Sugar Pop Moon (29 page)

“I said, sit,” Albright barks, stabbing his index finger toward two chairs in front of his desk.

They sit, but Gazzara's shooting me a look that could load a Tommy gun.

“What's he d-doing here?” Gazzara says, pointing at me. He wants to pounce on me so badly his leg is twitching and he's squirming on the edge of his chair. I wish I had two working arms so I could get up and sock him across his stuttering mouth. If he comes at me, I'm going to kick him square in the giblets, just like I did to Hector.

“That's Snowball,” Albright says, walking around the side of his desk and leaning on the edge of it with his hip.

Gazzara lunges at me and I spring to my feet, but Albright pushes him back into his chair.

“You owe me money, Denny,” Albright says.

“I'm not p-paying you. That w-wheel is r-rigged.”

“You owe me money,” Albright says again. “And you're not walking out of here unless you pay me tonight.”

With that, Gazzara's eyes widen. For the first time since I laid eyes on him, I spot fear on his smug face.

“We're talking thirty l-l-large!” Gazzara says.

“That's right, and I want it tonight. Cash.”

“This is a j-j-oke.”

“It's no joke,” Albright says. “I hear you're lousy at paying your bills.”

I look at the champ and wonder if he's getting any satisfaction out of watching Albright square his twenty-four-year-old debt.

“Who said th-that?” Gazzara asks. “I've never had a t-tab I didn't pay.”

“Snowball here told me,” Albright says. “He says you crossed him. And when you cross Snowball, you cross me.”

Gazzara's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can practically hear his thoughts stuttering.

“He says you owe him seventy cases of sugar pop moon,” Albright says. “He bought eighty, but only ten were any good. Are you saying he's lying to me?”

“He k-k-illed my brother,” Gazzara yells out as his back slumps. His agony is so palpable I think he might break into tears. He should only know how guilty I feel about pulling that trigger. I killed a mother's son.

If Albright is moved by Gazzara's pain, he's not showing it. “Your brother was going to chop him up,” he says. “I think Snowball's reaction qualifies as self-defense.”

He waits for an argument but Gazzara is mute. “So you're on the hook for seventy cases of sugar pop moon to Snowball. And thirty large to me.”

“I d-don't have the thirty large n-now.”

“Okay, you don't have to pay me now,” Albright says, shaking his head to convey he's a reasonable man. “You can stock Snowball with sugar pop moon until your debt to me is paid off.”

Denny's lips twitch and the vein running up his forehead bulges and turns blue. He stammers, but not one word comes out of his arrogant, stuttering mouth.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Albright says. “Of course, if it's a no, you'll be dead by midnight. And it would be a shame for you to miss Christmas.”

I feel juiced with power over Gazzara. Still, as the piano player bangs out “Deck the Halls” in the parlor, I find myself wishing I'd never worked at the Pour House, never gone down to Philly, and never run into the Denny Gazzaras of the world. I'd gladly give up the joy of watching Gazzara beg for his life if I could run through my teen years again. This time around, I wouldn't be here. I'd be at the Hy-Hat, watching Santi decorate the Christmas tree with a string of popcorn and his painted chess pieces.

Albright claps his hands and rubs them together as if we're all excited about the free moon. “So where do the cases get delivered?” he asks me.

“The Pour House,” I say.

“McCullough's already been paid,” my father says.

It's time I came clean. “I never gave Jimmy the money,” I say. “I gave it to Old Man Santiago so he could bury Santi.”

I'm braced for the worst, but my father smiles at me as if he just found out that his years of preaching have taken hold. Maybe's he's forgotten that we're sitting in a gambling parlor, strong-arming a stuttering mobster for free booze.

“So seventy cases to the Pour House?” Albright asks again.

The street doesn't have many rules but it does have a few, and I know I can't leave Gazzara's bill at seventy cases. I've got to bring the hammer down on him or I'll be his patsy for the rest of my living days.

“And seventy cases to a speakeasy at Juniper and Vine in Philadelphia,” I say.

“Okay,” Albright says. “Seventy cases every two weeks to the Pour House and the joint in Philly.”

My father shakes his head, confused. “Every two weeks?” he says. “For how long?”

Gazzara didn't ask and neither did I. We both know the answer.

Albright shrugs. “For life,” he says, as if he's not asking for much.

“I don't need all that moon,” I say and my father grins again. “Just seventy to the Pour House and the same to Philly.”

Albright looks at me, his thin lips turned downward, probably disappointed that I don't have his killer instinct.

“Okay,” he says. “Two deliveries. Seventy to the Pour House. And three hundred to Philly.”

“Three h-hundred?” Gazzara asks.

“And another seventy cases to me,” Albright says. “I hear it's good stuff.”

Gazzara looks horrified. “If I'm spilling all that b-booze, then y-y-you and I walk away for g-good,” he says to Albright.

I'm actually hoping Albright agrees because Gazzara's ready to go off like a Roman candle. At this point he's so humiliated he'd probably welcome the bullet that would rub him out.

Albright nods. “That'll square us. And it'll square you and Snowball.”

I walk over to Gazzara and extend my good hand.

“Shake his hand,” Albright says.

I don't know if I'm proud or embarrassed that the man's my grandfather.

Gazzara grips the tips of my fingers and gives a quick tug, as if he's afraid he'll become an albino by touching me. His hands are hot and his nostrils flare when his fingers hit mine. Our score isn't settled.

“Wonderful,” Albright says. “When can we expect delivery? I'm thirsty.”

Now I know where I got that wisenheimer gene.

“It's a lot of m-m-moon,” Gazzara says, his jaw tight.

“Tomorrow morning's perfect,” Albright says, smiling and slapping the side of his thigh as if it were Gazzara's suggestion. Then, he adds, “Deliver to Philly first.”

It's a shrewd move. Philly's the big delivery, he wants to be sure it arrives.

Gazzara gets up and his shadow does the same.

“You'll get your f-fucking m-m-moon,” he tells Albright.

Then he and the goon walk to the door. The pit boss follows, along with Albright's triggermen, who have holstered their pistols but still have their herringbone jackets unbuttoned.

Albright pours a round of whiskey and this time my father takes a glass. His hands are shaking, but he downs a hit of booze and steadies them. Albright does the same—minus the trembling fingers.

“Meet with McCullough before the shipment arrives,” Albright says to me. “He needs to know why he's getting it, and he needs to hear it from you. Settle up with him, man to man.”

I nod and slug a shot of Albright's whiskey. Then I rest my head on the couch and wait for the liquor to dull the pain radiating from the hole in my shoulder. Albright is looking at me, smiling, obviously happy with himself for saving me. He raises his glass to toast our success and I put yet another glaze on my tongue so he can relish the moment. But I already know this is the last time I'll call on him. Albright is a shark, same as Gazzara, and I don't have the genes to swim in their waters. All I want to do is walk away—no guns, no cleavers, no triggermen—free to go back to the simplicity of my old life.

It's Christmas morning and I'm in cabin 11 at the Cozy Cottages rubbing cream over my blistered jaw. My father is asleep on the couch; I'm sitting on the edge of the bed as Johalis squeezes his gloves and boots into a packed leather bag. His work is done, but he's still not buying that Albright got Gazzara to bury his grudge so easily.

“Gazzara will never completely walk away,” Johalis says.

I don't disagree, but I need at least seventy cases of liquor to arrive at the Pour House to shake Jimmy off my back.

“You don't think he'll cough up the moon?” I say.

“He'll deliver because he wants to even up with Albright,” Johalis says. “I'm just not convinced he's done with you. But I suppose we've got to take him at his word.”

“I hope his word is strong,” I say. “But just the same, I won't push it. Once Jimmy's got his booze, I'll stay out of Philly.”

I'm disappointed because I find myself missing the dim lights of the Ink Well. I was hoping to drive down and visit Angela before New Year's, just to see if she was still checking coats and soothing souls. She had a way about her that made me feel hopeful, which is not something I could ever say about Pearl.

“Too bad, because you're a hero down there,” Johalis says, flipping me a folded copy of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
.

I read the headline that stretches across the front page.
Son of Former Boxing Champ Saves Kidnapped Boy
. There, below the big block type, next to a photo of Tommy Sudnik standing in front of his row house on Chatham Street, is my mug.

“Your father put me in touch with the reporter, a guy named Wilkins. I gave him the story the day after we went to Saint Mark's. Wilkins said he owed your father but I had no idea he'd go hog-wild. He caught up with Sudnik's mom and even chased down Father O'Neill at the church. I'm surprised he didn't find you at Albright's casino.”

The champ has cashed in on a lifetime of goodwill and I wonder if I'd ever be able to do the same in return. I look at him on the frayed orange sofa—his stitched-up leg hoisted onto the coffee table as snores come from his proud, scarred face, and I smile, surprised I remember how.

“So no more worrying about cops?” I ask.

“The clean ones love you,” Johalis says with a shrug of the shoulders. “Gazzara still owns the dirty ones but that'll always be the case. The investigation is officially closed.”

“And your debt is paid,” I say to him, nodding toward the champ.

He dismisses me with a wave of the hand. “Call me any time,” he says. “This isn't about debt.” His voice is as thick and rich as ever. I'm telling you, those pipes could woo a dog off a meat wagon.

We shake hands and he grabs his bag. Before he leaves, I tell him I want to keep the paper so I can bring it with me to the Pour House. If Gazzara delivers the moon and I can square things with Jimmy, I just might hang it up behind the bar.

I step into the Pour House a few minutes before noon. It's hard to relax knowing Jimmy's still after me, but the familiar smell of the joint—a combination of beer, steak, and moon—seduces me as easily as Pearl's outstretched arms. Diego runs over to me and clutches my good shoulder in both of his hands. He's looking behind me, nervously twitching his neck back and forth to see if he's been set up.

“Relax, Diego,” I say, stomping the snow off my boots. “I'm not going anywhere.”

My tone seems to calm him down, but he's still jumpy. “Sorry, Snowball. Jimmy keeps telling us to bring you in.”

I'm ready to tell him there's a difference between grabbing me here and “bringing me in” but I let it slide.

He keeps hold of my arm and leads me past the pocket doors as if I need help finding Jimmy's office. The kid's so keyed up he doesn't even pat me down. If he'd given it a moment's thought, he'd have realized I'd never show up here without packing heat. My revolver's tucked inside my sling and my chesterfield's draped over it.

We circle behind the bar. There's a good-sized crowd singing along with Guy Lombardo as the radio plays “I'm Confessin' that I Love You.” It's Christmas, so my guess is they're all confessing it to somebody who's not here.