Chapter 10

Johnny Tripp moved swiftly through the neon-drenched streets of New York City, his battered leather boots splashing through shallow puddles of rainwater and grime.

The city buzzed and hummed around him, an electric cacophony of distant sirens, muffled shouts, and the steady, rhythmic bass pulsing from apartments high above. Neon signs flickered erratically, casting garish, kaleidoscopic shadows across the rain-slicked pavement, painting his face in harsh, shifting colours.

The streets around him were thick with decay, sidewalks cluttered with discarded newspapers, crushed cigarette packs, and crumpled cans. Graffiti covered nearly every surface, vibrant scrawls of spray paint competing for attention on brick walls and rusted metal shutters—colourful declarations of territory. Garbage overflowed from bins, spilling across alleyways in heaps of damp refuse, attracting rats that scurried boldly between shadows.

Tripp barely noticed the chaotic life around him. He walked with shoulders hunched, his head bowed low beneath the hood of his tattered jacket, eyes darting suspiciously from face to face. Streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, their glow patchy and unreliable, casting elongated shadows into every doorway and alley. Figures moved furtively at the edges of his vision and small clusters of gang members lingered near street corners, their silhouettes stark against peeling storefronts, eyes watchful and hushed whispers of hostility as Johnny passed.

He took temporary shelter beneath the canopy of the local run-down cinema, the black letters above his head advertising a new movie “Back to the Future,” but the doors were barred shut.

Tripp knew this part of the city well. Every alleyway, every back street, every shadowy doorway that concealed secrets better left forgotten. The city itself seemed tense, coiled tight with violence, a restless beast barely restrained. Tonight, Johnny's thoughts mirrored that tension, clouded and volatile, gnawing restlessly at his chest as he continued into the rain.

He’d never meant for things to end up this way. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he’d laughed easily and loved music, played guitar on street corners, making people smile with melodies plucked from worn, battered strings. A time before the darkness had settled deep within him, driving him further into desperation and anger. But those days were distant, shadowed now by bitterness and resentment.

Ahead, the familiar neon sign of Jacks Tavern flickered weakly, casting pools of pink and blue light onto the sidewalk. Tripp paused for a moment, hesitating briefly beneath its glow. He’d spent countless nights there in the past, escaping the emptiness of his life, drowning his sorrows in cheap liquor and rough music. Tonight, though, he had no intention of stopping in for drinks. He needed something else, something more substantial to ease the restless tension coiling inside him.

Turning sharply down 5th Avenue, Johnny approached the worn, cracked facade of Sarge’s Delicatessen, its lights still burning warmly despite the late hour. He pushed open the worn door of Sarge’s Deli, the familiar creak of its hinges greeting him as warmly as the scent of freshly baked rye bread and spiced meats. The deli was quiet at this hour, bathed in the soft glow of dim overhead lights and the warm hum of an old jukebox in the corner, softly playing a melancholy jazz tune. He paused briefly at the entrance, taking in the comfortable familiarity, his gaze tracing the cracked vinyl stools at the counter and the faded photographs lining the walls.

But even here, in this comforting refuge, the dark thoughts lingered, whispers at the edge of consciousness, reminding him of what he planned. The loaded shotgun waiting for him back in his grim apartment, with a terrible purpose.

“Evening, Johnny,” came a soft, familiar voice. The waitress, Irene, stood behind the counter, wiping down the surface with practiced ease. Her tired eyes met his, a mixture of warmth and cautious concern flickering briefly across her features. “Usual?”

Tripp nodded slowly, stepping forward and settling onto his usual stool at the end of the counter. “Pastrami sandwich, extra pickles and mustard,” he said quietly, fingers drumming restlessly against the countertop.

“You got it,” Irene replied softly, turning to the kitchen behind her to relay the order. She poured him a cup of coffee without asking, placing the steaming mug gently before him. “Late night tonight?” she asked cautiously, eyes watching him carefully, sensing the storm brewing behind his distant gaze.

“Something like that,” He muttered, raising the cup to his lips and taking a slow sip, the bitter warmth grounding him momentarily. Irene lingered, pretending to straighten the nearby condiments, her gaze discreetly fixed on his tense posture, the nervous energy wrapped tightly in his shoulders.

“You doing alright, Johnny?” she ventured gently, her voice tinged with genuine worry. “Seems like something’s eating at you tonight.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening briefly as if weighing his words carefully. “Just a rough day, Irene,” he finally answered, his voice low, roughened by weariness. He avoided her gaze, eyes fixed firmly on the dark liquid in his cup.

“Rougher than usual, I’d say,” she observed quietly, pouring herself a small cup of coffee and leaning slightly against the counter. Irene was older, perhaps late fifties, with lines etched deeply into her face that spoke of hard years spent listening to the stories and troubles of regulars like Johnny. There was a kindness in her eyes, tempered by cautious experience.

Irene reached across the counter, gently placing her hand on his arm, her touch light and reassuring. “How about it, extra pickles, and if you’re a good boy I’ll throw in an extra layer of Pastrami on the house.”

Tripp glanced up briefly, eyes filled momentarily with vulnerability, but quickly hardened again, retreating behind the familiar walls of his defences. “That would be delightful,” he said quietly.

“Extra Pastrami and Pickles.” She shouted surprisingly fiercely to the back.

Irene retrieved cutlery and a napkin and set it before him.

“We all get dragged down sometimes,” she said gently. “But drowning alone never helped anybody. Maybe you just need someone to help pull you up.”

“I had someone,” he ventured cautiously. “But she’s gone now. With another man.”

“Jenny left you?” Irene replied feigning unconvincing surprise. “I’m sorry hon.”

The kitchen bell dinged softly, interrupting the moment, and Irene pulled her hand away reluctantly, turning to retrieve his sandwich. When she set the plate down in front of him, it was a masterpiece of simplicity, yet rich with tradition. Thin, marbled slices of pastrami, dark at the edges where the spices had crusted into perfection, were stacked high between two slices of rye bread, still warm from the oven. The golden crust gave way to a soft, pillowy interior, the scent of caraway seeds mingling with the deep smokiness of the meat. A generous smear of sharp mustard gleamed under the glow of the diner lights, seeping slightly into the fibres of the bread. The pickles, bright green and still slick with brine, were sliced thick, their tangy aroma cutting through the richness of the pastrami.

“Those people you go out with, they’re not good people. I’ve heard stories you know. Maybe take a break and distance yourself.”

Tripp stared at the sandwich for a long moment, the comforting scent stirring memories of better days—days when a simple sandwich could feel like salvation. He picked it up slowly, feeling the weight of it in his hands, the warmth of the bread pressing into his fingers. When he took a bite, the flavours burst onto his tongue—salty, spicy, sour, and rich all at once, the kind of balance that could only come from decades of perfecting a craft. It was a taste he’d known for years, something familiar in an unfamiliar world, but tonight, it sat heavy in his stomach, as if it knew the weight of what he carried inside him.

He nodded absently, already lost once more in his own thoughts. Irene watched him quietly from a distance, her concern lingering in every subtle movement.

Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent to Johnny’s quiet crisis, the neon lights continuing their dance, oblivious to the darkness threatening to engulf one of their own.

He finished his sandwich with appreciation, paid and left Irene a generous tip. It’s not like he needed the money now.

Johnny Tripp left Sarge’s Deli and stepped onto the street, the cold night air biting against his skin. The city smelled of wet pavement, exhaust fumes, and the lingering scent of fried food wafting from a late-night food cart on the corner. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he walked, his mind heavy with the weight of everything he didn’t want to think about.

His apartment was a few blocks away, a dilapidated building with rusting fire escapes wedged between an abandoned warehouse and a pawnshop with a neon sign that flickered ‘OPEN’ despite looking anything but welcoming. The stairs leading up to his place creaked under his weight, the air inside thick with the scent of mildew and cigarette smoke. Somewhere down the hall, a television blared, muffled voices arguing over a game show.

His door stuck like it always did, the warped wood swollen from years of neglect. He shoved his shoulder against it, feeling like he was breaking in every time he came home and cursing under his breath as it finally gave way, opening into the dim, cluttered space he called home.

The single bulb overhead flickered when he flipped the switch, revealing a room that bore the marks of a man teetering on the edge—half-empty liquor bottles on the table, a sink full of unwashed dishes, a couch that had seen better days pushed up against a wall covered in peeling wallpaper. His mattress, little more than an old futon, lay in the corner, tangled sheets piled haphazardly.

He dropped his shoulder bag onto the couch, exhaling sharply as he ran a hand through his greasy hair. The weight of his reality settled back onto his shoulders, the temporary comfort of Sarge’s already fading. His job at the docks had been barely holding him together, the hours long and the pay short. Some weeks, he wasn’t even sure if he’d make rent. The foreman, a burly bastard named Deluca, didn’t like him much, always watching him like he expected trouble. Johnny didn’t blame him—he had a short fuse, a bad habit of mouthing off, and a reputation that had gotten him blacklisted from more than one gig.

Then there was Lisa. The thought of her made his jaw tighten. They’d been together for a while—long enough for him to think she’d stick around, long enough for him to start believing in something better. But lately, things had been spiralling. The fights had gotten uglier, the silences longer. She’d been pulling away, staying out late without telling him where she was going, coming back smelling like cigarettes and someone else’s cologne. He didn’t need to be a genius to figure it out.

He sat down at the table, the cheap wood wobbling under his weight. He reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass, staring at the dark liquid before taking a slow sip. The burn in his throat was familiar, grounding. He’d been holding onto too much anger lately, and it was eating him alive. Lisa. The job. The city. Himself.

His gaze drifted toward the closet, where his pump-action shotgun leaned against the wall, partially hidden behind a stack of old clothes. His fingers tapped against the table, restless. He knew what he was planning. He knew the road he was heading down.

Lisa lived close by and tonight would be their showstopping Broadway finale.