Read Online Blind Moon Alley by John Florio - Free Book Online

steps leading up to square wooden doors and, next to the front stairways, street-level basement apartments with black metal doors. I remember Johalis lived below a trumpet teacher, so it isn’t until I hear a screechy scale blare out of a second-story window that I think I’ve found his place. I tap the diamond-shaped glass window on the apartment door and wait to see Johalis’s wrinkled lids peer out from behind the yellowed lace curtain.
    The night air is soggy—it’s wrapping my body like an invisible, moist blanket. My nose guard is burning my skin; it feels as though it just popped out of Doolie’s toaster. I’m dying to take the damn thing off for a few minutes but know I shouldn’t. Instead, I take off my fedora and give my forehead a wipe with the crook of my arm.
    The champ is standing curbside—he’s got his eye on the Auburn, which is parked down by South Fifth. Garvey’s still crouched down in the back; he’ll need to stretch his legs soon, but we’re waiting to make sure the coast is clear of Reeger’s boys.
    â€œYou sure you’ve got the right door?” my father asks me. He’s never been here, so he’s even more in the dark than I am. I shrug my shoulders.
    The champ’s suit pants are dirty and ripped. His lower lip is swollen and tinged with blue. His right eyebrow has a crust of dried blood, and his shirt is ripped up to the elbow to make room for the cast. I want to offer him and Garvey a bath, a meal, and some clothes, but if Johalis isn’t home, I’m not sure where to bring them. It can’t be to my place, not while half the precinct is dining on the fine food at Ronnie’s Luncheonette.
    Johalis would have some ideas, but the curtain doesn’t move. There are hundreds of places he could be, one of which is at the bottom of the Schuylkill in pajamas made of cement. The trumpet upstairs scratches out a kindergartener’s nursery rhyme, and I wonder if a slow round of taps would be more appropriate.
    â€œForget it,” my father says from the curb.
    Maybe the champ doesn’t realize it, but we’re running out of options. I knock harder, as if slamming my knuckles against the glazed glass could somehow force Johalis to appear.
    â€œLet’s go,” the champ says again, already halfway back to the car.
    I knock again, but when the curtain doesn’t budge, I give up and walk down Ludlow to join my father and Garvey in the Auburn.
    I’m nearly at South Fifth when a steel blade kisses the back of my neck. The thug who’s holding it doesn’t need to speak; I’m sure it’s Reeger, or somebody on his payroll. He yanks my arm behind my back and pulls me one step into an alley. Pain shoots up my shoulder and I’m afraid to make a move, much less turn around. I’ve got my snubnose in my pocket, but it might as well be at the Ink Well. I put my hands where he can see them.
    A deep voice fills my right ear. “Jesus Christ, Jersey. What the hell are you doing here?”
    Johalis looks like he tumbled out of bed. His black hair is greasy and hanging loosely over his ears; his long chin is covered by moss-like stubble.
    â€œLooking for you,” I say, my voice shaky.
    He lets go of my arm and I shake it in the air a few times, trying to regain feeling.
    Johalis has an inch on me, but he’s in no better condition than I am. His stomach is the size of a basketball and pops out over his belt; his shoulders might be even bonier than mine. But the guy knows his way around a street fight. Put him in a boxing ring with Reeger, and there’s little doubt the Sarge would walk away with the title. Put them in an alleyway, and my money’s on Johalis.
    I jerk my thumb toward his shiv.
    â€œExpecting somebody?” I ask.
    â€œNo, but when somebody shows up with tape covering their face, I get careful. Sorry.” He smiles and his crow’s feet crinkle.
    My father is