Jim Cogan - The Dirty City

“Sure, thanks for the heads up.” I whispered back, “listen, I’ll go in, if things get crazy, you just get out, get a few blocks away then call the cops, alright?”

“Be careful, Johnny, please .”

I wasn’t sure how to play this. I was known to the mob, most PI’s were, and sometimes we had to ask questions that revealed things that perhaps they’d rather we didn’t know about. And sometimes that required a little, polite word in the PI’s ear, just a subtle warning across the bow to say, ‘hey, stand down.’

I hadn’t dug too deep into the mob’s operations in this case – or at least I didn’t think I had. I was reasonably confident that the guy in my office was here just to talk – but at the back of my mind was the possibility that I could walk in there and the son of bitch might just put a slug through my temples. And so it was, with trepidation, that I opened the door. I decided I would take what I called the ‘unshakable’ approach, and with a deep breath and a shot of courage, I strode diminutively into the room.

“Good afternoon, apologies if you’ve been waiting a while for me, I’ve been having one of those days.”

I marched past the man and got a good look at his features. He was a big guy. Seriously big, I reckon he must have been a tleast 6’5” – and very heavily built. But he was young, no more than 25, probably not vastly experienced in dealing with people, and judging by the looks of him, he was employed because of his physical presence rather than his brain power.

I had breezed past him and gotten my desk between us, which for me was always one of those weird psychological things – like the barrier it created put me in a position of strength. I hoped it served to remind him that this was my domain. Territory secured, I knew that next I had to keep hold of the dialogue. I sat down, and beckoned him to do the same.

“Now, Mr…? Sorry, I don’t believe my PA caught your name, what shall I call you?”

He looked a little unsure – not of his name, you understand, but that by now he should be the one doing the talking, not me.

“Hugo. I’ve been sent to-.”

I interrupted promptly, “Hugo, great, now – tell me, Hugo, do you work for Mr Vitalli?”

This was definitely not what he was expecting, so far so good.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Excellent, has he sent you to give me a message?”

“It’s more of a warning, really.”

“Does it involve not asking any more questions about Anton Jameson or poking around near the Old Docklands?

“Uh-.”

“Only, I’d have to query Mr Vitalli’s choice in respect to yourself for this kind of job.”

Hugo looked confused, as I had anticipated, words were not his strongpoint. I could see from his expression that he knew he was not in control of this conversation and was mightily uncomfortable about it.

“Now, I respect Mr Vitalli is a busy man, but so am I, we’re both just trying to make a living, right? But in my game, and I’m sure in his - you got to know you’re speaking to the organ grinder and not, and I don’t mean to be insulting when I say this, the monkey. D’you get my drift?”

It’s fair to say Hugo almost certainly didn’t get my drift. I could tell his patience was wearing thin, I sensed he was planning a much simpler method of action – one that probably involved lifting me up by the scruff of my neck and merging me face first with the office wall. I elected to change tack.

“So, essentially, you can tell Mr Vitalli that I accept his conditions, I shall drop the Jameson case, you won’t be bothered by me anymore. And here is a little something for you, for your trouble.”

I handed Hugo a sealed envelope, I always had a few of these knocking around. What can I say? Money talks.

“There is $100 in there, but please, if Mr Vitalli can give me any indication as to the ultimate fate of Anton Jameson, he does have a family that could do with some closure. You got my number, get in contact.”

I got up and extended my hand toward Hugo, not totally sure if he would still be up for giving me a beating or not. After a moments indecision he accepted my hand and shook it firmly. With that, I was able to usher him out before he really had time to process anything else. I waited until I saw him disappear down the stairwell, then closed the main office door and locked it. I exchanged a very relieved glance with Lydia.

“There you go, sweetheart, that’s how you deal with the mob. How about some coffee?”

I knew I was taking a risk, but I figured having thrown off the mob, for a little while at least, that perhaps I could move around incognito for a day or two without anyone realising I was still on the trail.

That evening I donned an old coat and hat, then left my apartment via the secluded fire escape exit off the main street. I was reasonably happy that no-one had observed me leave.

I took a cab to within about half a mile of the Old Portland Bridge. It was time to interview the underclass.

The Old Portland Bridge was one of the oldest major river crossings in the city. The old suspension bridge still carried it’s fair share of commuters to other side of the river, but newer, better located bridges had since been built and were much more used.

The embankment of the river below the bridge had been adopted by the city’s dropouts and hobos – as I approached on foot I could make out the little improvised campfires of the ‘residents.’

There had to be about two dozen wretched looking people, dressed in a typical mishmash of tattered and stained clothing, crowded around the fires to keep the cold out. I could see many of them swigging from bottles and smoking in the shadows. The stench of the place was horrendous, I didn’t want to think about their sanitation arrangements.

I had a pocket full of $1 bills, this would be my third act of bribery that day – I was glad Richard Jameson had paid so generously upfront.

I approached a group of three men at the first fire, dished out one bill each, flashed Anton’s photograph and hoped they were sober enough to know what I was talking about. Two of them just rambled, but the third pointed to a lone figure at the far end of the embankment. He indicated that this was the only woman amongst their number at the moment, her name was Hilda and she had known Anton.

I approached her carefully, not knowing what horrors a woman might have known to find enduring a life out here preferable to normal, domesticated life in the city. I made sure she saw me coming and announced myself when I was a good 10 yards from her.

“Hey, Hilda? My name is Johnny Jerome. I’m a private investigator – I’m looking for a guy, a young kid, Anton, here look at this.”

I held out the photo and cautiously approached. She didn’t look up. She must have been about mid fifties, short, and skinny – probably from malnutrition. Her body was entirely obscured in rags of various articles of clothing – it was hard to see where one ended and another began, it appeared that as one piece of clothing worn down to the bare threads, she simply draped herself in another. The tips of her fingers protruded from filthy fingerless gloves and her equally grimy looking face, with a few strands of lank, greying hair dangling in front of it, were the only things that marked her out as being a human being.

“There is a bit of cash in it for you if you have any information, and probably a lot more if it helps me find him. Anton’s father is a very rich man, Hilda, you could do very well for yourself by helping me.”

“He ain’t here. He went to score and never came back. Took all the money I had, the son of a bitch.”

“But he was staying here?”

“Some nights, when he wasn’t getting high with that whore of his.”