Sugar Pop Moon (30 page)

Larch is in the group, not in uniform, but probably still on the precinct clock. He smiles at me, the bridge of his red nose wrinkling up like the snoot of a bulldog, and holds up his glass. It's half-empty, probably a dry Rob Roy, light on the ice. Diego should be filling it, but he's more concerned about leading an armed man to Jimmy. I nod at Larch but can't pour for him now.

When we get downstairs, Diego knocks on Jimmy's door and then opens it. We walk in and Jimmy looks up from his green leather high-back chair, his heavy eyelids rising in surprise.

“Snowball,” he says. “I've been wondering when I'd see you.”

I've always managed to respect Jimmy, but seeing him now, after what's gone down over the past two weeks, fills me with nothing but contempt. My father's been right all along. An honorable man works for a buck—Jimmy bankrupted his soul for a thousand.

As usual, he's wearing a shirt and tie; his shirt is starched so smoothly it looks like white butcher paper. He has his gabardine jacket hanging on the back of his chair. The three bookcases behind him are filled with ledgers and old newspapers; a fourth holds rows of books but it's only there for show—it doubles as the emergency exit to the ratacombs.

He motions for me to take a chair and tells Diego to leave the room and shut the door behind him. Knowing Jimmy, he's already worked up new ways to torture me. I lower myself onto one of his hard wooden side chairs and keep my right arm as loose as possible in its sling. If he takes one step toward me I'm going to pull out my revolver and start shooting. My left hand's not accurate, but it can still squeeze off six shots pretty quickly.

“I won't be staying long, Jimmy. I'm just here to tell you that you're getting your moon. It's coming today.”

Jimmy leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I heard you made quite a commotion getting it back, but I wasn't sure whether to believe it. That Philly story stunk as bad as Sister Hannigan's twat.”

He's staring at me, no doubt trying to spot a glitch somewhere in my expression. I'm trying to stay calm but my heart is pounding its way up my throat. Every time I exhale I let out a long, slow whistle. When my eyes start to shimmy, he turns away. Jimmy could never stand it. On the day he hired me he told me that my pupils made me look like some kind of magical coon sorcerer.

I can't take the charade any longer so I get up and head for the door.

“The story's true,” I say. “But I didn't do it for you. I did it for me. I couldn't let Gazzara kick me around.”

I'm hoping he'll agree with me but I hear his desk drawer slide open. When I turn around, he's got a pistol trained on my gut.

“I'll believe you when the moon gets here,” he says. “If it doesn't, I don't have much choice. How would it look if I let you take my money and walk away?”

I can't say I didn't expect this. I sit back down and plant my feet on the floor. I don't miss the irony that I'm now waiting on Gazzara to save my ass after he tried so hard to shoot it clean off my albino legs. I cross my arms so that my fingers are touching the butt of my gun. If Jimmy fires I'll get off a shot or two myself. In all likelihood, neither one of us will leave the room alive.

Jimmy keeps his pistol on me as he grills me on the fine print: the tree farm, the cellar club, the Cozy Cabins. He's all ears when I talk about Denny's operation, but I can tell he's having a tough time swallowing the part about Hector.

“He was out for my legs,” I tell him. Even I hear how outlandish it sounds.

“It's not adding up, Snowball,” Jimmy says. The look in his eyes says he's going to rub me out right now.

I grip my gun and start talking a mile a minute. I'm telling him about Tommy Sudnik, not that he gives a damn the kid was nearly butchered. The revolver's curved wooden handle is warming in my palm and I'm rattling on about Tommy—readying myself to put a hole in Jimmy's forehead—when Diego rushes in and says that Denny's crew is unloading palettes of moon from a truck out front. Jimmy slips his pistol into his waistband and walks to the door, so I relax my trigger finger.

“They're dumping the cases onto the street in broad daylight,” Diego says.

Gazzara's boys may know Philly, but they sure don't know New York. Our cops don't mind if you open a speakeasy, but they don't want you advertising it.

“I told you they weren't geniuses,” I say to Jimmy, wiping the sweat from my palm on my pants leg.

We walk through the Pour House and Jimmy tells Diego and Antonio to grab the cases off the street and run them into the ratacombs faster than Sister Hannigan can flash her tits. Then he walks me to the bar and shakes my good hand.

“We're square,” he says to me.

I exhale from the bottom of my gut. I feel as if I've been holding my breath since the bogus shipment arrived two weeks ago.

Diego and the boys have their jackets off and are piling the cases by the staircase before bringing them downstairs. If it were up to me, I'd have them in the ratacombs already.

“Hey, Diego,” I say, “Why stack them here?”

Diego looks confused, not sure if I'm back on the job or about to be rubbed out.

“He's right, Diego, get them downstairs,” Jimmy says, patting my good shoulder. “But first, fill a couple of glasses.”

Diego smiles. He pulls a bottle of sugar pop moon and pours two double shots.

Jimmy holds his in the air. “To Snowball, back at the Pour House.”

I clink his glass, but it hits me that I wouldn't work here again if he tripled my pay. I'm done with Jimmy. Still, I like knowing we're jake so I swallow the fresh moon. It goes down as smooth as I remember it.

“Gazzara makes some damned good moon for a stuttering lowlife,” I say.

I feel the cool touch of metal on the back of my head. “F-fuck you, S-snowball.”

I don't bother turning around. Every Joe at the bar is staring behind my head in silence. Diego's black eyes are also trained over my shoulder; he can't help me because he keeps his gun in his jacket, which is sitting on a case of moon next to the staircase.

Jimmy looks behind me. “What do you want, Denny?”

“Th-this is b-between me and S-snowball,” Gazzara says. “Y-you've got your s-s-seventy cases, so sh-sh-shut the f-f-fuck up.”

If I reach for my piece I'll be dead before my hand touches metal. I keep my head still, afraid to move it.

“Snowball works for me, Denny,” Jimmy says. “If you take him down here I've got a problem.” I don't know that I've ever seen him calmer.

I spot Larch out of the corner of my eye. He's slowly reaching under his jacket, so I start talking, trying to buy Larch some time to pull his revolver.

“I thought we were square, Denny,” I say.

He doesn't have time to answer. The crashing sound of a battering ram comes from the front room.

“Raid!” Diego screams out from behind the bar. Everybody in the place is scrambling to take a powder, but there's nowhere to go—cops are spilling into the place through the front and back doors. Only Jimmy and I know the escape routes, and we're tied up at the moment.

Gazzara takes the gun off my head. He doesn't have any influence here and he's not about to take a murder rap. If we were in Philly, I'd be dead.

Jimmy makes for his office in quick strides, dodging panicked customers. I'm hustling down the stairs behind him and Gazzara is on my heels. I'm not sure if he wants to kill me or tail me out of the joint.

We're about to step into Jimmy's office when I turn and see Larch grab Gazzara's right forearm and yank the gun out of his hand. “What's with the rod?” he says.

“It's n-not m-mine,” Gazzara says. “You've got n-n-nothing on m-me.”

I finger him for Larch. “Officer, this is Denny Gazzara, a business acquaintance from Philadelphia.”

Larch's eyes widen, as they should. Gazzara is wanted in every state in the Northeast and Larch knows he's just been handed a nice collar. And he probably also realizes he's inherited a good-sized shipment of sugar pop moon. At least fifteen cases of the stuff are still stacked in front of the staircase.

Larch calls over a beat cop and I don't wait for a thank you. I hear Gazzara stammering that he wants his lawyer as I run into Jimmy's office. I find Jimmy sliding the bookcase away from the wall. We cross the threshold and cover our tracks by sliding the wooden stack of shelves back into position. We step down into the cold, safe, dank air of the ratacombs and cross the basement. Jimmy takes out his keys and unlocks the steel fire door.

“This is getting tiresome,” he says. He's lost some of his freshness, his eyes are drooping lower than ever before and he has a sweat stain the size of a pancake under each arm of his starched shirt.

A rat circles his feet and he kicks it out of the way.

He opens the door and we enter the basement of 321 West Fifty-Third Street. I'm surprised to see a healthy supply of liquor; there must be two hundred and fifty cases down here. Even in my panic, I'm steamed at what I had to go through to get him moon that he didn't even need.

We make our way through the row house in the dark, which isn't too difficult because the place doesn't have a stick of furniture. Walking out the front door, we stay behind the hedges and stroll the path where I ran into Hector only a week ago. The icy Manhattan wind is still racing across the city and I pull up the lapels of my overcoat to blanket my neck. If I had my cream with me, I'd be lathering it on my burning cheeks.

Jimmy cuts across Fifty-Third Street in his suit pants and white shirt. He'll lose himself in the crowd that's gawking at the paddy wagons from across the street.

I walk up the block with my back to the action and tug on the front of my fedora. I've got one more stop to make before starting the holiday season. I stroll to the traffic light at the corner of Broadway, my boots crunching the newly fallen snow as Jimmy McCullough, the Pour House, and Denny Gazzara fade into the distance.

The snow is coming down in lazy flurries. There's a wreath on Pearl's door, so I knock above it with the knuckles of my good hand. Out of habit, I take a quick look over my shoulder. It just goes to show how your anxiety can rise when a crime lord puts a price on your head.

The instant Pearl opens the door I remember why I used to love her. Her doughy cheeks roll into a beaming smile that belongs on the top of a Christmas tree.

She invites me inside but I tell her no. I've finally figured out that chasing a moving target is as fruitless as being one. Besides, I can stand the cold for a while longer. I'm wrapped in a memory of Angela that's got me so warm I'm surprised my boots aren't melting the snow beneath me.

“You're a hero,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she holds up the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. I should have known she'd have a copy of the paper—my father's been handing them out to anybody who'll take them.

“Looks like everything's jake,” I say, nodding my head. “I'm square with Jimmy, and Larch threw Gazzara in the wagon. He'll nail him with plenty.”

“I knew you'd figure things out,” Pearl says.

“Yeah, well,” I say. I'm not here for a pat on the back. Since Santi's funeral Pearl's been helping Old Man Santiago clean out the Hy-Hat. He wants to close the club but I've got another idea.

“About Old Man Santiago,” I say. “I know you've been there for him.”

She shrugs as if it's nothing, but that's not the case. She did me a favor just by showing up at the Hy-Hat while I was busy with Gazzara and Jimmy.

“I appreciate it,” I say. “But I can take it from here.” She looks hurt and I almost apologize. I didn't mean it as cold as it sounded.

“So this is how things end?” she asks.

I want to tell her they never started, but it's not worth the trouble.

I'm surprised to see her eyes watering. She must be crying over the hero on the front page of the
Inquirer
, because she's certainly not interested in the real me, the albino she left in the lurch just when he needed her most.

“You'll be fine,” I say and I'm sure I'm right.

I walk back to the car without turning around, not wanting to see the woman I thought I loved in tears. I know what it feels like to be left alone, and the last thing I expected was to do it to Pearl. My neck is hot with shame, but my plans no longer include chasing after her.

When I get behind the wheel I spot the guy who was necking with her last week. He's walking to her place and he's carrying a red box with a gold bow. My guess is that Pearl's tears will dry up in about fifteen seconds.

I start the engine and head up 124th Street. Once I cross the river, I'll pull onto Route 25 and drive down to Philly as fast as the Auburn will take me.

Working in a speakeasy at the corner of Juniper and Vine is a woman who doesn't care about the color of my skin. I'm itching to see if she's still in the coatroom, standing under that clump of mistletoe, waiting to talk to the albino with the funny name. This time, I won't let her slip away. I'll put her in the passenger seat and race her back up here to Harlem to help me run the Hy-Hat. Maybe I'll even find a retired boxing champion to give the kids some lessons and teach them the discipline it took me so long to find.