Sugar Pop Moon Read Online Free

Gazzara. Then I’ll come back, I promise.”
    I know him, he’s not going to let up until I cave. “Okay,” I say. “But I’m doing all the dirty work.”
    â€œI’ll just be there for backup,” he says, but he doesn’t look me in the eye when he says it.
    â€œI mean it, Santi. You’re not part of this. Besides, I can take care of myself.”
    Santi nods, but he knows I haven’t been in a fight since my father taught me to box nearly a dozen years ago. Maybe I can still throw some punches, but the only real heat I’ll be packing is a dusty revolver, a pair of brass knuckles, and a mouth that’s far bigger than the bleached coon standing behind it.
    â€œDon’t worry about me, Santi.”
    I lean back in the dark and hope the kid can’t read the fear in my face.

I park the Auburn on Market Street across from the Broad Street Station. Santi’s asleep; he nodded off as we were passing Trenton. His feet are pressed up against the dashboard and he’s using his overcoat as a pillow. I nudge him on the shoulder and he stirs, rubbing his eye with his fist.
    He squints up at the Excelsior. “Is this the hotel?”
    â€œYep. And that’s where Gazzara got off the train,” I say, pointing across the street. “Let’s check in and find a bar.” I’m figuring if anybody is going to know a bootlegger, it’ll be the owner of a speakeasy.
    I step out of the car and the cold December air feels like a plague of mosquitoes stinging my chapped cheeks. I’m wearing my chesterfield, so I pull the lapels up to cover my neck and jaws, then tug on my fedora to protect my exposed forehead.
    A few seconds later Santi steps out, his hair still mussed. He’s cold but his skin is immune to the raking chill of winter. He throws on his overcoat and we hurry along the bluestone to the hotel.
    It’s been dark for hours, but a few working stiffs are still heading home from their offices. This city seems busier than Hell’s Kitchen, but I’ll bet the job market’s not booming down here either. A lamplighter is lifting his long pole to reach the corner lamppost. He’s wearing a plaid jacket and woolen cap, but I can see his hands shaking in the cold. The poor guy has probably been freezing his nuts off all week for a lousy twenty bucks.
    â€œYou look like you could use a drink,” I yell over to him.
    â€œYou’re telling me,” he says as the gaslight flickers to life. “I’m frozen stiff.”
    On the far side of the lamppost a Santa rings a bell for the Salvation Army. I’m pressed for time, but I can’t help myself. I unzip my leather bag and grab my flask. I’m about to pass the booze to Santa when he sees my patchy skin and winces behind his phony white beard. Fuck him. I throw the whiskey back into my bag and walk over to the shiny glass doors that lead into the Excelsior.
    A doorman in a red hat and matching jacket hustles up to Santi and me. As he gets closer he stops in his tracks. I’m assuming the place shuts out colored folk, but this guy’s not even twenty, so I ignore him and keep walking. The name Jimmy McCullough won’t go far down here, but I’ve got another ace to throw down.
    I take off my hat and shake the cold out of my bones. The space is so huge it dwarfs the people inside of it. It’s two stories high with a pair of matching staircases that extend down from a small balcony on the mezzanine level. Between the stairs sits a towering Christmas tree done up in white lights and red bows.
    A white-haired gentleman with a long face and bright blue eyes sits at a desk to the right of the tree. He’s reading the Inquirer . His dark gray flannel suit and brick-red necktie scream out that he’s in charge.
    We walk over to him as his radio plays a brass choir’s rendition of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing , a stark contrast to the