stranger muscled the wheel, forcing the Packard to the side of the road. “Nice and easy.”
Johnny held his breath. Another couple feet and they’d be scrap metal on Broadway.
“Lean back,” the stranger said. “Let go.” He grunted in Johnny’s ear, heaving the wheel around, forcing the Packard toward the curb. For long horrifying seconds they drifted, the flat tire limping along, its rim scraping the road. Then the front end seemed to remember the way to the curb and moved that way, stopping with a gentle bump.
“Holy God,” Johnny whispered between breaths. “Jesus.”
The stranger grabbed the back of Johnny’s neck and squeezed, but not enough to hurt. “You’re lucky we didn’t get stuck in traffic,” he said. “That would have pissed me off. Give me the keys.”
Too shaken to fight, Johnny yanked them from the ignition and held them up in a trembling grip that made them jangle.
The man grabbed the keys, got out, tapped the window, and pointed at the lock. He didn’t look mad,but maybe he was, and he wanted to take his time with whatever he planned to do. Johnny popped the lock, sure that if he lived past the next two minutes, he’d be wishing he’d died fast.
The door whooshed open. Johnny stumbled into the street and barely missed falling flat on his face at the feet of a killer.
“Starting a few minutes ago,” the stranger said, “you’re unemployed. I’m offering you a new job.”
A job? That was so far ahead of living through the next couple minutes, Johnny couldn’t follow. “What?”
The stranger kicked the Packard’s door shut and glanced at traffic on Broadway. “Donnelly’s dead.”
In the harsh yellow glow coming from the streetlamp behind him, Johnny looked up at the stranger. Something about the hard line of his jaw, the stony glint in his dark brown eyes, said things only happened one way in life: his way.
“You go deaf again?” the stranger said.
“Yeah.” Christ. “I mean no. Yeah. The job. I want it.” Because it was better than winding up like Donnelly. “What do I have to do?”
“Let’s start with you staying alive,” the man said. “The way you’re going, looks like that’s enough for now.”
Johnny felt the same way, but he was too embarrassed to say it. He’d nearly gotten them both killed, and he didn’t even know the stranger’s name. “What do I call you?”
“Sloane,” the man said. “Come on. I don’t need to be standing by his car with my bare face hanging out.”
They walked into the dark toward Broadway’s crowded sidewalk. Johnny was pretty sure Sloane wasn’t packing a rod. He would have pulled it in the car. Then again, he couldn’t have taken the wheel like that with a gun in his hand.
Sloane looked down at him. “What do you call yourself?” he said.
“Johnny V.”
“What’s the ‘V’ stand for?”
Johnny was glad it was dark, because his cheeks were burning. It didn’t stand for anything. He’d added the middle initial when he got to New York.
Sloane moved his eyes past Johnny, like he was studying the slow traffic. “You just liked the way it sounded?”
“Yeah.” For the first time in the last few minutes, Johnny wasn’t thinking about dying. He was waiting to hear Sloane laugh, the way Donnelly and his men had laughed at him, made him feel like a country boy too stupid to know better.
“I like how it sounds too,” Sloane said.
The way he said it, low and quiet, made Johnny breathe a little easier.
“I’m hungry,” Sloane said. “You want something to eat?”
In the past year and a half, Johnny couldn’t remember ever saying no to free food. “Yeah,” he said.
The first thing Johnny had learned about living in a big city was that sidewalk crowds had their own rhythm, almost like a parade where everyone was hearing the same drum. If you didn’t move in step with the crowd, you got knocked around a lot. But Sloane was different, like he had a private drummer. People either slid out
Johnny held his breath. Another couple feet and they’d be scrap metal on Broadway.
“Lean back,” the stranger said. “Let go.” He grunted in Johnny’s ear, heaving the wheel around, forcing the Packard toward the curb. For long horrifying seconds they drifted, the flat tire limping along, its rim scraping the road. Then the front end seemed to remember the way to the curb and moved that way, stopping with a gentle bump.
“Holy God,” Johnny whispered between breaths. “Jesus.”
The stranger grabbed the back of Johnny’s neck and squeezed, but not enough to hurt. “You’re lucky we didn’t get stuck in traffic,” he said. “That would have pissed me off. Give me the keys.”
Too shaken to fight, Johnny yanked them from the ignition and held them up in a trembling grip that made them jangle.
The man grabbed the keys, got out, tapped the window, and pointed at the lock. He didn’t look mad,but maybe he was, and he wanted to take his time with whatever he planned to do. Johnny popped the lock, sure that if he lived past the next two minutes, he’d be wishing he’d died fast.
The door whooshed open. Johnny stumbled into the street and barely missed falling flat on his face at the feet of a killer.
“Starting a few minutes ago,” the stranger said, “you’re unemployed. I’m offering you a new job.”
A job? That was so far ahead of living through the next couple minutes, Johnny couldn’t follow. “What?”
The stranger kicked the Packard’s door shut and glanced at traffic on Broadway. “Donnelly’s dead.”
In the harsh yellow glow coming from the streetlamp behind him, Johnny looked up at the stranger. Something about the hard line of his jaw, the stony glint in his dark brown eyes, said things only happened one way in life: his way.
“You go deaf again?” the stranger said.
“Yeah.” Christ. “I mean no. Yeah. The job. I want it.” Because it was better than winding up like Donnelly. “What do I have to do?”
“Let’s start with you staying alive,” the man said. “The way you’re going, looks like that’s enough for now.”
Johnny felt the same way, but he was too embarrassed to say it. He’d nearly gotten them both killed, and he didn’t even know the stranger’s name. “What do I call you?”
“Sloane,” the man said. “Come on. I don’t need to be standing by his car with my bare face hanging out.”
They walked into the dark toward Broadway’s crowded sidewalk. Johnny was pretty sure Sloane wasn’t packing a rod. He would have pulled it in the car. Then again, he couldn’t have taken the wheel like that with a gun in his hand.
Sloane looked down at him. “What do you call yourself?” he said.
“Johnny V.”
“What’s the ‘V’ stand for?”
Johnny was glad it was dark, because his cheeks were burning. It didn’t stand for anything. He’d added the middle initial when he got to New York.
Sloane moved his eyes past Johnny, like he was studying the slow traffic. “You just liked the way it sounded?”
“Yeah.” For the first time in the last few minutes, Johnny wasn’t thinking about dying. He was waiting to hear Sloane laugh, the way Donnelly and his men had laughed at him, made him feel like a country boy too stupid to know better.
“I like how it sounds too,” Sloane said.
The way he said it, low and quiet, made Johnny breathe a little easier.
“I’m hungry,” Sloane said. “You want something to eat?”
In the past year and a half, Johnny couldn’t remember ever saying no to free food. “Yeah,” he said.
The first thing Johnny had learned about living in a big city was that sidewalk crowds had their own rhythm, almost like a parade where everyone was hearing the same drum. If you didn’t move in step with the crowd, you got knocked around a lot. But Sloane was different, like he had a private drummer. People either slid out
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