Fuck, after we left the train yard, my father took me for ice cream before heading home.
At the time, I was no older than thirteen, and my only instruction was to not tell my mother.
I don’t know why that memory was significant. Nevertheless, it’s something I’d never forgotten. In the schoolhouse of life, that afternoon was one lesson that stuck with me.
In my years before and since I’d taken control of this city, I’d left a trail of dead Johnnys in every ward and beyond the greater parishes of New Orleans.
“You sure it’s Ingalls?” I asked.
Johnny nodded as spit and blood dripped from his chin.
There was every reason to believe this guy was telling the truth, at least about that. From the traffic cameras near the accident, Ingalls had been identified as the man who opened Emma’s door, who pulled her from my SUV, and who handed her over to this guy—this Johnny. Johnny then shoved her into a Cadillac sedan.
My men didn’t find Ingalls, but unluckily for Johnny, they found him. They also found the kid in the hoodie, the one who took the shots through the windows of my SUV. Maybe Johnny here was lucky—he was still alive. The kid wasn’t.
My fist made contact with his torso. “You fucking touched my wife.”
The air expelled from his lungs and more blood dripped from his lips. Johnny’s knees lifted, pulling his toes from the floor, and the chain groaned as Johnny swung with the force of the punch.
His face hung forward as if by the minute his head was growing heavier.
“Fucking look at me.” I demanded.
Slowly, Jonny lifted his chin, bringing his one good eye toward me. “I-I didn’t know who she was.”
I shook my head.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Mr. Ramses, sir.” He nodded. “I didn’t mean nothing against you. Ingalls paid me cash. I got a sick kid.”
I pulled a pistol from the holder on my side. “I don’t give a shit about a kid. I care about my wife.”
I moved the barrel next to his temple. The man’s eye closed as he turned his face away. “You’re going to die today,” I said. “You know that, right?”
Snot dripped from Johnny’s nose as he nodded.
We were getting too close to the begging stage.
I fucking detested that stage.
“I’m going to give you one more chance,” I lied.
His non-swollen eye came my way.
“Give me something, anything, to find my wife, and I’ll see that your kid gets medical treatment.”
“I-I don’t—”
I pressed the end of the barrel harder against his temple making the chain creak. Then I pulled it away and pressed it beneath his chin. “Do you know why this isn’t a good way to commit suicide?” I didn’t wait for an answer as I moved the gun again. “Open your fucking mouth.”
Johnny’s lips came together as he shook his head.
“Open your goddamned mouth or I’ll knock out your teeth.” I tilted my chin over my shoulder. “Or one of my men over there will take them out one at a time. Marcus, the one with the black jacket” —I knew Johnny didn’t truly care which one was Marcus— “has a collection of teeth. He’s always itching for some more.”
His one eye came my way as he slowly opened his lips. I shoved the barrel of the pistol between his teeth until he gagged and coughed. “This is another bad way.”
When I pulled the pistol out of his mouth, Johnny nodded until I brought the barrel back to the soft flesh beneath his chin and pointed the barrel toward his sinuses.