Sugar Pop Moon (19 page)

“You're right,” he says. “When you showed up in Philly, you made things easy for him. But Hector messed up, so they came after you in New York. Had they killed you then, the only response they'd have gotten from Jimmy would've been a thank-you note.”

I've got no choice but to find Joseph Gazzara before Hector finds me. Otherwise, I'll be spending the rest of my living days running from him—and from Jimmy. “I'm going back to Saint Mark's,” I say. “I've got to tail Hector.”

“Why go near him?” Angela says. “Why not wait until bingo night when you can get Gazzara?” It feels good to have a woman showing some concern for me.

“I can't go at Gazzara on bingo night,” I tell her. “Too many people will be there. I need to get him alone. Following Hector will lead me to him.”

“Makes sense,” Johalis says. “And tonight's as good a night as any, assuming Hector's still there. I'm coming with you.”

I want to tell Johalis to stay put, that I don't need my father's friends to help me clean up my messes, but even I can see that I'm in over my head on this one.

“Okay, right after this round,” I say. Nobody could get on me for wanting a shot or two to steady my nerves before tailing a cleaver-swinging lunatic.

Johalis must agree because he's motioning for Doolie to pour two more.

I take a look at the Ink Well and hope it's not my last time here. Big Bill Broonzy's singing the blues and Angela's sipping her scotch; the tips of her fingers caress her shot glass and her lips sparkle from the fresh coat of whiskey. She lights up a Lucky, leans back, and blows a plume of smoke up toward the ceiling beams. And in that fog, hanging directly over us, is my hope that simplicity will return to my life.

I down my drink and tell Doolie to hit me again. After a couple of shots, my memories of the Pour House begin to fade, along with my love of Pearl and my fear of Hector's cleaver.

The effects of Doolie's whiskey are long gone as I stand next to Johalis outside Saint Mark's, shivering. My eyes are so beaten up by the cold that tears are frosting my bottom lids. The church doors are locked, so I'm peering through the stained glass windows to see if I can spot anything peculiar. It's hopeless. The sky is an inky black and the inside of the church is dark as hell.

Johalis trots to the back of the building, so I do the same, the patter of our leather soles echoing across the parking lot. He gets down on his right knee and presses his forehead against the basement window. The glass has been painted on the inside, so he can't see anything, but he swears to me that he hears movement in the cellar.

“Jersey,” he whispers. “Listen here.”

I take my scarf away from my left ear and lean in against the chilled glass. I'm pretty sure something's going on down there, but it could be anything, maybe even a dog. We certainly have no reason to believe it's Hector.

“I'll jimmy the window,” he says.

“Are you kidding?” I say, my teeth chattering. “We don't even know who's down there. And they'll definitely hear us.”

“It's better than breaking the glass.”

He pulls out a blade and slips the steel between the window and the frame, trying to trip the catch. It hits me again that he's Joe Criminal, maybe even a pro. I'd been kicking myself for not bringing Santi with me, but now I realize my father cashed in his chips with Johalis for a reason: this guy can cover my ass.

Johalis slides the catch, but it doesn't move enough to free the window, so he tries again, this time shimmying the blade. The catch doesn't give and Johalis grimaces. Then he pushes the knife so hard that the window rattles as if it's battling a windstorm. The catch slides, but not quietly.

We stay there in silence, shaking from the cold, waiting to see if anybody comes to check on the ruckus. I'm not sure what we'll say if we're caught. I'm wise enough to know that any explanation involving an usher who wants to chop off my femurs would seem a bit far-fetched.

Johalis gets tired of waiting and pries the window open with the tip of his blade. As he does it, I hear a sound coming from the basement. It's a human voice—it sounds wild and desperate. Somebody is gagged and pleading for help. It's sickening. My stomach rolls like it's on a funhouse ride and my mouth tastes of vomit.

I'm about to wriggle through the window when Johalis taps my shoulder and wags his hand at me. Slow down, he's saying. I take a deep breath but it doesn't do much good. Adrenaline is flooding my brain like gin on a martini olive.

Instead of racing down there—which is what every cell in my body is itching to do—I poke my head through the window to see what awaits me. The heat from the radiators is doubly strong against my freezer-burned face; my skin feels like chilled steel that's being torched by a welder's gun. My eyes are too sore to see anything but blackness, but I can hear that the voice is coming from the far end of the room. I can't keep listening to this without doing something.

I pop my head back out and tell Johalis, “I'm going inside.”

I don't wait for a response. I slide into the room, feet first, landing on a table and kicking something metal that bounces and clangs onto the hard stone floor. It sounds like an empty metal coffee pot.

Johalis whispers through the window. “Jesus Christ, watch where the hell you're going,” he says, as if I planned on making as much noise as a marching band.

My eyes adjust to the darkness as I try to shake the feeling that I'm a burglar who's stealing air every time I inhale. I already can't wait to be back outside on the Philly streets, where it isn't a crime to breathe.

The cries have turned to whimpers. As I approach, I see a boy tied up and gagged on the floor, face down. I can barely see his face under the handkerchief that covers his mouth, but I can tell by his bony frame that he can't be more than twelve years old. His arms are bound behind his back, his legs are tied at the ankles, and the two knots are tied to each other by a short section of rope. There are chalk marks and candles on the floor around him. I'm no expert on the occult, but I've been to enough Catholic masses to know that this has nothing to do with Saint Mark's.

“I'm putting an end to this,” I whisper to him, hoping that's the truth and wishing I could give my words the same thunder they'd have coming from a tough guy like Jimmy.

There are two ways to get down here from the church and I check both doors. They're locked, so if Gazzara and Hector show up, I'll hear them futz with the lock before they're on me. I unholster my gun, tuck it into the waistband of my pants and leave my chesterfield hanging open. Then I go to the window and tell Johalis that I'm not coming out alone. I take his blade and return to the kid, desperate to do the right thing for the first time since this whole episode started. I've never been a hero, at least not the kind that would make my father proud, but for a split second I feel like Wallace Beery springing Robert Montgomery in
The Big House
.

After I cut the rope and free the boy's wrists, I roll him onto his back and the Wallace Beery in me crumbles. The handkerchief is distorting the kid's mouth and he's bleeding from a gash about four inches long under his jawbone. He's weakened and scared. And albino.

I slice the ropes around his ankles and untie the gag from his mouth.

“Let's go,” I whisper.

He's scared of me, and for once in my life, it's not because of the way I look.

“I'm not one of them,” I say. When I see his stringy white hair and translucent green eyes, I add, “I'm one of you.”

He nods but can't move quickly. He's rotating his wrists and kicking his legs to restore movement to his limbs. Grime covers his round cheeks and spindly nose, and I wonder how long he's been lying on the cold floor, hog-tied, waiting to be butchered.

We move toward the window and I help him onto the table. He wrestles his head and arms out the window and Johalis pulls him the rest of the way.

As I'm about to climb on the table, I spot a stack of the church's weekly announcements next to a dusty water pitcher. I want to check the schedules, but I'm afraid a key will slip into one of the door locks at any second. I grab a handful of papers and flip through them as quickly as my shaking hands will allow. I can barely read the small, mimeographed print but one of the sheets is for the bingo club. I jam it into my coat pocket, climb through the window, and join Johalis and the boy outside. The poor kid is blotting the cut on his neck with the same handkerchief that had been used to gag him.

We hustle back to the Auburn, staying off the church's main walkway and away from the streetlamps. I've got my right hand on the butt of my gun the whole way. The wind whips across Locust Street, but it's never felt so crisp and clean. The boy's blood is obviously circulating again. He's got some spring in his step as he ducks next to trees and scampers behind parked cars. His straight white hair is blowing in the wind and he raises his arms over his head while sprinting to the Auburn. He reminds me of myself at his age. He's young, he's alive, and he's free. Above us, the bells of Saint Mark's ring—it's midnight—and for the first time all season, it feels like Christmas.

Walter couldn't shake his own body odor as he crouched behind the Soldiers and Sailors Arch in Spring Grove cemetery and watched Edward Albright meander between tombstones. He tried to tell himself that he smelled of dedication and the pursuit of justice, but the truth was he reeked of anxiety. And failure. He hadn't yet found a single shred of evidence that connected Richard Canfield to Edward Albright and he was running out of time. Glenny hated waiting on stories, but Walter had convinced him to part with ten days of expenses so Walter could follow Albright and come back with a “humdinger of a headline.” Six of those ten days were already chewed up and Albright had yet to meet with Canfield, Higgins, or the commission. No sir, until this morning, Edward Albright hadn't even left his house.

When the front door of 1116 Weatherbee Road had finally swung open at ten o'clock and Albright, dressed in a dark suit, white vest, and dotted necktie, stepped down the gray slate steps of the brick-and-stucco Tudor, Walter had been sitting next to a streetlamp with his derby on his head and two bites of a ham sandwich in his mouth. He jammed the rest of his lunch into his pocket and took off after Albright, shadowing the gray homburg hat across town, ducking behind horses, trolley cars, and at one point, a rolling ice wagon, to avoid being noticed.

When Albright had gotten to Main Street, he'd turned down Cemetery Lane and walked into the graveyard. Walter wasn't a trained gumshoe, not even close, but he could tell that something stunk, and it wasn't just the damp yellow sweat stains under his arms.

But Albright had been full of surprises since he'd stepped into Walter's life, and today was no different. Just as Walter leaned against the arch expecting to spot a meeting of underworld kingpins, Albright paused in front of a tombstone, knelt down on the moist morning grass, and prayed.

Walter didn't get it. Was Albright really here to grieve over his lost wife? If that were the case, not only was Walter following the wrong lead, he felt guilty for doing so. He knew how Harriet Albright had died; he'd found a reference to her in a 1903
Evening-Star
article on suffragettes demonstrating outside City Hall. He turned away and hid behind the arch, letting Albright share a private moment with his wife's spirit. The next time he peeked, Albright's face was red, the skin around his eyes wet and shiny.

Then Albright stood, straightened his jacket, and followed the winding dirt path out of the cemetery. Walter shadowed him but stayed a safe distance behind—making sure to pass the marker that brought the crook to tears. When he reached the gravesite, he checked the name chiseled into the granite and then fumbled for the notebook in his pocket. The name on the stone was not Harriet Albright.