Free The Struggles of Johnny Cannon by Isaiah Campbell Page A

can’t leave in the past.”
    â€œCome on, Santo.”
    â€œHe killed the woman I loved, Chuck,” Mr. Trafficante said, and I thought I almost saw a tear come out of his twitching eye. “Dr. Morris killed Nell. I’ll never let that go.”
    I felt like somebody done slapped me across the face. Dr. Morris, Captain Morris, my actual father, killed his girl? I started to slip down in my chair, but Mr. Thomassen grabbed my leg and squeezed it real hard, so I didn’t.
    â€œBut what if he’s already dead?” Mr. Thomassen said. Which he was, Captain Morris had been shot by my pa and he was as dead as a doornail.
    â€œWhoever told you about the price tag didn’t give you all the details, did they?” Mr. Trafficante said. “Morris has a kid running around out there somewhere, from back when he was still in Havana. So, even if Morris is dead, I want his blood on my hands. And I don’t care if it’s his or his kid’s. I want to hold his heart in my hands and break it like he broke mine.”
    I started to reach up and cover my chest, not even thinking, but Mr. Thomassen squeezed my leg again so I didn’t.
    â€œWell, for your sake, I hope you never find him,” Mr. Thomassen said. “Because I’d hate for the Three Caballeros to add your name to their list of enemies.”
    â€œAnd, for your sake,” Mr. Trafficante said, “I hope they don’t do that. You and I are friends. And friends make the worst enemies.”
    Mr. Thomassen smiled and sipped his coffee again. Mr. Trafficante looked at me.
    â€œSo, what about you? What do you do?”
    My heart started beating so hard I reckoned he could hear it from where he was. I was real worried I was going to say something that would show him I was Captain Morris’s son and all that. So I decided to go in the opposite direction.
    â€œWell, I sure don’t go around killing nobody, that’s the truth.”
    He started laughing at me.
    â€œWow, you’re one in a million, aren’t you?” he asked.
    â€œI reckon so,” I said.
    Mr. Trafficante took a puff of his cigar.
    â€œWhere you from, kid?” he asked.
    Mr. Thomassen almost dropped his cup of coffee. His hand dropped down on my leg and he started to squeeze it.
    â€œOh, I’m from Cull—” I sputtered for a second ’cause Mr. Thomassen had just about cut off the blood to my foot. “Clarksville, Tennessee. Same as Mr. Thomassen here.”
    Mr. Thomassen let up for a bit.
    â€œTennessee?” Mr. Trafficante said, then he shot Mr. Thomassen a look. “You came all the way down here from Tennessee?”
    â€œYup,” I said. “What can I say, folks in Tennessee, I mean us folks in Tennessee, just really love this Birmingham air. Reminds me of living in Havana a little bit.”
    Mr. Thomassen squeezed my leg again, so hard this time that I reckoned some leg juice was going to come out in a bit.
    â€œYou’re from Havana?” Mr. Trafficante said. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the Three Caballeros?”
    I gulped about as loud as a frog gulping a horsefly.
    â€œNope,” I said. Which would have been fine if I’d have left it at that, but for some reason my brain figured there needed to be more said. “I mean, y’all been talking about them, so I’ve heard of them just now. And maybe before, but I don’t got no idea who they are. Or what they’re doing. Well, I reckon I have an idea, but it ain’t worth me mentioning.”
    Mr. Trafficante chuckled and looked at Mr. Thomassen’s face. Mr. Thomassen was trying to not show any emotion, even though I could tell from his eyes and the fact that he just about had removed my kneecap through my jeans that he was panicking.
    â€œI think we’re done,” Mr. Thomassen said.
    â€œI think we are. For now.”
    And with that we all got up and went our separate ways. I limped a