Blind Moon Alley Read Online Free PDF Page A

have to find out.
    â€œThat’ll be two bucks,” I say.
    The guy’s lips stretch into a smug smile and he plunges his hand into his pocket. I’m expecting to see a gun, but he pulls out a badge.
    â€œJack Reeger,” he says, flashing the metal at Homer and me. “But you boys can call me Sarge.”
    So this is Reeger. He’s not about to tell me he’ll let up on Myra, so I wait for him to tell me why he’s here. And what it will cost me to get him to leave.
    He takes a drag on his smoke and blows a cloud between us, where an implied threat hangs in the air.
    â€œWhere’s Garvey?” he says, with a tone as light as a friend asking for a dime.
    I look at the clock. It’s five past midnight.
    â€œDead,” I tell him. Then I add, “Sarge.”
    Reeger’s face crunches. He leans on the bar, his cigarette bouncing on the corner of his lips when he speaks. “You were there tonight, right? There can’t be two of you.”
    â€œThere can’t be two of anybody,” I snap back. “And yes, I was there. Now I’m here.” I nod at his hooch. “You owe me two bucks.”
    My heart’s dancing fast enough to headline at the Cotton Club.
    Reeger pounds his fist on the bar. “He’s not going to walk away,” he shouts, the corner of his upper lip twisting as he barks. “Now tell me where he is, you white-bleached jigaboo freak whatever the fuck you are.”
    He reaches into his jacket and this time I’m sure a gun is coming out. Homer doesn’t wait to find out. He pulls a utility knife from his pocket and presses the steel blade to Reeger’s neck, right under his jaw. I clench my fingers against the smooth brass rail that wraps the bar. I’m convinced the Sarge’s windpipe is about to start hissing like a steam whistle.
    â€œYou best pay,” Homer says, his eyes aiming straight up toward the ceiling and the vein on the side of his neck bulging. “Fork over the two bucks.”
    â€œCalm down, Homer,” I say, but the look in my slow friend’s eyes says he wants to cut Reeger to the floor, badge or no badge.
    Reeger’s lids narrow. He reaches into his breast pocket, making a show that he’s not pulling a gun. As he pulls out his billfold, he swings his elbow directly into Homer’s throat. Homer’s blade clangs to the floor and he’s gasping for air.
    I go for my gun, but Reeger lunges over the bar and grabs my collar with both hands. Homer’s on the floor across from the bar, croaking.
    Reeger pulls my face so close to his that I can see a hair shooting out of the scar on his cheek. “I’ll take a look around if you don’t mind.”
    Then he wraps his right hand behind my head and slams my nose against the brass railing in front of the bar. I feel like I’ve been hit by a speeding subway train. I lift my head up; my temples are pounding and I smell blood trickling out of my nostrils.
    The room is spinning, but I can tell Reeger has a gun and he’s pointing it between my eyes.
    He says, “You screw with me, I won’t only drop the hammer on Garvey, I’ll nail you and the retard.”
    He walks to the back of the joint and looks into the kitchen before poking his head under the tables in each of the booths. He must be satisfied we’re alone, because he crosses the barroom and walks over to Homer, who has crawled in front of a table in the front room. Homer is on his knees, clutching his Adam’s apple.
    Reeger pushes his gun behind Homer’s ear. “Nighty-night, Retard.”
    I’ll never get over the bar in time to stop Reeger from pulling the trigger. Homer must realize the same thing, because he looks at me and starts bawling.
    â€œMy name is Homer,” he rasps through his sobs before shutting his eyes and waiting for the bullet.
    I can’t turn away—I feel as though somebody has to watch Homer when he