Jim Cogan - The Dirty City

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!’