Free Blind Moon Alley by John Florio Page A

together, strolling with the kind of four-legged gait that only comes with practice. I try convincing myself that a bookworm like Wallace wouldn’t be interested in an uneducated speakeasy coat checker, but my heart knows otherwise.
    I wish Angela were a cheap flapper so I could hate her, but she’s not and I don’t. She’s no floozy and Wallace is a good-enough Joe. My throat goes tight and I swallow hard. When I look up, Johalis is staring at me. He knows why I’m quiet, but he’s too nice a guy to say it.
    â€œClosing time,” he says.
    â€œYep.”
    â€œYou sure you don’t want backup?”
    He’s afraid I’ll run into trouble at the Canary, but he doesn’t know my history with Myra.
    â€œYeah, I’m fine,” I say.
    We lock up the bar and Johalis heads down Vine. I walk up Juniper as visions of Angela and Wallace burn my soul. When I get in the Auburn, I peel the tape off my nose guard even though my face still hurts like hell and large yellow-purple stains linger around my eyes. Fuck it.
    I start the engine and pat my shoulder holster to feel the six cylinders of security that are lodged within it. It’s not my rod—Garvey has my snubnose—but Johalis got me this one and he swears it’s accurate, powerful, and untraceable. I can’t imagine Reeger will be waiting at the Canary, but I’m still not about to walk in there cold.

    The Red Canary is only a couple of miles from the Ink Well, but it might as well be in another universe. The joint fills the upper half of a brick building off Rittenhouse Square on Pine Street. It’s two floors of gambling, music, booze, and women—right in the swankiest part of town. Still, if you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it. Heavy burgundy drapes keep the Feds from seeing through the windows, and thick plaster walls stop the music and laughter from hitting the street. The place never did well as a restaurant, but it’s been pulling in big bucks ever since Lovely turned it into a speakeasy.
    The entrance is an unmarked fire exit in the back service alley, which is something I didn’t realize until I saw a pair of drunken lovebirds sneak out the door. I slipped inside after they left and ventured up the metal service stairs to the top floor.
    Now I’m sitting at a table for two; I’ve got my back to a cream-colored plaster wall that’s so smooth it shines like glass. In the middle of the room is a square bar manned by three tenders and surrounded by suits, rummies, and platinum blondes. Across from the bar, in the far corner to my right, a piano player is pounding out a folk song I remember the champ singing to me when I was a kid.
    A leggy waitress with red hair and a snug blouse asks me what I’d like. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know that she’s on the menu. She’s smart to choose me—I’m alone, banged up, and an albino—any hooker worth her weight in salt would be trying to close this deal. But tonight, there’s only one woman who can mend the cut I’m nursing, and she’s on the other side of town with a whiskey-sour-drinking bookworm.
    I tell the redhead I’ll take a double shot of her best gin as I scan the place for Myra.
    â€œSugar, I hope you’re not here to even some kind of score,” she says, nodding toward my nose.
    â€œI would,” I say, “but Dempsey’s too scared to show up.”
    She rolls her eyes and starts to walk away, but I call her back and ask her if she knows Myra Banks.
    â€œShe’s on in a few minutes, Sugar.”
    â€œThe name’s Jersey,” I say. I can see she doesn’t care; names have no place in her line of work. She’s already heading off to another table, her hips rocking from side to side.
    I spot five suits sharing a bottle of whiskey at the bar. Judging by their narrow lapels, they’re cops. Under normal circumstances,