NationStates Jolt Archive

St Peter, Lanfor City, October 14th 1941, 129 years ago

Just call me Nick Slater, private detective. That's what it says on the door. It was a cold winter night when the case to end all cases went down....It started the usual way, same as the one before had been, same as the one after would be. I sat down at my typewriter to sort out the paperwork for the day, flicking on the lamp and watching the darkness scuttle into the corners to stare at me mockingly. It was the best seat in the house; front row, centre.

This close to the train tracks I didn't need a clock; you could always tell the time by the trains, but that night even they seemed quiet and distant, the world eerily silent as snow fell from the dark sky like angels' tears. The fan heater rattled discordantly, and I looked up just in time to see a dark figure in the hallway knock three times on the glass of the door.

I stood, dusting my trenchcoat off as I walked over to the door, taking my time. Whoever it was, they could wait for me to finish my cigarette. Three more knocks, faster and more urgent, the glass rattling in the old frame like bones in a forgotten grave.

Opening the door I was greeted by a ghost from the past; Vinnie Lorenzo, one of Don Maria Leone's Lieutenants. The first thing I noticed was his face was set like stone, his usual smile replaced by gloomy seriousness, 'Detective Slater? We needs to talk.' It wasn't a request.

He slammed the door too hard behind him, the glass rattling as he pushed me back to my desk, 'Shit's going down, Nick. Serious shit.'

When a guy who takes baseball bats to people's heads for a living talks about serious shit, you pay attention. Vinnie had done all that in his day, starting out down by the docks working for a crooked boss who liked to take his own cut of everyone else's money. Vinnie hadn't taken kindly to that, not one bit.

That was the way with him; he was one of those old-fashioned crooks with honour and morals - in my world, that damn near made him one of the good guys. Glancing through the frosted glass windowpane I could see another couple of figures outside, the sharp-edged shadows showing them to be wearing smart suits like Vinnie's. Mob heavies.

I'd tried to think of a smooth response. Show myself to be another one of the guys, that kind of bullshit, but it doesn't work that way when you're there. 'How serious, Vinnie?' The question died as it left my lips, his expression all the clue I needed in the first place.

'Serious enough I'm here to call in a few favours, Detective Slater.' He reached inside his dark jacket with one scarred hand, retrieving a cigarette case and sparking up his lighter, ''Cause you still owe me a few favours, and there's shit yous can do that I can't do.'

I glared daggers at him, 'I got a wife and two little girls now, Vinnie, I ain't up for none of this Mafia shit.'

Vinnie smiled that shark-like smile of his, showing off a couple of gold teeth. 'Yeah...How is Linda, anyway? Still havin' trouble with that guy following her?'

Vinnie had never thought much of my choice of woman, had said it wasn't natural, the usual kind of thing. Love's a strange thing, you never see it coming until it's already hit you and driven halfway down the road behind you. That's how it had been with Linda. Hell, before I'd never have said myself that I'd end up with a Naga like her, but things like that didn't matter.

When you start dragging a man's family into conversation like that one, he does things he wouldn't normally do. It gets too damn personal.

That's why I reached across my desk and grabbed Vinnie's shirt, 'If you're fuckin' Linda about, I swear to God...'

Vinnie swatted my arm aside easily, speaking like I was an angry kid, 'Now, now, detective, you know I never go fuckin' around with my own family. Because you are family, even if you tries to hides from it. Your mother may have married one 'a them Federal guys, but you're still my brother.'

I was his cousin, but I knew by now not to bother trying to correct him. He smirked, and continued, 'I may not likes yous two being together, but Linda's a sweet girl. Ain't in my nature to hurt no lady.'

Linda had been worried a few months ago about a man following her part of the way home, through the darker alleyways near the little bistro she ran. Hadn't seen him recently...Realisation dawned, slowly spreading over the landscape of my brain. 'You killed the guy?'

Vinnie cracked his knuckles, 'Nah, he's ok now as long as someone chews up his food real small for him...Like I said, detective, you owes me favours. There's cops you know that does their jobs right, all the ones I knows are the ones what knows how to looks the other way, if you gets what I mean.'

The trouble with bent cops is they're good at not seeing things. That's fine when people like Vinnie don't want them to see things, but when there's something even the mob can't deal with, a cop like that isn't going to want to see anything. Blind men make bad hunters.

I reached into my desk drawer for my gun and holster, then thought better of it. No way I'd need it if Vinnie was for real, and no way I'd get to use it if he wasn't, 'I get the idea you don't want to tell me about this case here, Vinnie.'

Vinnie stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray on my desk, nodding, 'Very good, detective. Doc's keeping a little something safe that you'll want to take a look at. How's about we take a drive?'

Highway 39, on the outskirts of Lanfor City

The car was brand new, but still had an odd mix of scents about it if you paid attention; cleaning liquid, bad cologne and cigarette smoke, and a hint of gunpowder with it to round things off. Vinnie's heavies didn't speak, the two heavy-set guys looking straight ahead, hats pulled down and eyes hidden by sunglasses. As we'd made our way out here the snow had turned to rain and hail, an endless death rattle sounding against the roof of the car.

Vinnie was the opposite; he never was one for keeping quiet, and as the other guys sat as if we were heading to a funeral he talked about this and that. Mostly about the trouble he was having with his girl; some things never changed.

I sat there trying to work out what all this was about, and what Doc had to do with it all. Doc was one of the rarer things in the business, an old hitman. Everybody knew it; Kenji the Fox was what he'd gone by in his day, though these days he'd retired and taken to making guns instead of firing them. You'd hear people say he'd fought in the war way back when, though nobody had the guts to ask him which side he'd been on. They called him 'Doc' because he was actually a doctor, though of applied physics, not medicine. A real doctor death.

He was standing out in the rain as the car pulled up sharply with a screech of brakes, wearing what was virtually his uniform. A white suit with the creases knife-sharp that always had a hint of cordite about it, and a matching fedora with two holes cut in it for his ears. He frowned as Vinnie stepped out of the car, 'Where tha' fuck ya been?'

Vinnie shrugged, 'The detective needed t'ask some questions.'

Doc glanced around, the look in his eyes like a rat who's got the cheese but knows there's a cat about, 'Yous weren't followed?'

Vinnie scowled, 'You thinks I'd come here if we was?'

Doc smiled humourlessly, 'You're a good boy, Vinnie. I guess he wants to see them heaters...This way.'

We walked down the bare, empty stone corridors of Doc's warehouse, footsteps echoing into the darkness as if they were trying to get out of the place. The warehouse was from the last war, a great tomb of reinforced concrete and thick steel blast doors that Doc used as a depot. In the distance you could hear water dripping, or maybe you just thought you could. Guess only Doc knew which for sure.

He pulled open one door after a time, flicking on the lights. Inside was a study with a deep red rug and polished oak desks, the walls lined with enough heat to start the Apocalypse. 'Bourbon, detective?' Doc indicated a dusty bottle on a wooden shelf nearby.

I tried to play it Bogart, even though I was scared half to death. 'Yeah, I think I'll need it.'

Vinnie laughed as Doc placed a whiskey glass in front of me, 'I put them both in the safe with all the other shit, detective...Christ, have yourself a bit of liquid courage before you piss your fuckin' pants.'

The amber liquid slid down my throat like molten iron, and I coughed. Vinnie grinned like a shark, 'Detective never was one for drinkin'.'

Doc shook his head, a final skeletal click allowing the safe door to open. This was where Doc kept the stuff he didn't want other people to find. It was all there; enough explosives and illegal firearms to send him to prison forever. If he didn't have enough friends in the city to make sure no jury would convict him, it already would have done.

Doc flicked his tail slightly, retrieving a metal crate from one of the lockers inside the safe and placing it on his old oak desk outside, nodding, 'Now, you ain't seen this, detective, 'cos it ain't here.'

My jaw dropped as he opened the crate. I'd seen some fancy heaters on the street alright, but the two in the box were something else; rifle-size, but with long, curved box magazines and complicated sights. The kind that Armies were only just getting themselves, and here in this dank rat-hole was a guy with two. I looked back up at him, blinking like an idiot, 'You're shittin' me, right? Tell me you ain't tryin' to shake down the fuckin' Army?'

Vinnie laughed, 'With two of these heaters? What the fuck are you, a comedian?' he turned serious again, 'I want yous to find out where the fuck these heaters is comin' from, and what these new guys' angle is, because they sure as Hell ain't into sellin' these things. I tell ya, if someone was sellin' shit like that, every wino and lowlife from here to Liberty City would know.'

Doc smiled, 'You was right about them sights, Vinnie, they ain't normal. What you've got here is a pair of brand new infra-red scopes, probably cost more than your car.'

Vinnie shrugged, 'What the fuck is an inferior red scope?'

Doc sighed, 'It's a new kinda camera, one what can see heat instead'a light. Guess that's how they saw yous comin'.'

I raised my hand; these were dangerous guys and I wasn't even packing, but this was way out of my league, 'Wait a sec. Where the fuck did this shit come from, Vinnie? What are you trying to get me into?'

Vinnie smiled, 'Take a seat, detective. It's kinda a long story.'

Dim Bulb Speakeasy; Bedford Park; Greenley Province; Grafton's Isle

I never did like this hole, it was where sad wage slaves crawled after a night of hard work, or, depending on who you talked to, a night of hardly working. It smelled of piss and beer and smoke; mostly smoke, which weighed down on the room in an oppressive haze, trying to squeeze the life out of my lungs.

The only advantage to a place like this was that nobody saw nothing. I was in a room full of blind men who wouldn't notice the second coming of Christ himself, let alone someone like me. Nobody notices the Elf. I'm just a wispy ghost, floating in and floating out. My suit is well fitting and shows off everything I want it too, but my coat is a shapeless, spineless blob. There are times when your assets help a situation, men can be blindingly stupid when confronted certain bits of anatomy, but in a place like this, I just assume keep them hidden. The problem with being surrounded by the blind is that nobody'd notice some thug dragging me into the alley for fifteen seconds of humiliation and violation. Thank you, no.

I'm not brain dead, mind, don't let the fine-spun golden locks fool you. I always carry my little sister. She's a dainty little thing, but when she talks, people listen. You don't need a cannon to be philosophical, a few well phrased points get the idea across. And I ain't afraid to introduce her to anyone who's wanting to get a little too friendly. I'm nice like that.

I was sitting in this shit hole, wondering just what it was my shoe was sticking to when Jimmy the Rhyme finally strolled in. The bastard was late, as always. He was agitated too, like a dog that'd been poked with a stick a few too many times. He wrung his hands together as if he needed a transfusion and a rock was his only hope. He paused fretting long enough to fish the world's most abused cigarette from a coat pocket. It looked like God Himself had gotten mad at it. The sorriest excuse for a coffin nail I've ever seen, but who was I to offer him anything better? He might get attached if I was too friendly. I don't need some flunky on my leg like a bitch in heat. I pointed to a chair with a manicured finger, "Where the Hell ya been, Jimmy? This ain't no vacation spot, you know."

He grinned that crooked grin of his as he struggled to light the battered nail. One, two, three matches falling to the table in pieces. The forth had a better spine and lived long enough for its head to explode in a feeble flame. Luckily, the cigarette's standards were just as low and it glowed faintly, a pathetic will-o-the-wisp in a fog of smoke.

He took a few puffs, before launching into his story. No "Hi Ilae," or "Sorry I'm late," just right into the story, just like he always did. He was a strange son-of-a-bitch, but at least his stories were usually amusing.

"It was a fine left coast morning, and I found myself planted outside the Cap 'N' Cork, tipping back the hops in order to calm my dancing hands. You see I usually don't play the tied-up watchdog routine, looking up and down the street, but this is the corner Joey A., my car and I were supposed to meet. You see Joey The Amateur and I were out clinkin' glasses last night when I got three sheets to an ill wind. Myself, being in possession of a fine Double 5 Lincoln convert, Joey offered to skip me back to the crib. I awoke to a barren driveway and a neighbor started to chide, 'Joey dumped you off, and he's got your ride!'

"Black cats, they don't bother me; I smile in bad company, and I'm cool as the day is long but takin' my car, daddy, that's dead wrong. It was now 11:22, and up scuffles Benny The Shoe, a real hot air merchant from way back. I inquired about Joey A. and my superfine Lincoln. Then Mr. B.S. beat his gums and testified to me, 'Joe's washing the short, changing da oil. He'll be here by three.' So the little hand hits three and who should appear but a Cuban cat named Geronimo. An upstanding cat in the textile business. He said, 'Joey knocked over a racket man and is laying low for a few, but in your trunk he left you some treasure: a pint of rye and a case of Slim Jim's for your masticating pleasure.'

"Now ten p.m. finds me hot as a hophead's Zippo when Rosie appears on her 'financially motivated nightly exercise routine'. I asked the whereabouts of the horsepower thief in question and she shot me that amphetamine stare, and said, 'Joey A.? I just got out of his Lincoln on Hollywood Way.'

"I thought, 'kill Joey A.!' when the bar keep came out to simmer my slow boil. He said, 'Joey A. just called on the blower. He said you better skip town, 'cause the cops got your ride. You're wanted for solicitation, possession -- you owe him one, and here's the scather, he said, "And another thing cat, don't ask me for no Goddamn favors!"'" He shook his head like a Priest at in a confessional, muttering under his breath, "Why that smart aleck, dead beat… pulling the sheet over my peepers. I'm'a lay apart in his wake that will most definitely make him eligible for a bone-yard certificate… can ya dig that?"*

I blinked. There really was nothing much I could do at this point except stare blankly at Jimmy. I mean, seriously, how does a girl respond to a story like this? The thing was, there was something to his story that made my ears tingle, like a low voltage jolt. There was something to his story, crazy as it was, that compelled me to investigate. I thanked him curtly, tossed a couple Crowns on the table and left the speakeasy. The sound of them clattering on the table like pie tins ringing in my ears as I made my way through the haze in the room. It was nice to have a story again.


Ilae's Office; Bedford Park Tribune Building

My typewriter was a top of the line affair, which meant it was only slightly louder than your average bar brawl. The headache-inspiring cacophony of my typewriter was not my primary concern, though. The pisser about this town was that if I simply wanted someone to vanish without a trace, I knew any number of people who could oblige me, and for very little money. Bizarrely, trying to something perfectly legal and less expensive required more paperwork than any mortal could possibly hope to do before dying of natural causes. The endless forms for a simple zeppelin flight to Lanfor city (plus expenses) marched on, one after the other. Duplicate, triplicate forms. It was a bureaucratic mountain the likes of which even Sir Hillary would fear. To say Editor Cline wasn't thrilled with the concept of me running off to Lanfor on some vague lead was the understatement of the century. His face had turned as red as the devil's ass when I submitted my request and his bellows of rage could have shattered windows on the other side of town. It had taken hours of pleading and making promises I wasn't so sure I'd be able to keep to get him to approve. Now I just needed to break the story of a life time.

Or simply take up permanent residence in Lanfor.


*~Royal Crown Revue, "Friday the 13th"

Highway 9, West of the Financial District, East Lanfor

The car ran slowly along the empty highway, the driver in no hurry. With the beating heart of the city quiet as it slept, it's arteries moved slowly, only a few other cars around. In the distance the Callahan Bridge rose up over the dark river, the warning lights on top the only stars in the cloudy night. The mercury was dropping fast outside, the rain turning into sleet and snow again.

Vinnie had told me about a story that had been in the news a few days ago, only he'd told me a lot more. Everyone knew the Feds had busted into a couple of warehouses by the dockside, trying to pull in some company for tax evasion...Straightforward job, until they'd found the places cleaned out. Case closed, or so everyone thought.

Then Vinnie had emptied a small bag onto the table, four gleaming diamonds rolling out.

'And that's what theys ain't tellin' you.' He'd said.

I'd blinked, 'How...Where the hell did these come from?'

Vinnie had grinned broadly, 'District Police Chief Lightoller, detective.'

That had got me. Robert James Lightoller was the very image of the good cop, ever since he'd joined the force as a beat cop. Never took bribes, never looked the other way; every bit the archetypal hero. Nowadays he ran the whole show on the East side of the Stein River. The idea of him handing over information to the mob was like finding out Superman had knocked over a bank. You start by just denying, then wondering why.

'Bullshit.'

Vinnie shook his head, 'No bullshit here, detective. Listen up.'

When the mob and the law find themselves on the same side, something's rotten in the world. I should have turned the case down flat there and then. But then life is full of things you should have done.

Vinnie told me about how the Feds had been told to shut the case down. Pressure from upstairs, from the Union's government. Somebody was trying to hide something, and that didn't sit well with Lightoller's conscience. He'd turned to the lesser of two evils, and handed to diamonds over to Don Leone at the ball three days ago when they'd started work on the Abbott Tower.

Don Leone had sent some men to check the warehouses out, search for evidence. Lightoller had told his boys to leave it all there for them; Hell hath no fury like an angry cop. Turned out that was how Doc had got hold of those heaters; the mobsters had been ambushed at one warehouse. The perps had left five men on the slab in the city morgue and another two with Doctor Feynman. Doc Feynman ran a clinic on the edge of the docks, one of those mob doctors who was good at treating gunshot wounds and just as good at forgetting what his patients had come in with.

I glanced up at Vinnie in the front seat as a truck roared past, 'So, who was it got whacked?'

Vinnie scowled, 'Gognitti, Harris, Lucito, and Tommy and Sonny Finito.'

That was bad. I recognised the last two; the Finito Brothers, both well-feared in the streets and both former Marines. Anyone who could take those two out was worth being careful about. Another stupid question to help with my record for that night left my lips, 'Weren't Tommy wearin' his vest?'

Bulletproof Tommy Finito, they called him. It was a dumb question, and Vinnie's expression showed it, 'Tommy wore that fuckin' vest to bed, what kinda question is that?' he tossed a bullet over the seat into my lap, 'From that fancy heater, Nick. That a good enough answer?'

The bullet nestled in my hands, a tiny, gleaming piece of death, the tip needle-sharp and the metal unfamiliar. Vinnie lit a cigarette, smoke drifting from his lips as he talked, 'Doc says that shit'd go through a fuckin' car. Yeah, Tommy wore his vest, Nick. He's still wearin' it now on that slab.'

I frowned. 'What's my pay for this shit, Vinnie?'

'Don's willin' to let yous decide, within reason.' Vinnie smiled, 'She says yous can keeps them diamonds up front, just as a show of faith an' all.'

The diamonds alone were at very least more than I'd got for the last five cases I'd worked on; enough to send Jessica and Molly to a good college. But that wasn't why I said yes. I'd wanted to be able to say it wasn't enough, wanted to walk away. But I couldn't. Vinnie had been right, I was family, and I wouldn't have been able to walk away even if he'd only offered me a handful of potato chips.

In the event, he'd offered far more than that. In a New York Minute, it was a done deal.

34 Ash Terrace, East of the docks

It still felt a little odd coming to this part of the city; some part of me still said home was the run-down old apartment by the gasworks I'd lived in for years. My view had been filled with snake's nests of dull pipework, in the distance dockyard cranes rearing up above sullen warehouses like the bones of forgotten monsters. The wrong side of the tracks.

The building was old enough it almost seemed to have a life of its own, every broken banister and graffiti tag had a story to tell if you looked closely. You'd find hobos sleeping in the corridors some nights, the whole place smelling of cheap moonshine, smoke and stale piss. It was the best I could afford back then, after losing my old apartment when some joker had decided to torch the building.

Now here I was in the good part of town where the banshee wails of police sirens were distant and faint, my beautiful wife waiting for me, and my daughters probably sound asleep. But that night was still an ugly crack in a beautiful scene, like looking at a flawless landscape but knowing in the pit of your stomach if you tilt the camera just a little you'll see the fires of Hell burning in the distance.

It was Linda who had got me out of that place, not so long ago. I'd stopped off for something to eat at the place she ran; it was upmarket and murder on my wallet, but I was too far from anywhere cheap. People say love at first sight never happens that way in real life, but nothing's a cliché when it's happening to you. She'd just gone through a nasty break-up, leaving her trying to take care of two little girls alone and still run her bistro. She'd needed a shoulder to cry on and figured I'd fit the bill, and to begin with that was all there was to it.

It had turned out that there was more to it than that; she'd invite me to her place after work and make me dinner, send me thank-you letters every so often...Sweet little things that looking back I should have seen the meaning of. It's funny how a man can investigate other people's lives all his life and not notice when the same things are going on in his own. Maybe I was just too wrapped up in my own business to think about it.

You'd think a woman with a snake tail instead of legs couldn't be so beautiful, but you'd be wrong. Looking back on that night when she first told me, sitting in her candlelit apartment, I know I should have realised a long time before I did. Waking up the next morning in her bed with her arms around my waist, I knew without thinking that I was looking down at my wife.

That's how I'd ended up here, dragged across the tracks by the love of a good woman. Vinnie called to me as his car started up, 'We'll pick yous up tomorrow, detective, and bring your piece this time!'

The car swerved off into the shadows, the engine fading into the night like a bad dream. I shivered and pulled my trenchcoat tighter, glancing up at the tower in the distance. The Graber Building had just recently been finished; it was the tallest building in the city, the massive needle-shaped spire stabbing blindly at the dark sky.

Linda was waiting for me, lying on the sofa with a blanket over her, her tail coiled around the corner of the sofa. The scales gleamed a little in the dimmed light, the brown, yellow and black rattlesnake pattern shifting a little as she sat up, yawning. 'Honey, you're late.' She rubbed her hand across her face sleepily, sweeping her short auburn hair out of those sweet hazel eyes. Part of her knew something was wrong.

I tried to play it down, act like nothing was the matter. 'Just got me a new case, Linda...Had to stay late working with the client on the details. It's a big one.' That at least was true.

Linda smiled, 'Really?' she slid off the sofa, slithering over and hugging me, 'You mean we'll finally be able to afford that television you've had your eye on?'

I smiled half-heartedly. Lying to Linda was worse than anything Vinnie could have done to me back at that old bomb shelter. 'That and then some...' I managed.

Linda blinked, the tip of her tail rattling softly. She was scared. 'It's not something dangerous, is it?'

'It should be ok.' I held her hand. I'd been economical with the truth, maybe, but the ring she'd given me at the altar felt like it was boring into my finger. I couldn't hold off telling her the answers if she asked the right questions.

Lady Luck smiles on you at the strangest times; she simply snuggled against my chest, falling asleep there and then.

Highway 9, the next morning

Vinnie had called around just after I'd got Molly and Jessica off to school. As I sat in the car, I wondered if we were walking into another trap. I had thought it would be comforting to have my piece in it's holster nestling against my side, but it was a fool's comfort; the armour-piercing bullet still in my pocket from the night before dug into my leg, a grim reminder of what I had got myself into.

The exit was familiar; the docks. Echoes of the past surfaced in my brain as the warehouses and factories rose up to surround us. Even in daylight there were shadows; places the sun had given up on, dark alleyways that crawled off the streets, laden with foreboding.

Warehouse eighty-one sat at a dead end in the road, the doors and delivery gates wrapped up in yellow police tape and a couple of the windows boarded up. It was obvious someone had been there before, the tape cut over the back door Vinnie lead me through. He smiled slightly, glancing around and raising his arms, 'Crime scene, detective. Time for yous to do your thing.'

There were still dark spots on the floor where the mobsters had fallen, and a sickly smell of blood in the dusty air. I blinked as my foot hit something, glancing down and picking it up. A broken shard of wood, unfamiliar writing stencilled on it. I gestured for Vinnie to come over, 'This is something...Looks like part of a shipping crate.'

He turned it over slowly, frowning at the writing, 'Some kinda weird monkey-talk...'

It was starting to make a twisted kind of sense, but it felt like the moment a character in a cartoon lights a match only to find he's in a room full of dynamite. A bigger mystery loomed ahead like a black pit, its edges yawning at my feet. Someone was smuggling diamonds through these warehouses, hiding the crates. The Feds hadn't found them, and the Don's boys had come back just as the perps were finishing off cleaning the place out. But something about the case still didn't add up. Normally the Union left our police to do their job, but this time they'd pulled them right off the case, like they were too close for comfort.

Vinnie suddenly drew his gun, pointing it at the office at the far corner of the warehouse, 'Who's there?' he scowled, 'You've got to three, comes out here where I's can see ya.'

Top of the Graber Building; Lanfor City; Grafton's Isle

We approached the Graber Building, snow lightly falling like the frozen tears of the angels. Looking out the window, I could see a pair of burly men grabbing the tethers and helping to guild the zeppelin in for docking. From the distance I was at, they looked like midgets, but I could tell that these men were the pride of the Graber Building. They helped guide the airship in until the gangplank extended into the cool air, a bridge to Mother Earth.

The Graber Building was an amazing affair, the building stabbing the sky like concrete dagger. There wasn't anything like this back home in Bedford Park. We were simple folk, or, at least the citizens I shared the city with were. Luckily, I had made a few contacts, years ago, when I was here covering one of the Federation/Union wars. With any luck, Eddy "Shakes" Cimino was still alive and well. Or at least alive.


Johnny's Tap; Lower East Side; Lanfor City

Another bloody bar. I was getting sick of these fucking places. They drew the scum of the city like moths to a flame. As for me, well, I was just the poor fool who had to hold the damnable torch. At least this one was slightly more up-class than the Dim Bulb. This joint actually paid someone to clean up the puke, and had fans to keep the thick smoke from compressing into a solid mass you needed a machete to get through. When I'd called up Eddy, he told me to meet him here, apparently this was neutral territory. Seemed there was some kind of tension between Don Leone and her thugs and whoever the hell it was that Eddy worked for. The Cats versus the Snakes. Just fucking perfect. I just shook my head, wondering what in the Nine Hells Joey A. had gotten himself involved in.

To say that Eddy was a real snake wasn't nearly the metaphor most people might expect it to be. He slithered up to my table, rattle going a mile a minute, his cobra markings reminding me of those fake snakes; you know, the ones who are patterned like a King, but don't have a lick of venom in their slimy bodies.

I swirled my drink, looking the old boy over. Times must have been rough for old Shakes. He'd been an old cuss when I first met him, and he looked like death warmed over these days. Poor bastard probably didn't know the first thing about saving money; he'd be in this racket until he curled over and started pushing up daisies. I gestured for him to take a seat, trying to make it look like I had all the time in the world. "How's tricks, Shakes?"

"Like ssshit," he hissed. Now, most Nagas had a clue how to talk like a normal person, the sibilant s's were a hold over from way back when. Of course, Eddy always was the more traditional sort. "Thingsss worse now that yer here. What couldn't ya leave well enough alone, Ilae?"

"I'm good like that, Eddy."

He sighed, his tail vibrating like one of those coin-op beds, the air hissing from his lips. Disturbingly, the tip of his tongue shivered too, it was like he was going native. "You picked a bad time, Ilae. Sssomething'sss brewin'. Thisss isss gonna be a warzone…"

"Save the soothsaying, Eddy." I scowled at him, leaning forward to look into those nicotine-yellow eyes of his, "I've heard that a small time loser back home is involved in some major shit out this way. I just want to know what the deal is. His name's Joey the Amateur."

Zang! The name'd hit pay dirt with Eddy, even as he tried to hide it, "I… I dun know nuttin' about Joey A."

"Don't bullshit me, Eddy. You couldn't back in the day, you can't now. You remember Jimmy? Jimmy the Rhyme?" He nodded, "Well, he's as pissed as one of your boys in a town full of incorruptible cops, got it? He thinks Joey's up to his eyeballs in something big. Now, I don't give a damn about your gang warfare, okay? I just want the damn story. What can you tell me?"

I'll give him credit. He actually looked like he was thinking it over; there was the dull spark of thought, the gentle grinding of mental machinery, and, quite possibly, some black smoke to mingle with the blue. "Jimmy ssstill got that Lincoln?"

I suppressed the grin that was trying to crawl onto my face; I had him. "Yeah, that's part of why he's so damn mad…"

"Yeah… thought ssso… I ssseen it over by a warehousssse… by the docksss."

"I don't suppose you might have noticed it by a particular warehouse…?"


Warehouse 81

Snooping around the warehouse immediately told me that this was not a place for a nice girl. Luckily I was a member of the press, so 'nice' wasn't a word anybody was likely to use to describe me. The place was huge and empty. Disturbingly empty. It was like walking into the Vatican's catacombs, only to find that not only are there no Pope's cooling their heels, but there's not even a damn rat in the place.

Warehouses are supposed to have scuffed floors and forklifts littering the place; sawdust coating the floor in a fine powder that's only occasionally moved. This place had nothing but bullet holes and crates.

And bloody splotches left by dead gangsters. Guess they were on a slab somewhere now.

The gangster blood was to be expected, I guess. Nothing happens in this place without a few mobsters popping up, popping off, or getting popped. Seemed the police were taking their sweet time with this investigation, that or they were being real careful about it. Blood, bullets and brass were still scattered about like letters in a wind storm. My guess was that the bad shit had gone down after most of the stuff was moved. Probably more of these crates with the crazy scribbling on them.

I was in the process of trying to rifle the manager's office when I heard faint voices coming from the warehouse proper. When I say trying, it wasn't for lack of ability, it was for lack of anything of note. Just like the rest of the building, the office was sorely lacking of anything useful.

I heard a voice say, "Some kinda weird monkey-talk..." filter through the door. From the sounds of it, this wasn't an investigator. I was trying to figure out if this was a good thing or a bad thing when I heard the goon calling me out.

It didn't sound like a request.

Slowly, carefully, I opened the door and stepped into the yawning cavern of the warehouse, trying to look as innocent and helpless as possible. Poor me, just a lost lil' reporter who doesn't have a clue what's going on. I could play dumb when it suited me, and right now it suited me just fine.

"I… I'm sorry… is this your warehouse, mister?"

She stepped out from between the stark lines the sunlight carved out of the dusty air, Vinnie scowling. By now the two heavies with him had pulled their heaters too, a long-barrelled pump-action shotgun and an old Sten gun backing up the ominous muzzle of Vinnie's nine nicely.

She seemed harmless enough, but then so does a poisoned cocktail until you let your guard down and take a drink. 'I… I'm sorry… is this your warehouse, mister?'

Vinnie's face set like stone as he lowered his pistol, the two mobsters with us doing likewise. 'Fuckin' lady drivers...Don't yous knows how to check your mirrors?'

She tried to play it smart with him, 'I took a hack, you goon. How exactly was I supposed to,' She dropped into over-exaggerated mimicking of his accent, '"check da mirrors"?'

Vinnie pointed behind her, 'Wanna introduce us to your friends there, then?'

Behind her, a group had slipped into the warehouse quietly. They were typical dockside mobsters, built like trucks with more tattoos than most people had skin. The broad blinked, 'What the hell are you-' she looked to where he was pointing, 'Oh, hell. Look, you're the big bad mobster, you deal with them.'

You have certain expectations when you think of a Eurusean mobster; an accent as heavy as a frieght train, a thick grey beard, enough tattoos to make some guy with a needle very rich indeed. Like the guys who had come in first, in fact. But life doesn't work in stereotypes forever, and Mikhail Romanov was the biggest exception you'd ever meet. The emperor of the dockyard mobs and gangs wasn't much to look at; he was a good six inches shorter than the guys with him, and built like a rake. He had short, lank blond hair that he didn't wash or comb often enough; in contrast, he always wore a spotless white suit and hat, a smoking cigar held in one hand.

He grinned broadly as he spotted Vinnie, holding out his arms as if to hug him, speaking in that unmistakable Eurusean accented-voice, 'Vinnie!' he called out enthusiastically, 'Dearest of all my friends!'

Vinnie slipped his heater back inside his jacket, his face still empty of emotion, like an open grave. Vinnie and Mikhail went back a way, back to Vinnie's time as a small-time crook down by the docks, before Don Leone's boys had given him the proverbial offer he couldn't refuse. Word had it Mikhail had given him the same offer; Mikhail still thought of Vinnie as a friend. The feeling wasn't mutual.

Vinnie pulled his hat down slightly, 'Ain't it a little above yous to be chasin' broads around, Mikhail?' he grinned a little, 'I mean, when yous knows plenty of dames who charge reasonable rates as it is an' all...'

Mikhail placed his hand on his heart theatrically, 'Oh, Vinnie...It hurts me to hear you say such things.' He smirked, taking a drag from his cigar, 'I merely vanted to be sure your friend vasn't...Lost.' He glanced around, 'Quite a mess someone has made here, Vinnie...Do you know who did this?'

I could see it in Vinnie's eyes; he thought Mikhail was playing with him. Actually, what Mikhail had just said pointed to something else. Mikhail hadn't come here to lord over Vinnie about what his boys had done like a victorious general over a defeated army, he'd come because he was looking for what we were looking for.

Answers.

This wasn't Mikhail's doing; despite his efforts at making himself look the part, Mikhail was still a two-bit thug at heart. He didn't have the resources to get something this big underway or the balls to see it through to the final punch. Just like everyone else, he was stumbling around a dark maze, hoping to find the hidden door that led out. I don't know why he thought we'd be standing around in a dusty warehouse if we already knew, but I guess when you're on a sinking ship you don't pay so much attention to what colour the icebergs are.

Vinnie scowled, 'No. I don't knows who did this, Mikhail.'

Mikhail looked taken aback, like someone had just pulled the rug out from under him. 'Vell...Ah...You be sure to tell me if you find anything out, da?' he got a hold of himself again, 'It'll be just like old times, eh, Vinnie?'

Vinnie sighed, 'Whatever you say, Mikhail...Now, if yous will excuse me I think I needs to get a coffee.' He gestured to Ilae, 'And yous needs some coffee too, miss lady driver.'

Horlowe District Police Station, St Peter, Lanfor City

I had some paperwork to run off at the station, and I knew Vinnie could be trusted with our lady friend. As he'd said, he wasn't the type to get rough with a woman, and if he was going to ice her clean he'd have done it back at the warehouse with no witnesses, no messing around taking her for coffee first.

Guess he wanted to find out her angle and figured he could do charming; that his girlfriends kept coming back despite all their endless rows certainly suggested there was something there. That or that they just loved squabbling; you never can tell with love.

The station was filled with the sounds of police work; telephones ringing to punctuate the endless chatter of the typewriters. Not many people looked up as I walked to the Deputy Chief's office; a private dick handing in his paperwork didn't really qualify for much attention. I'd got a call from Deputy Chief Bravura saying he had some things to discuss. I had a bad feeling about that, but didn't let it get to me. Mistake one; always listen to your bad feelings.

As soon as I closed the door I could see the storm brewing in his eyes; his stare was as cold as a glacier as he intoned 'Sit down, detective.'

I did as I was told. Jim Bravura always looked like he had too much on his mind; not surprising for a man sitting in the seat Lightoller once had. He knew he could never measure up to his old partner; they'd been beat cops together in the day, but while Lightoller had been destined for greater things, Bravura was still a cop at heart, not a paper-pusher. He'd been promoted to half past what he was capable of, and it showed.

He pushed his glasses up slightly, putting the paperwork in front of him down. 'I don't know what the fuck's going on in my own precinct anymore...I got five stiffs down in the city morgue with rap sheets as long as your arm, Feds tellin' me I can't touch the crime scene and internal affairs breathin' down my fuckin' neck as it is. And now here I gets a report of a private dick hanging around with a bunch of guys with connections to the friggin' Mafia.'

He leaned forward, 'Now, maybe you can do something for my freakin' migraine by tellin' me what the fuck you think you're playin' at.'

There it was, the million dollar question I had no answer to. I did the best I could. 'Chasin' up leads, sir, sames as I always do.'

He scowled, 'Oh, that's cute. Real cute. Listen, I got mob shootin' each other to shit and I'm expected to just pick up the mess. It's like a friggin' kindergarten out there and now I've got yous "following up leads" wherever the fuck yous feel like?' He tapped his fingers on the table, 'Can't haves us a loose cannon with all this shit going on, Nick. I've half a mind to takes your license right now.'

My run of luck wasn't about to give out, though I wasn't that sure if it was good luck anymore. The door creaked like an ancient oak in the wind; behind it stood the imposing form of the district chief of police. Lightoller scowled, 'I can hear yous down in my damn office, what's goin' on?' he looked me in the eye for a moment, an odd look on his face, 'Detective, go home. We needs to have a talk, Bravura.'

As I walked out I could hear raised voices back in the office, the silhouettes in the window placing out an argument like a life-sized puppet show. I kept an ear open, catching odd words, disconnected sentences; enough to figure out that Lightoller knew enough to keep me on the job and too much to tell Bravura what was going on. I caught a stray sentence out of the smoky air as it drifted after me; Bravura's gruff voice tinged with a shade of sadness.

'You've changed, Bob. I don't know who the hell you are anymore.'

Mobsters. Why did the place have to be crawling with mobsters? Strutting peacocks who cared more for their feathers than anything. They didn't need brains; they had guns. Damn idiots never hesitated to wave them around in a desperate display of manilness. I really needed to hang out with a better class of people. Pity these goombahs were the ones who had the information I needed.

Listening to them talk was like having your teeth pulled out, slowly, by a blind dentist with a nasty sadist streak. Maybe it's because I make a living out of writting, but the torturous things they do to the language are one of the most painful things I've ever seen.

Still, I had managed to avoid being shot, so I count myself as lucky. Of course, the thought of being alone with "Vinnie" filled me with no small amount of dread. And I was so looking forward to driving this 'wise-guy' around, too. It was like I was being punished for some sins of mine. This is what I get for being curious. I should just stick with letting the goons kill each other. Well, know. I knew better than that. Getting the story was worth putting up with a sleazy mobster. He might even have something important to talk about.

---

We ended up at a little hole-in-the-wall diner, sitting in a table away from the rain streaked windows, Vinnie facing the door as if he was actually important enough to be "whacked". I tried prodding him for information on what was going on, but he couldn't be any more tight lipped than if someone had sewn his mouth shut. The little info he gave me wasn't anything I didn't already know.

I was wondering where I was going to spend the night when he offered me a room in a hotel run by some "close personal friends" of his. I was ready to tell him that I'd rather shack up with some rats in the back alley if he was expecting me to spend the night with him. To his credit, he actually seemed surprized. Seems the louse has a pair of girls who are either denser than a sack of hammers, or who just don't care. Still, he wasn't making a pass, and with my editor able to make diamonds from his ass, I didn't see myself as having many choices.

Hopefully the roaches wouldn't be the size of a Grayhound bus...

Nick's Office, St Peter, that evening

Somebody once wrote that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The trouble with that line is that not much is really impossible. If you know the right people to lean on or pay money to, almost anything can be made to happen. Bodies will disappear. Investigations will get called off. People you don't want around will suddenly die or leave town.

In this city I knew there was no point in eliminating the impossible, because it had a nasty habit of becoming the possible the moment your back was turned. Instead, you focused on figuring out the links in the chain, the people you knew were able and willing to pull something.

The sun was setting as I sat at my desk, tapping my pencil against the sheet in front of me, covered in notes and scrawl, random thoughts I'd dredged up and tried to put into order, trying to make some sense of what was going on. Mostly, it was a list of the people I thought could be behind this.

It was a surprisingly short list in front of me; a couple were big figures in the Mafia, but they didn't have motives, other than straightforward money, for provoking a war with the Leone family. With one notable exception, there was nobody on the list with a good reason.

Looking out of the window you could just about make out the hulking form of the Yoshimura Heavy Industries car factory. It was pretty well known to belong to the Yakuza's Yoshimura family; they had always been a thorn in Mikhail's side down by the docks, stabbing their way deep into the protection and smuggling rackets. Since the massive car plant that was the centrepiece of their empire pulled in far more shipping than Mikhail did, they had that much more space to sneak in crates of liquor or illegal guns alongside their more normal cargoes.

It was kinda funny; Yoshimura Heavy Industries had been set up a generation ago as Yoshimura Imports, mostly handling smuggling operations under the guise of shipping in the few cars the rich and powerful of the Isle could afford. But their child had grown up to be far bigger than its parents; it now manufactured its own lines and made almost as much as the Yoshimura family's less legal activities.

It made sense in a way; the Leone family was getting into the casino business, and you didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out muscling in on the Yakuza's turf would piss them off. The Kumicho was easily smart enough to set Mikhail up to take the fall for her boys, but it lacked Sakura Yoshimura's style. The daughter of the old boss Hideo Yoshimura had a certain way about her, just like Maria Leone. What was going down seemed too messy, too lacking in elegance and finesse, to be her handiwork. My gut told me she'd have found a way to do it without stacking up bodies, without ever getting the cops involved.

The loud ring of the telephone cut aside my curtain of thought like a blade. I slid the paper aside, the mysteries it implied staring up at me accusingly as I took the dull black handset from its cradle. 'Office of Detective-'

'-Spares us both that line, detective. I knows who you is.'

It was Vinnie. 'Vinnie? What the fuck you doin' callin' me at this time a' night?'

Vinnie wasn't playing the easy answers game. 'You wants to comes down to Hilton Basin and sees for yerself, Detective. Lot thirty-five. Gets here fast.'

The dialtone cut in before I could reply. There was nothing to do but get my coat and head out into the cold night again.

Hilton Basin, midnight

Hilton Basin was the very edge of the docks, encompassing the harbour front wharves, the naval base, a couple of marinas and the first line of warehouses and open concrete lots. Thirty-five was familiar; it was where Mikhail Romanov ran his operation from. Most mobsters could afford something upmarket, at very least a sleazy run-down hotel somewhere. Not so with Mikhail.

Mikhail was as much known for his vices as for anything he'd ever done as a criminal; he was a compulsive gambler, a big fan of the bootleg whiskey he smuggled and liked the kind of female company that charges by the hour. With him pissing his money away as soon as he made it, all he could afford was a trailer in an old lot in the middle of nowhere. Otherwise, lot thirty-five was empty save a few dumped cars and piles of trash.

Except for today. With all the bent cops in this town it was no surprise to see black mob cars first on the scene instead of black-and-white rollers. The only sirens were distant; this close to the Basin everything was mob business first, cop business second or not at all.

I stepped out into the glittering snow, trying to light a cigarette as I made my way to the mobsters, gathered around like crows picking meat off a dead animal. Vinnie was standing outside the trailer, face set like thunder. 'Sees it, Nick?'

I glanced at the trailer; I hadn't noticed walking over, but now it was easy to see dozens of ragged bulletholes in the trailer's surface; parts looked more like a cheesegrater. The door hung sadly off its hinges, creaking mournfully in the wind from time to time. I sighed, 'Mikhail's inside?'

Vinnie nodded, 'Yup. Ain't his usual irritating self.' He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I sighed, stepping inside. Pretty much everything inside was smashed up; Mikhail was lying on his back in a pool of blood in front of the bed, wearing just his boxers and a final look of shock. Vinnie would call it a fitting end; he only seemed sorry he hadn't been the one to pull the trigger.

I drew my gun as I heard a sound by the bed, calling for Vinnie. Vinnie scowled, 'Comes out or I comes in, capisce?'

I watched as a terrified-looking little Neko woman crawled out from under the bed, wearing only her underwear. Vinnie nodded, 'Well, I's always known he was a fuckin' pervert...What's your name?'

She pulled the duvet over herself, 'Um, V-violet Brown...?'

Vinnie smirked, 'No kidding? What's ya real name?'

'Shiori...Shiori Kanzaki.'

'Ok, miss Kanzaki...Now, did yous see any of the guys what did this?'

She shook her head, 'Mikhail told me to hide when he heard something...I-I only seen their boots...There was three of them what came in...I didn't understand anything they was saying...' she paused, then looked up again, recalling something, 'But Mikhail did...Um, I remember him saying something back just before all's the shooting.' She pulled the sheet tighter, smiling painfully, 'You knows, a gentleman would offer me his coat...'

Vinnie grinned, 'Maybe a gentleman don't want his wallet stolen.' He sighed as the woman looked crestfallen, slipping his jacket off and offering it to her, 'There. Now gets yourself somewhere safe and lay low for a few days, understands me?' She nodded quickly.

I stood there thinking, trying to work out how this fitted. If they'd stayed watching the warehouse looking to whack whoever went back, they'd have seen Mikhail's car...And Vinnie's car. It hit me like a punch, 'Vinnie, where's your car?'

Vinnie scratched his chin, 'I, ah, left it with that Elf broad. Way I see it she's could use a little transportation while she gets on here feet n'all.' He frowned, 'Don't yous gives me that look, I ain't puttin' the moves on no dames behind my girls' backs again.'

I shook my head, 'Ain't that. Vinnie, this is real important; where is she right now?'

I can hear the sounds of violins
Long before it begins
Make me thrill as only you know how
Sway me smooth, sway me now
~Anita Kelsey, "Sway"

Vinnie's car was, in a word, awful. Aside from the oppressive smell, there was a disturbing amount of what looked like cat hair in the back seat. I didn't know what he used this car for, and I decided that I really didn't want it. It was nice of him to loan it to me, but you'd think he could clean the damn thing every now and then.

I pulled onto Jefferson Street, muttering under my breath about the car, the hour, and all the bullshit that I had gotten myself into. Why on earth were all these mobsters so interested in that old warehouse? What where they moving and how had it made it all the way to Bedford Park? We weren't a haven for the mob, we're were a pretty little town, with small-time thugs who thought they were big-time. How on earth had Joey A. and Jimmy the Rhyme gotten involved in this? Christ, if this blows up, there's gonna be a lot of corpses here. And back home, too.

I hadn't actually been looking for an all-night diner, but when I saw the pale lights casting a ghostly glow around Vern's 24/7, I decided that the sinking feeling in my stomach wasn't just dread; I was famished. The food on the blimp had been like lukewarm cardboard. I hadn't been flying steerage, but close enough for the crap too poor for the blue bloods it seemed. And, well, I hadn't been exceptionally hungry when I was dining with Vinnie. It all added up to a hungry Elf, and I figured a quick stop wouldn't hurt.

Vern's looked about as good as I could possibly expect. Faded tile on the floor and peeling paint on the walls. The counter had room for about ten people, or it would if half the stools weren't broken and listing like a drunk after last call. I made my way through the smoky haze to hideously orange booth, peering at the stained placemat. There was some kind of liquid on the table, but I was afraid to deal with it. While it could have been some cleaner that was drying, I didn't hold out hope; I doubted these place had been cleaned since prohibition started. This joint wasn't a diamond in the rough; it was a lump of coal not good enough for Santa to stuff in some brat's sock.

The waitress looked as surly as I felt. She glanced down at me as if my very presence violated some religious taboo. Now, some would get offended at this – Lord knows I've been called 'lop-ear' by more than a few shitheels – but I figured she'd give that look to any poor sod who walked in at a quarter 'til midnight. Not even giving her the chance to assault me with a nasally 'whattaya want?' I barreled ahead and gave my order, letting her know that I wasn't in the mood for any shit. "Steak sandwich; rare; extra breath; cup of that sludge in the pot, too." She looked as if she was going to say something but just turned on her heel and stalked off.

You'd think a girl in my line of work would be friendlier to the help, and I probably should have been – she looked like she had been dumped on by more than one lowlife piece of garbage in her day; she had that look about her – but I was just too damn tired and too damn hungry to care. As long as she or the cook didn't spit in it, I didn't much care. Then again, I probably wouldn't notice: as I said, this wasn't one of those high class joints – they were all closed at this hour.

Surprisingly, the food wasn't just tolerable, it was actually pretty good. The building still sucked, and the waitress was still balancing a large chip, but the food was good. Despite my fears, the coffee wasn't the kind that would lose a race with molasses. It wasn't anything I'd make at home, but it was reasonably good. Even the onions were fresh. Finishing my dinner, I threw some money on the table, paused, and actually gave the girl a nice tip. I couldn't write it off as a business expense, but she looked like it'd mean more to her than it did to me. Besides, if this story was as good as I hoped it was, I'd have more than enough crowns to keep me happy.

The hotel Vinnie was putting out for was only a few blocks away, and took my time getting there. I wasn't in a rush, even with the Sandman threatening to bash my skull until I gave up. I told myself I needed the time to think, but I really just didn't want to go to the motel. Nightmare scenarios played in my mind about how bad it would be, and I was afraid to confirm them. Eventually, though, I couldn't hold out much longer: I needed some sleep.

The room was actually bearable. Sure it had the usual concrete chairs, but it also had a nice-sized closet and even a little icebox. In case I wanted to keep an apple cold or something. Unfortunately, it was in a tall brownstone, and I was stuck on the tenth floor. And the elevator was shot; literally. I left my stuff in the car, there was no way I was climbing all those stairs with my bag. I'd find something better in the morning.

I had just sat down on the edge of the bed to take my shoes and stockings off when I got a real bad feeling down in my gut again. There were people outside my door whispering to each other; I guess they didn't realize that these long ears were more than just for show: they actually worked. I stood up and was about to tell them where they could go when one of them started pounding on the door. Check that, kicking the door.

I froze in a moment of panic. What was going on? Had Vinnie sent me here so a bunch of his goons could rough me up? Was that Mikhail thug sending a welcoming committee? I stopped caring when I heard the wood splintering. Apparently one of them remembered that the best way to kick a door down was to kick at the handle. As the door started giving it's last feeble protests, I started looking for a way out.

The door collapsed just as I went out the window and started down the escape, the half-rusted metal moaning like a hooker as I tried to hurry down. I realized how serious these goons were when they started shooting. Shooting! What the Hell was going on? The whole fire escape shuttered as they hopped through the window, there must have been about five of them, and it felt like the damn thing was going to tear off the wall and collapse. I was a couple floors ahead of them, but they were gaining on me; the heels of my shoes kept trying to get stuck in the little diamond cut-outs on the floor. While the gunfire kept me inspired, it didn't help my concentration any.

I was at the final set of stairs before the ladder down when my shoe finally succeeded in betraying me. The heel stuck in the escape, and down I went, rolling down the last stairway, bouncing onto the ladder. The rusted locks snapped. It dropped. Down onto the street I went.

I landed on my shoulder, hard, and cried out; the snow was ice-cold against my skin. I hobbled to my feet and staggered down the alley, a little disoriented, limping from the pain and from the broken heel. I managed to make it to Vinnie's car right as the goons hit the street. As I was fishtailing my way out, they opened fire again, the rear window shattering like dropped crystal.

Before I knew it, I was lost in the city, and I didn't much care. The snow made handling almost impossible, and I slipped and slid across the deserted streets, the thugs in the car behind me shooting every chance they got. Luckily, my lack of control helped to keep me out of their sights, but I knew this wouldn't last forever. Where the Hell were the cops, anyway? From what I could see from furtive glances out the window, I was by the docks, but there was no way to be certain when sliding down the road at eighty miles an hour.

I was about to turn on some nameless side street when a bullet hit pay dirt. The round blew out my rear tire at the same time as the road decided that it had had enough of me. The car flipped into the air and crashed back down, sliding on its roof until a large oak decided that it wasn't going to move and I slammed into it. It's hard to say luckily at a moment like this, but luckily the bottom of the car faced the assassins, so that when they opened fire, they couldn't see me crawling out through the broken windshield. When the car burst into flames they decided to leave well enough alone and peeled out, probably figuring the exploding vehicle would draw the cops.

Shivering with the cold and leaving a faint trail of blood from my slashed arms, I hobbled to the nearest house. I managed a few good thumps on the door before I blacked out, hoping that nobody went back to my room and found my purse.