Blind Moon Alley by John Florio Page A

remember him long ago, taking me to the Polo Grounds, buying me strawberry ice cream at the Jersey City Carnival, telling me I was the same as everybody around me, that I could be anything I wanted to be. Had I listened to him and stuck with college, none of this would have happened. I’d never have been in the
Inquirer
and Garvey wouldn’t have found me. The champ would be back at the Hy-Hat showing Billy Walker how to throw a left hook; and Angela would be in the Ink Well coatroom, hanging jackets without looking over her shoulder. If I could go back in time and redo things, I’d be sure to make the champ proud this time around. When I see the plaster on his hand, my throat closes and my eyes well up. The skin cream I put on my lids rolls into my eyes and burns like gasoline.
    â€œThis ain’t your fault,” he says. “You’re tryin’ to do the right thing, I s’pose. I’m just not sure that young man should be runnin’. And now you’re runnin’ with him. You’re breaking the law . . . again. Why do you always have to get mixed up in these things?”
    â€œWhat else can I do?” I say. “He’s got nowhere else to go.”
    â€œS’pose not.”
    My father looks as if he’s at a wake, mourning the death of the Aaron Garvey he used to know. He wants to find a way for Garvey to get out of this mess, but he wants to do it by the book. I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure the book says that convicted cop killers fry.
    I leave him and the doc and go to check on Garvey, who’s keeping watch in the waiting area. The place is even stuffier than the exam room. I’d give anything for the luxury of breathing through my nose.
    I find Garvey pulling a window shade away from the glass and peeking at the street outside. A slice of sunshine crosses his soiled face as his eyes dart from left to right and back again. We’re on the ground floor—he can’t be seeing much more than a few feet of the chipped sidewalk and the leafy branches of the maple tree. I look at his frail, beaten body and realize that after his stint at the penitentiary, he might as well be taking in the Grand Canyon.
    â€œWhere’s Reeger gonna show up next?” I say.
    Garvey finally turns his gaze away from the street. “Wherever you are,” he says with a chuckle, even though he’s not joking.
    I picture the Sarge showing up at the Ink Well looking for me—and dropping the hammer on Angela and Doolie instead.
    â€œI’ve got to get back to Philly,” I say.
    â€œThe city might be safer when you’re not there,” Garvey says, crossing the room to the right window. He checks the street again, drumming his fingers on the gray marble windowsill. I almost wish Reeger would show up just so my friend would have something to do with his energy.
    â€œI’m going back anyway,” I say. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do all I could to protect Angela. Her only crime has been hanging coats in a speakeasy.
    By the time Garvey and I get back to the exam room, the champ’s hand is wrapped in a hard white cast and he’s got his torn seersucker jacket slung over his arm. His suit is about four years out of style, but I’m sure he’ll try to get another season or two out of it. I’d buy him a new one, but he’d never wear it. Taking my money, he says, is the same as breaking the law with me.
    The doc tells me he wants to take a look at my nose. I can’t wait to get these cotton rods out of my nostrils, so I jump up on his exam table. He shines his tiny flashlight at my cheeks, peers at my skin through his horn-rims, and mutters under his breath. Then he removes the metal guard from my nose, and with a skinny gripper that looks like a miniature pair of pliers, he carefully tugs the long, bloody cotton sticks out of my nostrils. Breathing never felt so good.
    â€œYour nose is doing