Sugar Pop Moon by John Florio Page B

now. I just don’t w-want to make these guys d-dig your grave in this weather. The dirt is f-f-frozen solid.”
    I know he’s telling the truth and I think about putting the gun on the table. I don’t—I keep it clutched in my right hand. Part of me is itching to put a bullet into Frank’s sinuses, but if I did, Santi would be leaving in a trashcan.
    â€œI have to ask one favor,” I say. “Keep this quiet. I’ve got to settle up with your brother before Jimmy gets back. I fucked up and I need to straighten things out.”
    â€œToo late for th-that,” Gazzara says. “McCullough already knows. His boys are asking around about me. And he’s looking for you, too, I hear. Now drop the metal or you’ll b-be eating it for dinner.”
    â€œBaloney. Jimmy’s not due back until the day after tomorrow.”
    â€œI said p-put the rod down.”
    I hate to do what he tells me. The gun is all the leverage I’ve got, but I’m a dead man if I don’t drop it. He may not take me now, but he’ll find me eventually, and I’ve got enough to worry about. I let go of Frank and put the pistol on the table. Frank takes a couple of steps away, clearing his throat.
    Gazzara nods his approval. “I don’t know when he was d-due back, but I assure you, he’s in Hell’s Kitchen right now. And he’s not happy. Of course, I’ll straighten out my part.” Then he smiles at me, his round face beaming above his stiff bowtie, and gives me a look that says, but you’re a goner.
    â€œC’mon, Santi,” I say.
    Santi walks up behind me and we head for the door.
    I stop and tell Gazzara, “Sorry if I fucked you over with Jimmy.”
    â€œI’m not s-scared of Jimmy f-f-fucking McCullough,” he says. “And if he p-presses my brother too hard, I’ll prove it. You can t-tell him I said that.”
    â€œHe’s not going after your brother and you know it. He’s coming after me. When he does, I’ll give him your message.” I don’t bother mentioning that Jimmy may not give me a chance to speak before he guns me down.
    Santi and I step outside, but I pop back into the cabin, walk over to the wooden table and grab the half-filled bottle of moon.
    If I’m going to be ducking Jimmy while I hunt for Joseph Gazzara and Hector Cleaver, I’ll need something to make my balls bigger.

    Doc Anders leans in and shines his tiny flashlight at my cheeks, which are still smarting from yesterday’s bout with the Princeton wind. I’m leaning back on the black leather couch in his private office, avoiding the glare of the overhead light by staring over his shoulder at the gold striped curtains. The doc has made it clear he’d rather look me over in the exam room across the hall, but we’ve been friends since I started hosting his late-night poker games at the Pour House, and as far as I’m concerned, that gives me the right to be examined in his office.
    I feel more civilized here. The smell of musty old textbooks reminds me he’s smart. Five diplomas hang in polished frames on the wall behind his mahogany desk—the large one is from Long Island College Hospital and proclaims him a Medicinae Doctor . When we’re in the exam room, the odor of rubbing alcohol makes me feel like a specimen—a freak of nature—especially when one of his young clear-skinned nurses is standing next to me, taking notes as the doc ticks off his various diagnoses. He’s not calling out any terminology now, he’s just looking, but by the time we wrap it up, he’ll have spouted a few doozies that are nothing but fancy medical terms for zebra-nigger-lackey-coon.
    If you met the doc at the Pour House, you probably wouldn’t trust him to find his house keys. He’s got kinky white hair that’s greased on the sides but sticks up on the top, a long face with a narrow nose that holds a