by Jim Cogan
“At first in some cheap, shitty motel, but they started getting suspicious of him. So he started sleeping rough, he told me he’d fallen in with some of the crowd near the Old Portland Bridge by the old dockside.”
“Sounds like a dangerous place for a kid like that to be?”
“That’s what I told him, whenever I could I convinced to stay with me at Newt’s place. Funny, that’s where the problems began.”
“Newt took exception to having another lodger?”
“Not at first. Anton had money, he was paying his dues. He was buying a lot of dope from Newt. But then money started to run a bit short, that’s when Newt did the one thing that ensured we couldn’t run out on him.”
“What happened?”
“One night, we didn’t have enough money to pay for dope, Newt said it was fine, that he didn’t mind – he liked having us both around. Then he offered us something new, something we’d never done before.”
“Heroin?”
“We didn’t really know what it was at the time. We smoked it, Newt helped us – he said this stuff could be dangerous if you did it wrong. It was very different to dope.”
“How long was Newt giving you the stuff for free?”
“About a week. And then...” I could see tears bubbling up in her eyes. “And then he had us. Both of us, we needed it. That first day Newt told me it wasn’t free no more, I tried to go without. My God, it was like my life was going to end. Anton was worse, he’d been able to smoke a lot more of it than me.”
“So what did you and Anton do?”
“Anton promised me he could fix this, he went out, I don’t know what he did but he got money. I asked where it came from and he lied about it. I could tell, he’d been so honest and open with me up until that point. He claimed it was money he was owed by a friend, but he couldn’t look me in the eye. I never found out where it came from, I assumed he stole it. I didn’t want to think about it – for all I knew he could have been robbing people in the street. But he had money, and we were able to get what we needed from Newt, and for a day or two, it was alright again. And so it carried on, I stopped asking where Anton was getting the money, I didn’t want to know anymore, I was just relieved that he was able to get it.”
“So Anton was getting cash and scoring for both of you?”
“Yeah, for a little while. But then his habit got worse, he started needing more. And Newt, the bastard, started charging more. One morning, I was still sleeping off the night before - usually Anton would wake me and we’d go and light up together, that morning he didn’t wake me. When I finally got up Newt told me that Anton had been, paid for his stash and gone, leaving me with nothing. That was when Newt first proposed his way for me to ‘work off’ my debts.”
That last recollection brought more tears, the pain was evidently still very raw.
“I resisted at first. I told him I was leaving - I wouldn’t be his God damned whore. He said, ‘fair enough,’ and just let me walk right out of there. But where could I go? Who was going to help me, who was going to give me what I needed? I was back at Newt’s place within a few hours, and this time I did everything he asked. With whomever he asked.”
“What about Anton?”
“He turned up every day, but he wasn’t there for me anymore. He never asked me what I was doing for money now he was only buying for himself. That drug, it makes you so damn self centred. He wasn’t the same guy anymore, I knew I’d lost him. He did his thing and I...Well, you know full well what I was doing.”
“Did you speak to Anton in these last few days?”
“Rarely, we just stopped acknowledging each other. But last night, he tried to talk, although I wasn’t exactly in any mental state to be listening properly.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that he’d seen something, something really weird – over by the Old Portland Bridge. Those people he’d hooked up with, little more than winos and bums, a few had gone missing in peculiar circumstances. He said people were being plucked right out of the shadows.”
My mind briefly clicked to what Mickey the Weasel had been talking about. It still sounded like nothing more than crazy talk, but it had registered in my consciousness.
“He’d witnessed this actually happen?”
“He said he had, but he was rambling, not making much sense. Newt got pissed off with him and slapped him across the face, told him to shut his mouth.”
“And then?”
“I don’t honestly remember a lot else. I went for a big hit, it was the only thing that stopped me thinking about what Newt had me doing the rest of the time. Last I saw of Anton he was doing more or less the same. But I didn’t care anymore, I knew I’d done too much, I wanted it to be over. I was hoping never to wake up again. Instead, I woke up here.”
“Well, that will have been my fault.”
“I haven’t thanked you yet, Mr Jerome, trust me, I am grateful. I would have died.”
“And how are you doing, you getting withdrawal symptoms?”
“A bit. Daddy’s a doctor, he knows what to give me to take the edge off it. But it’s hard.”
“You’ll get there, sweetheart, don’t give up. Your parents-.”
“Are fine, decent people. My dad can’t look me in the eye, and if mom ever found out the full story-.”
“Hey, they’re your folks, regardless of what you do, whatever happens, they’ll always be there for you.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to find Anton?”
“It’s hard to say. I got a couple of connections, but the mob, they’re pretty good at making people disappear – if they don’t want him to be found then he won’t be. At least, not until it’s too late.”
I could see that she was welling up again, I guess I was bit too matter of fact.
“But hey, hey, look at me. I’ll do what I can, okay, I promise.”
I wound things up at that point and got out of there. What a sorry state that pair had gotten themselves into, young love turned sour.
I left the hospital on a major downer. I was dog tired, lunch was seriously repeating on me and the trail on Anton had gone cold. Speaking to Michelle had made me realise just how God-damned dirty this city was getting.
*
I got back across town to my office at around 2.30pm. Lydia gratefully snatched her car keys off me, admonishing me for driving in the state I was in, especially driving her car. She had a point. I decided to cut my losses for the day, my car was all cleaned up, I took my leave and headed home for some much needed shuteye.
CHAPTER 4
I barely remembered the drive home, I think I must have been asleep before my head even hit the pillow. I slept right through to mid-morning the following day and I’d have probably slept longer for the phone ringing at about 10.30am. It was Lydia, checking up on me.
She told me a young lady had called and fixed up an appointment at around 1pm. I was a little reluctant with a new case on the go already, but only a fool turns down new business, and I am a sucker for a lady.
I only had one thing on my morning agenda, and that could wait a while. I decided to enjoy the benefits of being self employed and gave myself another hour in bed.
*
It was just coming up to midday as I parked up my car on a busy corner of town, then sidled down as innocuous looking an alleyway as ever there was. At the far end of the alley to the right was an overflowing dumpster. To the left was a door. Just a plain, wooden, featureless door. There were probably only two groups of people who even knew the door existed. The guys who emptied the dumpster every week in the early hours and probably thought nothing of it – just a fire escape or little used rear access way. Then there were the patrons who used it to gain entry to the illicit establishment inside.
I gently tapped on the door. After a few seconds I heard movement on the other side, no doubt someone checking the alleyway out through a spyhole. Then a small cavity in the door moved aside.
“Password?” U
ttered a low voice from within.
I pulled a twenty dollar bill from my coat pocket and dangled it through the gap in the door. Unseen fingers quickly plucked it from my grasp and the cavity closed. Then I heard the sound of a bolt being withdrawn and the door opened inwards. I stepped inside.
Back in the days of prohibition Speakeasy’s were common. If you knew where to look you could find a place offering illegal liqueur. Sure, some of it could make you go blind, or burn your insides out, but generally speaking it was okay. Most Speakeasy’s closed once prohibition was lifted, but as I said before, Santa Justina was dry for a good while after – a few carried on. When the demon drink was finally unleashed on the city, all the remaining Speakeasy’s closed. With one exception – this place.
It was always dim inside, you had to descend a flight of stairs to the basement to get to the actual bar, so no natural light ever permeated down there. Weak incandescent bulbs gave enough light to ensure that most people didn’t miss any steps, but there was always a feeling of heading into an abyss when I went down there.
This subterranean Speakeasy was the social centre of all things not quite legal in Santa Justina. I always thought of it as the navel of the city’s seedy underbelly.
The alcohol was still illegal, the place was a moonshine specialist, showcasing the best local produce, most of which tasted far better than a lot of the watered down crap you’d expect to get in a proper licensed bar. But booze was no longer the sole reason for this place’s continued existence. This was the place where the mob shook on their deals. This was the place where they met with the Police trade unions and agreed which of their establishments wouldn’t get raided and which criminals wouldn’t get arrested. This was the place you went if you needed to get a team together for a bank job. Or if you needed to hire a hitman. Or if, like me, you just needed some good, old fashioned information.
The decor was shabby, faded wallpaper peeled at the corners, the carpet underfoot was threadbare in places, and gave off a perpetual stink of stale liqueur.
Amid a smog of cigarette and cigar smoke, at the darker extremities of the main lounge were discreet seating booths. It was rarely possible to distinguish if there were patrons seated within them amid the haze, but usually there were – and generally that’s where the big deals were struck.
A row of aged metal bar stools, with padded seating, mostly torn and tattered, foam innards often exposed, were lined up at intervals in front of the right angle bar. Behind the bar itself stood Mack, the undisputed overlord of the joint.
Mack had, in his time, been a prize fighter, a mob driver, then a mob heavy enforcer. He’d never admit to it in public, and would probably break your jaw if you had the bad manners to ask, but everyone knew that Mack must have whacked a few people along the way. He’d gotten just a bit too old for going out and breaking heads, and he sure didn’t have the head for serious business, so he never really ascended the ranks, but he was a loyal and revered figure in these parts.
At one point there had been various crime families splitting the city up between them. They ran the usual rackets, gambling, moonshine, extortion – and latterly, narcotics. In recent years the Vitalli family had reached a kind of ascendancy, and this was their joint. Mack was one of their guys, and so he was a natural choice to run the place. But the Speakeasy had a heritage all of its own. It was respected as a place of neutrality by all who frequented it, regardless of their affiliation.
Occupying the last bar stool on the dimmest side of the bar sat a hunched figure. He was dressed in a faded grey suit, over worn and retreating rapidly from fashion like a startled rabbit from a gunshot. This was my contact on the inside. This was Marcio Riccardo.
“Marcio, my friend, it’s been a little while.”
“Hey, Johnny, how you doin’? How come you don’t come down here no more, eh? We miss you.”
“I’m a busy guy, the business for me is up there, not down here.”
“I’ve always said, a guy like you – with your talents - you’re in the wrong God Damn business!” Marcio gave me a trademark grin. “Anyhow, I’m assuming it’s business that’s brought you here today, right?”
“Sure is. Missing person. Looking to trace him.”
“Shit, he ain’t down here!” He smirked.
“I know that, asshole! But someone’s got him, and I need to find out who and why.”
“Well then, you better buy us some drinks.”
Mack supplied us with something that at least resembled good bourbon. I paid for the round and cut to the chase.
“So this is the kid.”
I dropped the photo of Anton on the bar. Marcio tried not to show a reaction but I could tell he knew something.
“You ain’t been down here in a while, Johnny, you’ve missed a few, how shall we say - developments.”
“Well, you better fill me in.”
“Gianni Vitalli is now pretty much the defacto number one in this city. The other families, they’ve either agreed to work under his banner or they’ve gone.”
I’d never met Gianni Vitalli, only heard stories. He was young for a mob boss, only twenty four when his father passed away, leaving him in charge. Anyone looking to exploit the situation, do a subtle bit of empire building in the transitional period, were to be sadly disappointed. The kid showed the same ruthless streak his father had, but he had a canny head for the business side of things too.
“It’s not unusual, someone always rises to the top.”
“But not like this. Sure, the Vitalli family had been generally the most influential mob on the block for a while, but the real change has come about in the last six months. For years, stalemate, compromise, cordial agreements. The actual city territories were split almost evenly. Then six months ago, Gianni hooks up and strikes some secretive deal with some crew from out of town – no-one really knows the details, but suddenly, boom! The rival gangs business’ start failing, they get busted all the time, their top people either start switching sides or winding up burned, before too long, Gianni becomes the top dog.”
“Who are these outsiders?”
“No idea, word is there is some chick involved, goes by the name of Valance. Shelly Valance. She apparently runs the show and has got this big team of people around her, everyone assumes it’s them doing the dirty work to destroy the other families. And, word is that she is the one responsible for bringing in all the heroin. Seriously, Gianni is rolling in the stuff.”
“Okay, but how does this link back to my missing person.”
“That’s Anton Jameson, right? Son of Richard Jameson, the lawyer. A man of some considerable influence.”
“Right.”
“And as I’m sure you know, little Anton ain’t exactly the model son, now, is he?”
“You got that right. I saw him two nights ago at a drug den, smacked up out of his eyeballs.”
“Yeah, he had a habit, but he also witnessed some stuff. Stuff he shouldn’t have seen, and definitely shouldn’t have started shouting his mouth off about.”
“What stuff?”
“Like I’m going to know that. But word is, Gianni has set Valance up in the warehouses out at the old dockside. Anton had been snooping around. And you know what curiosity did for the poor cat, right?”
“But who is going to believe the ramblings of a heroin addled teenager?”
“Well, possibly his daddy, the hotshot, influential lawyer?”
“So, is he dead?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Gianni had some guys pick him up, they passed him over to Valance’s guys.”
“How does a guy get in contact with this Valance broad?”
“He doesn’t. Only Gianni deals with her, their meetings are private and behind closed doors. Always after dark, usually somewhere out at the docklands. Gianni keeps the details from even his closest advisers. No-one even really knows what she looks like.”
“That’s some weird shit there.”
“Damn straight.”
We raised our glasses and simultaneously downed the last of drinks. I bought Marcio another for goodwill then made my way out. Yet another line of enquiry in finding Anton had just dried up.
*
I sauntered through the office doors at about 1.10pm. Lydia let me have both barrels.
“You’re late, Johnny. Some of us have been working our butts off here, what have you be up to?”
“Hey, I get results don’t I? As long as I’m making enough to pay you, you ought not to complain, eh?”
It was playful jibing, we always worked better with a bit of faux conflict.
“Get your lazy ass in there, Dr Del-Ray is expecting you.”
I entered my office expecting the typical kind of lady who normally hires a guy like me. Usually they’re late thirties to early forties, attractive but suppressed – often by rich husbands. Most of the time it’s the husband’s extramarital activities that finally bring out the fem fatale in them, the knowledge that they’re being paraded as a trophy wife, while knowing that Mr Big is going somewhere altogether less wholesome to get his kicks. And the realisation that they could take him to the cleaners for nearly everything he’s got if someone like me can catch him in the act.
Boy, how stupidly wrong I was. Dr Reana Del-Ray was early thirties, slim, and had an organic prettiness to her that you rarely see in this city. She was evidently an academic, she prized functionality over fashion, purpose over style. A mane of long, brown hair was kept in perfect order with an array of hairpins in the most conservative of styles, she wore no makeup and judging by the healthy glow from her skin, she didn’t very often. On her face sat very large pair of eyeglasses that gave her the air of a librarian, and her attire consisted of a plain and extremely sensible white blouse, done up to the neck to ensure it left everything to the imagination, and a skirt that allowed only the briefest of fleeting glances at her legs. Here was a chick who did not rely on sex appeal to get what she wanted, her whole demeanour was screaming, ‘don’t look there, eyes front, pay attention to what I say, I am smart and you should listen!’
“Dr Del-Ray, my apologies for being late.”
