Free Blind Moon Alley by John Florio

ten minutes away at Johalis’s place. I’d hate to call him while his right hand is in a cast, but he’d only need his left to take down half the sixth precinct.
    As for the Hy-Hat, I’ve put Calvin in charge until further notice. I even let him and Rose live out of a room in the back of the club. Of course, I couldn’t let him take the job without telling him the truth about Reeger.
    â€œYou’re a savior,” he said, his unshaven cheeks creasing as he smiled. “I’ll return the favor someday.”
    â€œJust keep the place going,” I told him. “And that means steering clear of Reeger, so be careful.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” he said, downing his Rob Roy so he could run home to tell Rose of their good fortune. The look on his face made the bags under his eyes seem pounds lighter, as if I’d erased eighteen years of clock punching with a single paycheck.
    I tell myself I gave Calvin the job as a favor to Doolie, but the truth is I did it for myself. I filled an empty pocket and it felt good.
    Of course, nothing will be back to normal until Garvey is off my hands—and out of the country. For now, we have him stashed with Madame Curio, a hooker who doubles as a palm reader in a shop about a mile from Wanamaker’s department store. I’m ashamed to say I know her place. Yeah, there were times I was low enough to lose myself in her gin-soaked whispers. Thinking about those nights makes me want to scrub myself with soap, but I muscle through my shame by reminding myself that the Madame is helping me save Garvey’s life—which makes her one of us. Besides, her shop is a perfect hideout. It’s in a desolate area—every storefront on the block is boarded up—and the Madame has never, ever sung to a bull.
    I sweep the floor while Johalis mixes a whiskey sour for Wallace. Our usual late-night straggler has spent most of the evening sitting alone, reading
The Maltese Falcon
. He’s a student at Penn and already has the look of a professor: nappy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a prominent Adam’s apple that juts out over a navy-blue necktie. He spends the summer months shuttling files at City Hall, but the day will come when he’ll be making headlines. Any Negro they let into Penn is bound to do a lot more than tend bar.
    â€œA last splash for the soul,” he announces as he stands by the bar and watches Johalis drain a shaker into his rock-filled cocktail glass. I want to ask him about the
Falcon
—why he’s reading it, if it’s good—but I’d be too embarrassed to admit that I haven’t picked up a book since I left school five years ago. I’ve often told my father that leaving college put a roll of cash in my pocket, but I’ve never admitted to losing my soul in the process. I promise myself that I’ll go back someday. But I know it’s a lie.
    Wallace drops his money on the bar, takes the drink, and goes back to his table.
    Johalis grabs the coins and dumps them into Doolie’s register. “You off to the Red Canary?” he asks me as he stacks the shakers and locks up the register.
    â€œThat’s the plan,” I say.
    Angela spent the evening waiting tables; she hangs her apron on one of the hooks behind the bar and as she reaches up, her dress rises toward her knee. I’m tempted to ask her if she’d like a ride home—I’m heading toward her place anyway—but I decide to wait until the tape is off my nose.
    â€œâ€™Night, Jersey,” she calls out. When she says my name, there’s a lilt in her voice that’s as sweet as a violin.
    My eyes start jiggling again, so I lean toward the cash register and straighten a stack of coasters.
    â€œâ€™Night,” I say.
    She heads to the front room and I see she’s got some books under her arm; she must have started prepping for the high school entrance exam. She and Wallace leave the place