Blind Moon Alley by John Florio Page B

fine, healing nicely. Just leave the guard on for another week or so,” he says.
    Then he thumbs my right eyelid and angles my head toward the overhead lamp. I tell him I don’t have time for a checkup. I know I’m an albino.
    â€œYour skin concerns me, though,” he says, ignoring me. “You’ve got to stay out of the sun.” He sounds as if he’s afraid of disappointing me, as if I were planning a second career as a lifeguard.
    â€œOkay, no daylight.” I’m cracking wise, but the doc’s not listening. He’s clucking his tongue and examining the burnt rims of my ears. He’s a funny old coot. He’ll lecture you on how your blood carries oxygen to the brain and then forget where he left his office keys.
    I’m itching to get back to Philly, but the doc has me wait while he opens his bottom desk drawer and rummages through a bin of vials and bottles. After a couple of digs, he pulls out a new tube of cream and hands it to me. He tells me to lather up generously when I’m in the sun. I nod and slide the tube into my pants pocket.
    â€œReady?” Garvey asks.
    â€œYep,” I tell him.
    I turn to the champ. “We’ll drop you at the Hy-Hat on our way back to the Ink Well.”
    â€œI’m comin’ with you,” he says. “None of us’ll be safe until this gets cleared up.”
    I’m surprised that he wants to come along. I’m also worried that he’s going to nag us about breaking the law.
    â€œChamp, they need you at the Hy-Hat,” I say.
    He doesn’t have time to answer before Garvey pipes in. “Whatever we do, we better do it now,” he says. “We gotta keep on the move.”
    â€œThen let’s go,” the champ says, pointing toward the door.
    I can tell he’s not taking no for an answer.
    â€œYou sure you want in?” I ask. “This could get really ugly.”
    â€œThat’s why I’m comin’,” he says. “To stop that from happenin’.”
    He has no idea how bad things can turn, but I nod and give him a pat on the back. “Okay,” I say. “Then let’s go.”
    It feels good to have him with me.
    We thank the doc and walk to the Auburn, which is parked on 88th Street. I take the wheel, my father sits in the passenger seat, and Garvey slumps down in the back.
    â€œSo what don’t I know?” my father asks me. “Sometimes you got a way of leavin’ stuff out.”
    â€œI told you everything,” I say, and I did. He knows about Reeger, Garvey, even Myra and Lovely.
    â€œThen Reeger’s coming back,” the champ says. “And you’re gonna need somebody at the Ink Well with you. You got room for another pair of hands?”
    He’d never work at a juice joint, so I know he’s thinking of his old friend, Johalis. It’s a smart move. Johalis spent years working the grift in Philly. The guy knows the local streets like I know sunburn. He’s got friends everywhere—in the speakeasies, at the stationhouse, even in City Hall. Johalis always talks about how the champ saved him from a couple of overenthusiastic bagmen back in the day; now he’ll have a chance to even the score. I’d have called him already, but there are some favors you can’t ask anybody but your closest friends—and hiding a convicted killer is one of them.
    I pull onto Riverside Drive and a smile crosses my lips. I’m battered, bruised, and banged-up. But at least I’m not alone.

    Like most grifters, Johalis lives in a place that’s nearly impossible to find. For starters, his place is on Ludlow Street, but not the one that runs five miles across town. He’s on a different Ludlow: a tiny, one-block hideaway that’s tucked away east of Center City. And finding the street doesn’t help much, because even the mailman can’t tell one row house from the next. All eight have matching stone