The Johnnies

Flash Fiction by Ivy Dillinger



When I asked him if he saw anything, he said no, but I knew he saw everything, so I knew he was gonna be difficult. And when I asked him his name, he said Johnny, but I knew his name was Ian (because I heard someone call him Ian), so I knew he liked to play games. And when I randomly asked him for the capitol of Uzbekistan, and he quickly replied "Tashkent," I knew he knew capitols. So, boom, right off the bat, I knew a lot about him.

After my interrogation, I knew he liked potato chips and Dennis Miller's MSNBC show and fly fishing and South Park and karaoke and the Milwaukee Brewers and sketching with watercolor markers and Debussy's sonatas and a girl named Beth. I asked him if Beth was short for Elizabeth and he scratched his chin and told me he'd never made that connection before. "Whoa," he said.

He'd witnessed a stabbing at the corner of Bulfinch and Mayflower, and I'd witnessed him witness it. I was there to watch the stabbing, to make sure it happened. The victim was my husband. I wanted him dead for a variety of reasons. Abuse. Neglect. Infidelity. And on and on. So I hired someone. A professional. And he did the job. And I watched. And I was surprised to find I enjoyed it. I've a hidden taste for blood, I suppose.

When my husband slumped to the ground, when his soul extinguished, when he permanently departed planet earth, I heard a garbage bag rustle, behind me, off to the right. I was in a parked car, so I jumped from the car and saw Ian (Johnny) get up from the bag and take off in a panic and I chased him and slowly caught up to him and eventually managed to grab hold of his hood and then grabbed him by the shoulders and told him to calm down, to get a grip, and not to worry. I identified myself as a police detective, a lie. I told him he witnessed a murder and needed to answer some questions. It took him a while to catch his breath. Finally he said, "I seen you around." He told me he thought I was a housewife. "You're a cop?" I told him looks can be deceiving.

I'd seen him around too. Handsome kid. Wiseguy. He was just like my husband. Just like my husband when my husband was young and vibrant and fairly optimistic. Just like him when his whole world revolved around me. Just like him a very very long time ago. My husband's name was Johnny, the name Ian made up. Some coincidences are just too fucking much. So after I asked him an endless amount of pointless questions, after I found myself falling in love with a boy less than half my age, I punched him in the face. I'd never punched my husband before. It felt great.