Blind Moon Alley by John Florio

the conversation they’re not having. Then he says, “It’s been too long, Champ.” He looks around the ransacked game room and adds, “We gotta get a move on.”
    My father turns to me. “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
    â€œIt’s a long story,” I say.
    The champ’s jaw tightens. “Start at the beginnin’.”
    â€œYou’re gonna have to trust me,” I tell him. “It’s not what you’ve been hearing on the radio.”
    He doesn’t say anything; he’s waiting for more. I know my father, and he’s not going to budge until I tell him something he wants to hear.
    â€œTrust me, Champ,” I say. “It’s not what it seems.”
    He must buy it because he looks at Garvey and shakes his head. “Son, there’s only so fast you can run.”
    â€œThat’s why we’re driving,” I say, and then ask Garvey to help me with my father.
    We get the champ to his feet and start walking slowly toward the door. The champ is still muttering questions, most of which are directed at me.
    â€œWho you running from exactly? Just the cops? Hoods?”
    I say they’re the same thing.
    â€œCops don’t bust noses,” he says, eyeing the guard taped to my face.
    â€œSure feels like they do,” I say.
    When we get to the front door, the kids are still right behind us and I’m gripping the champ by the back of his torn shirt. I can hear police sirens blaring—they can’t be more than five blocks away.
    â€œSo who was the guy who showed up here?” the champ asks me.
    I tell him I’ll answer all of his questions later, but right now he’s got to move more quickly.
    The sirens are getting louder and Garvey doesn’t need any prodding. He’s got my father’s right arm around his neck and is pulling him forward. The champ’s trying to keep up but his leg is dragging.
    We make it to the Auburn; I open the passenger door and drop him into the front seat. He slowly bends his knee to get his leg under the dash. Garvey squeezes into the back and I trot around to the driver’s door.
    The kids gather by the Hy-Hat entrance, waiting to hear something that will right things.
    Instead, I say, “Don’t tell the police we were here.”
    I get behind the wheel and curse myself for sucking a gang of milk-drinking, ping-pong-playing outcasts into my mess. They have no idea what hit them, let alone what to tell the cops.
    The Auburn’s rear wheels screech as I pull away from the littered curb, leaving the kids to talk their way out of trouble. I can’t bring myself to look behind me as I speed away from the one place that I’ve always managed to keep clean. Until now.

    Doc Anders soaks a tray of bandages in a dish of slushy plaster and wraps my father’s hand in a cast. I’ve known the doc for years; he spent a lot of time in front of me when I tended bar here in New York. He’s an oddball but I trust him—he knows what he’s doing and he keeps his mouth shut.
    When we got here, the first thing he did was lock the door and draw the shades. I sat in the dark catching my father up on the basics—how Garvey got railroaded, how he showed up at the Ink Well—as the doc examined the champ’s knuckles.
    â€œIt looks as though the radiocarpal joint needs more support,” he says and nods, as if he’s agreeing with himself. Then he slides his brown horn-rimmed glasses up his nose with his gloved index finger and goes back to work.
    The champ keeps his arm extended in front of him so the doc can continue wrapping his hand, the busted tool of his former trade. I feel responsible.
    â€œI’m sorry you got sucked into this, Champ,” I say to the man who raised me after my mother left, the man who loved me without regard to the freakish pallor of my skin. He’s getting older now—he’s fifty-one—but I