Sugar Pop Moon by John Florio

Author:John Florio
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781616147969
Publisher: Prometheus Books
Published: 2013-05-22T16:00:00+00:00

I down a double shot of bourbon and chase it with a spiked beer. I’m in the Ink Well, a speakeasy in a brownstone at the corner of Juniper and Vine, a few blocks from Philadelphia City Hall. Driving down this morning wasn’t easy—the Auburn’s wipers were barely able to keep up with the blizzard of snow pelting the windshield. I’m here to meet my father’s buddy, Johalis Cervera. The champ says Johalis could fill in some of the blanks on Hector, but I’m also going to hammer him with questions about the crevices of Philadelphia—especially those that might lead me to Joseph Gazzara.

The Ink Well is nothing like the Pour House. First of all, it’s a colored joint. It’s also in a basement. The ceilings are so low I can practically jump up and touch them. There’s a Christmas tree decorated with sparkling red lights near the entrance and a coatroom about as roomy as a phone booth hidden behind it. Three black iron tables fill the space up front and a shiny oak bar runs along the left brick wall in the back. A short Negro bartender with round dark eyes, a high forehead, and gray hair is working the bar. He looks close to sixty but still has a solid physique. The countertop behind him is stocked with all sorts of hooch and there’s a radio playing Bessie Smith’s “Empty Bed Blues.” The back room is nice and dark; the only lights worth mentioning are the small Christmas bulbs that twinkle from the cash register alongside the radio. If I were ever forced to move to Philly, I just might be a regular here.

Unfortunately for the owners, the place is empty. I’m not sure how much business this joint needs to do, but if Jimmy owned it he’d be screaming his butt off. He wouldn’t care that Christmas is six days away and everybody in town is penniless. Lunchtime on a Friday has to bring in a few bucks.

I’m leaning on the end of the polished oak bar. The doe-eyed brunette running the coatroom walks over and takes the stool to my right. I’m not sure why she’s saddling up next to me, but then again, there’s not exactly a rush of customers with overcoats looking for her.

“Still waiting?” she asks me. We chatted when I first walked into the place—she knows I’m hanging on a friend, but that’s about it. Her name is Angela and she seems like a straight shooter, but I haven’t forgotten what happened the last time I trusted a woman in Philly. I’m being more careful now.

Angela’s a chatterbox. She’s already told me she flunked out of high school six years ago; she’s working here because the tender is her uncle and he runs the place. I think about what it would be like to work at a colored joint instead of the Pour House. At least I wouldn’t be running for my life over a shipment of counterfeit moon.

“I heard you tell Uncle Doolie you were from New York.

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