Welcome To Central City

by Adam C Mitchell

  Welcome to Central City

  Adam C. Mitchell

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Well I Die Tomorrow

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  What The Fans Said

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For Holly a little dame that stole her Daddy’s heart

  Acknowledgement

  I would like to thank all the amazing folks who have put up with me while I've written this. I know you have wanted to throttle me at times. All my friends on Facebook, your help has been amazing.

  Especially Sarah, Raven, Sharon and Michelle. You have been Godsends.

  You have all been great. To all the people whose names I forget, thank you. This book's for you.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  THESE ARE THE SAME STORIES AS BEFORE. THE ONLY DIFFERENT IS THE LANGUAGE AND GRAMMAR HAS BEEN TWEAKED, AND A FEW SCENES HAVE BEEN EXTENDED FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT.

  DEAR READERS

  YOUR REVIEWS ARE THE LIFE BLOOD FOR US INDEPENDENT AUTHORS, IF YOU LIKE THE BOOK PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.

  The Lost Angel/Central City Tales/Chloe’ Justice

  Copyright ©2015/2019 Adam C Mitchell

  First Combined Edition

  Digital Edition First Published

  Cover art done by Lipman, Anderson and Willmann’s

  Published in the United Kingdom – Shropshire -Whitchurch

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental. All names locations and trademarks herein are the full ownership of the author unless otherwise stated.

  All references to ©The Lost Angel by Adam C. Mitchell are also subject to the same terms and conditions set forth in this copyright statement.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any infringement on copyright law is theft and will be dealt with as is the laws of the country of issue.

  Created with Vellum

  Prologue

  “Only an hour to go,” James Poe told himself as his back screamed for a break. He only had two more boxes to unload, and haul to the back door of some snooty foreign restaurant. As always, Poe would give a fake smile to the chef so the job would be signed off. Maybe this time he’d get home to see his two daughters off to school. Maybe. Forty-five-year-old Poe had worked the same route for more than a decade. He’d gotten used to the man-made quiet of Central’s South side this time of the morning. He, like many of his truck driving kin, danced daily alongside the stillness, almost as if they were part of it. No one from the South-side would ever admit it, but these truck drivers were the unsung heroes of the concrete jungle. They carried its lifeblood, the goods that kept the place alive. It didn’t matter whether the goods were legit or not. The city didn’t care. However, this manufactured five o’clock stillness was about to have a trio of interlopers, one after another. It started with a stray hub-cap rolling down the now renamed King’s Street. It’s steep hill giving the cap speed, letting it roll like a lost penny in a Cony Island arcade. Poe didn’t know why, but his eyes couldn’t help but follow the chrome disk as it circled once, twice and then came to a rest at a dip in the hill. “Well I’ll be, what the ….” A Sedan’s engine drowned him out. A second interloper, unlike the rattle of the first. This one had a mechanical growl, and for the second time that morning, Poe saw something out of the ordinary. The very same Sedan took off like a fighter plane from the brow of the hill. He watched as it hung in the air, and then crashed to earth seconds later. Hot sparks and gnarled metal littered the side walk around the bewildered delivery driver. Then, as fast as it arrived, the Sedan swerved an almost unnatural hard left and vanished at the bottom of King’s Street. Poe stepped into the road, thinking the hub-cap would bring in a few bucks, scrap was always easy green. After picking it up, he noticed something glistening in the fresh morning sun. Bending down, he realized it was a chunk of license plate, and it had a bullet hole. A keepsake, he thought as he slipped it into his overalls. Something to make the boys at the depot believe him when he retold the story over a drink. Running his hand over the quarter plate, he stuck a stubby finger through the bullet hole. It was worth a round of drinks one way or another.

  Getting back to his feet, another metallic growl rocked him, and a sporty number took off at speed from the top of the hill. Poe was stuck to the spot, eyes fixed on the ticker tape stream of bank notes following it. Then nothing. It was the last thing Poe saw when the car spun out on the landing and went straight at him. Crimson painted the roadside, and a lifeless delivery driver lay broken and dead, slumped in the garbage. Flames from the car wreck ended Poe’s decade-long shift in Central. At this time of day, no one would see Poe, and the few that did wouldn’t care that he had died. Even when the South-side came to life he would go unnoticed. The flaming wreck and stream of green would be water-cooler talk. After all, ignorance was bliss. Nobody would speak to the law or the private dick hired by the family when the police got bored of the case. But that’s Central City – deaf, dumb, and when needed, blind- if the price was right. There are a thousand or more stories in the Central City. Here is just a few of them...

  THE LOST ANGEL

  Part One

  I glanced around the bar, checking out the punters as the barman refilled my glass. Whiskey topped up, I focused on the man perched at the far end; fat, sweaty, early forties. His hair was dirty blond and thinning on top, his clothes expensive but unkempt. Fatso wore a dull blue striped number, crumpled shirt and scuffed leather shoes. He was spending money like it was going out of fashion. His drink of choice was Old Forester. He drank heavily, trying to buy friends in the process, showing off and bragging like he was lord of the keep.

  After downing my drink, I moved towards him. He turned on his stool and gave me a toothy smile. “A drink, my friend?”

  I pulled a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wiped the man's spittle off my cheek. He spewed his words and drooled like a lout. He was ten sheets to the wind and getting more inebriated by the minute. He was a drunken big-spender and barfly at most of the clubs and betting establishments around the city.

  We met for the first time a year back. He latched on to my doll, giving her a drunken advance and a below the belt grope. We fought. He got the doll and I got the heave hoe and a night in the cell.

  Tony ordered a whiskey and pushed it in front of me. I didn’t want it, but played along. In truth, I was checking him out. His pockets were going to feel real light soon. The tarnished fob watch nestling in his loose, stained waistcoat might be worth something. It didn’t look like nothing special, but it’d be easy to fence or sell down the markets. They didn’t care where their stock came from so long as it sold.

  He raised his glass to his lips, which is the exact moment the breath froze in my throat. There, beneath the loudmouth's jacket, hung a brown holster and a gun. I groaned. Trouble was the one thing I didn’t need. Not right now.

  Downing the two fingers straight, Tony smacked his lips with a satisfied
gasp and put his hand on my shoulder. “The name’s Tony Santeeni. I’m celebrating a new job, you know, working the door of the Lost Angel club,” he slurred. “I’m coming into money. A big deal. Then, pal, I’ll be on easy street.” He swayed in his seat and I caught sight of the brown paper parcel stuffed in his jacket pocket.

  Without warning, he slugged me clean off the stool. I landed on the floor with a thud. He must have remembered my face from our last encounter and if he didn’t remember me, it was the demon drink talking through him as it often did, The drink making him forget everything and everyone he kn. Even his own name at times . For a long while after our last encounter, I made it my business to make sure every black-and-white in the area stopped by and gave him a little visit to make it hard for him to make book. If not that, maybe the occasional shake down from my former flame and her call girl pals, would hit him where it hurt, his wallet.

  Tony drew the gun from its holster and waved it in my direction. “You’re trying to get me drunk and get in on my big score!” His arm swayed and the gun went off, blowing a hole in the floor by my head.

  I pulled my gun out and fired back. Instinct, nothing more. I hated packing heat, but the club scene and the city made it a must. You either carried heat or died by it.

  Tony slumped over the bar, bleeding from a hole in his head. The bar emptied of customers as I got up. More than likely, the patrons expected a visit from a copper or reprisal from the barkeep. Everyone knew about the shotgun kept behind the bar in case of trouble. I holstered my weapon and relieved Tony Santeeni of the parcel. He didn’t need it where he was going.

  Five men rushed inside, square-shouldered and broken-nosed. They hurried to the bar. Likely people Tony owed money to and probably working for one of the crime families. Seeing the parcel in my hand, they made a b-line in my direction.

  I fired twice, just to keep them away one of my rounds putting a hole in a framed Ava Gardner poster that seemed to be a prized possession of the bar owner, well it was, not any more. They flipped a table over and dove for cover. I dove too, but towards the door at the back of the bar.

  II

  The unforgiving night closed in rain had begun to fall like angry teas of the almighty. The wet harsh cold air stung my face and burnt my lungs. Dim and broken street lights bathed the maze of seedy back alleys in a ghostly light. The dim light bouncing off upturned garbage cans, and the eyes of a stray cat looking toward the commotion. A washed out drunk took a second to look away from his bottle for a second, to look on at the chance of spare change, but instead went back to drowning his sorrows. I stopped to catch my breath. The grim silence was deafened by heavy breathing and my pounding heart. Taxis and trams passing in the distance permeated the stillness. Footsteps approached, urging me on; fear pushed my aching legs, despite the pain shooting through them.

  Turning a corner, I clambered over upturned dustbins and an old, damp fence scraping my face on a rusty nail. Arriving on a broad street with little place to hunker down and lie low, I had no choice but to push my legs harder. They gave way after a hundred yards or so and I tripped, falling to my knees and sliding on the wet cobbles. Pain raced through my left knee, a distant reminder of the crippling cold that destroyed my knee during the Siege of Bastogne in 44 and then the slog of life in post-war limbo after ward.

  The cold forced panicked tears to well up, and got me moving again. I ran down steps turned lord knows how many alleys then finally, through a rusted iron gate and stopped. It was a dead end.

  Something heavy scraped against the other side of the wall.

  A moment later, a thud ricocheted off the bricks, echoing inside the nothingness of my escape. The shot was wild but enough to shake me up. Beads of sweat formed on my worried brow. I blinked the sting away as best I could. A moment later, they who ever they were, were on the street above me. They were to close. I pressed tight against the wall, hugging the shadows. Biting my lip almost drawing a drop of blood, in an attempt to mask the pain in my weakened knee, I lowered my hat and focused on the top of the steps. My trembling hand moved to my ill-fitting coat and into my pocket. The feel of cold steel brushed my sweating palm. My friend. My old Colt. I checked the chamber, one bullet shit. I made a mental note to kick myself for not reloading. It was a rookie mistake. I knew better! I’d bought a little extra ammo that day, not much, but some. Thinking I didn’t need to go in hot, I left it behind. One bullet would be of little use against a group of heavily armed men.

  Suddenly there angered running stopped. Clicking replaced the uneasy silence as the men cocked the hammers on their guns. Looking up, I saw the outline of a thin wispy man at the top of the steps. Sweat trickled down my face. Was this it?

  At that moment my mind raced, all I could think about was my girl back home, she was the reason I did all this, she was the reason I decided to make a little cash, not for me but for a her. To give her a better life, away from this hell hole. To make a fresh start in Liberty City.

  No! It couldn't, wouldn’t end this way, I had to think fast.

  I licked my cold, sore lips, tasting salt. I had a choice to make.

  Make a stand, fight and maybe buy the farm, or run and take a bullet in the back. Tough choice.

  I pointed my Colt at the shadow. Waiting scared me. It always did. A lot could happen in those waiting moments a man could live or die, but yet I did it anyway. My girl in the forefront in my mind, as the seconds trailed away. Staring at the wispy shadow I tried my best to control the wave of fear that had taken hold of me.

  “This way!” The words echoed from further up the street. The running began again, along with the mad beating of my heart. As they pounded the wet flagstone alley eventually there approach became faint. Seconds later, they turned the corner and were gone.

  I tucked my gun in my trench coat and climbed the eleven stone step and away from that looming alley, looking down the long street to the corner and back. Without thinking I headed in the opposite direction as fast as my tired legs could carry me, making sure to stick to back alleys just to be sure. As I head home all I could think was, Eddy Kovakx, you are one lucky guy.

  III

  At my lodgings in the ill named Sunrise apartments. An old red brick building with a rusting sign. The colour had drained from the place, thanks to the shade of a knotted palm. The walls were pockmarked with buckshot. A rusted metal stairwell led to the first floor and my apartment. I walked the landing to my door. Pushing it open I walked in. the smell of broken dreams hit me like a prize bull. As I walked in. I took out my gun and spun the barrel letting the brass fall into my hand, then reloaded it, taking a second to loosen the hammer with my thumb, satisfied I re-spun the now loaded barrel a ritual I’d always done for luck, and put it under my pillow. The drab papered room was thick with dust. Sickly green wallpaper hung lose from the walls in places barley hanging on, revealing damp mold underneath. The small two room apartment was poorly lit, with only a working table lamp and a small collection of broken furniture, the small collection of second hand belongings mailing it seem almost like a home. I couldn’t help look around what I had. Once I had it all a nice place, the lot. Then I lost it thanks to a bad night at the tables. No I was determined to get my life back. I had a hunch that the events of tonight would at least get me half way there. My hand drifted to my pocket. I pulled out the brown paper bundle from my jacket. Yanking off the string that held the bundle together. Whatever this god damn package contained, those men nearly got it, and me too. I was to close to buying the farm and taking a permanent dirt nap, yes I plugged someone but if roles were revered I know what that lug would have done the same to me. Whatever was in that box had to be worth something. Why else would those bulls charge in like Uncle Sam on cheap hooch after it.

  I ripped the crumpled paper off a sleek, wooden ebony box. Inside was a roll of crisp new banknotes as thick as my wrist, maybe a thousand dollars if I had to take a guess. Some old sheets of paper wrapped around the wad. I tossed them aside thinking of only the cash
and what I could do with it, as I began to count it out on my bed, it was then my eye noticed the scribbled writing on one of the crumpled pages. That stupid idiot, Tony had been so drunk he’d made little to no sense frankly he sounded like a juvie on a sugar rush, going on about his ‘big job’ and ‘a grand score’. A few more minutes and I’d have gotten a lot more information out the drunk shmuck. The dumb lugs bullet stopped that grand idea. Walking over to the fridge I grabbed a bottle of Schlitz, uncapping it off the side of the counter. Taking a large much needed swig of the ruby beer I made my way back to the box and its wrappings. The fruity amber refreshing my soul enough to think straight. Picking up the thrown papers I sat on my bed, laying the papers out. I was shocked what at what I saw written down.

  They were plans. Scribbled plans for a robbery. Maybe Tony wasn’t a complete idiot after all. The layout of the new jazz club, I'd heard about the place on the great vine apparently even Count Basie had graced the club on opening night. These notes had it all, surely Tony couldn’t have been the brains of whatever, this was. There were notes on the locations of the doors and windows, the best way in and out. A list of timings including shift rotations, even the names of the cigarette girls, bar staff and bulls on the door. But more importantly than all that was the fact that the job whatever it was, went down three days from now. Come hell or high water I was going to be there.

  At the bottom of the page, written in sloppy handwriting, was a single name: RUDY VANNETTI- HEAD BARMAN. I figured he was the inside man, Tony Santeeni’s contact. The plans talked about a drop-off but the time was missing. Vannetti whoever he was, didn’t know it yet, but he was about to get a new partner