Sugar Pop Moon by John Florio Page A

zebra-nigger-lackey-coon got ripped off buying a truckload of bogus hooch, it wasn’t m-m-me who did it.”
    I’m so angry, I don’t even think. I whirl around and grab the revolver in Frank’s hand. It goes off as I wrestle for it, shooting across the room and popping two bottles of shine. I’m trying to stand up but Frank is beating on my head with his free fist. I yank his wrist and take back my gun, then keep him at arm’s length by training the pistol at his chest.
    I’m ready to shoot Freddy before he plugs Santi, but the kid is already grappling with him. He’s clutching Freddy’s wrists, trying to get at the gun, but he slips and lands with his back on the bench. Freddy puts one hand around Santi’s throat and, with the other, aims his pistol at Santi’s forehead.
    I get out from behind the table and look over at Gazzara, who is aiming his machine gun at me.
    â€œYou really are a f-f-fucking idiot,” he says.
    â€œNo, I’m really not,” I say.
    I pull Frank closer and shove the revolver up under his jaw so hard he must feel its barrel pushing against his tongue.
    Gazzara shrugs. “So what are you gonna do now? Do you ever use that thing or do you just w-w-wave it around?”
    I guess that’s the difference between me and a gangster. Gangsters pull triggers.
    â€œI won’t use it as long as I can walk out of here with Santi and know I’m square with you.”
    â€œWe’re f-f-fine,” Gazzara says.
    â€œI’ll take you at your word, even though you’ve got that Tommy gun on me.”
    He chuckles and rests the machine gun on the table. When he pulls his hands away and shows me his palms, Frank’s eyes dart to me.
    â€œRelax, F-Frank,” Gazzara says. “The man just said he’s not going to kill you.”
    Now he’s calling me a man. A second ago, I was a zebra-nigger-lackey-coon. Amazing how effective a pistol to the jawbone can be, even when you admit you’re not going to use it.
    â€œNow, back your boy off Santi,” I say.
    â€œFreddy,” he says to the hood. “Let the kid get up but stay on him.”
    â€œTake the gun off of him,” I say. Frank’s wriggling under my arm, but I’ve got his neck pinned under my elbow.
    Gazzara shakes his head. “The rod stays. You plug Frank and the k-kid goes down.”
    Santi gets up and wipes his shirt clean, as if he’s got an appointment later on and needs to be presentable.
    â€œI want the name of the grifter who sold us the piss,” I say.
    Gazzara shrugs. “Fine. His name’s Joseph Gazzara,” he says. “But if you go after him, I’ll kill you.”
    â€œHis name’s Gazzara?”
    â€œHe’s my pain in the n-n-nuts brother. Last I heard he was jacking sugar from Cuba, but I guess he’s back. I mean it, though. You press too hard, I’ll k-k-kill you. He’s a troublemaker, but he’s still my b-brother.”
    â€œI’m going after him,” I say, “but only to get my money back, no more, no less. Fair enough?”
    Gazzara nods. “You’re still alive,” he says, “so it must be fair.” He’s got nerve, considering I’m the one with the weapon.
    Frank pulls on my elbow, he needs more air. I loosen my grip a bit, but not enough for him to get any leverage. I’ve already learned not to trust the little prick.
    â€œAnother thing,” I say. “Get Hector off my back.”
    â€œYou mean the guy with the c-cleaver? That’s some funny shit. I wouldn’t help you if I could, but as it t-turns out, I can’t. I’ve got no idea who the f-f-fuck that is.” He palms his bald head and then rubs the back of his left ear.
    â€œYou’re sure he’s not another relative?” I ask.
    â€œWhy would I lie? You think I’m sc-scared because you’ve got a rod on my boy? I’ll rub you out right