Page 22 of Johnny

any of those two-hundred-plus “contributors” who come see me every month have ever met them

either.

Three. I mainly deal with one representative. His name is Check. I’m not actually sure if you spell

that “check” or “Czech”, could go either way. But I’ve never seen it printed on paper or in a message,

so I’m going with Check because visualizing that “z” in Czech kinda drives me nuts. Check and I meet

once a month so I can go over where all the money landed after it was laundered. He’s a tall guy.

Yoked out. No accent, so I really don’t think he’s Czech. Shaved head, tattoos, blue eyes, my age, and

even though he’s just another middle-man like me working for a different set of bosses, he’s not a guy

you fuck with.

I’m not a guy you fuck with either, so the two of us together make everyone nervous. We usually

meet somewhere with a lot of foot traffic. A coffeehouse in downtown Manhattan. A nightclub in

Miami. The sidelines of a marathon in Boston. Places like that. And it’s never the same. There is no

set time and place. I just know that the day after the money is cleaned—which is usually the middle of

the month—I get a text with a time and a place and I show up for “the chat”.

When we’re having that meeting everyone around us is nervous. No obvious reasons. Check and I

don’t argue. We don’t raise our voices. We dress nice. Ten-thousand-dollar suits in Manhattan.

Cocktail casual in Miami. Trendy athletic wear in Boston. We pretend to drink a fancy latte, or a fine whiskey, or a protein shake.

We fit in.

But we don’t fit in and everyone knows it. At the very least, they feel it.

I have nothing against Check. I kinda like the guy if I’m being honest. But I would not call him a

friend.

Four. Once Check gets his intel from me, he goes to the nearest private airport and gets on a large

unmarked white jet with no windows. I’ve followed him half a dozen times over the years, so this

might not be a great representative sample to draw a definitive conclusion, but it’s all I’ve got.

Trailing a man like Check is dangerous. Even if you’re Johnny Boston. Once he gets on that jet I have

no clue where he goes.

Five. I am no one. This is the most important lesson I’ve learned over the years. I am nothing to

them but a bank teller. That’s it. And while I don’t know for sure that the Way has dozens of guys out

there just like me, waiting in line to take my place should I fuck shit up, I’m confident that’s the case.

And if that demotion ever comes, it’s over. For all of us. Me, Joey, Jesse, Zach… and all the people