Johnny V and the Razor
A TRAIN whistle shrieked through the night, making Johnny think of rolling iron and rough times in hard places. White lightning stabbed through gray clouds. Wind teased the Packard’s windows. Johnny pushed his hands deep into the pockets of the cheap winter coat Donnelly had bought him, watching the dark street and keeping an ear out for thunder.
The Packard’s back door swung open, letting in a swirl of cold. Johnny sat up so hard he bumped his knee on the steering wheel. He was getting out to help Mr. Donnelly in, but the back door slammed shut and a cool voice Johnny didn’t recognize said, “Start the car. Drive.”
“This is Mr. Donnelly’s private car,” Johnny said.
“He doesn’t need it anymore.”
Johnny had been in the city long enough to know why a stranger would be getting into a bootlegger’s private car in the middle of the night. “I know how to walk away and not look back,” he said. “I’ll get out. Disappear.”
“Get us moving,” the man said.
If his boss was dead, Johnny was on the street. Worse than that, he was a witness. “I won’t say anything,” he said. “I don’t even know what you look like.”
“You deaf?” the stranger said. “Start the car.”
Johnny started the engine, and in the dark where the stranger couldn’t see, slid his left hand to the door handle. He could push the door open, roll to the street and be halfway down the block in seconds. If he stuck to the shadows, he might live through the night. He eased his hand around the cool metal, ready to lean all his weight into the door.
Cool fingers brushed the back of his neck. “Don’t do anything dumb.” The stranger reached around and locked the driver’s side door. Leaning back, he brushed against Johnny, feeling like he was made of muscle and nothing else. “Drive. Both hands on the wheel.”
Johnny shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb, his mind desperately ticking over. The freight whistle had been maybe ten minutes ago. The train wouldn’t pull out for another hour. If he lived that long, he planned to be on it, riding the Box Car Express to No Place. “Which way, mister?”
From the darkness, the stranger said, “Find traffic. Follow it.”
The stranger sounded like he could slit a man’s throat in traffic, jump out, thread his way through snarled cars, and fade into the night. Johnny drove toward Broadway, gripping the steering wheel like it was a lifeboat and he was drowning.
A few miles later, with the rush of traffic up ahead, the stranger said, “Pull over.”
This was it. If Johnny survived the next five seconds, he had a chance of walking away. Cold sweat rolled down the back of his neck. His eyeballs jittered. His pulse pounded. He swerved to the curb, ready to floor it the second Donnelly’s killer cleared the back seat.
The stranger slid over to the back door behind Johnny, leaned over and said, “Give me the keys.”
Johnny’s mind had been blasting down one track: staying alive. The stranger had derailed him, but too late. Johnny’s thoughts screamed ahead. His body hurtled into action. He floored the Packard and flinched when the tires screeched against the road.
A loud pop blasted through the night. Johnny cringed, waiting to feel the pain of a bullet plowing into him. Instead the Packard’s tail swerved hard right.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He’d peeled out too fast, blown a tire. The steering wheel slipped through his sweaty hands. He tried to fight the drag, but he wasn’t strong enough.
The man lunged over the seat back, his body half on top of Johnny, and grabbed the wheel. “Ease off the gas.” His voice was quiet, like death was Sunday School and he was the teacher. “Pump the brakes. Don’t slam on them. You’ll kill us both.”
Sucking in breaths that hurt his tight chest, Johnny willed his foot to rise, fighting his instinct to mash the brakes through the floor. He pumped them once, twice.
“That’s it.” The
A TRAIN whistle shrieked through the night, making Johnny think of rolling iron and rough times in hard places. White lightning stabbed through gray clouds. Wind teased the Packard’s windows. Johnny pushed his hands deep into the pockets of the cheap winter coat Donnelly had bought him, watching the dark street and keeping an ear out for thunder.
The Packard’s back door swung open, letting in a swirl of cold. Johnny sat up so hard he bumped his knee on the steering wheel. He was getting out to help Mr. Donnelly in, but the back door slammed shut and a cool voice Johnny didn’t recognize said, “Start the car. Drive.”
“This is Mr. Donnelly’s private car,” Johnny said.
“He doesn’t need it anymore.”
Johnny had been in the city long enough to know why a stranger would be getting into a bootlegger’s private car in the middle of the night. “I know how to walk away and not look back,” he said. “I’ll get out. Disappear.”
“Get us moving,” the man said.
If his boss was dead, Johnny was on the street. Worse than that, he was a witness. “I won’t say anything,” he said. “I don’t even know what you look like.”
“You deaf?” the stranger said. “Start the car.”
Johnny started the engine, and in the dark where the stranger couldn’t see, slid his left hand to the door handle. He could push the door open, roll to the street and be halfway down the block in seconds. If he stuck to the shadows, he might live through the night. He eased his hand around the cool metal, ready to lean all his weight into the door.
Cool fingers brushed the back of his neck. “Don’t do anything dumb.” The stranger reached around and locked the driver’s side door. Leaning back, he brushed against Johnny, feeling like he was made of muscle and nothing else. “Drive. Both hands on the wheel.”
Johnny shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb, his mind desperately ticking over. The freight whistle had been maybe ten minutes ago. The train wouldn’t pull out for another hour. If he lived that long, he planned to be on it, riding the Box Car Express to No Place. “Which way, mister?”
From the darkness, the stranger said, “Find traffic. Follow it.”
The stranger sounded like he could slit a man’s throat in traffic, jump out, thread his way through snarled cars, and fade into the night. Johnny drove toward Broadway, gripping the steering wheel like it was a lifeboat and he was drowning.
A few miles later, with the rush of traffic up ahead, the stranger said, “Pull over.”
This was it. If Johnny survived the next five seconds, he had a chance of walking away. Cold sweat rolled down the back of his neck. His eyeballs jittered. His pulse pounded. He swerved to the curb, ready to floor it the second Donnelly’s killer cleared the back seat.
The stranger slid over to the back door behind Johnny, leaned over and said, “Give me the keys.”
Johnny’s mind had been blasting down one track: staying alive. The stranger had derailed him, but too late. Johnny’s thoughts screamed ahead. His body hurtled into action. He floored the Packard and flinched when the tires screeched against the road.
A loud pop blasted through the night. Johnny cringed, waiting to feel the pain of a bullet plowing into him. Instead the Packard’s tail swerved hard right.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He’d peeled out too fast, blown a tire. The steering wheel slipped through his sweaty hands. He tried to fight the drag, but he wasn’t strong enough.
The man lunged over the seat back, his body half on top of Johnny, and grabbed the wheel. “Ease off the gas.” His voice was quiet, like death was Sunday School and he was the teacher. “Pump the brakes. Don’t slam on them. You’ll kill us both.”
Sucking in breaths that hurt his tight chest, Johnny willed his foot to rise, fighting his instinct to mash the brakes through the floor. He pumped them once, twice.
“That’s it.” The
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