"This Negro player may be a Communist," the director continued, sitting in the car.  "And I suspect your brother too. Both of them. You know how I feel about that." "I don't know about those sorts of things," Johnny answered.  "I don't pay much attention to politics."

Johnny stepped off the plane and a shot of cold air hit his face and entered his lungs. He looked around and everything was coated in white dust. It was so quiet you could hear the snow fall...too quiet he thought.  

As they awaited take off Eddie leaned forward and asked Johnny "I know the Needle and you had something going on and we're going back to the city because of it, but more than that I don't know.  What's going on?".   In response, Johnny asked Eddie to change seats so he could fill him in during the flight.

Of course it mattered that Earl was alive and Johnny would figure out what happened when they were on the flight back to New York. Eddie put the gun away. He heard the gunfire in the room, knew Johnny thought Earl was dead and that Eddie had some part in it, and didn't know what Johnny might do when he saw him. Eddie wasn't sure whether he would need to use the gun on Johnny but knew that he had better keep it on Johnny until Johnny saw Earl and Pauline. They were in this together but Johnny didn't know it yet. When he saw Earl and Pauline, he knew.

Johnny sat in the dark room.  He knew he was capable of doing what he had to do.  He could write it off as simply revenge, but deep down inside he knew better.  He knew that there was a combination of destiny and history all being blasted into one forsaken explosion that was about to shift the axis of the balance of power in the world of organized crime.  There was no regret or fear, simply anxiety battling f

For what seemed like hours, but was only seconds, Johnny paused to remember those early, happy days with Pauline so many years ago.    They had met when they were children, probably no more than 12 years old.   Funny, they were the exact same age and shared the same birthday.

Before Johnny could react, Joey had thrown him into the backseat of a large black sedan-he thought it was a Crown Imperial-that was waiting right outside the back door of the club. Johnny recognized the driver, it was little Bernie Just. “Hey kid, aren’t you the weeknight photographer at the Stork Club? What are you doing here?” asked Johnny. “Relax Johnny,” Joey responded. “He’s one of us. Idlewild Airport, Bernie.

The car drove up to the curb on West 145th Street off  Lenox Avenue and Johnny Washington opened the door and stepped out into a puddle.  He pulled his coat over his hat and trotted through the slanting rain to the awning over the front door of El Morocco. A white suited gentlemen put his arm out to block him.  "It's OK," another said, "the boss is expecting him."  Johnny reached into his pocket, took out sixty cents for the doorman, and went inside the club.