Johnny One Spot

by Gary Clifton

“Hey, Johnny, heads up.” Flaherty flipped a silver half-dollar toward the combination shoeshine boy and newsstand operator. The small, misshapen recipient bent over his shine box, vigorously touching up a customer’s brogans, looked up too late. The coin rolled behind him into the busy 31st Street pedestrian traffic.

Flaherty stepped into the crowd. A well-dressed lady swooped up the coin and handed it to Flaherty. She raised a hand, dug a dollar bill from her purse, gestured toward Johnny, and handed it to Flaherty. Without speaking, he returned her smile and turned back to Johnny at curbside.

Life had dealt Johnny an impossible hand. He was a victim of Kallman’s Syndrome, a rare disorder that retards the patient’s growth toward puberty. The effect was that the frail shoeshine boy who appeared about twelve, was actually twenty-seven years old.

Johnny’s situation was well known in the neighborhood: a deathly ill product of a series of orphanages who’d outlived the predictions that he should have died ten years earlier from the freak of existence that life had thrust upon him.

Johnny operated a sidewalk newsstand and shoeshine business. His plywood structure occupied about six feet each of the front sidewalks of Wiener’s Pawn and Epstein’s Deli. He had been adopted by the neighborhood, and folks assisted him in many ways, as Flaherty was doing.

Flaherty handed over his buck fifty. “How’s it hangin’, kid?”

“Aces, Flaherty, aces,” Johnny replied in his high-pitched, disease-distorted voice.

Johnny walked back to his stand. Coins from customers were tossed atop a stack of Wall Street Journals, purchased in an honor system arrangement.

Flaherty, twirling his nightstick, walked on.

In violation of city code, Johnny slept in his newsstand. Neighbors had bought him a small, propane camping heater. For sewer access, he kept a bucket with a fold-down attached lid, which he dumped into the curbside sewer daily. Complaints were numerous but went nowhere.

Johnny’s life, although hardscrabble, was the most positive period in his existence. He never complained of his illness. He humbly acknowledged the individual kindnesses of friends and neighbors and survived as comfortably as he could.

* * *

That afternoon, as Johnny prepared to close, a pair of hard-noses approached whom he recognized as small time hangers-on of the old Mafia.

“Hey, Monk, Guido,” Johnny greeted in his squeaky voice.

“Johnny Boy,” rasped Monk, an acne-scarred punk, “we’re handling protection for the neighborhood. The Don assigned us this territory to make certain thugs don’t come in and take over.”

Johnny, not particularly a mental giant, instantly caught the drift. “Guys, I ain’t got the money to pay ya’. Besides Flaherty works this beat and he ain’t said nothin’ ’bout no protection.”

The punks left, mumbling threats.

* * *

Flaherty walked past Johnny’s stand early the next day. Johnny told him of Monk and Guido’s visit.

Two hours later, Flaherty spotted them on a corner nearby. “Boys, Johnnie One Spot is untouchable... Got the Don’s automatic protection.”

Words led to words prompting Flaherty to arrest both and call a paddy wagon. Shortly, a limousine pulled to curbside next to Flaherty.

Old Mafia hierarchy was usually arranged as a Don in charge of the territory, second in charge was Consigliere or underboss, and third, Capos as Captains of smaller territories. Jimmy “The Rat” Fratello, the Capo for the area, rolled down the window.

“Flaherty, you got no call to be arresting the Don’s nephew, Guido.”

“Jimmy, they’re trying to shake down Johnny at the newsstand on 31st.”

“Oh, hell, I’ll handle that.” The limousine merged into traffic, and Flaherty walked to Johnny’s stand.

* * *

“Flaherty, them two made bond... down here threatening me with a knife.”

Gunfire interrupted the conversation. Monk and Guido rounded the corner, both firing pistols. Flaherty returned fire. Both he and Guido fell to the sidewalk bleeding badly. Monk stood over Flaherty for a final shot. Johnny picked up Guido’s small revolver and, barely having the strength, put two rounds into Monk’s chest. Monk’s pistol discharged as he fell dead beside Flaherty. His shot hit Johnny.

* * *

The intersection was glutted with emergency vehicles. The brass sent out Captain Fred Smith to oversee the crime scene.

The Capo’s limousine pulled beside the Captain standing in the street. Jimmy the Rat said, “Freddy, this pair sure as hell ain’t workin’ under our direction, and the police department can expect complete co-operation from us. Our deepest sympathies about Officer Flaherty and anyone else these undisciplined punks injured.”

Fred reached in and shook the Rat’s hand. “Flaherty’s vest saved him. Two minor wounds... He’ll be out tomorrow. But, hey, Jimmy, that cripple who caught the last round was on his deathbed anyway. Charges prolly wouldn’t hold up, especially with the help of that Judge you guys have in your pocket.”

“I know the city’s got the cop’s bills,” said Jimmy the Rat. “We’re willing pick up all expenses to the shoeshine boy.”

“Jimmy, please tell the Don I said that’s damned thoughtful. Nobody’s gonna miss the insignificant little creep and his eyesore newsstand anyway. Two, three hundred oughta get him planted. Make it five and I’ll split the overage with you.”

The Rat nodded. “Jimmy, you gonna be at the card game Saturday night, ol’ buddy? The Don’s guaranteeing you ten grand.”

Captain Freddy reached into the window and shook Jimmy’s hand.

Jimmy, as he rolled up his window, smiled. Ten grand would ensure the Captain’s support against a cartel trying to move in on one of their territories. The limousine pulled away.

A balding man with a pencil over his ear and a nametag “City Brokerage” on his lapel rushed up. “Captain, neighbors have established a fund for the poor kid. It’s nearing a quarter of a million dollars. We have no idea to whom to look for distribution.”

The Captain looked around furtively. “Follow me over to City Park, sir. I’ll personally handle such a sensitive matter. Speak to no one else.” He smiled.