of his way or moved around him, as if they’d sensed danger.
Johnny thought they were wrong. Sloane wasn’t dangerous. He was deadly.
D O WHAT you want, Nick had said. Just make sure when they find him, they know it was slow and hard.
Sloane and his brother Nick ran bootleg liquor into the city and sold it in 39, a speakeasy where there was high stakes gambling and boys who got paid to do what girls wouldn’t. What Nick couldn’t sell in 39, he moved through distributors who paid a premium for practically risk-free liquor. But there was always a guy who thought he could beat the odds, cheat Nick out of his percentage.
By the time Sloane took the call, Donnelly had played Nick for a sucker three times. Sloane had paid off a working girl, rented the house where Johnny had dropped Donnelly off, and told her what to do. After two weeks, she convinced Donnelly that his bodyguards made her nervous. A week after that, he started going to see her with just a driver.
Tonight when Donnelly went to see her, the girl left through the back door. Sloane tied up Donnelly, gagged him, and carved into him so bad, he was begging to die by the time Sloane slit his throat.
Sloane had been going out the back way when he thought about Donnelly’s driver. The cops wouldn’t think anything of beating information out of a kid like that. And Donnelly’s boys would be wanting every scrap of information they could get. Either way, the driver would die for what he didn’t know. He was too young, too likely to talk. And now he was walking beside Sloane, trying to keep his cool, acting like he didn’t know how tight a spot he was in.
Dora didn’t cook anything like the drunken woman who’d been Sloane’s mother, but she ran a tight diner. Sloane opened the door to Dora’s and got them a booth. Inside, under bright lights, he got a good look at Johnny V. He was nineteen, maybe twenty. His light brown eyes, the same color as his hair, had seen too much. His mouth was wide, with smooth lips that could make a man think about things he shouldn’t. His high cheekbones were too close to his skin. Donnelly hadn’t been paying him enough for Johnny to eat right. Sloane wished he’d known that before. He would have taken longer.
Pushing a menu across the table, Sloane said, “It’s on me. Order what you want.” Then I’ll get you out of town , he thought.
Johnny picked up the menu, glanced over it and said, “Roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy.”
Sloane didn’t look up from his menu. “Which plate, number one or number two?”
“Which one’s better?”
“They’re both good,” Sloane said. “Depends on what side you want.”
Johnny closed the menu, slid it to the corner of the table. “I’ll eat whatever you get.”
Sloane saw the fear on Johnny’s face, his hesitation, how he looked away. “Read me number two.”
“If you tell me a list, I can remember it.” Johnny swallowed, dropped his eyes to the wooden table. “I work real hard.”
The way Johnny hung his head made Sloane wince inside. What was he doing? The job was over, and Johnny had nothing to do with it except being in a bad place at a bad time. “You know what? This whole dinner in the middle of the night thing is stupid. I’m thinking about chocolate cake and ice cream.”
Not looking up, Johnny said, “Better if I get the roast beef.”
Sloane reached over and pushed Johnny’s thick hair back from his face. “You don’t like ice cream?”
“I like it fine.” Johnny met his eyes. “But I only have two dollars in my pocket, and I don’t know where my next meal’s coming from.”
Sloane was about to say something stupid, like how Johnny didn’t have to worry about that anymore, when Dora came bustling over, pad in one hand, pen in the other.
With her quick, light steps, her pink uniform, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, Dora looked like a waitress who got through every night without spilling a drop of gravy. Except for her
Johnny thought they were wrong. Sloane wasn’t dangerous. He was deadly.
D O WHAT you want, Nick had said. Just make sure when they find him, they know it was slow and hard.
Sloane and his brother Nick ran bootleg liquor into the city and sold it in 39, a speakeasy where there was high stakes gambling and boys who got paid to do what girls wouldn’t. What Nick couldn’t sell in 39, he moved through distributors who paid a premium for practically risk-free liquor. But there was always a guy who thought he could beat the odds, cheat Nick out of his percentage.
By the time Sloane took the call, Donnelly had played Nick for a sucker three times. Sloane had paid off a working girl, rented the house where Johnny had dropped Donnelly off, and told her what to do. After two weeks, she convinced Donnelly that his bodyguards made her nervous. A week after that, he started going to see her with just a driver.
Tonight when Donnelly went to see her, the girl left through the back door. Sloane tied up Donnelly, gagged him, and carved into him so bad, he was begging to die by the time Sloane slit his throat.
Sloane had been going out the back way when he thought about Donnelly’s driver. The cops wouldn’t think anything of beating information out of a kid like that. And Donnelly’s boys would be wanting every scrap of information they could get. Either way, the driver would die for what he didn’t know. He was too young, too likely to talk. And now he was walking beside Sloane, trying to keep his cool, acting like he didn’t know how tight a spot he was in.
Dora didn’t cook anything like the drunken woman who’d been Sloane’s mother, but she ran a tight diner. Sloane opened the door to Dora’s and got them a booth. Inside, under bright lights, he got a good look at Johnny V. He was nineteen, maybe twenty. His light brown eyes, the same color as his hair, had seen too much. His mouth was wide, with smooth lips that could make a man think about things he shouldn’t. His high cheekbones were too close to his skin. Donnelly hadn’t been paying him enough for Johnny to eat right. Sloane wished he’d known that before. He would have taken longer.
Pushing a menu across the table, Sloane said, “It’s on me. Order what you want.” Then I’ll get you out of town , he thought.
Johnny picked up the menu, glanced over it and said, “Roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy.”
Sloane didn’t look up from his menu. “Which plate, number one or number two?”
“Which one’s better?”
“They’re both good,” Sloane said. “Depends on what side you want.”
Johnny closed the menu, slid it to the corner of the table. “I’ll eat whatever you get.”
Sloane saw the fear on Johnny’s face, his hesitation, how he looked away. “Read me number two.”
“If you tell me a list, I can remember it.” Johnny swallowed, dropped his eyes to the wooden table. “I work real hard.”
The way Johnny hung his head made Sloane wince inside. What was he doing? The job was over, and Johnny had nothing to do with it except being in a bad place at a bad time. “You know what? This whole dinner in the middle of the night thing is stupid. I’m thinking about chocolate cake and ice cream.”
Not looking up, Johnny said, “Better if I get the roast beef.”
Sloane reached over and pushed Johnny’s thick hair back from his face. “You don’t like ice cream?”
“I like it fine.” Johnny met his eyes. “But I only have two dollars in my pocket, and I don’t know where my next meal’s coming from.”
Sloane was about to say something stupid, like how Johnny didn’t have to worry about that anymore, when Dora came bustling over, pad in one hand, pen in the other.
With her quick, light steps, her pink uniform, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, Dora looked like a waitress who got through every night without spilling a drop of gravy. Except for her
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