Blind Moon Alley (28 page)

When I make my way out of the building, the rain has stopped, the sun is still shining, and the smell of wet grass fills the air. I walk back across the lawn and take off my fedora, letting the sun toast my damp skin for a few brief, glorious seconds.

Then I get behind the wheel of the Auburn, toss my hat on the seat beside me, and start the engine. There's nothing left for me in Philly. But that doesn't mean I have nowhere to go.

It's barely noon when I pull into Harlem. The sun shines down on 127th Street, and a cool breeze blows through the Auburn's open window. The doc's cream protects my face, and my dark glasses are doing the same for my eyes.

As I drive up 127th, I spot a delivery truck in front of the Hy-Hat. Something is out of whack. Three guys in overalls have pulled a new icebox off a truck and are wheeling it into the alleyway that leads to the service entrance. A dozen other boxes sit next to the truck; I can only assume they're also on their way into the joint.

I park across the street and walk into the club. The place is busy—four girls are playing ping-pong and a couple of boys are outside the kitchen licking ice cream cones—but the front of the game room has been cleared out. Fats Waller is coming through the radio and Billy Walker is pounding the dummy bag in the corner. The champ's got his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up as he barks out combinations.

“Left, right, left, uppercut,” he shouts and Billy responds with a lightning-fast combination to the dummy bag.

“Hey, Champ,” I call out.

His eyes light up when he sees me—they always have—and I hope he can tell that mine do the same when I see him. He gives me a wave and my lips stretch into a smile. His hand is free of the plaster cast that had been driving him crazy and racking me with guilt for the past two months.

“Sorry about Myra,” he says as he walks over to me.

My father knows Myra died but he has no idea she set me up. I plan on leaving it that way—for the champ and for Myra.

“Thanks,” I say. “But I'm doing okay.”

He sizes me up and sees I'm speaking the truth.

“Hey, did you hear about this?” I say. I hold up the
Inquirer
with Garvey on the front page. My father never learned to read, but he can see Garvey's young, smiling face. I read him the headline.

“Yep, heard all about it,” he says, nodding and taking the paper. “I'm gonna hang it up,” he says. “Right over there.”

He points toward the wall by the punching bag, about six feet from where he spends most of his time.

“Garvey would like that,” I say and the champ nods again, more slowly this time.

One of the delivery guys pokes his head into the room and asks where we want the icebox. My father points toward the kitchen.

“What's going on, Champ?” I say. “We're fixing up the joint?”

My father gives me a smile. “We sure are. New pool tables, too.” Then he nods toward the open area. “And a boxing ring.”

“With what?” I say, cursing myself for giving away all of Lovely's cash.

“With the twenty-five large,” he says.

Two more delivery guys trudge into the place carrying long boxes that I'm assuming hold the corners of the ring. The short guy with the beard wants to know where they should set up.

“Right over there,” the champ tells them, pointing to the empty area by the dummy bag.

As the workers lay down the boxes, I turn and face the door so they can't hear me.

“What twenty-five large?” I ask the champ.

“The twenty-five large I found on my desk,” he says and flashes me a sly smile.

I know my father, and he thinks I sent him the money. But I also know me, and I'm sure I didn't. I'm dead broke—I left the last of the cash on Sullivan's desk for Louise Connor.

“When did you find it?” I say.

His eyes narrow. I can see his wheels turning, trying to figure out if I'm covering up or not.

“Yesterday mornin',” he says slowly.

I may not have given the club the money, but I know who did. Lovely. It fits perfectly. He lived long enough to see the
Inquirer
—to see that Reeger died in disgrace—and credited me for it. He knew I wouldn't take the money, so he sent it here.

The champ's looking me over, the glint gone from his eyes. “That money ain't yours?”

His lower lip is hanging down as he waits for an explanation. He doesn't want anything that came through the law-breaking hands of Lovely, or Reeger, or any other crook. And I'm not about to argue with him because his convictions have put him in the shoes I wish I were wearing. He once told me that bloodstained money soils the soul and he was right.

But that particular pile of cash is stained with Lovely's blood, and Lovely is dead.

“It's mine,” I tell him. “I didn't want you to know. I've been saving for years. I'm here, Champ, and I'm staying this time.”

My father gives me a smile that could light a movie marquee. He wraps his beefy arms around me and squeezes so hard I feel my ribs bend.

“C'mon into the kitchen,” he says. “They hadda unplug the old icebox. We gotta eat some of that stuff before it melts.”

We go into the kitchen, grab a container of strawberry ice cream, and bring it outside where an early autumn breeze is cooling the Harlem streets. The champ brushes off a spot on the front steps of the club and sits himself down. I do the same, right next to him, in the shade.

I've got
The Beautiful and the Damned
under my arm, and I'm ready to start the
next chapter
. I can get as much out of it as anybody can—maybe more—and now that I'm free of the dirt that's been clinging to me for years, I will.

Inside, the workmen are stringing ropes around the boxing ring that the champ and I will use to teach the local kids hard work and discipline—the very things it took me a lifetime to learn.

My father holds the ice cream and we take turns dipping into the carton, one spoonful at a time, as we listen to the clackety-clack of paddles hitting ping-pong balls.

We're a long way from Santa Monica.

But we're close enough for me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We meet again—this time in the basement of a Philadelphia brownstone. I'm glad you came. Rudy Vallee's on the radio and Doolie's pouring one last round of martinis. Let's close the place.

And while we're at it, let's toast a few special people.

Dan Mayer at Seventh Street Books did more than bring this novel to press. He rolled up his sleeves, grabbed some shinola, and polished its pages. And my agent Elizabeth Evans had the foresight to know he was the guy to do it. Here's to both of them.

There are others. Alex Jackson helped me find my way to Blind Moon Alley. Lee Martin deserves a nod, as does Dr. Dave Page, who assisted as I mended Jersey's broken nose. I'll also raise a glass to Larry and Jeff Trepel for adjusting the timing on Jersey's Auburn, not to mention the other cars that rolled through these pages.

Cheers.

The music has stopped and our glasses are empty, so it's time I head home to my wife, partner, first reader, and biggest fan, Ouisie. She believed in Jersey, believed in me, and keeps me believing in myself. For that, I offer a humble thank-you and a bottomless heart.

Farewell for now. I hope to see you again for Jersey's next adventure. You know where to find me: I'll be at the bar with the rest of the gang, waiting to pour you a shot of moon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Florio is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in print, on the web, and on television. He is the author of the Jersey Leo crime novels (
Sugar Pop Moon
and
Blind Moon Alley
) and
One Punch from the Promised Land: Leon Spinks, Michael Spinks, and the Myth of the Heavyweight Title
. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife, Ouisie Shapiro. Visit him at
johnfloriowriter.com.