Sugar Pop Moon (15 page)

The woman is speaking now. “I don't even know Jimmy McCullough. Let me go home.”

I know that voice. It's Pearl's.

I want to jump up and tell her I saw her kissing that guy in front of her place. I want to ask her what she's doing at the Pour House. I want to cover my face with my hands. I want to apologize, again, for being so stuck on her.

But I don't move because the pieces fall into place as quickly as my heart kicks into gear. Jimmy told Antonio to bring Pearl to the Pour House because he's trying to bait me. This is what I get for telling everybody at the bar my business. Jimmy knows how much she hurt me, and he's counting on the fact that I won't let her get dragged into my muck. He's right. I don't owe Pearl a thing, but she deserves more than being treated like a stolen toy. Antonio will bring her straight to Jimmy, so now I've got another reason to get my cold, pink ass to that underground entrance in the ratacombs. The minute Jimmy leaves his office I'll spring her.

A branch snaps behind me. I wheel around and spot two figures in black. The short one has a piece of metal over his nose—it's covering a wad of gauze and is held in place by two strips of white tape that reach his cheekbones. The tall one has sweaty skin and sunken eyes. And he's holding a cleaver.

“It's him, Hector,” the little guy says. He sounds strange, as if he's stuffed up from a bad cold. His eyes have the look of a miner who just struck gold.

I've yet to unlock the door to 321, so I'd never beat them inside. If I try for the shrubs, I'll run smack into Diego.

Hector and his pal are walking slowly toward me, giving me a bit more respect than they did when we met in Philly. I don't have time to reach under my coat and grab my gun, but my right knuckles are wrapped in brass.

The little one is smiling, the tape on his face bending upward as his mouth curls. A thin mustache peeks out from below the bandage. “I was afraid we wouldn't find him,” he says.

“How's your nose?” I ask him. I sound calm but my heart is doing a Gene Krupa solo.

His expression changes under the wad of gauze. “Fuck you,” he says. “You broke it in two places. It hurts so bad I can't even chew.” He turns to Hector. “Get it right this time.” Then he looks around and adds, “And keep it quiet.”

Keep it quiet? Even Hector looks at him like he's nuts.

That moment's hesitation is my opportunity. I run right at the little guy and slam a fistful of brass between his eyes.

“Oh fuck, my nose!” He's doubled over, holding his face with both hands.

Hector rushes at me, but I lunge at him and grab his wrist before he can swing his cleaver. I've got his right forearm in my hands and he's punching my head with his left fist. My right eye is taking a beating.

“Goddammit, his femurs, Hector,” the little one yells with a pathetic whine, still pressing his hands against his twice-broken nose.

My arms are going weak. I can't hold the cleaver forever, so I break the cardinal rule of the Harlem streets: I knee Hector square in the balls. He crumbles to the ground so fast that his arm yanks itself out of my grip. When he lands, he pins his knees against his shoulders and wraps his arms around his ankles—but his right hand still grips the cleaver. He vomits a bucket of spew that looks like corn chowder. On his third heave, the cleaver finally falls free. I grab it and turn just in time to see Diego inching toward me. He's got a pistol pointed at my chest and his black eyes are darting left and right, taking in the scene around us. I must look like a one-man army.

“Sorry, Snowball,” he says, “But I gotta bring you in.”

He steps toward me, slowly, keeping his eyes trained on me as if I could pull a gun out of thin air. I wish he were right. Instead, I'm wheezing, trying to catch my breath.

He keeps the pistol on me. “Jimmy's out for you,” he says.

“Tell him to get in line,” I say between gulps of air. My voice is so shaky I barely recognize it.

Diego's not laughing. It can't be easy for the kid to take me down. He's barely Santi's age and I'm the one who put him on the door. If it weren't for me, he'd still be rolling kegs. My guess is that he'd want to help me out, but he's not brave enough—or stupid enough—to go against Jimmy.

He sees I'm still sucking for air so he gives me some space. “He's got your girl,” he says.

“She's not my girl anymore, remember?”

“C'mon, let's go,” he says, nodding toward the Pour House with his chin. “You have no choice.”

“Not really,” I say, my breath coming back to me. “I've still got a cleaver and nothing to lose.”

I brandish the blade but Diego doesn't back off—he raises the pistol so that it's pointing squarely between my eyes.

Hector gets to his feet and lets out a long, slow moan. He's got a trail of vomit hanging from his lower lip and I feel like apologizing, but it's not like he didn't come at me with a fucking butcher's knife.

I back away from Diego, waving Hector's steel in front of me as I step toward the street. With any luck, I've got enough chips with Diego that he'll hesitate before pulling the trigger.

“Hey, Snowball,” I hear behind me.

Diego brings the pistol down to his side and hides it behind his hip.

I turn around to a beautiful sight: Larch and his Clara Bow wannabe in a police car. And Larch is in uniform, which makes him untouchable to all but the craziest. Diego's close enough to the shrubs that he's out of Larch's line of sight. He's got an easy path back to the Pour House and he'd be an idiot not to take it.

“Good evening, Officer,” I say, loud enough for Diego, Hector, and the little guy to hear me. Larch is no Einstein but he's got to know something's up.

He leans out the window. “What in God's name is going on here?”

I realize he's talking about the cleaver, which I'm still holding in front of my chest the way Douglas Fairbanks wielded his sword in
The Iron Mask
.

“Oh, this? It's not mine.”

“Who are they?” Clara Bow asks, pointing over my shoulder.

I turn to see Hector on his feet. He's no longer vomiting, but he's still clutching his groin. The little one is yelling at him, the gauze around his nose now soaked in blood.

“Long story,” I say, trotting around to Clara's door and squeezing into the back of the car. I toss the blade into the street and shut the door as it clangs on the pavement.

“Go, Larch. Now. Nail it.”

Larch takes off and we pull away from Hector and Diego—and my father and Pearl.

“Start talking, Snowball,” Larch says over his shoulder.

My hands are shaking and I can't stop them. I spot a flask sticking out from under Larch's seat, so I grab it and take a hearty slug straight from the canister. The rye burns my chest and my throat closes. I cough in mid-swallow, spraying the back of Clara's seat with hooch. I wipe it with my coat sleeve and then lay the whole story out for Larch. The bogus moon. Joseph Gazzara. Hector. Jimmy.

“Now Jimmy's got Pearl,” I say. “And my father is on his way over there, if he's not there already.”

Clara's face twists with confusion. She's having a tough time following and I don't blame her.

“It's complicated,” I say.

I'm so rattled I almost tell her I hate myself—and that I'm only in this predicament because I look like a blanched freak. But I don't open up to many people and I'm not about to start yapping to Larch's mistress.

“I've got an idea, Snowball,” Larch says, “but I'm not sure you're going to like it.”

I have no idea what he's got up his sleeve, but I can't imagine that he'd go too far out of bounds for me. Then again, I've been good to him so maybe it's time for some payback.

“If it gets me out of this mess, I'm all for it,” I say.

“Alright, then trust me.”

He grabs the flask, swigs from it, and wipes his lips with the back of his wrist. Then he turns down Broadway and heads back toward Fifty-Third Street, toward the Pour House.

On the way, he picks up the handle of his police radio and calls for backup.

I watch the raid from the safety of the police car, which is a far different viewpoint than the ones I've had in the past. It's helpful to see the game from this side of the table—the experience can only help me if I'm ever pouring moon in a speakeasy again.

West Fifty-Third is crawling with police. Eight squad cars and four paddy wagons line the street and a cluster of patrolmen block the intersection. A half-dozen blue jackets are positioned on the Pour House steps, ready to charge. They're expecting to find Tony Accardo, one of Capone's triggermen, sitting at the bar, and they've got good reason: Larch told them a local snitch fingered him sipping a martini behind the pocket doors.

A stocky, barrel-chested patrolman with broad shoulders knocks on the door and Diego opens it. The cop pulls Diego out by his lapels and drags him to the first of the paddy wagons. The wagons are big, boxy, and black—they look like penitentiaries on wheels. Diego's eyes are crazed with fear, the poor kid seems as close to crying for his mommy as he is to pulling out a machine gun and taking down the cops. Six more blue jackets rush into the Pour House, drawing their guns and barking commands; a dozen others wait in silence by the windows and basement exit. They've even got two marksmen stationed on the roof.

Within minutes the police are pulling Jimmy's men out of the Pour House, snapping handcuffs on them, and loading them into the paddy wagon. Larch has the last of the wagons reserved for his own use, though, and when my father and Pearl finally come out of the place, also in handcuffs, Larch personally escorts them to it. The champ has his head high and his jaw tight—but Pearl is begging Larch to let her go. Neither one realizes that this is all a show. They'll sit in the wagon for a few minutes and then be on their way.

Jimmy's next. Two cops take him out of the Pour House and walk him over to one of the wagons. He's as done up as ever—a dark chesterfield draped over a pinstriped suit, white tie, matching hat, and two-tone dress shoes. Underneath the hat, I can see that the sides of his hair and his sideburns are neatly waxed, as always. His hands are cuffed behind his back.

Strange as this may sound, I feel like a heel for pulling the police into the deal—it's as dirty a move as kneeing Hector in the nuts. Even my father would understand that calling a cop into a personal war is off-limits.

Jimmy's no idiot, though. He knows I'm here. He directs his sagging brown eyes into the police car and nods with an expression that says, “nice move.” I nod back and, for a brief moment, all is the way it used to be: Jimmy, proud of his best student, and me, flattered by the acknowledgment. Of course, my satisfaction will be fleeting, because I can only imagine Jimmy's next move now that I've changed the rules.

Larch orders two patrolmen to load Antonio and the rest of the Pour House busboys into the third wagon before he walks over to me.

“We'll let your father and Pearl go once the others are brought to the precinct. You can join them in a couple of minutes.”

“Swell,” I say, and step out of the car onto the iced street.

“One more thing,” he says. “Where's the liquor? The sugar pop moon? There's not much behind the bar.”

Larch doesn't want the sugar pop moon, he knows it's bogus. He's looking for a free score—his payment for saving my bony ass. Still, I can't give it to him. I owe him one, that's for sure, but I'm still hoping I can live the rest of my life without looking over my shoulder. If I tell Larch about the ratacombs and spill Jimmy's double-dealings, Jimmy would have every right to come after me. There are some moves that can't be undone, and for now, those are the ones I'm refusing to make. I may have pulled the cops into my shenanigans, but I won't become one of them. I won't sing.

My father and Santi are all ears as I tell them about Hector and Diego. We're sitting in my booth at the Hy-Hat, the one without the reading lamp, the tall one in the back that Pearl and I sat in, six nights a week, for years. Pearl's here now but she's itching to leave.