Blind Moon Alley

  “It’s mine,” I tell him. “I didn’t want you to know. I’ve been saving for years. I’m here, Champ, and I’m staying this time.”

  My father gives me a smile that could light a movie marquee. He wraps his beefy arms around me and squeezes so hard I feel my ribs bend.

  “C’mon into the kitchen,” he says. “They hadda unplug the old icebox. We gotta eat some of that stuff before it melts.”

  We go into the kitchen, grab a container of strawberry ice cream, and bring it outside where an early autumn breeze is cooling the Harlem streets. The champ brushes off a spot on the front steps of the club and sits himself down. I do the same, right next to him, in the shade.

  I’ve got The Beautiful and the Damned under my arm, and I’m ready to start the next chapter. I can get as much out of it as anybody can—maybe more—and now that I’m free of the dirt that’s been clinging to me for years, I will.

  Inside, the workmen are stringing ropes around the boxing ring that the champ and I will use to teach the local kids hard work and discipline—the very things it took me a lifetime to learn.

  My father holds the ice cream and we take turns dipping into the carton, one spoonful at a time, as we listen to the clackety-clack of paddles hitting ping-pong balls.

  We’re a long way from Santa Monica.

  But we’re close enough for me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We meet again—this time in the basement of a Philadelphia brownstone. I’m glad you came. Rudy Vallee’s on the radio and Doolie’s pouring one last round of martinis. Let’s close the place.

  And while we’re at it, let’s toast a few special people.

  Dan Mayer at Seventh Street Books did more than bring this novel to press. He rolled up his sleeves, grabbed some shinola, and polished its pages. And my agent Elizabeth Evans had the foresight to know he was the guy to do it. Here’s to both of them.

  There are others. Alex Jackson helped me find my way to Blind Moon Alley. Lee Martin deserves a nod, as does Dr. Dave Page, who assisted as I mended Jersey’s broken nose. I’ll also raise a glass to Larry and Jeff Trepel for adjusting the timing on Jersey’s Auburn, not to mention the other cars that rolled through these pages.

  Cheers.

  The music has stopped and our glasses are empty, so it’s time I head home to my wife, partner, first reader, and biggest fan, Ouisie. She believed in Jersey, believed in me, and keeps me believing in myself. For that, I offer a humble thank-you and a bottomless heart.

  Farewell for now. I hope to see you again for Jersey’s next adventure. You know where to find me: I’ll be at the bar with the rest of the gang, waiting to pour you a shot of moon.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Florio is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in print, on the web, and on television. He is the author of the Jersey Leo crime novels (Sugar Pop Moon and Blind Moon Alley) and One Punch from the Promised Land: Leon Spinks, Michael Spinks, and the Myth of the Heavyweight Title. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife, Ouisie Shapiro. Visit him at johnfloriowriter.com.