Jim Cogan - The Dirty City

“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.

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?” Uttered 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.