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.
