Sugar Pop Moon (21 page)

I'm sitting at the Ink Well with Johalis, listening to Blind Willie McTell on Doolie's radio, waiting for my father to arrive from the Broad Street Station. The minute the champ heard that Joseph Gazzara was connected to Hector's albino hunt, he was all too happy to help me track the bastard down.

I called the champ late last night, right after Johalis and I had driven the albino kid, Tommy Sudnik, to his row house on Chatham Street in the Port Richmond section of Philly. It turned out that Tommy had been missing for two days and handwritten notices were tacked to every utility pole, mailbox, and store window in the neighborhood.

We'd pulled the Auburn up to Tommy's house at half past midnight. Johalis got out and rapped on the wooden door while I took out a cigarette, still shaky from my adventures at Saint Mark's. I went over to a streetlamp and lit up, wrapping my chesterfield tightly across my chest to keep warm. Tommy's mother, a chubby brown-eyed woman with dark hair that defied gravity, opened the door wearing a red flannel nightgown. Johalis must have told her how I'd slid into the church basement and rescued her son, because she vaulted the wooden steps and hugged me right there on the brick sidewalk, the streetlamp beaming down on us as she planted kisses all over my face. For the briefest of moments, I was royalty, a ray of hope for a widowed woman on the downtrodden streets of Philadelphia. I wished Pearl were there to see it.

Tommy's mother wanted to go to the newspapers with my heroism, but I didn't want to advertise that I was in town. She did insist, though, on calling the cops to blow the whistle on Gazzara after Tommy told her how Hector had dragged him into Saint Mark's with a cleaver pressed against his neck.

“I don't think the cops will do much,” Johalis said. He mumbled it softly but still managed to unnerve the woman.

“But what if men come for Tommy?” she asked him in a rich Polish accent, her face taking on the panicked look of a grade-schooler who couldn't find her parents. “The police stop them, no?”

Johalis didn't answer because the truth was that the Philly cops have no way to rid themselves of Joseph Gazzara. Yeah, they might slow him down by throwing him in jail for a while, but it wouldn't take long for him to get out and start up again. To make matters worse, half the city cops are on his brother's payroll. They sit in Denny's speakeasies, pocket wads of hush money, and sip free shots of moon as their radios ring, unattended. If they ever got a call about Saint Mark's, they'd surely sit on it. Or they'd start asking questions and my cover would be blown in no time.

When Tommy's mother realized Johalis had no answers, she turned to me. Fresh tears soaked her full, round cheeks. “If cops do nothing, what can I do?”

I wanted to step up, to tell her that I'd be the hero. Me. Denny Gazzara's zebra-nigger-lackey-coon, Pearl's discarded toy, the world's punch line. I wanted to tell her that I'd keep her son safe, that Johalis would help me, and that even my father would help protect her boy. I wanted to say I'd stop at nothing, that I'd put an end to Gazzara without any regard for the consequences. But I couldn't make that promise in front of the kid without soiling his soul, without glorifying the street laws that have got me on the run from Jimmy McCullough.

The woman grabbed my shoulders, looked into my eyes, and pled for justice. Then she started bawling again. She laid her head on my chest and sobbed into the dark wool lapels of my overcoat. I put my hand on her shoulder as she wailed for somebody to fight for her son—and I nearly cried myself when she looked up and begged me to stop the crooks from snatching Tommy again.

I stood there, mute, afraid of poisoning her son with hateful promises. Buried deep in my silence, though, was a vow of retribution that didn't need a voice to be real.

I haven't forgotten that vow as I sit in the Ink Well with Johalis, nursing two fingers of bourbon, and waiting for the champ to arrive. When the front door finally swings open, my father walks in wearing a tan coat over a dark blue double-breasted suit. When he sees me, he smiles, the cleft in his chin deepening as his lips curl.

I'm as happy to see him as he is to see me. I've always thought this Gazzara mess was disproportionate to any crime I'd committed. Simply by showing up, the champ is telling me that he agrees.

My mood darkens, though, when Santi slinks in behind my father. Johalis doesn't realize I've been protecting the kid, so he throws up his arms and lets out a rich whoop when he sees that we've got extra reinforcement. He tells Doolie to bring two more glasses and leave the bottle, and within minutes the four of us are sitting around one of the Ink Well's iron tables, a fresh shine on each of our tongues. Santi's avoiding my glare—his eyes are darting all over the cramped room—but I soften after another belt of bourbon. I tip my glass to him and he does the same.

My father pours himself a second shot and I'm sure the only reason he's drinking underground whiskey is that he's grateful I'm still in one piece. He sips the hooch and swirls it in his mouth as if it's a fine wine. I don't tell him that this bottle of bourbon has all the subtlety of the market crash.

He relishes his last drop and puts his glass on the table. “So this was never 'bout moonshine,” he says, his round eyes sparkling.

“Nope,” I say, impressed that his moral sense is so strong that he's ready to fight a gang of albino bone hunters but wouldn't go up against a lone bootlegger.

“How does Saint Mark's fit in?” Santi asks, keeping his voice low. He's probably afraid I'll send him back to New York if he shows too much enthusiasm.

“There's some kind of occult thing going on downstairs at the church,” Johalis says. “Hector works for Joseph Gazzara; so does the little guy with the busted nose.”

“The devil's in the basement,” Santi says, his lips tight as if he's trying to crack a crossword clue.

“It must be a ritual,” I say. “Who'd run a black mass out of a church? It's like opening a speakeasy in a police precinct.”

“Santeria,” Johalis whispers. “It's gotta be a Santerian group. They're the only nut jobs who mix Catholicism with voodoo.”

A nervous silence fills the room, so I take out the bingo schedule I palmed on the way out of the basement. Below the list of activities are the phone numbers and addresses of each of the regular players.

I read the fourth name out loud. “Joseph Gazzulo, 368 Tenth Street, first floor.”

The name is too close for coincidence. The four of us clink our glasses and down our drinks. I throw a few bucks next to the bottle for Doolie.

After we don our coats, I linger by the coatroom, wishing Angela were working.

The champ sees me slow down but he doesn't know why.

“Let's go, son,” he says, resting his palm on my shoulder. “We're ending this cleaver thing now.”

Damn, I'm glad he's here.

The four of us—me, my father, Johalis, and Santi—are piled into the Auburn as we drive past the Excelsior Hotel. The sun went down hours ago and the darkness brought a heavy flurry of big, wet snowflakes.

I turn down Tenth Street, rolling past the locked warehouses and retail shops, and I've got a sinking feeling I've been here before. When we reach number 368, I'm sure. Gazzara's address is home to the cellar club where I first ran into Hector. It's the joint where I splintered the little Spanish guy's nose—the same hole with the squalid mattress where I shot my seed into a double-talking hooker named Margaret.

At least I know what we're up against.

I guide the Auburn into a parking space across the street from the building. It's almost Christmas and the whole country is broke, so I'm figuring the joint's regular customers will want to tuck their kids into bed before coming here to drink Santa's empty sleigh off their minds. My hunch says the club won't start filling up until about ten o'clock—and the bartenders are just readying themselves for business now.

I tell my father, Johalis, and Santi the little I know about the place, but since the champ is here I leave out the part about the hooker.

“The entrance is on the side,” I say. “The club is in the back.”

Johalis nods. My guess is that he's also been here before, and I wonder if it was for the drinks or the hookers.

“Santi and I will duck down the alley and go around back,” Johalis says. “They must have a delivery entrance or an escape hatch. You and your father go in through the side entrance, but give us a minute or two.”

He and Santi take off for the back of the building—both holding onto their hats as the snowy wind swirls around them. Johalis is about a head taller than Santi but not as quick on his feet—and the ankle-high snow can't be helping either one of them. When they enter the alley between the building and the butcher shop they're no longer covered by the glow of the streetlamp. In silhouette, their billowing overcoats make them look like they're wearing long black capes.

My father and I sit in the Auburn and the conversation turns to, of all people, Pearl.

“I liked her,” my father says, “but I'm not sure she's what you want her to be.”

Not sure? He should get a load of her slobbering all over lover boy in the middle of the street. That'd open his eyes.

“Let's go,” I say, getting out of the car without telling him how much I hate Pearl, or how much I love her.

We trudge through the snow and enter the alley next to the butcher shop. It feels creepy—I'm standing in front of the unmarked entrance that Margaret showed me only nine days ago. I unholster my gun and slip it into the pocket of my overcoat. Then I grab the metal knob and lead my father to the cellar club. We stand outside the door, listening. There are a few soft voices inside the club, accompanied by Fats Waller on the music box. From the sound of it, the place is nearly empty.

I back up against the wall and motion for my father to open the door. We've already talked this through. He'll go in and plant himself on a stool at the bar. I'll wait a few seconds before following—as far as we know I'll start a riot just by stepping foot into the joint.

The champ walks in and shuts the door behind him. I linger in the hall, brushing the snow off my shoulders and hat.

A minute later, I step into the bar. It's underlit and nearly empty. My father is sitting on the same stool the ciggy-smoking flapper occupied the last time I was here. The place looks the same, right down to the tender—he's the one who poured Margaret and me our shine. He takes a glance in my direction but then turns away to clean a shaker. If he hasn't already begun praying that I've forgotten his face, he soon will.

The door to the back room is open and I recognize the rancid mattress on the floor. The thought of paying for pleasure in that hole nauseates me, especially now that I'm no longer intoxicated by the candied smell of a two-bit hooker's perfume. Just seeing that stained thing makes we want to apologize to the champ, who's ready to punch his fists raw at my say-so. I fight the impulse to leap across the bar and beat my brass knuckles into the tender's temples until he turns the calendar back and restores the simple life I had two weeks ago.

“Snowball,” a voice calls out from one of the booths along the left wall. My eyes shimmy but I know that twinkling green eye and scarred right ear. It's Joseph Gazzara.

I cross the wooden floor as Fats Waller pours out of the music box. Most of the time Fats makes me want to dance, but right now that banging piano is scraping at my nerves. The music sounds as if it's getting louder with each chord, like Fats is pushing me to grab my revolver, shove it into Gazzara's mouth, and empty the chamber.

“Joseph Gazzara,” I say, standing across from him, my breath short, hardly believing that I'm finally in front of the bastard. “Or should I call you Denny?”

He chuckles, his brown eye glimmering as brightly as his green one. He makes a move to stand up but I push him back into his seat.

“Sit down,” I tell him.

Fats is still hammering away. He's relentless. And now it's not just the piano rattling me, a trumpet is screeching notes shrill enough to break glass.

“Fine,” Gazzara says, shrugging his shoulders and motioning for me to take a seat opposite him.

“I'll stand,” I say. My voice sounds as edgy as the ear-splitting shit coming from the music box. “And then I'll leave—right after I get the forty-eight hundred bucks you took for that sugar pop piss.” That's not the whole truth. Even if I get the money, I've still got a score to settle for Tommy Sudnik.

He laughs me off. “You're funny,” he says.

“Not tonight, I'm not.”

“Well, you look funny, anyway.”

With that, I yank out my gun push it under his chin. If I could, I'd ram it straight up into his skull.

“Listen, you two-eyed, fucked-up, devil-loving scumbag. There are people who'd pay me way more than forty-eight hundred to decorate that wall with your twisted brain.”