Free Blind Moon Alley by John Florio Page B

I’d write them off as garden-variety street bulls, but Reeger’s got me nervous. I eye them for a while, but they don’t seem interested in detecting anything but another round of scotch.
    The piano player finishes his tune with a flourish and calls out for Myra to join him. A woman sitting at the bar stands up, downs the rest of her champagne, and walks through a roomful of diners to the piano.
    So this is what’s become of Myra Banks. It’s only been five years, but she sure has changed. The first thing I notice is her foot. She must have left that special shoe of hers in an operating room, because she’s wearing a pair of open-toed silver pumps and her gait is steady and strong. A hip-hugging sequined dress covers one of her shoulders but leaves the other exposed—smooth, brown, and inviting. Her hazel almond-shaped eyes are working overtime, twinkling under the muted chandeliers.
    The lights dim even more as Myra glides into the circular glow of a small stage lamp. She begins singing “Hello, My Lover, Goodbye,” and the piano player accompanies her with soft, rolling chords. Now I understand how she got twenty grand out of Garvey, and how she became part-owner of the joint. Her voice is as lush and warm as cashmere, and that dress is as curvy as a mountain stream.
    The rummies have gone quiet; all eyes are on Myra. As I watch her sing, I remember how much she cared about me, how she, more than anybody else, understood how it felt to be different. I think of how we skipped civics class and snuck down to the pier, sat under an overhang, and planned our Hollywood getaway until the sun was long gone from the sky.
    But I’m not here to fall in love again. I force myself to turn away, to take inventory of the joint, to picture the night Garvey came here and gunned down his freedom.
    The redhead brings me my gin and I down a slug as Myra finishes the last song of her set. She’s not just singing, she’s flirting with the crowd—smiling, teasing, toying—and the light-headed Joes are eating it up. When the lights go back up, I swear the temperature in the place is at least ten degrees higher. I wait for the applause to die down; I figure I’ll get her once she’s back on her stool. But instead of walking to the bar, she comes over to my table and takes the seat opposite me.
    â€œJersey Leo,” she says and gives me a smile right off a movie still. Her teeth are now lined up straight, and she’s got a new beauty mark on her right cheek. If she sees the bruises on my face, she doesn’t show it.
    â€œMyra Banks,” I say as the piano player launches into an up-tempo rag. “You’ve got some voice.”
    â€œI may have the voice, but you’re the front-page story.”
    â€œPure bullshit,” I say.
    She dismisses me with a light chuckle. Then she taps a cigarette into a long, slender holder and lights up. The stem of the holder looks like it’s made of ivory and I wonder how much of Garvey’s money it took to buy it.
    â€œYou look wonderful,” I tell her.
    Her face takes on a bored expression that says she’s heard those words so often they’ve lost their meaning. But I recognize the truth that’s hiding behind her eyes; I see it every morning in the shaving mirror. There’s no compliment big enough—and no stage grand enough—to undo the abuse she took as a kid.
    â€œSo what brings you around?” she says. “Another kidnapping?”
    I can see by the way she’s waiting for an answer that she hopes it’s true. I guess she’s gone numb to the lights and sounds of Lovely’s speakeasy.
    I lower my voice and tell her we need to talk about Garvey. “He needs our help,” I say.
    She takes a quick look across the bar, but the cops are so deep into their bottle they’re not hearing any voices outside of it.
    â€œFollow me,” she says.
    She motions to the tender