Sugar Pop Moon Read Online Free Page A

newspaper’s headline about an occult killing in Rittenhouse Square. I suppose he finds the music calming but the photos of mangled bodies make my stomach roll. The blood looks like splattered engine oil.
    Santi looks at the oak moldings that stretch across the ceiling. “Nice place,” he says.
    â€œIndeed, it is,” the gentleman responds, giving us a look that says we don’t measure up.
    I spot a nameplate on his desk that reads Robert Baines . “Good evening, Baines,” I say. “We need a couple of rooms.” To let him know we’re flush, I add, “Your best.”
    Baines looks me over. He probably can’t figure out if I’m black, white, or plaid.
    â€œCan’t help you,” he says, turning his attention back to his newspaper.
    â€œBut Denny Gazzara told me you could.” My breath tightens and my mouth goes dry. “He said to mention sugar pop moon.”
    Baines’s white eyebrows rise on his pink forehead. He’s listening, but he’s not convinced.
    â€œYou are Baines, aren’t you?”
    Baines scans me from head to toe. I’m trying to look calm but I’m jumpy as hell. He must realize I’m not an undercover Fed because nobody with a sane mind would hire me to be an undercover anything.
    â€œAll I’ve got are the suites,” he says, opening the desk drawer and pulling out two room keys.
    The bellhop comes to take our bags; I hand him my coat and hat and tell him to take them to my room. Santi does the same.
    â€œWe’re looking to wet our whistle,” I tell Baines as he hands us our keys. “We’ve been driving all day and we’re dry.”
    â€œYou might try the drugstore on Twelfth Street, just past Lubin’s Palace,” he says. “Maybe pick up some cream for that skin of yours.”
    â€œThanks,” I say as I start for the elevator. The drugstore is a front, for sure.
    â€œHey,” he says.
    I stop and turn around.
    â€œThey’re serious over there.”
    â€œSo am I,” I say.
    The bellhop has our bags so Santi and I follow him into the elevator. He puts Santi in room 1213 and I get 1214.
    When I open the door, I see I’ve got the honeymoon suite. The place is pure elegance, the white carpet is lush and the windows overlook the Philadelphia skyline. A bouquet of roses is on a nightstand at the foot of a brass bed. I toss the flowers into a blue glass wastepaper basket next to the doorway. Then I dump my bag on the bed, pull out my flask, and down a double shot. The whiskey burns going down but the sting in my chest makes me feel like I know what I’m doing. There’s a small marble sink outside the bathroom, probably intended for a young bride to freshen up; I use it to splash some warm water on my face and soothe my skin. I dab my cheeks with one of the hotel’s fluffy cotton towels, and then go next door to get Santi. I’ll take him to dinner and then bring him back here before I head over to the drugstore. Gazzara doesn’t have to find out that my only backup is a seventeen-year-old Spanish kid who plays a top-notch game of chess.

    The drugstore isn’t anything fancy. Standing behind the counter is a wrinkly old man with a few strands of curly white hair sprouting from the top of his head. He’s wearing a lab coat but I don’t spot a single vial of medicine in the place. There are six tall glass jars on a wooden shelf but they hold only hard candies; the other boxes are filled with kids’ toys, like high-bounce balls and slingshots. The only medical implement I see is a thermometer. If this guy’s a druggist, I’m a sunbather. When I reach the counter, he dons a pair of thick brown eyeglasses and takes a closer look at my face. I don’t say anything; I let him stare.
    â€œI don’t think we’ve got anything for you, son,” he says.
    â€œI think you might,” I say. “My problem isn’t my