Sugar Pop Moon Read Online Free Page B

skin, it’s my tongue. I’m dry as a bone. Baines from the Excelsior sent me. He said you have some liquids I’d be interested in.”
    When I mention Baines he nods knowingly. “In that case, head on back,” he says, pointing toward a door marked Employees Only .
    I enter a small office. A typewriter sits on a desk along with a pile of blank paper and a stack of carbons. On the far end of the room is a closet door. I look behind me just to be sure I’m not being set up. If I’m going to catch a bullet, I’d rather not be standing in a bogus drugstore when it hits.
    Everything seems copacetic, so I pull open the closet door and find three short steps leading up to a heavy red velour drape. From the other side of the curtain I hear voices. They’re cheerful voices. Speakeasy voices.
    Hiking the stairs and passing the curtain, I walk into the exact scene I’d hoped to discover: a speakeasy the likes of which would attract Philly’s top bootleggers. Gazzara must help stock the bar because it’s too big for local upstarts.
    I push my hat back on my head and take a look around. The room is three times the size of the Pour House. In the front, there’s a lounge area with three couches, an armchair, and a piano player who’s pounding out a rag I’ve never heard before. Against the back wall is a curved bar with a mirror behind it. In front of the mirror, three shelves hold various liquor bottles lined up like soldiers at roll call. They glitter the way good whiskey should—just looking at them makes my mouth water. I make a mental note to tell Jimmy to hang a mirror behind the bar at the Pour House. I’m assuming, of course, that the next time I see Jimmy he won’t be sticking a blade into my spleen.
    Two bouncers stand like pillars on each side of the entrance. The one on the left has a face shaped like a cube and a chest as round as a barrel. His partner has meaty cheeks but a muscular neck that seems to reach past his jaw and stretch up to his ears. Whoever put these thugs at the door did it for show. They’re big, but they don’t look like they’ve had many brawls other than an occasional ruckus with a college Joe who’s had too many whiskey sours.
    I unbutton my overcoat and spread my arms so they can pat me down. They won’t find anything—I knew enough to leave my metal back at the Excelsior.
    I walk toward the far end of the bar, where a heavy fellow is pouring red drinks into stemmed glasses for a couple of drop-dead blondes. He’s got his shirtsleeves rolled up and the look on his face says he considers himself a chemist. A dozen rummies are gathered at the center of the bar, drinking beer, so I have to inch my way through the pack. When I reach the bar I wave my hand to get the tender’s attention and he walks my way.
    He’s got a hard edge. His eyes are the rusty brown of tree bark. His cheekbones are sharp and defined, his narrow lips pulled tight. I figure the only way I’m going to get anything out of this piece of stone is by striking first, but he hits me where I live.
    â€œWhat are you, an albino or something?”
    â€œI’m both,” I tell him. “I’m an albino and I’m really something.” I’ve got to calm down—it’s only going to get rougher from here.
    The tender’s jaw tightens and he wipes down the top of the bar with a stained white towel.
    â€œWhat do you want?” he says.
    â€œYou got any sugar pop moon?”
    He stops cleaning the bar and looks over at the goons by the door. Suddenly, I wish I were with Santi back at the hotel.
    â€œI got all sorts of moon,” he says.
    â€œSugar pop moon is made with beets—right here in Philly.”
    â€œYou want a drink, I’ll get you a drink. I don’t have any of that sugar pop garbage.”
    â€œFine, give me a whiskey,” I say and put a couple of bucks on the bar.
    He