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back lands on the mattress and the two of them tumble on top of me. The little one is on his knees. He’s leaning down on my shins, pinning my ankles to the floor. I try to free my legs as I shake Hector’s fists, which are now holding the cleaver between my legs. If I let go he’ll slam me right in the nuts.
    I wrestle my right foot free and kick at the little guy. I connect squarely with his face and he falls away. He’s holding his nose with both hands and blood is dripping out from underneath his palms.
    â€œMy nose, my fucking nose,” he chokes out as he clutches his face. “Fucking albino.”
    He points at my knees. “Get his legs!” he screams as blood runs from his nose to his chin.
    Hector looks at him in shock. I take Hector’s hands—and the cleaver in them—and bang them as hard as I can against the plaster wall. The silver blade falls out of his grip and bounces on the mattress before clanging on the floor. He squeezes his right hand between his knees as the little guy lunges for the cleaver. Hector is wide open—I could whack the back of his head with my elbow but I don’t. Instead, I grab my overcoat and hat, stumble out of the room and head for the exit. The tender is gone and so are the flappers, no doubt paid by the cleaver boys to disappear.
    I race out of the joint, my heart slamming its way up my chest and practically out of my mouth. I run down the hall and burst out the front door onto Tenth Street. The icy air scorches my skin and whips my eyes but it’s a welcome pain. It’s the sting of safety.
    I run back to Market Street, my footsteps echoing into the night, and right then I swear to myself I’ll never be dumb enough to get lured into a trap like that again. But I’ve got all of their faces burned into memory. The tender, the flappers, Margaret, Hector, and the little guy. I owe each one of them, just like I owe Gazzara. And I’ll be back, because I like to pay my debts.

    The Auburn’s headlights shine onto Route 25 as we hightail it out of Philly. Santi has been asking me the same questions since I got back to the hotel and found him pacing the lobby.
    â€œIsn’t the femur your leg bone?” He’s trying to picture what went down at the cellar club, which is about thirty miles behind us.
    â€œI don’t know,” I say, still trying to make sense of what just happened.
    Santi’s shaking his head. “They were going to chop off your legs? For messing with a bartender?”
    The kid has no idea how far I pushed things.
    â€œThat’s the short version,” I tell him.
    I turn on the radio and Rudy Vallee’s singing “I’m Just A Vagabond Lover.” I know every note because Old Man Santiago has the record at the Hy-Hat and I play it every time I’m there. Whenever I listen to Rudy Vallee I pretend I’m white—normal white—and as rich as J. P. Morgan. I picture myself on a yacht sipping daiquiris with Pearl. She’s stuck on me and nobody is out for my femurs.
    â€œWhat’s your move now?” Santi asks. “We’ve got to map out a sensible plan of strategy.”
    I can’t imagine how to fix this mess before Jimmy gets back. I’m in even deeper now, because Gazzara is obviously more than a small-town hood and I’ve spun him off his nut. I turn up Rudy Vallee and run through my options.
    The one move I haven’t considered is coming back to Philly with more muscle, but I’d have a tough time finding anybody crazy enough to join me. None of the boys at the Pour House will want to cross Jimmy. And I won’t ask any of the tougher kids at the Hy-Hat; the whole point of the club is to keep them off the streets and out of trouble.
    I hate to admit it, but the one person who could help me out of this mess is my father. He hasn’t been too happy with me since I started working at the Pour House, and he certainly won’t