back.

I turn onto Jupiter and park a half-block from Vine as the sky fades from light blue to dusky orange. I walk to my place with an eye out for Reeger's buddy, but instead of trouble, I find Doolie lighting the lamp outside the Ink Well. The joint is once again open for business. I'm not surprised; he must have heard the radio reports. If Reeger and Garvey are dead, so are his problems.

“Jersey,” he says with a smile. Somehow, his hair looks grayer, and his shoulders more slumped, than I remember. I can see he's tired of all the craziness, and I don't blame him. “You're still in town,” he says.

“For now,” I say, wondering if Myra and I will ever really leave for good, if I'll ever watch this chapter of my life fade in the rearview mirror.

“I'm sorry things didn't work out here,” he says. “But I hope you know that nobody's kicking you out of Philly.”

“I do know that,” I say, even though there's no longer any need for me to stay. The Ink Well couldn't be safer.

He opens the door. “Shot of moon?”

I don't want to say yes—I'd be walking in a failure—but I've needed a belt ever since I left Myra at the hospital. I follow him into the joint.

Angela is waiting tables in the front room; she's in a black dress with a frilly white apron tied across her waist. She's chatting with Wallace, who's sitting at his table with an open book in front of him. I'm not upset, not any longer, but watching Angela hang on Wallace's words makes me wish I'd listened to the champ and finished college. I'd sure rather be in Wallace's educated shoes than where I am now: unskilled, out of work, and waiting for my lover's foot to heal so we can run to the other side of the country and try growing up again.

I walk over and say hello. Angela greets me with a kiss on the cheek; Wallace shakes my hand. They seem relaxed and I'm assuming that's because Reeger's gone. I wonder how they'd react if they knew I was the one who erased him.

“It's good to see you,” Angela says.

“Sure is,” Wallace says, nodding.

They're saying hello, but all three of us know their words mean good-bye. I wish them well and excuse myself to join Doolie at the bar. As I head to the counter, I can't help but steal a glance at the booth where Myra and I resumed the journey we'd started back in grade school.

Doolie pours me a splash of moon. I down it and my spine softens.

“I guess you heard the news about Garvey and Reeger,” I say, curious to hear what he's picked up on the street.

“Yep,” he says, tightening his lips and shaking his head. “Sorry 'bout your friend.”

I nod. “He caused you a lot of trouble,” I say. “But he wasn't as bad as the papers are saying.”

“Probably not,” Doolie says. “But he wasn't no saint, either. From what I hear, he was planning to shoot Reeger then turn the gun on himself. He was gonna go out in a blaze of glory. Crazy.”

“Hadn't heard that,” I say, wondering where in hell the
Inquirer
got that one.

Doolie pours me another, this time with an iced seltzer chaser. I take the drink but there's little point in lingering—the moon has already outlasted the conversation. We clink glasses, then I gulp the shot and shake Doolie's hand. Over his shoulder, I see my face staring back at me—the ripped, taped, forgotten hero.

“Thanks, Doolie,” I say, pretending everything is as jake as it was when I started working here.

I turn to leave but stop and say good-bye to Wallace. The book in front of him is called
The Beautiful and the Damned
. It might as well be called
Myra and Me
.