Sugar Pop Moon (18 page)

“You're telling me that Richard Canfield runs the Higgins syndicate? He owns Higgins?” Glenny asked. He cleaned his spectacles with the cuff of his shirt and then put them on, wrapping the loops of the wire frames around his ears.

“It's a great story, sir,” Walter said, exasperated.

“I guess that means I should run a story saying Canfield bribed the commission in big, fat, juicy type on page one?” With that, Glenny moved his outstretched palm through the air as if the headline were right in front of him. Then he whacked his fist against his knee. “That's asking for trouble, dammit.”

Walter barely let him finish. “You told me that nobody messes with the
Evening-Star
,” he said, his words getting louder and faster as his frustration rose.

“And I still believe it. But we better be damned sure we're right when we print that our own paper is playing dirty.”

“We're not saying that,” Walter said. “We're saying that Richard Canfield has the commission in his pocket.”

“
The
commission is
our
commission,” Glenny shouted. “And you want to print that they're taking away Ernie Leo's belt for no good reason.”

“That's right,” Walter said with a stiff nod. “And that they lied about it.” If his boss okayed the article, he'd nail that Foster Werts but good.

Glenny pulled on his lower lip and stared at the ceiling.

Walter egged him on. “You're the one who always told me to dig until we have all the bones.”

“And I meant it,” Glenny said. “But this could make us look really bad.” He sighed and tapped his thumb against his chin. “How many sources do you have on this?”

Walter had been waiting for that question. He knew Glenny wouldn't trust him, especially after he'd sourced the first story with nobody other than that young guard who wouldn't give his name.

“This is different than the last story,” Walter said. “No guesswork. No innuendo. I have it thoroughly sourced. I just can't tell you where I got it.”

“It's Leo, isn't it?” Glenny said.

Walter's jaw dropped. If Glenny had any doubt, Walter's reaction just squashed it.

“And you think he's trustworthy?” Glenny asked, smirking. He paced in a small circle and shook his head. “Wilkins, you can't source a story like this by talking with Leo, he's got too much riding on it.”

“Ernie Leo isn't lying.” Walter was surprised by how much conviction spilled into the tone of his voice. “His story makes perfect sense. We already know that Canfield paid for Werts's political campaigns.”

“It doesn't matter, you gotta get it somewhere else,” he shouted. “Find somebody else who says the commission is out to help Canfield or Albright or Higgins—
anybody
! And make it somebody who's not involved, for Chrissakes. If it's legit, I'll go with it.” Then he smacked the desk in front of him as if the sound of flesh on wood somehow made his decision irreversible.

Walter knew he'd never get anyone other than Dorothy or Ernie to rat out a bigwig like Canfield. He had only one shot. He had to shadow Albright. Or Canfield. Or both.

I'm sitting in the Auburn with my eyes trained on the red doors of Saint Mark's church. Angela had written few words on the matchbook, but they said plenty.
Joseph Gazzara runs Saint Mark's on Locust Street
. I have no idea how she knows Gazzara, or what he could be running at an Episcopalian church, but I don't question the details. In one sentence, she'd managed to give me the lowdown on the grifter, which beat anything Johalis had to offer. Once I settle up with Gazzara, I'll make it up to her, somehow.

The brick steeple and stained glass arches of the church loom over Locust. About a dozen locals are milling around the front door but I can't make out their faces from where I'm sitting. I get out of the car and Philly's icy air makes my eyes feel like they've been doused in bathtub gin. I wonder if my burning eyes and blistering cheeks are payback for having my boss hauled away in a bogus raid.

I'm on South Seventeenth Street—only about a hundred yards from the church—but the men and women climbing the steps are hidden under wide-brimmed fedoras and coquettes. I make my way to the church grounds and spot a young priest with curly black hair. He's about my age and I think about chatting him up, but he's got a group of grade-schoolers circling him. He could probably clue me in on Gazzara, but I'd rather avoid the attention. Instead, I fall in step with a white-haired priest who is shuffling toward the entrance. He's got a cane in his right hand, and judging by the way he's leaning on it, he shouldn't try walking without it.

He stops and introduces himself to me as if I'd asked. “Father O'Neill,” he says.

“Jersey Leo,” I tell him, avoiding the name Snowball as if I've got any kind of cover.

The padre's skin is a rosy pink. Time has beaten up his body and rotted his teeth. He's got a brown mole in the center of his left cheek that's tough to ignore. His eyes, though, are still young—they're as blue and lively as those of an adolescent boy's—and they're staring at my ravaged, blotchy face from behind a pair of heavy black glasses.

“Yellow hair,” he says to me, his breath turning to smoke in the late December air. “An albino.”

“I was, but I converted.”

“A funny albino,” he says, correcting himself. “And you're here for our evening services.”

“Good guess,” I say and he smiles. I'm trying to figure out if he wants to be a detective or a mind reader. Either way, he won't impress me unless he guesses that I'm here to find a grifter with two different colored eyes and a warehouse full of counterfeit booze. He resumes his walk and I tag along on his right. I keep my left arm poised to catch him in case he teeters over.

“I'm hoping to meet a friend of mine,” I say. “Maybe you know him. Joseph Gazzara.”

The bridge of his nose wrinkles like a prune as he scrunches his eyes to think.

I try spurring his memory. “He's got one brown eye and one green eye. And a scar on his ear.”

“Sounds like the fella who runs bingo in the basement. He's not here tonight, though.”

“No problem, I'll catch up with him soon enough.” I take a step and put out my hand to help him. He grabs my palm and hoists himself onto the stone landing and into the church.

The place smells of holiness and money, and I wonder how much of the latter is being poured into Gazzara's pockets. Six soaring stone arches run alongside the right and left aisles, and a stained glass depiction of Christ centers the brick wall behind the altar, towering over us. A row of brass organ pipes spans the wall under the glass. Parishioners are lined shoulder-to-shoulder in the pews; most seem to be about sixty years old and all look like they're dressed in their holy best. Many are holding missalettes, ready to read along with the mass. I step into the rear pew in case I need to slip out quickly, but that plan goes down the toilet when Father O'Neill shuffles in next to me and blocks the aisle. I sit down and keep my fedora low, hoping the lighting isn't strong enough to reveal my yellowy-green eyes to anybody on the lookout for a rogue albino. I'm the only one in the place with a hat on his head, but considering the circumstances, I'm leaving it where it is.

A priest steps to the altar—it's the young, curly-haired one—and I scan the crowd for Gazzara, even though O'Neill just told me he only shows up for bingo. A baby starts wailing and the noise scratches at my raw nerves. I dry my palms on my pants and check the faces in each pew, one at a time. If Gazzara's here, I'll wait for him outside. If not, I'll keep snooping.

The mass begins and the priest recites a verse about Jesus and salvation. As he reads a passage in Latin, I case the joint. I try to memorize the four passageways that lead to and from the basement because the day may come I stop in for a surprise round of bingo. Father O'Neill is standing close to me, his sharp eyes tracking my gaze.

I whisper to him. “It's my first time here. Beautiful church.”

He smiles and waves his hand in the air, blessing me. A funny bird, the padre.

The priest on the altar sits in a high-back chair as the organist plays one of those holy dirges. Meanwhile, two ushers parade up and down the aisles with wicker baskets attached to six-foot poles; they extend the baskets into the pews and make it easy for the parishioners to fork over their last nickels. So many folks have lost their jobs over the past few months I'm surprised these people can cough up anything at all. I know it doesn't say much for me, but I can't help thinking that Saint Mark's would be a profitable place to pour moon.

One of the ushers is walking down the right aisle. It's not until he's a few rows in front of me that I recognize him. He looks different now—he's in a suit and his hair is slicked back—but I know that clammy skin and the sagging flesh under his jaw, I see them in my sleep. He doesn't have his cleaver, but that's Hector, plain as day, and he's heading directly toward me.

I turn away from him. My heart is pounding so ferociously I can feel a vein on the side of my neck pulsating with it. I face the back wall as I scramble out of the pew, tripping over Father O'Neill's cane and stepping on his toes in the process. I put my hand over the side of my face and duck out the side exit. When I reach the far side of the parking lot, I take big gulps of frosty air and pace in a tight circle. I light up a Lucky Strike but have trouble putting it between my lips. My teeth are chattering, either from the biting chill of winter or the fear that's rushing out of my body. Probably both. I button the top of my overcoat and take a deep pull on the cigarette.

Either Joseph Gazzara and Hector are working out of the same church, which seems highly unlikely, or Angela set me up for no good reason. I could pull Hector into a side hall, whip out my gun, and pelt him with questions, but for some reason—and I'll admit that reason might be his cleaver—I feel safer grilling Angela. I cross the street, hop in the Auburn, and spin back to the Ink Well to find out why she sent me to a church that has its collection basket in the hands of the devil.

The Ink Well is the same as it was when I left it: cozy, dark, and inviting. There are two locals at the bar, sitting on stools and nursing spiked beers. Doolie's got Ruth Etting on the radio—“Ten Cents A Dance”—and he's pouring a round of smooth sipping scotch.

Angela spills whatever she's got on Gazzara, and it's next to nothing. She ran into him playing bingo in Saint Mark's basement about two years ago and never noticed him volunteering for any other activities at the church. When she overheard me describing him to Johalis she figured she'd help me out, so she slipped me the matchbook cover. She says she doesn't know Hector and has never seen his pal with the busted nose. I believe her. It's clear she didn't intend to put me in danger, which is more than I can say for any other woman around me. I look over at Johalis—he met me here after I filled him in on how popular Saint Mark's had become with underworld scum—and I can tell that he's buying Angela's story, too.

“Joseph Gazzara and Hector are in this together,” I say. It's not a question, but I wait for Johalis to respond.

“No doubt,” he says, his voice as smooth as the scotch in our glasses. “And they're doing a lot more than playing bingo. Gazzara must be out for albino bones, too. So there are three of them at the very least.” He holds up his fingers to count them off. “Gazzara. Hector. And the pipsqueak with the busted nose.”

I don't want to admit it, but it hits me that Gazzara duped me right from the get-go. He's not a bootlegger at all.

“The bastard only sold me the moon ‘cause he knew I'd come looking for him in Philly,” I say. “He couldn't kill one of Jimmy's boys right outside the Pour House.”

Angela's eyes shift from me to Johalis. She looks scared and I can't say I blame her. Johalis doesn't seem to notice her—he's too busy figuring things out.