Sugar Pop Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

one on my left has short, straight black hair. Her friend has shiny red hair that curls into big looping O s and she’s got a slender black cigarette holder between her lips. There’s an exit door on the right wall, probably an escape route, and next to it, one of those music boxes. No music is playing, though. For a cellar club, the place is eerily quiet.
    Margaret walks up to the tender, a gray-haired hulk with round beefy arms, and whispers something to him before pointing at me with her chin. He looks me over and nods. Then he puts two glasses on the bar and fills them with shine and ice. She picks them both up and hands me one.
    â€œI’ve got a spot where we can be alone,” she says and leads me to a door next to the bar. We walk inside a small room that’s furnished with nothing but a tiny brass lamp and a bare, stained mattress—both are resting on the floor. There’s a window tucked in the corner but it’s filthy. At this angle, nobody could look in and see us. I can’t even see out.
    I feel soiled just being here, like a hobo in need of a charity fuck. I can afford better than this. I make a decent amount of money, even though it comes to me through the bloody hands of Jimmy McCullough.
    â€œWe could have gone to my room at the hotel,” I say.
    â€œYou didn’t invite me, honey.”
    When she steps near the lamp, I can see that the makeup covering the bags under her eyes is so thick it’s starting to crack like the plaster walls around her. She shuts the door and nods toward an iron coat hook screwed into the back of it.
    â€œFor your clothes,” she says.
    I hang my chesterfield and hat. Then I down a swig of moon and put my drink on the wooden floor—it sits in a cluster of stained rings left by a succession of glasses just like mine.
    Margaret gulps her shine and reaches for the hem of her red dress.
    â€œDon’t,” I say.
    â€œWhy else are you here?” she asks.
    It’s a good question. Unless she’s about to tell me where Gazzara runs his outfit, I can’t imagine us chatting and holding each other’s interest.
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. I sound like a pantywaist.
    â€œC’mon, Sugar,” she says, lifting the bottom of her dress. She hikes it all the way up to the spaghetti straps that stretch over her shoulders. “Come and bring me those lucky white bones of yours.”
    She looks so pathetic, standing there showing off her bloomers, that I down the rest of my shine and walk over to her. It wouldn’t be right to leave her high and dry, holding her dress in the air, slapped in the face by an albino.
    I close my eyes and do what I came here to do, repeatedly telling myself that she likes me. When we finish I sit up and button my shirt. She turns her back to me for privacy, which I find a little odd considering what just took place. She stands half-naked in front of the window, pulling her bloomers back up around her hips.
    â€œWell, I’ll be going,” I say to the back of her head. She’s already taken my money and I’m not expecting a receipt.
    Margaret doesn’t turn around and it hits me that something’s up. My tongue goes dry and the rims of my ears burn.
    I reach for the door but it flies open before I can grab the knob. Two Spanish-looking hoods wearing long woolen overcoats rush into the room. The small one has dark skin, waxed hair, and a thin mustache. The taller one is older—he’s pasty white and has dark crescents under his eyes. And he’s holding a foot-long cleaver.
    â€œHis legs, Hector. Get his femurs,” the little one is yelling.
    Hector lunges at me, swinging the blade at my legs. I grab his wrist with both hands and try to shake the knife loose.
    Margaret rushes out of the room and the little guy charges me. He throws his arms around my waist and pushes me toward the window. I trip on the lamp and the three of us fall to the floor; my