Cogan Jim

The Dirty City

Dedications

Special thanks must go to my three readers who helped me find spelling mistakes and missing words, and most importantly, told me which bits of my books sucked!

So, thank you Shreyonti Chakraborty, William Fletcher, Angie Weber and Rashad Freeman.

About This Book

This book was inspired by my very sudden obsession with all things Film Noir and Hard-Boiled Detective that I developed in early 2014. Initially it was going to be a screenplay for a short film in the Film Noir style, which it became apparent I’d never get to make. Then it mutated into a short story idea. Then I discovered (rather belatedly) the wonder that is self publishing and thought I might be able flesh this out into a book. Then, while planning said book, I succumbed to my love of horror and decided to turn the whole thing on it’s head by sticking some vampires in there. And here we are.

One thing note that one of my wonderful beta readers, Angie Weber, pointed out to me that I should make clear - I’m a British author, and I write using my native British spelling, and this seems to cause a bit of confusion as my book is set in the US and the characters are American. I did consider replacing all the British spellings to Americanised spellings, but then I figured that would probably be a step too far. I think it’s best if I just forewarn you that despite it’s setting, this is a British book, and so on behalf of Great Britain, I apologise in advance about the freaky way we spell works like ‘colour’ and ‘centre’ - and for the way we seem to discriminate against the letter ‘z’ - almost always, and probably very unfairly, favouring the letter ‘s’ in it’s place! But I’m afraid I don’t think we’re going to stop doing these odd things at point soon.

Jim Cogan

CHAPTER 1

The events I’m about to describe to you took place many years ago. I was a young man, but I thought myself wise for my age. I thought I knew a thing or two about life and the world. It would transpire that I was actually very naive.

Very few people would witness the strange and terrible things that I was about to, fewer still would live to tell the tale. But only I would know the real truth.

Time and time again these events occurred, and I would come to learn that they were not mere coincidences, for I was a marked man. Higher powers beyond my comprehension had singled me out for some greater purpose. I could never figure out if I were the hero or a victim. Over the years I’ve concluded that I may be both.

This story tells of how my life first changed. The initial events detailed show how I became aware of the dark forces that lie hidden all around us, out of sight, but not out of reach. I was about to discover that within the city I lived, during the daylight hours - ordinary people went about their business and led their ordinary lives, but after dark - in the amongst the shadows, another, very different breed of people were instigating their terrible agenda. Alongside the thieves, gamblers, drug dealers, murderers and gangsters, the city was also home to vampires…

* * *

As far as drug dens go, this one was a bit classier than usual. This was the mid 1950’s after all – true drug den squalor wouldn’t become a style of interior design for another decade, but for now, we had this.

The front door had been left slightly ajar, which suited me just fine – it might be an occupational hazard in my line of work but I simply wasn’t built for kicking in doors. I observed the soft glow of a dim light on the other side of the door, and a slightly brighter glow behind the curtains of the ground floor exterior windows – the lights were on, was anyone home?

I gently eased the door open just enough to give me a glimpse inside – I was looking onto a short central hallway, empty – good.

The walls were covered in peeling, aging patterned wallpaper, and below my feet, just inside the doorstep threshold, someone had placed a doormat with the word, ‘Welcome,’ emblazoned on it. I recall thinking it was more than a little ironic. The rest of the hallway was covered in wretched looking brown carpet, frayed, stained and littered with the odd cigarette butt and a few discarded liqueur bottles. I tried my best to ignore it but couldn’t help but notice the God-awful stench in the place – a horrible combination of stale tobacco smoke, marijuana fumes, urine and vomit. It was a nasty place, but I was searching for a missing person and missing persons almost always eventually showed up in nasty places.

At the end of the hallway and to the right lay a flight of stairs heading upward – but no light showing from above. At the far end of the hall was a half open door leading into a kitchen. I took a quick peek inside and saw mounds of unwashed dishes and plates on all the surfaces. Flies buzzed here and there, no doubt drawn by the smell of festering food waste. Things definitely weren’t cooking in this kitchen. The figure of a young man in his late teens lay prone on the tiles. He was a mess, vomit caked to his face and clothing, his cheeks bruised and eyes blackened – I remember thinking what a hell of a state for a person to get into. But I clocked his clothes – torn, stained and ruined as they were, those weren’t the threads of a down and out. I noted the well made, neatly tailored seams, this boy was from a rich family. But he wasn’t the person I was looking for, so after the briefest of checks to see if he was actually breathing – and as far as I could tell he was, I left him in his stupor.

To the left of the kitchen was a closed door, with muffled sounds of activity emanating from the other side. I could hear multiple voices and music playing from a wireless radio. I eased the door handle down, and with my free hand reassuringly nestled over my holstered revolver, entered the next room.

I found myself in a sizable sitting room, in a similar state of squalor to the hallway. The people I’d heard all seemed to be in another adjacent room – I could hear them clearer now, at least two female voices and one male, but all with the unmistakable slur of heavy intoxication.

At the far end of the sitting room was the radio I’d heard, and directly in front of the radio there slouched the skinny figure of a man in a wicker chair smoking an elaborate marijuana reefer. I couldn’t make out his features as he had his back to me, but I estimated he must be around mid-twenties. Just to his left was a filthy looking coffee table on which sat an overflowing ashtray, a set of scales, a large marijuana bud, smoking paraphernalia, and most notably – a tray with small items wrapped tightly in aluminium foil. Heroin had finally made it to town.

“Hey,” he said in a languid monotone, not even bothering to look around, “you ain’t a cop, though you sure dress like one, don’t you?”

I clocked the mirror hanging on the far wall – strategically angled to give him a clear view of the area behind him.

“The name’s Jerome - Johnny Jerome. You gotta’ name, son?”

“I sure do, Mr Jerome, but knowing it ain’t no business of yours,” he sniggered, “but the folks here call me Newt, so that’ll have to do for you. You a customer, Mr Jerome? Are you here to sample my wares?”

“No, Newt. I’m a private detective, and I’m looking for this girl.”

I produced the photo the family had given me and held it out in front of me. I could see Newt’s face clearly in the mirror now. He was a scrawny looking runt, untidy, and from the look of him I figured a bath wouldn’t go amiss.

“Her name is -.”

“Michelle, Mr Jerome. And she’s out the back there. Question is, though, what d’you want with her?”

“I’ll keep this brief – the girl’s family have hired me to locate her and bring her home, and I intend to do just that.”

“Well now, Mr Jerome, we might have ourselves a little issue with that. You see, little ole’ Michelle has gone and gotten herself a bit of an expensive habit and she’s managed to run up a sizable debt to me. Although, I must say, she is working real hard to pay it off, she’s doing a sterling job. I got her doing a little hospitality work for some of my clients, if you get my drift?”

“Dealing ain’t enough for you, Newt? You fancy yourself as a pimp as well, eh? Tell me, do you know how old that girl is?”

“Now, there’s knowing,” he shrugged, “and then there’s caring.”

I wanted to wipe that smug, despicable smirk clean off his face. Ten years previous and I’d have already been in the process of beating the skinny bastards face so bad his own mother wouldn’t have been able to recognise him, but that was a different time, almost a whole other lifetime. I’d found, to my credit, that diplomacy and turning the other cheek usually got cleaner results, and was a whole lot safer too.

“Cosy little operation you got going here, Newt. Dope, moonshine and heroin. The cops ever take an interest in you?”

“I think you’ll find that my associates and the local PD have come to something of a gentlemen’s agreement. I don’t know the details, I just know that as long as I keep my operation discreet, the heat stay out of my way.”

“Nice. And I take it you make a pretty sweet living from this game?”

“Well, let’s be honest here. My associates, the guys higher up the chain, I’ve no doubt they must be making at least ten times what I’m earning. But see here. My neighbour, he gets up at 5am, six days a week, he has to drive to the far side of town to work a ten hour shift in a factory that cans dog food. And he barely earns enough to pay his rent each week. I, on the other hand, never get up before 11am, my customers come to me and I earn easily four times as much as my neighbour, my rent is paid for by my associates and I get all the free beer, dope and pussy I want. How much do you earn, Mr Jerome? Come to think of it, how much pussy d’you get these days?”

Again, I had to resist the temptation to pulverise the young punks face. I was done listening to him, it was time to make my play.

“Okay, Newt, enough bullshit, let’s cut to the chase. The girl leaves with me. Now. Otherwise, I have to inform her parents where their daughter is, and what she’s doing here, and they will get the cops involved. The cops might be happy to turn a blind eye to your drug dealing, but unlawfully holding a minor against the will of her legal guardians, not to mention the wilful exploitation of said minor through prostitution? And, if someone were to, say, tip off the local press about what was going down, well they’d be all over it like a rash. The cops would have no choice but to put your gentlemen’s agreement to one side and ensure that justice is seen to be done. In short, they would nail your scrawny ass to the nearest tree. You’d be lucky if you got off with less than a ten stretch, and of course – you know full well what would happen to a skinny little guy like you behind bars, don’t you?”

For once, the little shit had nothing to say.

“So, I think we agree that it is in the best interests of all concerned if the girl leaves with me. I don’t wish to know nor care about the size of the outstanding debt that she owes you,” I said, as I produced a padded envelope from my coat pocket. “But in this envelope is $75 in cash. This is very much a one time offer, and the only scenario on the table that doesn’t end with you in a jail cell squealing like a pig. It ensures mine and the girls safe passage out of here, and causes you to write off any additional debt that she might owe you. In fact, I’d advise that you forget that she was ever here, right?”

I tossed the envelope down on the floor next to him. He grunted unintelligibly, shrugged his hunched shoulders and then turned his attention back to the radio.

Michelle Masters was eighteen years of age, and the photograph her family had given to me showed her to be tall, blonde, of slender build and stunningly beautiful, yet wholesome and innocent. I located her in the back room of the drugs den, slumped on a couch – she bore very little resemblance to the girl in the photo now. Her features were emaciated, her once glowing eyes appeared sunken and dull. She was wearing a cheap, black negligee that left nothing to the imagination – she looked like a washed up whore. She was deathly pale, but thankfully breathing. She was barely conscious and I could see she was wholly incapable of standing, so I scooped her up in my arms and made for the exit. I felt vulnerable as I couldn’t easily get at my gun while carrying her.

I half expected Newt to try and pull something stupid as I walked through the sitting room, but he hadn’t moved a muscle - the envelope still lay on the floor where I’d thrown it. He’d obviously drifted off somewhere within his dope addled mind – and a huge part of me wished he’d end up permanently stuck there, never to return.

I carried the girl out into the cool, night air, dumped her rather unceremoniously into the back of my car, then set off at speed to the emergency room.

* * *

It was around 9.30 AM the following morning by the time I was finally able to leave the hospital. The girl had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the duration of the drive to the hospital, but as I parked up outside she began to convulse, was violently sick all over the rear interior of my car, then slumped back and promptly stopped breathing. I hurriedly carried her inside where she was quickly set upon by a posse of emergency doctors and nurses. It was touch and go for quite a while – she’d massively OD’d, I honestly thought she was a goner but eventually, she pulled through. Just. I didn’t want to give myself too much credit but I was almost certain that she’d have died that night if I hadn’t intervened when I did. I don’t know what Newt would have done, but I suspected that he wouldn’t have been above disposing of a body. I dare say she’d have surfaced a few days later, floating face down in one of the local waterways, or in a black bag at the garbage dump.

I stopped briefly to use the telephone in the hospital foyer to call Lydia, my PA. I make the distinction that Lydia was not just my secretary – it’s a cliché but all private detectives seemed to have a secretary, but secretarial work was just the beginning of her talents. Sure, she greeted my clients, typed up my case notes and made great coffee, but she also looked after all my legal and financial paperwork too. She was a rare diamond, and I certainly paid her more than your average secretary would expect to get – for someone who could keep the IRS off my back I figured it was money well spent.

“J.Jerome Private Investigations, Lydia speaking.”

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s Johnny.”

“Johnny, where the hell are you? Dr Masters has called three times already this morning looking for an update, you said you’d call him last night.”

“I found her, Lydia, but she was in a bad way. But don’t worry, she’s safe now, she’s at St Judes, call him back and let him know, alright?”

“Got it, Johnny, nice work.”

“Oh, and can you get that fella’ from East and Twenty-Third to come down town and valet the car. There was a bit of an unfortunate – accident.”

“Sounds lovely, Johnny, will do. Hey, you got a visitor, been waiting here for you to show since I opened up. You heading back this way anytime soon?”

“Yeah, should be about twenty minutes, who you got there?”

“A Mr Jameson, a lawyer – another missing person I think.”

I hated lawyers, the financial blood-sucking parasites that they are, but when a lawyer walks in as a client, well that’s different. There was simply no such thing as a poor lawyer, I had a scale of fees specifically for lawyers. It started at fifteen percent higher than what I’d charge for anyone else, and increased at twice the normal rate if the job got complicated. I had no moral or ethical dilemmas with this practice, and in reality I’d only ever stand to claw back a tiny percentage of the amount of money that various lawyers would screw out of me, so I what the hell.

“I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER 2

My commute back to the office took me via the main bridge over the river that snaked through the centre of the city. The view afforded from the bridge always seemed to make me reminisce.

The city of Santa Justina is something of a curiosity. From its foundation as a small port with a trading outpost in the early eighteen hundreds, over the following century, apart from minor road and rail links, very little changed. Its small community grew at a snail’s pace – but then World War II happened and things went crazy. In came massive investment, the natural harbour was utilised as a fully fledged dock for export and import, factories and industrial infrastructure sprang up all over on the previously empty and undeveloped land. Residential blocks were rapidly erected to house the inevitable influx of workers and an urban sprawl began.

Shortly after the war, amongst many others, I arrived in town. Back then things were very different, it was like the model town – the American dream. I don’t know exactly when it changed - a lot of people blamed the change in the drinking laws. Prohibition was long over but Santa Justina was a dry city up until 1950. Boy, did we ever make up for it after, though! Then things got a little complicated, it seemed that as the city grew at an ever increasing rate, it was somehow mutating. There was always crime, but now it became organised and on a grander scale. The night opened up to all manner of vices; late night bars, gambling dens, strip joints, prostitution. Santa Justina had become a city of sin, a dirty city.

I moved there to become a cop, and who knows, had things been different I might have been a cop for a lot longer. One day I was a fine, upstanding officer of the law, I made one mistake and trusted someone I shouldn’t have - the next day I was an ex cop with a dirty reputation. There weren’t too many career paths open to someone under those circumstances, disgraced cops had a habit of either turning their back on the law altogether and adopting a life of crime, or they became private detectives. I chose the latter.

So, Santa Justina was a dirty city, but this worked to my advantage. There’s a lot of good business in a dirty city for a private detective.

* * *

My office was right in the centre of town, I’d been lucky to get the place – it was a first floor premises above a busy convenience store, accessed through a discreet side door and up a narrow stairwell.

‘J.Jerome Private Investigations Ltd’ emblazoned the outer office door in as impressive and dynamic a font as I could afford the sign writer to produce. The door gave way to a modest reception and waiting area – this was Lydia’s domain. She was seated at her sizable desk, the usual array of paperwork strategically placed in front of her. Hell, I didn’t even know what most of it was these days, but Lydia did, thank God. Those bits of paper, receipts, bills, licences - to me they were like the by-product of my profession, the annoying detritus that ended up clinging to me at the end of a working day. When a case was over I would dust them off me and they’d fall chaotically onto Lydia’s desk, and she would gather it all up and make sense of it all.

Lydia was a well built woman, gracefully negotiating her forties, about five-five, pretty - with feminine charm, but a good head for figures and a very sharp mind. She’d never married, she always told me she’d never found a guy who measured up to her expectations. I could understand that, she didn’t suffer fools and she was never going to be some guys obedient housewife. Considering this was a largely pre-feminist era I guess Lydia was well ahead of her time.

“Well it’s about time, he’s in your office, on his fourth cup of coffee.”

Lydia didn’t even look up, she was ensconced in a complicated assortment of papers and files.

“Thanks, Sweetheart. And the car-.”

“He’ll be over at 11.30, and he says if its blood he’ll charge you double.”

“He’s got me by the balls on this one, it ain’t blood but I sure as hell ain’t touching the stuff – but if he asks for more than fifty dollars, tell him he can go take a hike.”

I hastily hung up my hat and coat on the stand in the waiting room and headed into my office.

“Mr Jameson, Johnny Jerome, apologies for keeping you waiting, it’s been a crazy morning.”

Richard Jameson rose to meet me as I entered and offered an outstretched hand. I took it, firmly – but cautiously, that’s the extent to which I don’t trust lawyers - they’ve always got something nasty up their sleeve.

“Mr Jerome, glad to make your acquaintance. Apologies for appearing on your doorstep unannounced, but I require your assistance in an urgent and delicate personal matter.”

I politely ushered him back into his seat, then strode around to the other side of my oak desk.

“Well, you better tell me all about it?”

“Word is that you know a bit about the, how shall I put it? The ‘darker’ aspects of this city.”

“You could say that.”

“My son, Anton. I sent him to a top college last summer, away from here. It wasn’t cheap but I thought it was best. He flunked out after the first semester – so I dragged his sorry backside back here. I fixed him up with some part time work, a junior clerk role at my legal practice, just something to get him re-focused, show him what work really was and let him earn some money. I was hoping he’d come around to trying college again the following year, write this year off as a false start.”

I could appreciate the sentiment, what parent wouldn’t want the best for their kid? But most people I knew didn’t earn in five years what it cost to put someone through a top college for a single year, and that just made me dislike Jameson all the more.

“But things didn’t go to plan?”

I offered Jameson a cigarette from a box on my table – I never touch the filthy things, I guess I was ahead of my time in that respect, but pretty much all my clients smoked, it was kind of expected. Jameson took one and lit up right away. He exhaled deeply, as if composing himself for the finale of the story. This was the bit where it all went bad.

“At first it was fine, I thought he was back on track. But he’s a young lad, impressionable, and he suddenly had his own money in his back pocket. And in this city, well, you know how it is?”

“I’ve an idea, but why don’t you tell me how it is, exactly?”

“He fell in with some – unsavoury sorts. I didn’t want to discourage the boy from having friends, a social life. I’m not an ogre. Perhaps I should have been, I let him go astray. Before I knew it he was into something over his head.”

“And what would that be?”

I could tell Jameson had trouble admitting it to himself, let alone saying it out loud. He swallowed hard, took another long puff of his cigarette then came out with it.

“Drugs, Mr Jerome. First it was just liqueur, I wasn’t happy, I disciplined him severely, but I put it down to youthful hijinks. But then it got more serious. I began to suspect he was dabbling with marijuana – he’d become lethargic, vague. He started turning up late to work, then skipping shifts feigning illness. Then he stopped bothering to turn up at all. I took him to task, threatened him with packing him off to a military boarding school. He promised me things would improve, that he’d sort himself out. Next day he didn’t show up for work again. I got home and found him gone, along with $250 in cash from the safe in my study. That was four weeks ago, there’s been no trace of him since.”

“And you’ve been to the police?”

“Yes, for all the good it’s done.”

I had to agree with him there, Santa Justina’s finest couldn’t find their own butt cheeks with both hands and map. They wouldn’t have had a clue where to find this kid.

“And that’s where you come in, Mr Jerome. I need him found. Fast. I lost his poor, departed mother, I can’t lose him as well.”

I almost felt a little bit for the guy. Imagine that, me feeling sympathy for a lawyer. Almost. But not that much, let’s be honest.

“Now then, Mr Jameson, lets remain positive here. I’ve just closed a case this morning so my schedule is open, I can start work on this right away. But, this kind of investigation often requires going to some fairly shady places – dangerous places. And dangerous means expensive.”

“Name your price, Mr Jerome, find Anton and you shall have it.”

“I’m going to quote you a flat rate here, $25 a day, plus an additional $2,000 when I find him.”

“Not a problem,” he handed me a hefty envelope, “in here you’ll find $500, let’s call it an incentive, shall we?”

Hot damn! Had a lawyer ever handed over their cash as easily as this in the history of the universe?

“I’m going to need a recent photograph of Anton.”

“Here you are, Mr Jerome. I trust this will be okay, it was taken about three months back?”

And just when I thought the day couldn’t get any better, here was the coup de grace!

“That’s Anton?”

Sweet Jesus, I couldn’t believe it – the youth starring back at me in the photo was none other than the poor, unfortunate lad I’d seen at the drugs den the previous night. This had the potential to be the fastest money I’d ever made, although I was almost sad that it might be over so quick, what with the $25 a day fee and all. But I had to disguise my delight pretty well, lest I had to also admit to Jameson that whilst I had seen his son less than 24 hours ago, let’s just say he wasn’t at his best. Hell, for all I knew the kid could be lying dead in that shit-hole kitchen right now.

I hastily concluded things with Jameson and showed him to the door, I didn’t want to waste any time on this. I was flagging a bit, having not had any sleep for over twenty four hours, but this was the nature of the job sometimes. If I cashed in here I could afford to take a few days off.

“Lydia, I gotta’ get back across town,” I said, gathering up my hat and coat.

“But it’s only 10.30, your car -.”

“I need a favour, sweetheart.”

“Oh come on, Johnny!”

“I promise I won’t do anything stupid, I’ll drive real careful, I swear.”

“You know if there is the slightest dent in my car I will cut off both your balls with a rusty knife then force feed them to you?”

She reluctantly handed me the keys – I gave her a cheeky wink, then hot-tailed it out of the door before she could change her mind.

* * *

Lydia was the only woman I knew at the time who could drive, let alone owned their own car. Her car was her pride and joy, and she kept it so pristine it was crazy, the damn thing gleamed!

I drove as fast as I felt I could get away with, terrified that someone would pull out dangerously in front of me at a junction, or slam into the back of me whilst stopped at traffic lights.

Eventually I pulled into the secluded road where the drug den was situated. Or rather, I turned to pull into the road and promptly had to stop dead before a police roadblock. Dozens of uniformed cops were manning the roadblock, with plenty more milling around behind. I backed up and parked a little way down the street, then headed back on foot to see if I could get a closer look.

The police barriers were a considerable distance away, but I could see what was going on, and sure enough, it was the drugs den that was the centre of attention. I could make out that unlike myself the previous evening, the cops had elected to kick the door in, so much so that it was hanging off the hinges.

As I stood at the edge of the street a bizarre scene was unfolding. I spotted three figures lying prone in the middle of the road, presumably having just been carried or dragged outside. None of them were moving. From my slightly distant vantage point I could make out that they appeared to be two guys and a girl, but no sign of Anton Jameson.

Then I saw someone who was very familiar to me, one Lt Joseph Wails – a former colleague of mine from my time on the force. We had a lot of history did me and Joe, he was one of the many colleagues I had who were quick to turn their back on me and ultimately let me carry the wrap for the incident that got me kicked out. Hate is a strong word, and I try not to use it too often – a life spent hating is a wasted life in my book, but let’s just say I deeply resented Wails – for what he did, for the fact he was still on the force despite being twice as dirty a cop as I ever was, and especially because I knew he simply didn’t give a damn - he’d never expressed an ounce of guilt or remorse about screwing me over like that. Which is why what happened next really brightened up my day.

Wails was inspecting the three prone figures, leaning over and prodding each of them – slapping their faces as if to try and rouse them. The girl and the first guy were definitely out of it, but upon his manhandling of the second guy, who I might add was of a very big and muscular build, he very suddenly reacted. The figure leapt to his feet, his eyes suddenly wide open and wild. He swung an absolute peach of a right cross into the Lt’s startled looking face and he went down like a sack of shit, his hands clutching at his bloodied nose. For a second the guy just stood there, appearing to admire his handy work, then four uniformed cops set upon him with batons. Rather impressively, the guy held them off for about a minute before they finally took him down, forcing him face down on the ground then getting cuffs on him.

“God damn it! Why in the name of God was this man not restrained!” Bawled Wails, spraying a mix of saliva and blood as he shouted.

“Sorry, lieutenant, we assumed he was unconscious like the other two,” offered one of the uniforms, feebly.

“Does that son of a bitch look unconscious to you, asshole?”

“No Sir, I-.”

“Do unconscious people make a habit of assaulting officers of the law?”

“Sir-.”

“No, they fucking don’t, Officer! Get this piece of shit down to the station, and if he gives you trouble you break his motherfucking balls, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir!”

The officers dragged the man away and the drama was over. I watched as Wails headed in my direction. On his way he was joined by another old familiar of mine, Sgt Scott Glenn. This was a good sign, he was a decent guy, a good cop – and one of the few people in the squad who didn’t line up to put the boot into me when things went bad. While Glenn was checking the Lt over to see if he was alright, I noticed that another figure was being led out of the drug den in cuffs. It was Newt, the dealer. If Anton Jameson wasn’t here anymore, Newt might be the one person who could tell me where he might have gone. I knew I had to speak to him, only problem was between me and him was a police barrier, dozens of uniforms and…

“Jerome! What in the name of damn are you doing here?”

“Hey, Lt. Scotty.”

“Hey, Johnny, how’s it g-.”

“Shut up, Glenn! Jerome, this is proper police business, you ain’t got no place being here.”

“I’m on a case, missing person, possibly a patron of that there little establishment that your boys are tearing apart. And I must say, what a pleasure it’s been watching you in action. Although, you got a little blood there on your shirt, by the way.”

“Shut your mouth, wise-ass. So, you’re still doing that private eye bullshit? I hear most of that kind of work is spying on cheating spouses while they fuck their secret lovers in seedy motels. That true?”

“Sure is, Lt. Speaking of which, how is Mrs Wails these days?”

“Why, you son of a bitch-!”

“Easy, Lt, why don’t you go see the medic, get yourself checked over properly, eh? Let me sort this out.”

Had to hand it to good old Scotty, he had a way of dealing with Wails. It made me kind of glad that I wasn’t on the force anymore, I’d have shot that bastard long ago!

“You get him out of here, you got that, Sgt? You hearing me, Jerome, you go look elsewhere for your missing druggie, this place is off limits.”

Finally, and to my great relief, Lt Wails departed. Now I could go to work.

“Thanks, Scotty. So what’s the crack here?”

“Dope house bust.”

“You know about the heroin, right?”

“Ain’t found any yet, but that ain’t what we’re looking for, we’re here for marijuana.”

Strange as it seems, but at the time that was the line of thinking at the very top. Dope was deemed to be the biggest threat to our society, those darn communists were flooding the country with it to turn us into a nation of hopelessly stoned idiots, no doubt with the long term plan to invade and conquer us while we were all shitfaced. Meanwhile, the French Connection was in full swing and heroin was coming in right, left and centre and seemingly no-one gave a shit.

“The Mayor is up for re-election next spring, so he wants to be seen to be tough – he’s picking up the official line from Washington and looking to wipe out the scourge that is dope from our fair streets. So here we are.”

I could see Glenn wanted to wind up the friendly small talk.

“Anyway, Johnny, it’s been good to see you, but you heard the Lt.”

“Scotty, I need a favour.”

“The hell you do-.”

“That guy over there, the dealer, I need to speak to him.”

“You gotta’ be shittin’ me, Johnny?”

“C’mon, two minutes, that’s all I’m after.”

“But Wails-.”

“Screw Wails!”

“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to work with the asshole.”

“I’m going to give you something of use here, Scotty. Last night I was here. Different case – missing girl, Santa Justina PD failed to find her, Michelle Masters, you familiar with that one.”

“Sure, someone brought her into the hospital last night, was that you, Johnny?”

“Sure was, she was in a very bad way, massive heroin OD, but she just about made it. Whilst getting her out of there I spotted a kid passed out on the kitchen floor, turns out he is the son of some hotshot lawyer, who just happened to turn up at my office this morning hoping I could find him. That’s why I’m here, but it seems the kid ain’t here no more, and that guy you got cuffed up over there might be the only lead as to where he’s at now.”

“That’s your case, Johnny, not ours, I don’t see what-.”

“Look, no doubt there was a small bit of dope dealing going on in there, but that place was being geared up for heroin. Hopeless addicts, guaranteed repeat business, it’s a dependable and profitable racket at the moment.”

“But so far we’ve found next to nothing. A few reefer butts in an ashtray, a hung over dealer and three – well, actually two unconscious customers and one with a penchant for playing dead then punching police officers, but no sign of any dope or any heroin.”

“Those two unconscious customers – from here they look like they’re in a similar state to the girl I rescued last night. If I was a gambling man I’d say they’ve panicked when your boys started kicking in the door and swallowed their stash.”

In later years, when the true danger of heroin was realised and taken seriously, this kind of calamitous situation would become a thing of the past. But for now, I had to accept the cops naivety and give them a few pointers every now and again.

“Meaning, Scotty, that unless you react, fast, you could end up with two fatalities on your hands.”

“Oh shit!”

“And while you’re reacting, seeing as I gave you this little heads up, you’re not going to notice that I’m going to cross this here barrier and go and have a chat with our dealer friend over there, right?”

“Two minutes, Johnny, and you better be gone when Wails heads back this way.”

And with that, Glenn turned tail and ran to find a medic.

* * *

“Well, well, Newt, we do seem to meet in the most bizarre of circumstances, do we not?”

In the light of day Newt looked younger but at the same time somehow more haggard. I put it down to having his beauty sleep interrupted by a police raid. The cops had cuffed him behind his back and then unceremoniously dumped him down on the kerbside.

“I’ve not slept since we met last night, had to rush that girl over to the hospital, and then it’s just been one thing after another – but you, you look like crap, do you know that?”

He finally raised his head a little and squinted in my general direction.

“Hey. You. You’re that private dick who showed up last night.”

“Yep, now I’d love to waste time chatting but the clock is counting down. There was a guy, crashed out cold, in your kitchen last night.”

“Was there? Lots of people pass out in my kitchen, you can’t expect me to make a mental log of them all, can you?”

“This was the guy, I’m sure you’d remember him, he was probably a very good customer of yours, he may well have had turned up at yours with a significant amount of dough to spend?”

I held the photo out in front of him.

“You know what they say about a fool and their money, Mr – shit, what was the name again?”

“Jerome. And I don’t need riddles, Newt, I need to know where he went.”

Newt looked at the photo again, this time there was the light of recognition in his eyes.

“Oh, its Anton, Mr ‘My daddy is a hotshot lawyer.’ The poor little rich boy.”

“Great, so you know him, do you know where he might be staying?”

“Fucked if I know, Mr Jerome, my customers don’t usually tell and I’m not interested enough to ask. As long as they got the green I couldn’t give a rats ass if they live on Mars.”

My heart sank, time was almost up and it didn’t seem like Newt had the answers I wanted. But then he said something that re-ignited the trail.

“Anyway, Anton didn’t exactly leave my establishment by his own volition last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“About an hour after you took the girl, some guys turned up looking for Anton.”

“What kind of guys?”

“Mob guys. I thought they were delivering me more stash, but it turned out they were after him. As you saw, he wasn’t exactly in any position to resist.”

“And you have no idea where they took him, or why?”

“If I was you, I’d go find that little bitch whore you dragged out of here last night and ask her, she was real keen on Anton. She might know something.”

So Michelle Masters and Anton Jameson were close, perhaps even lovers. That made it all the more fortunate that I had saved her life last night because she was my main lead now.

“Hey, Mr Jerome. Did you tip off the cops about those chumps over there swallowing the heroin?”

“It was an educated guess. How much did they have?”

“Shit, enough to kill a God damn horse I reckon. They all panicked when the heat started kicking in the door, they just got rid of it the fastest way they could think of. But did you see Rudy, though?”

“Was he the big guy, what the hell had he taken?”

“Oh man, are you familiar with methamphetamine?”

“Speed? He ate a load of speed?”

“Man, that shit makes you so crazy.”

“Well that explains why it took so many cops to take him down. But what about you, Newt?” I studied him a bit closer, “you ate the dope, didn’t you?”

“I sure did, Mr Jerome. A hell of a lot safer than the other crap, that’s for sure!”

“How much did you swallow?”

“The mother load! The whole God damn stash!”

“Shit, kid, in about an hours time you’re going to be hallucinating demons coming out of the walls.”

“And you know what the best bit is? They’re about to haul my ass down to the station to try and interview me. Man, you can just imagine how that’s going to go down – it’s going to be fucking hilarious!”

I still hated him, but he knew how to make me chuckle. And he was right, what I’d have given to have been a fly on the wall during that interview!

* * *

I left Newt to his impending stupor, and not a moment too soon. I’d literally just got myself on the right side of the police barrier when Wails and a legion of uniforms turned up to take him away.

I turned to head back to the car and almost walked straight into a man coming the other way.

“Whoa there, friend, you need to pay a little attention to where you’re headed.”

The man was feverishly scrawling notes onto a reporters pad. It was Michael Thomas, a.k.a. Mickey the Weasel, the most notorious hack on the Santa Justina Tribune.

“Jerome. Curious as to what brings you here?”

“Turned up on a case, and ended up crashing a party.”

“The cops aren’t saying shit about this, I’m assuming this is part of the Mayors ‘War on Dope?’ You got an angle on this?”

Now, as anyone knows, you need to be careful what you say around reporters, and Mickey was especially tricky.

“I’m here looking for a missing person, that’s all. I know they were here, but it looks like they shot through long before the shit went down.”

“Well that’s just too bad for you. Missing person, eh? Don’t you think there’s been an abnormally high number of those lately?”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed, Mickey.”

“Oh yes, indeed. Probably not too many of the types going missing got friends or family with the kind of resources to hire a private detective, though, so I guess that’s why you ain’t aware. It’s drunks, homeless bums and hobos, near do wells, the people at the bottom. The ones who don’t get missed too easily.”

Mickey, while in his own twisted way, was a bastion of free speech and the truth will out, I also found him a slightly unpleasant person to have to be around. But he had spiked my interest a little.

“Are we talking a recent spate of disappearances? What, last couple of months?”

“Well now, you want to know more, perhaps you can tell me what else has been going on in that house there?”

“Sure. On the proviso, naturally, that you heard all this from someone else, right?”

“If you say so, Jerome.”

“It’s a dope den, but it’s also doing a good trade in heroin.This place has been actively running with the police’s knowledge for a while, word is there are some very generous benefactors paying to keep it off the radar. Although it would appear that the deal has now gone sour. And you might be interested that two patrons found on site, massively OD’d, are being rushed to the hospital as we speak. It’s not looking god for them, if what I heard was accurate.”

Mickey was scrawling at high speed again, he was nothing if not efficient.

“Well, it’s pretty much as I’d suspected, just gotta’ hope at least one of those OD victims doesn’t make it and I might just have a front page.”

“You’re a real humanitarian, Mickey, you know that? Anyway, you were going to tell me more about the missing persons?”

“Last six months. Unprecedented levels, mostly amongst the very dregs of society, so really no-one is that fussed. Cops couldn’t give two hoots, but it’s the nature of the disappearances that are – shall we say, a little curious.”

“Go on.”

“Well, there are witnesses – all reporting weird, unfeasible things, but consistently. Folks turn their back on someone, they turn around a moment later and they’re gone. People head into dead end alleyways and don’t come out, no trace found. It’s real fuckin’ smoke and mirrors shit. One or two reports, I wouldn’t give it the time of day, but this keeps on happening, and people keep telling me the same stuff. They’re scared, really, genuinely afraid – it’s like the bogeyman in the shadows or somethin’. Weird shit, eh?”

“And you believe it”

“I don’t fucking know, I just write about it. Or rather, I would, if my mutherfuckin’ editor gave a flying fuck about it. Instead he wants me covering the Mayors anti-dope campaign. What a crock of shit.”

I said my perfunctory goodbyes to Mickey, at the time I gave his story little serious consideration, it’s good to keep up to speed with what’s going down on the street. To be honest I was more hoping that some unfortunate turn of events would lead to Lt. Wails ending up destitute on the streets. That was one asshole I’d love to vanish into thin air. I had no idea of how significant what I’d just been told would turn out to be.

CHAPTER 3

I pulled up back at St Judes Hospital just before 1.30pm. I was tired and now completely starving so I’d planned to grab a bite to eat at the hospital canteen.

As I entered the building I heard a familiar sound – a little quirk of the city. It was the city public address system test.

During the war the city authorities constructed this vast public address system, a massive network of speakers were dotted around strategic areas of the city, the aim being that important notifications could be broadcast to the populace quickly and easily. I guess back then they were thinking air-raids or something. The system was meticulously maintained at great public expense – and come the 1950’s it was going to be our first warning of attacks by the commies, maybe even one day used to deliver the unthinkable warning about impending nuclear attack.

And every Wednesday, at precisely 1.30pm, that’s when they tested it, to ensure all the speakers and connections were working. The test tone they played was damn spooky, it was sort of a cross between a traditional air-raid warning alarm mixed with the kind of tense, atmospheric music you get in the lead up to a bloodcurdling scene in a horror movie! I always thought it must scare the living crap out of people who were new in town and unaware of what it was!

To my knowledge the public address system had never truly been used in anger. It would later play a big part in saving the whole city from a fate far worse than death.

* * *

The food served in the canteen at the hospital was well renowned for being notoriously bad. I did wonder if a percentage of the patients admitted were done so as a direct result of the crap they peddled there, however – deny a person sleep or food for over twenty four hours and you’ll be astonished at what they can find palatable.

I ordered what they referred to as an ‘All Day Breakfast,’ and greedily wolfed the whole lot down, despite only being able to reasonably identify about 50% of what was piled up on my plate. I washed it down with two steaming hot cups of black coffee, Lord knows what it would do to my insides, but it all gave me a big hit of energy. I hoped it would be enough to stop me falling asleep at the wheel of Lydia’s car on the drive back.

Suitably refuelled I set off to locate Michelle Masters. She had been taken out of intensive care and stuck in a private room on a ward. I was advised by a strict looking ward sister that only family were permitted to enter at this time, so I did what any PI would do; I lied and claimed to be her uncle, and she let me past. Works every time.

As I approached the door of the private room I spotted Dr David Masters, Michelle’s father – he and his wife had hired me to find her. He looked terrible, a shadow of the man I’d met in my office just a few short days ago. He was a slim set man, I estimated him to be in his late forties – he had previously merely looked concerned for his beloved daughter, now she was safe - there was something else. I could see it in his features.

“Dr Masters.”

“Mr Jerome - apologies, I’ve been meaning to call your office – I can’t tell you how grateful myself and Helena are to you, you saved our little girls life.”

“All in a days work, Dr Masters. Can I ask, is Michelle conscious, might I be permitted to speak to her?”

“Of course, Mr Jerome, I’ll take you in – but just one thing,” he paused at the door. He looked like a man dealing with massive internal conflict, as if all the things he’d previously been assured about were being called into question, “Helena – she doesn’t know the exact details of the circumstances that Michelle found herself in. I’ve only been told what the doctors here can ascertain from examining her, and frankly that is something no father should ever have to hear.”

“I understand, Doc, you can count on my discretion.”

Poor bastard. Daddy’s little girl wasn’t a little girl no more.

* * *

The room was dimly lit with a single bedside lamp. Michelle Masters was lying in a hospital bed with all manner of tubes and other medical paraphernalia sticking out of her. She looked like she was sleeping.

At her bedside, holding her hand, sat Mrs Helena Masters. She was a classy, immaculately groomed lady in her early forties. Like any concerned parent would, she was showing the signs of the strain, but nowhere near to the extent of her husband. I wondered if she’d ever find out the full story, but a big part of me agreed with the Doc, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. I got the impression that a revelation like that would destroy the woman.

As I approached, she turned to look at me, her expression adjusting with acknowledgment.

“Mr Jerome, I don’t know how to thank you, you got our little girl back. Michelle. Michelle, honey, this is Mr Jerome – the man I was telling you about.”

Michelle didn’t move or even open her eyes.

“You’ll have to excuse her, Mr Jerome, she’s still really tired after her ordeal.”

“It’s okay, Mrs Jameson. I just dropped by to see she how she was doing. But I was wondering…” I paused, trying to make my request as gently as I could, “I’m working on a new case, another missing person, similar circumstances. I’ve reason to believe Michelle might be able to help.”

“Well, you can ask her, she hasn’t really spoken much since – well, you know?”

“I appreciate this is a bit unorthodox, but,” again, I left a subtle pause, “I’d really like to talk to her alone, if possible. I need to speak to her about someone called Anton.”

“Mr Jerome, I’d have to insist that you don’t-.”

“Mom. It’s okay. I’ll speak to him,” everyone rapidly glanced around to Michelle, her eyes now wide open. I’d had a feeling that might get her attention.

“Michelle, honey, you’re still recovering.”

“It’s alright, Mom, this is important, I need to do this, please.” Michelle gave her mother the little girl eyes and smiled – she was some piece of work, she knew just how to play her.

Reluctantly, Helen Masters agreed and the Doc ushered his wife outside. I sensed that she had her reservations but the fact that Michelle was talking again seemed to act as source of comfort to her, so she didn’t protest too much.

“Thank you, Michelle.”

“Who told you about me and Anton?” Her expression had shifted, she had dropped the sick little girl in hospital act very quickly indeed.

“Newt.”

“That son of a bitch. You know what he did to me?”

“I only know what he told me.”

“And you’re looking for Anton?”

“Yes, his father-.”

“Is a self-obsessed, controlling son of a bitch.”

“Well, he’s a lawyer, so I guess that’s a fair description.”

“He hired you to find him, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“Anton doesn’t want to be found.”

“I know that too. But someone has found him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was at Newt’s place last night, when I came to get you out of there. Have to say, he was not in a good way. However, turns out that was the least of his problems - Newt reckons some hoods turned up and took him away. Mob guys. I need to know what he was into, and how deep. His life could depend on it, and you’re one of the few people he might have spoken to about it.”

“Oh God!” For the first time since we began talking her expression softened.

“I know this is hard. I know this is painful, but you’ve got to tell me all you know about Anton, I think he’s in way over his head. I need your help,” the good old fashioned guilt trip, it rarely failed.

She sighed, “Okay, Mr Jerome.”

“Good girl, start at the beginning.”

“We met at Newt’s place. I’d known Newt for a few months, a friend put me onto him, she told me he sold the best dope in the city. That was true at least, it was good shit. I started buying more of it, then when things went crazy at home Newt let me stay at his place, rent free. I thought he was being nice, I should have seen it coming.”

“He’s a creep, that’s what he does. Go on.”

“I’d been staying there a few nights when one evening Anton showed up. He was a new customer as well. We got talking, we got really stoned together, and you know, one thing led to another. For a few days things were great. Anton and I were inseparable; he had all these crazy plans, about getting out the city, going somewhere new and starting over. Looking back, it seems so naive.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. This happiness. It didn’t last?”

“Anton ran out on his father, taking a load of money with him. He was living off that, it was all he had.”

“Where was he staying?”

“At first in some cheap, shitty motel, but they started getting suspicious of him. So he started sleeping rough, he told me he’d fallen in with some of the crowd near the Old Portland Bridge by the old dockside.”

“Sounds like a dangerous place for a kid like that to be?”

“That’s what I told him, whenever I could I convinced to stay with me at Newt’s place. Funny, that’s where the problems began.”

“Newt took exception to having another lodger?”

“Not at first. Anton had money, he was paying his dues. He was buying a lot of dope from Newt. But then money started to run a bit short, that’s when Newt did the one thing that ensured we couldn’t run out on him.”

“What happened?”

“One night, we didn’t have enough money to pay for dope, Newt said it was fine, that he didn’t mind – he liked having us both around. Then he offered us something new, something we’d never done before.”

“Heroin?”

“We didn’t really know what it was at the time. We smoked it, Newt helped us – he said this stuff could be dangerous if you did it wrong. It was very different to dope.”

“How long was Newt giving you the stuff for free?”

“About a week. And then…” I could see tears bubbling up in her eyes. “And then he had us. Both of us, we needed it. That first day Newt told me it wasn’t free no more, I tried to go without. My God, it was like my life was going to end. Anton was worse, he’d been able to smoke a lot more of it than me.”

“So what did you and Anton do?”

“Anton promised me he could fix this, he went out, I don’t know what he did but he got money. I asked where it came from and he lied about it. I could tell, he’d been so honest and open with me up until that point. He claimed it was money he was owed by a friend, but he couldn’t look me in the eye. I never found out where it came from, I assumed he stole it. I didn’t want to think about it – for all I knew he could have been robbing people in the street. But he had money, and we were able to get what we needed from Newt, and for a day or two, it was alright again. And so it carried on, I stopped asking where Anton was getting the money, I didn’t want to know anymore, I was just relieved that he was able to get it.”

“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.

CHAPTER 4

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.

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!’

“Dr Del-Ray, my apologies for being late.”

“Mr Jerome, thank you for fitting us into your busy schedule,” she offered a dainty hand, which I shook politely. “This is my lab associate, Dr Walter Smitts.”

Christ, I hadn’t even noticed him! He was sat to her right side, sporting a look of general disinterest, a short, skinny, runt of a guy – I estimated about mid-thirties. He sported a conservative shirt, trousers and tie coupled with a truly tasteless waistcoat. He was evidently also a brainiac, but without the social skills that Dr Del-Ray possessed. He barely acknowledged being introduced, so I merely smiled briefly in his direction then turned my attention back her.

“And how can I assist you both?”

“We’re both research academics at the Santa Justina Institute for Advanced Studies. Our current research is a little, unusual.”

“Unusual is always good, keeps life interesting. Do go on.”

“The occult, Mr Jerome,” piped up Smitts for the first time.

“Excuse me?”

“Paranormal activity, unexplained phenomena – places modern science doesn’t normally go,” said Del-Ray, in a diffusing tone.

“What, ghosts and shit?” Great, yet more crazy talk.

Smitts rolled his eyes, but Del-Ray persisted, “I appreciate this sounds a little - farfetched, I can assure you, we’re not crazies, We apply scientific methods to investigating things that don’t provide simple, rational explanations. Like all scientists, we are seekers of the truth.”

“Okay, sounds swell, but what do you need me for?”

“Why indeed?” Smitts muttered under his breath, but knowingly loud enough for me to hear. So there was a dynamic here, she was the one who wanted to hire me, he was against it – but she was the senior partner.

“Walter, please. That’s enough, let Mr Jerome hear us out first.”

“I’m all ears, sweetheart.” I could tell right away she hated being labelled with such a disposable term of endearment, I could read the disapproval in her face. Which cheered me a up a bit, I was coming to the conclusion she was a bit of a tight-ass.

“There are some strange things going on in this city, Mr Jerome. People are going missing, the city is being flooded with cheap, plentiful supplies of an extremely dangerous and addictive narcotic-.”

“Yep, know all that.”

She hated being interrupted too!

“Witnesses are reporting very unusual sightings. People, after dark who lurk in the shadows-.”

“Dr Del-Ray, you’re describing three quarters of the underworld gangsters in the entire city.”

“Please can you refrain from interrupting me with your petty wisecracks, there is no-one else here in this room to appreciate them.”

Well, that told me!

“These people, they’re described as being fast, unbelievably stealthy, impossibly strong. And they only come out at night.”

Oh boy, I couldn’t believe it, yet more crazy talk!

“I still don’t see what you want me to do?”

“We want to understand what they are, Mr Jerome. And what they want with the people they’re kidnapping,” interjected Smitts.

“Sounds really fascinating, honest – it really does,” which was my nice way of saying that this sounds like time wasting bullshit! “But, this is the stuff of teenage Halloween fiction and I’m a serious private detective, I don’t see a job for me here.”

“Frankly, you disappoint me, Mr Jerome.” Del-Ray’s features hardened, I figured she’d finally had enough of me at that point. “Two respected academics want to hire you to investigate something of extraordinary scientific and social significance, and you’d sooner be doing what? Finding missing drug addicts and spying on unfaithful spouses?”

“Hey, I do my best to keep an open mind, but this – this is a folly that could damage my credibility.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way – most PI’s share your sentiment, but I was led to believe that you might be more understanding, evidently I was mistaken.”

“I apologise if I’ve been misrepresented.”

“This is my card, it has my contact details for me at the Institute. I would urge you, if in a few days time things start going a little bit insane, then you might actually find you need our help.” She dropped the printed card onto my desk and briskly rose from her chair, “good afternoon, Mr Jerome.”

“And good afternoon to you, Dr Del-Ray,” I looked over at Smitts and couldn’t resist a last jibe at him, “And whatever your name was, my friend.”

Smitts sneered and turned his nose up at me as if he’d just seen me defecate on the floor. What an asshole. She was feisty, though, but definitely a tight-ass.

I found Del-Ray and Smitts somewhat laughable, I was an ashamed sceptic, but the days strangeness quota kept on increasing. I had to admit, it was interesting and I was curious, but I was also a realist – I had real work to do and chasing shadows was surely going to be a distraction from that, so I tried to put it out of my mind…

CHAPTER 5

With the trail on Anton Jameson going colder by the hour, I decided to change tack a little. I’d tried talking to the mob, I figured it was time to get the inside track from the cops.

I got told once, by a pretty senior cop, that if you see a cop in his fifties, working the beat on the streets, no promotions, no upwardly rising career - still one of the guys and seemingly no aspirations to go any further, you can bet that cop is as crooked as a bag of snakes. No-one could afford to live on a patrol officers salary their whole life, let alone retire on their measly pension. It stands to reason that they must be supplementing their income – and in a city like Santa Justina that was pretty easy to do.

One such cop was Edgar Blunt. He was already a fifteen year veteran of the streets when I arrived in town, and to be fair, the police work that he did do, he did it pretty well. He was good with the general public, always jovial and fair. But he could be bought really easily. $10 was all it took to get a person off being arrested for minor offence, $5 if they were under twenty one, but that was just beer money. He was paid the real money for turning a blind eye to things. The illegal distillery on Harper Street, $50 a month to pretend it wasn’t there. The brothel in Noon Town, $75 a month – and some ‘perks’ from the girls every now and then. $500 in unmarked bills – for arriving two minutes too late at the scene of a bank heist. The list went on, and the money kept coming in. I’d hazard a guess that in a year Officer Edgar Blunt probably earned more than the Police commissioner and the Chief District attorney combined.

But he knew how to play the game, you mustn’t get greedy, you mustn’t publicise your wealth, just quietly accumulate – only occasionally enjoy the profits, live humbly, well within your means, keep it all on the down low.

One of Edgar’s many income streams was cash for information. I was a pretty regular customer of his.

He was a portly man, now in his early fifties and sporting a reasonable middle-aged spread, but he was bulky and powerfully built. He didn’t do too much of chasing perps these days, but if you were within reach and weren’t fast off the mark, he’d probably get you.

His face showed a number of lines, etchings from years of being outdoors on the beat, and he sported a shock of greying hair, with the start of pattern baldness usually concealed by his hat.

I’d arranged to meet Edgar while he took a brief afternoon sabbatical in the park plaza downtown. It was a popular lunch and meeting spot, a picturesque grass park, with winding paths, ornate flowerbeds and pretty water features. After lunchtime it got real quiet, almost deserted, and that’s why Edgar liked meeting his clients there.

I could see him from a distance, his dark navy blue uniform standing out against the surrounding natural green hues around him. He was casually seated on one of the many wooden benches dotted around, tucking into some kind of oversized sandwich.

“Heart attack food, Ed.” I joked.

“Hey, I gotta’ maintain my figure, huh?”

“Good to see you, thanks for meeting up at short notice.”

“No worries, Johnny, always glad to be of service. Fancy a donut?”

“Not for me, Ed, can’t stomach the sugar these days.”

During our patter, I’d produced a blank envelope and placed it casually next Edgar, as I took a seat next to him. Without either of us actually looking at it, he picked it up and stashed it out of site in a concealed pocket in his jacket. Edgar did a lot deals like this – it never ceased to amaze me how his jacket seemed to have an extraordinary quantity of concealed pockets.

“Need some info, Ed, bit stumped on a case.”

“Shoot.”

“Anything - weird going on in the city at the moment?”

“Define weird.”

“What’s going on with the local mobs? Vitalli is the main man now, right?”

“Everyone knows that.”

“How did that come about?”

“Bosses rise to the top, usually by taking down their rivals, this is no different.”

“But it’s sudden, isn’t it?”

“True.”

“You ain’t seen this kind of domination occur so quick anywhere else before, right?”

“I guess.”

“So what is different here, what’s given him that advantage?”

“Well, there are rumours…”

“Uh huh?”

“It’s mostly crazy talk, drunken wino talk, most of it ain’t worth the time of day.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You aware of Vitalli’s operations at the old docklands?”

“Heard about them. D’you know what’s going down out there?”

“Nah, no-one does. Been raided twice and we ain’t found shit – but the word is that the raids were prearranged, we weren’t meant to find anything, but there is stuff going on there.”

“What about missing persons?”

“That is an odd one. On average, three or four a week in the vicinity of the Old Portland Bridge and the surrounding area. No trace found yet for any of them.”

“Word is you’re not exactly carrying out an exhaustive investigation.”

“We ain’t. The people vanishing are scum, Johnny. Beggars, petty crooks, old winos, hobos and lowlifes. The taxpayer wants us to catch crooks and keep them safe, not commit resources searching for crazy old bag ladies with a gin habit.”

“You heard of a chick called Shelly Valance?”

“We’ve heard talk, but we’ve no idea if she’s a real person or just a smokescreen, but word is she is some out of town business woman who has a specialist team of enforcers at her command. She’s thrown her lot in with Vitalli, and it’s her boys who’ve been taking down Vitalli’s rivals. We also assume it’s through her that all the heroin we’re seeing on the streets is getting in.”

“Any other weird shit happened?”

“Funnily enough, two very strange things. We stopped a suspicious transport truck a week back, middle of the night. Driver jumps out and is gone in literally seconds, I mean he moved so damn fast it was like he vanished. We searched the truck, it’s stacked out wall to wall with crates. Each crate contains 25,000 vials of human blood.”

“Really?”

“But it’s odd – it’s not any one person or group of persons blood, its hundreds of peoples blood, and all different blood groups, just mixed together, and we have no idea where it all came from. None of the hospitals are missing stocks of blood, it’s a complete mystery. And apparently there are trucks like this sited pretty much every night heading out of town.”

“You managed to catch any of the drivers?”

“No, they’re sneaky, take all the back routes, they keep out of site. And it’s very likely that most are being deliberately ignored, if you know what I mean? We did manage to corner one suspect, though – we gave pursuit until he wrong-turned down a dead alley, just before dawn.”

“Did you apprehend him.”

“What I’m about to tell you is a little hard to believe, but it’s true. Big group of cops head into the alley, this guy goes stir crazy, he tries to fight his way out with his bare hands – I’m told he was doing pretty good 'til the cops opened fire on him. They totally unloaded on the guy, but he doesn’t go down, he takes all these bullets but it’s like they’re passing through him without doing any damage. But then the sun came up.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, the witnesses say he just exploded, right there and then.”

“What?”

“Literally, he came apart, he blew up. Into pieces.”

“Bullshit!”

“Hey, I wasn’t there, but I witnessed the remains being brought to the coroner. In plastic bags.”

“There must be some reasonable explanation?”

“Initial thoughts were that it was spontaneous human combustion, SHC. Extremely rare phenomenon – still just a theory, really, a bit of supportive evidence from previous possible cases. But…”

“But?”

“It wasn’t consistent with the few documented previous examples. In SHC it’s thought the combustion begins within, typically in the stomach. The body burns from the inside out, often leaving the clothes only mildly scorched. But this guy, his flesh burnt off first, his bones crumbled almost to dust and then his vital organs exploded.”

I honestly had no response to that.

“And one more weird thing. When he went pop, blood was sprayed all over the place, but it was all the wrong consistency. It only travelled a few yards from exploding out of the body to hitting walls and shit, but in that short distance it almost completely coagulated, it had dried to powder before forensics got there. Blood doesn’t normally behave like that, the process usually takes hours to get to that stage.”

“So what was the official verdict?”

“It was all so bizarre and difficult to explain that it was agreed, seeing as the guy was a John Doe, that SHC would be the best explanation, providing no-one asked too many questions. But in truth, they didn’t have a God damn clue. Because the incident coincided with sunrise their best guess was maybe some kind of photosensitive reaction to ultra violet light, but it would have been off the chart and incomparably larger than anything anyone has ever seen before. Photosensitives get bad sunburn in direct sunlight, but they don’t explode.”

I left Edgar to the rest of his lunch and headed back to the car. The city was dirty, but these reports were just plain crazy. I wondered just what the hell was going on here?

My rational mind was still trying to keep things in balance, and for all the bizarre stuff going on it kept repeating to me that there had to be a completely logical explanation. But… The rest of me could not help itself, I was a detective, I have a deductive mind, and it was leaping to some awkward conclusions. People vanishing, strange shadow-like figures, mysterious consignments of human blood and people exploding in sunlight. My rational mind was screaming, ‘Bullshit!’ But my deductive mind was reluctantly saying, ‘Vampires…’

* * *

I knew something wasn’t quite right the moment I got back to the office.

“Hi, sweetheart, how’s it been here?”

Lydia said nothing. She put one finger to her lips to indicate I be quiet and gestured me over to her desk. Once I was close enough she whispered into my ear.

“Johnny, there’s a guy in your office, he just turned up, he’s built like a brick shithouse and is demanding to speak to you. I think he could be mob.”

“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.”

“I know he came here to lie low, you took him in? This isn’t a great place for anyone to be.”

“He showed up here in his fancy clothes, with money in his pocket. More than most of us sees in a year. He had no idea. We sometimes get kids like that turn up, they don’t last long. Some of the guys here would rob you blind for everything you have, leave you beaten and bloody – sometimes they get a bit too rough, when that happens it’s not unusual for the body to get dumped in the river.”

“You didn’t want that to happen to Anton, you stuck your neck out to help him. Why?”

“My son. He looked a bit like him. Like he used to look, anyhows. I was being stupid and sentimental. So I kept the guys away from him, helped him blend in a little better. He still looked like the richest bum you’re ever likely to see, but it was enough to not get him robbed or killed around here.”

“That was good of you, Hilda. What happened after that?”

“Then the stupid fool took up with that whore at the drugs den. My God, he fell for her something bad, cheap piece of trash that she was. If it weren’t for her he wouldn’t have got himself hooked.”

“Heroin?”

“Yep. I drink. Too much. Every day. It’s killing me, I can feel it, bit by bit. But it’s nothing compared to what that shit does to you. What money he had he threw away on it, and scoring for her too. Then he had to go stealing to get the money he needed. I’ve stolen stuff. Food and booze mostly. But Anton went out and stole anything he could, anything he could sell. Some of the shit he brought back here to try and sell, it was crazy. Then the last time I saw him, he robbed me, after all I’d done for him. He couldn’t help himself. I knew he wouldn’t dare show his face around here again, he’d be crazy to, no-one would help him now.”

“Hilda, Anton is in trouble, some people turned up at the drugs den that night and took him away. He knew something he wasn’t supposed to, had been talking about it. What did he know?”

“He didn’t know shit. About anything. But he got obsessed with all this business about the people going missing around here. It was nothing but crazy talk.”

It might have been nothing but crazy talk to Hilda, but it was pretty much the only clue I had. I took out fifty dollars worth of bills and handed them to her.

“Please, Hilda, don’t worry about how crazy it seems, tell me what he’d been saying.”

“Well, people go missing here all the time, it ain’t nothing new. Most of the time no-one is keeping count, but lately, I don’t know, lots of people I knew have gone. Don’t know where – don’t know of any of them having got into fights with other guys here, that happens sometimes. Sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes they also end up in the river. But we always know about it when that happens, we know what goes on down here amongst ourselves. But this, it’s weird.”

“Did Anton know something about the disappearances?”

“He’d been with us about a couple of weeks. One of our regulars, ole’ Charlie, must have been in his sixties, been here longer than anyone can remember, he vanished one night. Anton said he saw something take him.”

“Did he know who?”

“Not who, Mr Jerome, what.”

“What? Was it an animal of some sort?”

“Anton said he saw some kind of creature, human looking - but not quite, he said it seemed to almost appear right out of the mist, it grabbed Charlie and carried him away – lifted him up like he weighed nothing, made no sound and moved quicker than anything he’d ever seen. And then Charlie was gone.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Well, it sounded as crazy to me as it does to you right now. But people keep going missing. Each of us here is wondering who might be next. And sometimes, some nights, out of the corner of my eye, I see things.”

“What do you see, Hilda?”

“Shapes. Moving against the dark. Funny looking figures. Sometimes I know it’s the wind, or just shadows, but sometimes…Sometimes I just know it ain’t. D’you ever have that feeling you’re being watched, Mr Jerome?”

“Rarely, it’s usually me who is being paid to do the watching.”

“That’s real cute. Well now, I’ve been sensing it a lot lately. Never used to, before all this started happening. But now, every night. I feel it right now. Do you, Mr Jerome?”

I followed her vacant gaze – across the embankment, into the gloom. It was an eerie place, I imagined that if a person stared long enough they could see anything out there, especially if they’d been pickling their brains in copious amounts of alcohol.

Somewhat disappointed, I thanked Hilda, chucked her a few more bills then hastily made my way out of there. I kept my distance from any of the other people as I walked away, just in case any of them decided to jump me, and I made a point of not particularly concealing the shoulder holster containing my gun.

I turned back to glance at Hilda one last time, I can’t have been for than fifty yards from where we had spoken. Her fire was still burning dimly, but without me hearing a single sound, she had gone. For a split second I thought saw movement, a brief shimmering of a shadow in the gloom. I began to get the feeling that someone or something might well be watching me, so I left the scene hurriedly.

I hailed the first available cab that passed by when I got back to the main road, but even as we sped back into the city sprawl, I couldn’t shake that feeling. It stayed with me right to the moment closed and double locked my apartment door behind me.

* * *

I’d never been a big drinker, but that night I needed a couple of large ones to help bring my nerves under control. I was normally extremely composed – I didn’t spook easy, this was unusual territory for me.

All the crazy talk, mysterious figures in the night, the number of times people were mentioning these inexplicable things, my earlier considerations towards vampires, and now, the eerie feeling that I had felt near the Old Portland Bridge, it was giving me a nervous disposition.

At about midnight I decided to turn in, I was finally feeling a bit more like myself. I put it down to the weird hours I’d been doing lately – burning the candle at both ends can take its toll.

I pretty much dropped off right away, only to be awoken my the ring from my telephone. I recall glancing at the clock and seeing it was just after 2am. Funny time to be getting a call.

“Hello.”

“Johnny. It’s Marcio.”

“Marcio, d’you know what the time is? What do you want?”

“Johnny, you need to watch your back, Vitalli knows you’re still sniffing around the Jameson case, he knows you didn’t heed his warning. You gotta’ drop it, Johnny, lie low for a while.”

I knew Marcio real well, we’d had dealings for many years, but never in that time had I heard him sound like that. He sounded quite genuinely afraid.

“Marcio, what’s going on?”

You need to be careful, Johnny, you-.”

The line went dead.

I stayed up a little, just to see if he tried to call me back, but no call arrived.

Eventually I headed back to bed, but sleep was a lot harder to come by second time. The events of the day kept repeating over and over again in my mind. For the first time ever, and it was ironic because normally it’s the people I’m searching for who end in these positions, I began to get the uneasy feeling that perhaps I had gotten in way over my head.

CHAPTER 6

There are few sounds more disorientating than that of police officers hammering at your front door at the crack of dawn. What a wake up call.

“Jerome! Get your lazy ass out of bed and open this God damn door!”

Lt Wails himself was hammering on my door, this already sounded like a whole heap of crap I could do without.

It was clear that the time it would take me to get even half dressed would be too much to save my door from being kicked in. In truth I wasn’t overly worried about my door, it’s wasn’t as if I couldn’t afford to have it replaced, but it wouldn’t go down well with my landlord to have the cops getting up to that kind of crap in their property. I opted for compromise and donned my dressing gown. This really sucked. No man about to face what was obviously going to be a confrontational situation could really pull off an air of control and authority whilst wearing a dressing gown.

I opened my door and there stood Wails, nostrils flared and eyes wild, alongside Glenn, looking as he usually did when he was in the company of the Lt – like he’d rather be elsewhere.

“Well good morning Lt Wails, Scotty, to what do I owe your atrociously timed and frankly irritating visit?”

“Shut your hole, Jerome. We are taking your sorry ass down to the station,” announced Wails with masses of overly dramatic bluster.

“Marcio Riccardo was found murdered early this morning, we need to ask you a few questions down town,” said Glenn, evidently destined to be the good cop today.

“Marcio, shit! He called me, about 2am.”

“No-one is surprised that that scumbag was an associate of yours, but now it’s a question of figuring out how much you really know about this. Right, Jerome?”

“I know only what you’ve told me, Lt. Are you going to arrest me?”

“Not if you come down the station with us voluntarily, Johnny. We just want to talk.”

“Well, if you’ll give me a minute, I trust you’ll permit me to put on some sensible attire?”

“Just get your ass ready and be outside in five minutes.”

I clocked Glenn’s expression as he rolled his eyes in exasperation of Wails. He’d used the word ‘ass’ three times in under a minute, always a bad sign. I’m pretty sure we both had the feeling it was going to be a long morning.

* * *

Being sat in an interview room brought back so many memories from my time on the force. However, I was a not exactly used to being the interviewee.

Glenn and Wails sat opposite me, both chain smoking. Being a non-smoker this was beginning to get on my nerves, but I was determined not to let it show.

“Right, where were you between the hours of 4 and 5am this morning?”

“Why, Lt Wails, I was tucked up in my bed like a good little boy.”

“Cut the crap, Jerome. You met up with Marcio Riccardo yesterday, when and where?”

“Around 11am, lower East side. In a bar that I believe none of us are supposed to know or talk about.”

Everyone knew of the Speakeasy, but as long as the mob paid its dues to the right people, no-one would ever do anything about it, so it remained neutral territory to mobsters, and off limits to the cops.

“What did you and Marcio discuss?” Glenn was doing his best to keep things moving and prevent Wails from getting too excited.

“My latest case, missing person. Anton Jameson, the lawyer’s son.”

“Richard Jameson? His son is missing? He hasn’t filed a report with us.”

“And he won’t. The kid was in some deep shit. Wouldn’t look good for the legal practice if it became common knowledge.”

“So he hired you to find him? And I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart?” Sneered Wails, obviously pleased with himself and his cheap little jibe. I gave him an ironic faux-smile, which I hoped would convey at least some of the dislike I held for him.

“Johnny, did Marcio tell you where Anton Jameson was?”

“Not exactly, he knew that the mob had gotten hold of him, but he had no idea what they’d done with him.”

“Why were they so interested in him?”

“All Marcio said was that he had seen some things he shouldn’t have, and then had made the mistake of shouting his mouth off about it.”

“Okay, Jerome, lets skip forward a few hours. You say you had a call from Marcio in the early hours, tell us about that?” Wails was getting impatient with Glenn’s subtlety.

“He didn’t make much sense, kept saying for me to drop the Jameson case. It sounded like the kid might have been in deeper than he suspected.”

“He was trying to warn you off?”

“That’s how I took it, yeah.”

“Which leads us up to around 4am this morning, when someone caved Marcio’s skull in with a blunt object and dumped him in the river on the lower East side. Got any opinions on that?”

“Why should I have, Lt?”

“I don’t know, Jerome, but my instincts are telling me that there might be more to this than you’re letting on?”

“You know what I think about your instincts, and where you can stick ‘em. You know I didn’t kill him, right?”

“Do we, Jerome?”

“Well, I assume so – I mean, if there was a shred of evidence then you would be waving that in my face about now, wouldn’t you?”

And so it went on and on. For over an hour Wails tried to trip me up on silly little details, trying to pry open my story. I didn’t have a verifiable alibi, but I had no motive either. And at the same time, I had to play it careful and remain consistent - I had to conceal quite a lot of the details as I simply didn’t want the cops to know too much about my business.

Eventually Wails got bored of wasting all of our time and cut me loose. If I thought my day might improve at that point I was severely mistaken.

* * *

I had to flag down a cab to get back to my apartment. Once there I called the office to let Lydia know I was running late - she was suitably unimpressed, then I grabbed a quick shower and headed out again.

I always parked my car a block away from my apartment, just to make it generally harder for people to keep tabs on me. As I turned into the street where my car was parked up I noticed someone quite blatantly staking it out, no doubt waiting for me to make an appearance. He was a skinny guy, late twenties, neatly attired – not muscle but definitely mob. If it had simply been a tough guy I’d have not been so cautious, tough guys are almost always pretty damn stupid. No, it’s always the more innocuous looking goons who are the ones to worry about – in my experience they’re almost always smarter than tough guys, and often what they lack in physical presence they make for by being either ruthless or downright psychotic. However, in my desire to give this guy a wide berth, I’d taken my eye off the bigger picture. I should have realised there would be more than one guy on me.

“Hey!” Boomed a familiar voice from somewhere behind me. I glanced round and saw the burly figure of Hugo, some fifty yards away and bearing down on me fast. His call had alerted the guy watching my car, the two of them began to close in on me in something akin to a pincer movement.

I bolted up the nearest side street then around the first corner. Now, having lived in this neighbourhood for many years I should have known every little rat run – but God damn it if I didn’t run straight down a blind alley with a dead end. From a strategic point of view this was a massive faux pas on my part, I was not only outnumbered but also cornered in a location that was secluded enough to ensure that there would be no witnesses.

“Get your fuckin’ hands up in the air where I can see ‘em, Mr Jerome.”

I turned around to see the skinny guy with the foul mouth, gun drawn at the ready, walking confidently towards me. Hugo skulked along behind him, trying to look menacing. This time, with the disadvantage they had me at, he sort of almost managed it.

“I’ve met Hugo, there, but I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure before?”

My hands were up and I didn’t have many options, so I went for small talk and close proximity.

“My name is Luigi, Mr Jerome. As I’m sure you’re aware, I too work for Gianni Vitalli. Hugo came to see you yesterday and made it clear that you ought to keep your nose out of a specific piece of Mr Vitalli’s business. You only get one warning from Mr Vitalli, then he calls me in and things get real nasty.”

He’d gotten within ten feet of me – still too far away.

“Now, Luigi, I’m sure we can come to some sort of understanding here, right?”

Eight feet and still closing.

“The only thing you need to understand is this, Mr Jerome. You didn’t heed the warning and now you’re going to face some painful consequences.”

Six feet. Almost.

“You’re gonna’ learn a vital lesson today - you do not try and bullshit the mob, you hear me?”

He was real close now, within range, and thankfully Hugo had stayed back a little and hadn’t drawn his gun. I’d practiced this quite a lot but had never previously tried it out in the field. If I wasn’t quick enough then the most likely eventually was that I was about to get shot at point blank range – that probably wouldn’t end well.

“Ok, Luigi. Here I am, you got me – so I look like a chump. Well, you’d better get it over with.”

I stood there, hands raised, but elbows bent. I studied Luigi’s body language – it was like a poker game, I was just waiting for that moment – I was waiting for him to blink…

In one fluid movement I threw my left hand towards the opening of my right hand coat sleeve – within which I made a point of always keeping a short iron bar concealed. It was about a foot long and was held in place by a by a stitched sheath of material, strong enough to keep it there but easy enough to rip loose. Once I felt my hand grip the end of the bar I yanked it clear of my sleeve and swung it in an arc that lined up with the barrel of Luigi’s revolver.

I was just quick enough, Luigi was able to discharge a single shot from the weapon but the impact of the bar had knocked his aim out, the bullet whistled past my head by a fraction. I must have caught his trigger finger too because the gun then flew from his grasp.

I hastily reversed the swing of the bar into a forehand smash against the right side of Luigi’s face, then swung again to inflict a sweet backhand smash to the left side of his head. The bar had only a small amount of mass, but combined with the force I’d managed to generate and the element of surprise, it was enough to stun Luigi and send him in to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Now I had to get past Hugo. I figured his reactions would be slow, so I ran straight at him. He was fumbling for his still holstered gun, but I had mine drawn already. Now, I had no desire to murder anyone, not even a mobster who would happily have beaten me to a bloody pulp, so I didn’t shoot to kill. Instead I aimed my gun downwards – Hugo was a big man, and judging by the size of his shoes, had very big feet. I pulled the trigger and sent a slug straight through the toecap of his right shoe.

It was unorthodox but it had the desired effect, Hugo let out an agonising yell and hit the floor clutching his foot, blood oozing from his shoe. I’d hazard a guess that the shot must have severed at least one toe and made a God-awful mess of the others.

I bolted past him and was out of the alley in seconds, I knew I had to put some serious distance between me and the scene.

I made it back to my car, jumped in, floored it and made good my escape.

* * *

The question was, ‘where do I go now?’ In all honesty I really hadn’t a clue. The mob were officially after me, which meant I had to lie low for a while. My apartment would be under surveillance, I didn’t have any family living nearby and although I had a lot of acquaintances, there were very few people that I genuinely trusted. And I sure as hell couldn’t go to the office, not in broad daylight at least…Then a thought struck me.

“The office. Lydia. Shit!”

I pulled over at the first public phone booth I came to and dialled as quickly as I could. To my relief I heard Lydia’s voice.

Despite her protests I convinced her to close the office, lock it up good and tight and get herself home. I promised to pay her in full and told her to wait a few days, just until things calmed down, I’d be in contact when I’d sorted everything out. She was mightily pissed at me, but I could live with that as long as she was safe and sound.

* * *

Obviously, things had moved a lot quicker than I was expecting. I felt reasonably safe, at large on these familiar streets. However, you need cash to survive on the streets, and lots of it. I did happen to have rather a lot of cash at my disposal, but annoyingly, it was sitting in the safe in my office.

And so it was that as darkness enveloped the city that night, I approached my place of business, not as I usually did - via the very public front entrance, but having parked up a couple of blocks away, utilising a very obscure route indeed.

It’s a bit of an in joke amongst PI’s, sneaking into one’s own premises undetected is something of an occupational hazard – we humorously refer to it as ‘conducting a self enema.’

I was very proud of my particular stealthy route. I’d put this in place a few years back and tested it out every six months or so, just for such an occasion as this.

Firstly, I entered Old Al’s Late Night Diner over on the far side of my block to my office. $5 in Old Al’s top pocket got me into the back of the premises, through the kitchens and out into the rear courtyard. At this point I had to scale a four foot brick wall, and then I was in the rear courtyard of the premises that my office was located in. A quick ascent of the fire escape – two short flights, then in through the fire escape door and I was outside of my office.

I quietly slipped my key into the front door lock and turned it anti-clockwise, I felt the subtle shift of weight as the bolt was withdrawn.

I entered extremely cautiously, gun at the ready – I didn’t expect to find anyone, but the mob had the resources – they could quite easily have obtained a spare key for my office – I could not discount the fact that they could have guys already in there waiting for me.

The reception area was deserted, but something caught my attention right away. Through the frosted glass on my office door I could clear see the mild illumination of my desk lamp. Lydia would never have left that on, she was obsessive about things like that. So – someone else had been in here, could they still be there?

I inched as silently as I could towards my office door. Just as I reached it, there came a voice from within.

“Good evening, Mr Jerome. Please do come in, I can assure you it’s only myself in here, and I am not armed.” It was a female voice, sultry, yet authoritative.

I was concerned that she could be trying to play me, there could be a dozen mobsters waiting for me either side of the doorway. But I decided to throw caution to the wind – if they were there then surely they’d have jumped me by now? Once again, I decided on the bravado approach, this was my freakin’ office after all. I holstered my gun, casually opened the door and strode inside.

And there, reclining in my own chair, with her immaculately toned long legs crossed and high heeled feet perched on my desk, was as true a femme fatale as ever there could be. Breathtakingly beautiful, with wide, alluring eyes and precisely styled blonde curls, she was an absolute knockout.

“Hello, Mr Jerome, I’ve been expecting you. My name is Shelley Valance.”

CHAPTER 7

“You can put the gun away, Mr Jerome, there’s only me here and I don’t really do firearms.”

“No offense intended, but you’ll just have to forgive me for being slightly paranoid,” I said as I made a cautious sweep of my office.

“You can search me if you like?” I had to hand it to her, a doll that can find time to be flirtatious while someone has a gun trained on her is a cool customer indeed.

She began to rise – it spooked me a little and I levelled the gun to her remarkably pretty face. Her skin was extraordinarily pale, where the light from my desk lamp shone upon her cheeks it resembled to texture of fine porcelain. And yet, it didn’t look like she was wearing any kind of makeup, she looked so natural, but fragile at the same time. Then I noticed her eyes – like two giant emeralds, the deepest, greenest eyes I’d ever seen – I felt compelled to simply stare at them.

“Easy, Tiger,” she said, grinning slightly, as she raised her hands, palms open, “just letting you have your seat back, okay?”

I blinked a couple of times, it allowed me to look away from her and bring me back to my senses. Satisfied that we were alone, I lowered my gun and beckoned her to sit on the chair in front of my desk, where my clients usually sit. We rotated our positions around the desk, eventually ending up in what I considered to be the natural order. I slunk gratefully down into my own, familiar chair, and a small semblance of my composure began to return. I placed my hand, containing the gun, in a somewhat more neutral position resting on the table in front of me – pointing away to the corner of the room, but clearly visible. I didn’t want her to forget about it.

“Feel better? Can we get down to business now?” She said, slowly descending into her chair, elegantly making herself comfortable.

“Hold up, sweetheart. I want to know how you got in here. My PA locked this place up, and the door was locked when I arrived, yet here you are. My PA and I are the only people who have a key for that door. So what does that mean?”

“Well, you obviously are in possession of your own key, so I must either have accosted your PA and relieved her of the other key? Or possibly I might have climbed in through your open window, there?”

My office window was always left a tiny bit ajar, I liked to keep the place cool and let the fresh air in. Someone with extremely dainty arms could conceivably slip one through the gap and lift the latch to open the window fully and permit ingress, and Shelley Valance was nothing if not dainty. But getting the window open, that was the easy bit. We were only on the first floor, but the window ledge was still a good twenty feet above the sidewalk – which is why I never worried about leaving that window open all the time. It would require a ladder or a grappling hook and rope, neither of which were in evidence. Not forgetting that she was wearing a formal business suit jacket, a smart, snug fitting knee length skirt and high heels - not exactly practical attire for scaling the outside of an office block. Suddenly I felt uneasy. I levelled the gun at her again.

“If you have done anything to hurt Lydia I will-.”

“Your little friend is fine, Mr Jerome. I know what you’re thinking, but, believe or not, I did get in here via the latter means rather than the former.”

“Bullshit.”

“Well, whatever. You can call her when I’m done here and check for yourself, anyway – I do not have all night, Mr Jerome, I’m going to talk now and you are going to listen, okay?”

“Wait a sec-.”

“Shut up, please.” It takes something pretty special to put me in my place like that. I’ve faced off people wielding knives, machetes and guns, but none of them had ever brought me down quite as comprehensively as that. I think it was the sheer confidence and authority in her voice – she didn’t shout, she didn’t sound stern, but there was something almost ethereal in her tone that commanded compliance.

“Right, I’ll keep this brief. I don’t know exactly how much of what’s going on you’re actually aware of – but my associate, Mr Gianni Vitalli, thinks you know far too much.”

“So the goons he keeps sending after me are telling me.”

“Yeah, about that - you put two of them in the hospital today, that was really stupid, you know that? Gianni is pretty pissed at you over that, he would have been happy with letting you off with just a warning – if you could just keep your nose out of our business, but you didn’t heed that. Then, you could have gotten off with a mild beating, no permanent damage, but you sure made certain that wasn’t going to happen. So now, well, you’re a dead man walking, aren’t you, Mr Jerome?”

“If you say so,” I grinned. In truth I didn’t need her to tell me how much deep shit I was in, but I sure as hell wasn’t let it show.

“Oh come on. The next guy Gianni sends after you won’t be some goon in a suit. He will be a professional hitman, someone who has probably killed dozens of people. You will not see it coming and you will be able to do nothing to prevent it.”

“So, something tells me you aren’t this silent assassin that I should be so worried about. Just why the hell are you here, Miss Valance, what’s your angle?”

“Simple, Mr Jerome. I don’t like you, no offense intended, and to be fair, I like you even less having met you. But you are resourceful, reasonably intelligent, you know the city well and you know how to find things out. A guy like you would be pretty useful to me, considering the kinds of idiots that Gianni has on the payroll. You could be a valuable asset to the little enterprise I’ve got going on here.”

“Excuse me, are you trying to offer me a God damn job?”

“I’m making you an offer, yes.”

“And what exactly is your little enterprise all about?”

“Wow, you’ve been digging and digging, you’ve pissed off a mob boss to such an extent that he wants you dead, and you still don’t truly know what’s going on, do you?”

“I know about the heroin.”

“Oh that, a necessary evil component in a much larger scheme.”

“I know that lots of people have been going missing, strange trucks are ferrying bottles of blood out of the city – of which the driver of one of these trucks inexplicably exploded in front of a load of cops when exposed to sunlight just the other day, and I know that although Vitalli is the big man, word is that you’re really the one pulling all the strings here. Care to fill in the blanks?”

“Very well, Mr Jerome, seeing as it could cost you your life, I guess you might as well know the full picture – I’d hate for you to die without knowing what you actually died for,” she allowed herself a little girly smile.

“My, how sweet of you,” I replied, in as ironic a tone as I could muster.

“Indeed. The heroin - my people smuggle it into the country. And we are very adept at making sure it gets here – more so than any mobsters have ever been, and in much greater quantities. We ensure a steady supply is getting out onto the streets. It’s good shit, it commands a good price and the profits we make get reinvested into the important arm of the business. Blood.”

“Okay, I was with you up to that moment, what’s the deal with the blood? My source said something about it being all mixed up – all different blood types. I’m no doctor, but I know from a medical perspective it’s useless, so who the hell needs blood like that?”

“My kind need blood like that.”

“What?”

“We go out at night and we find the absolute dregs of society, people with no ties – people who won’t be missed. We kidnap them, we drug them so they’re docile, we keep them alive through intravenous feeding and we harvest their blood in large quantities. That blood then enters our supply network, being dispatched to our outlying communities. I guess you’d call us bloodrunners, Mr Jerome.”

I just stared at her. She was talking so matter of fact about this whole business. After a long pause I finally broke the silence, “Lady, you are shitting me, right? You’re telling me you and your kind are actually-.”

“Vampires, Mr Jerome. I don’t care much for the term, but essentially that is exactly what we are. We need to feed on human blood to survive. And we aren’t fussy – who it comes from, their health, blood type, none of that matters – stick it all in a vat, mix it up, it’s all good stuff to us. And we are highly photosensitive, hence the reason we only come out at night – otherwise we are prone to the unfortunate fate that the driver you spoke of suffered. Otherwise we are pretty much immortal and considerably stronger, faster and most definitely smarter than humans.”

“I’m sorry, I’m pretty open minded but that story is the biggest heap of-.”

“I’m still talking, Mr Jerome, don’t interrupt me again, okay? So, this is the deal – two simple choices. One, you come and work for me. Two, you end up very dead, very soon. You have twenty four hours to consider it, after which you will have to make your choice and one of those two things will occur.”

She stood up, making like she was going to leave. I sat there for a few seconds, attempting to process what she had just said. Eventually I got up and strode around to my drinks cabinet at the far wall. I fixed myself a generous glass of whiskey.

“Miss Valance. Do you have any idea how utterly preposterous what you’ve just told me sounds. Seriously, what do you take me for?”

“You’re human, Mr Jerome, you’re frail and slow compared to us, but above all, your biggest weakness is that you can’t comprehend a race like ours could exist amongst you, feeding off your kind. It has been this way for centuries, we’ve existed almost like parasites at times. But things are changing, we are close to taking our rightful place in this world, right at the very top of the food chain. One day soon we will have the numbers and the infrastructure in place. We are going to take control, and we will farm your puny species just as you farm cattle. Soon, Mr Jerome, and when that time comes, the safest place for you to be is in my employment.”

I looked at her. Such beauty, poise and grace. How could she be so completely unbalanced as to believe the crap she was spouting. My mind couldn’t entertain such things, it was the stuff of bad drive-in b-movies. I let a smirk cross my features.

“No offense intended,” I said – mimicking her from earlier, “but I do believe that you are completely out of your pretty little, deluded mind, Miss Valance.”

And that was the moment, right there, when everything – my life, my outlook on the world, the whole lot, was changed forever.

In an instant Shelley Valance became a blur to my eyes. She had been stood across the room from me, a good ten or so strides away. Within a fraction of a second, impossibly quickly, she had crossed the room and was standing in front of me. Before I could react she grasped my throat with one of those dainty hands of hers and with unfeasible force she lifted me clean off my feet and slammed me violently into the wall.

Her grip tightened, I began to choke and gag. Then she moved her face just inches in front of mine – her features, that only moments ago had been beautiful and feminine, had become contorted and hideous, like some kind of demonic abomination, but worst of all, her eyes – they were wild with fury and glowing luminous green. And when she spoke, it was with a tone and timbre that shook me to my very soul.

“Twenty four hours, Mr Jerome!”

And with that, she opened her mouth to bare a pair of terrifying oversized fangs and made a guttural hissing sound - then she released me, turned around and vanished out through the open office window with a swiftness that defied believe.

I slumped to the floor, shaking from the pure shock of it all and gasping for breath.

CHAPTER 8

I was at a loss as to what to do. Rarely in my life had I found myself backed into such a corner.

The streets of the dirty city, while not being that safe at the best of times, suddenly seemed to me like a terrifying and deadly place to be. By day, they held threat in the way of danger from ordinary mortals, but now the nights filled me with a new dread generated by the knowledge that there were creatures out there that didn’t conform to the normal notions of reality.

I decided to see the night out in my office, planning to leave at the crack of dawn. I couldn’t risk staying any longer just in case Vitalli wasn’t keen on honouring Valance’s 24 hour window and sent some goons here to find me.

I tried to grab some sleep – in the absence of anything to lie down on besides the cold floor, I reclined in my office chair. Somehow I managed to drop off eventually – but rest was not forthcoming – because that’s when the nightmares first began.

It was always the eyes first of all. I’d be dreaming, though not aware that I was dreaming, then I’d notice the colour. The shade of green, it would start almost imperceptibly, clouds of faint smoke, the clouds taking on a tinge of emerald. Then it would become more intense, like someone was putting a green filter over everything. Generally at that point the whole background of my dreaming environment would suddenly turn pitch black, and out of the gloom, closing in from a distance, would be a terrifying pair of luminous green eyes. And as they got closer there came with them the low guttural sound, almost a hiss. And when the eyes were almost upon me, a glint of light and there were those terrible fangs. At that point I’d always awake with a start, out of breath – my heart pumping and sweat pouring down my face.

That night I tried to sleep twice. At around 3am, after suffering the nightmare for the second consecutive time I decided to dose myself with copious amounts of coffee to avoid the need for sleep altogether.

* * *

The Holy Church of Santa Justina was steeped in history. The city itself was founded on the patch of land that the modern day church stood – there had been a place of worship there for almost two centuries, beginning with a simple shelter that the early settlers could congregate within – ultimately leading to the imposing stone structure that now towered before me.

I was not, nor ever truly had been previously, a man of great faith, but I had gotten to know the local priest, Father Laurie McBride, pretty well from my time as a cop. I had attended a couple of his services at the behest of others, and as a part of my duties I had attended one or two funerals.

I don’t really know what brought me there that day – I guess when you see things that can’t be explained by rational means you actively seek out alternatives?

The church doors were wide open, almost welcoming. I checked my watch - it was just before 10.30am as I strode somewhat uncertainly inside.

Father McBride was stood casually in front of the alter, greeting the odd parishioner who presumably had dropped in for a quick prayer or two. He was a tall, heavily built man, now in his mid-fifties, a full head of silver-grey hair and very deep set features.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Why, Johnny Jerome, isn’t it? I haven’t seen your good self in a few years. What brings you here, my son?”

“I’m sorry to arrive out of the blue, Father. Could I possibly grab a word with you? In private, maybe?”

“Well of course, son, this way.”

For a horrible moment I thought he was going to take me to one of those confession booths, but obviously he knew me better than I thought, instead taking me to discreet corner of the church, free of other parishioners.

“Now, what’s on your mind, Johnny? You look deeply troubled.”

“It’s fair to say I’m a bit troubled, Father. I’ve had some business go a bit off the rails these last few days. But that’s not my problem.”

“Then do tell, please.”

“Well, this might sound really daft, but do you believe in demons?”

“Hypothetical or physical?” Not quite the response I was expecting. I guess that’s why I liked Father McBride – like me he was a sucker for detail.

“Well, physical – I think.”

“Have you been unwell at all, Johnny? Or hitting the drink a bit hard?”

“Father, I know what I’m asking is, well, irregular, but I can assure you I’ve not been unwell nor do I drink any more than the next man.”

“So, you’ve seen something you simply can’t explain, and that something is – shall we say, unpleasant in its nature?”

“You got that right.”

“There are lots of things that can’t easily be explained. I’m a priest, my job is all about trying to teach people of things that can’t rationally be explained by science or other orthodox means. Do you believe in angels, Johnny?”

“What? Angels, Father – I don’t know-.”

“I believe in angels,” he interjected, “I know I’m supposed to, it goes with the territory I guess, but trust me – I do believe in them. Now, the concept of angels – from the point of view of a scientific, rational mind, is completely ridiculous – I mean the more you think about them the more ludicrous they seem, right?”

“Uh…”

“It’s okay, I’ll take your hesitation as kind of agreement. Anyway, so I believe in Angels, 100%, right? And if I believe in angels then, by definition, I surely have to believe in demons too, right?”

“I guess.”

“Right! So, if you’re being plagued by demons, I guess you’d better hope that you’ve got an angel looking out for you?”

“Have I?”

“No idea, Son. You’ll truly not know the answer to that until you next run into this demon of yours again. But if it’s any help, I pray to God that you have.”

I didn’t expect Father McBride to have any real answers for me, but it was nice of him to not tell me that I was crazy – and in some small way, it have me some reassurance for what lay before me.

* * *

Once back on the streets I started feeling vulnerable again. I was pretty inconspicuous at the best of times, it comes with the territory – you’ll never successfully follow someone secretly if you can’t blend into the background, but while this might work for me for a little while I knew that with the sheer volume of folks after me it was only a matter of time until I was found.

I’d opted to go on foot, figuring that there would almost certainly be eyes on my car. It was a warm day, the kind of day a guy might like to take off his coat and carry it under his arm to let himself cool off. I could afford no such luxury so I sweated and sweltered in the heat with coat done up, my collars turned up and my hat firmly planted on my head and tilted down almost obscuring my eyes.

I’d carefully considered my next move. Valance hadn’t given me much room for manoeuvre. There was no way in hell I was going to work for her and her kind – that would be like striking a deal with the devil himself. I dare say the pay and perks would have been good, but I’d be selling out my own species, for Christ’s sake. And if Valance got it all her own way and the vampires did manage to take over, how long would I be useful for? I was willing to wager that I’d be living on borrowed time, and as soon as I was no longer considered usual then she wouldn’t think twice about putting me on ice. Or worse than that, winding up on one of her ‘blood farms.’

She obviously valued my services as a potential employee enough to even bother making the offer, after all - she could quite easily have murdered me right there in my own office. I figured she gave me the twenty four hours because she was totally convinced there was nowhere in the city I could hide out at or could try and make a break for it and jump the city altogether.

I decided to test the theory, so I stopped at the next public phone I came to. Cautiously, keeping an eye out all around, I dialled a number that very few people in the city knew about. I was calling just about the only place that could be classed as neutral territory. I was calling the Speakeasy.

After five rings the phone was picked up and a familiar voice answered.

“Y’ello?”

“Mack. This is Johnny. Johnny Jerome.”

“Oh. Hi Johnny.”

“Listen, you might have heard, I got a bit of a situation happenin’ here.”

“Yeah,” I heard Mack give a definite sigh, like he knew what was coming. “I’ve heard about it.”

“I see news travels fast. Anyway, I was wondering if, what with the Speakeasy being neutral and all-.”

“I’m sorry Johnny, no can do.”

“Hey, Mack, what gives here? We go back a fair way, don’t we?”

“We do, Johnny.”

“But?” I knew there would be a ‘but’ in there somewhere.

“But, this ain’t the old days no more, Johnny, times have changed. There is one defacto mob in Santa Justina these days – one mob, with one boss.”

“Vitalli?”

“Right. And what he says goes, you understand? He says you don’t come in here. He says this place ain’t neutral as far as you’re concerned.”

“And what about you, Mack, what do you say?”

“I say, Gianni Vitalli has put a price on your head so big that every two bit creep and hood in the city will be queuing up to put a cap in your ass – no matter where the hell you are. And it’s not just the hoods, it’s the cops too – all the dirty ones at least, so pretty much most of ‘em. You got no allies, Johnny, I don’t know what you got yourself into, but you’ve pissed Vitalli good and proper and from where I’m standing, you’re in some pretty deep shit.”

“So that’s the way it is, huh?”

“I’m afraid so, Johnny. If you want my advice, do what you can to get the hell out of the city. Rent an unmarked car in a false name, wear a disguise and put as many miles between you and this place as you can, ‘cos if you stay here – well, you’re basically a dead man.”

I thanked Mack for his advice and got off the phone. Things were bad. It seemed in the daylight at least that Vitalli wouldn’t honour Valance’s offer, he’d have hoods all over the city looking for me, and cops checking every exit out of the city too. I could probably give them both the slip easily enough, after all – this was just as much my home turf as it was theirs – but come sundown, well, that was a different matter. A whole different kind of individual would be stalking me then, and I had nowhere to hide.

* * *

The remainder of the day was one of frustration and desperation. I did give Mack’s advice a go, but it seemed that luck had completely deserted me. I tried three different car lots to see if I could anonymously rent a vehicle to escape the city in. The first had nothing available, the other two were quite blatantly under surveillance by hoods – it appeared that Vitalli was onto this tactic and figured I might show up at some point. There were no other car rental places within walking distance of my location, I was stuck in the city.

The evening was closing in, and I truly did not have a plan how to deal with it. I took on an almost resigned air as I tramped the streets. While still trying to look anonymous, I decided that my best chance of not being attacked by a vampire would be in very public areas in plain sight.

As the sky became dark and the city took on its neon tinged night look, it seemed to become all the more menacing. I was still playing on home turf, but the city itself seemed out to get be now as well.

Being stalked by vampires is an incredibly unsettling situation – mostly because you never are truly sure if they’re there or not. That shadow out of the corner of your eye, well – it could simply be a shadow of something totally innocuous, and it’s just a paranoid mind creating threatening illusions. But when you think you detect similar shadows almost around every corner you turn down, frankly it’s terrifying.

It took about an hour after darkness fell for it to become completely conclusive that a vampire was tailing me. I’d stuck to my plain sight strategy, but all the while I felt the tension rising.

Then, all it took was a moment. One single moment when there just happened to be no-one within a hundred yards of me. I was positioned on the sidewalk of a main road, well illuminated, I detected a blur of movement to my right then found myself being bundled with extreme force, off the sidewalk and into the looming shadows of an alleyway.

In a split second I had been thrust to the very end of the alley, right to the darkest corner, totally beyond the sight and certainly the help of anyone who might be wondering past on the main road.

At that point I was finally permitted a glimpse of my assailant – he was tall – around six feet, but built fairly averagely. Had he been human I’d have backed myself to have been able to kick his ass from one end of the alley to the other, but I caught sight of the now familiar green glow emanating from his eyes - I knew this guy was no average Joe. As if to demonstrate that very point he ‘flickered’ again right in front of me, and at incredible speed, delivered a sharp punch to my stomach and followed it up with an equally unstoppable forearm smash to the side of my face. I was on the ground in a heap before my body could even fully comprehend how much both those events actually hurt. It’s fair to say that they hurt a hell of a lot.

“So, you’re the schmuck that put a couple of Vitalli’s clowns in the hospital, eh?”

I couldn’t reply, all the wind had been knocked out of me.

“Well, Mr Jerome – my name is McLane, and firstly, I’m going to make you wish you were dead,” he paused and gave an evil grin, revealing a glint of the fangs, “and then I am actually going to kill you.”

“Valance - she offered me a deal!” I just about managed to blurt out through gritted teeth.

Another blow, I think it might have been a boot to the ribs, flipped me over and left me spread-eagled on my back.

“All deals are off, Mr Jerome, and frankly – I think Mistress Valance must have had a momentary lapse in reason to have offered you anything. It would appear she has come to her senses – she was very clear about what was to happen to you when I spoke to her.”

The jumped up punk was really starting to annoy me now, I figured if I was going to die I’d at least go out fighting – and having satisfied my curiosity as to what happens if you try and shoot a vampire. I produced my gun and aimed it in the direction of McLane – or rather, in the direction of where McLane had been just mere moments before. A blurred hand fizzed past my face from behind me and with the greatest of finesse, plucked the gun from fingers. I tried to turn and rise – only to briefly witness McLane towering over me and a quick silver-tinged flash as the bastard pistol whipped me with the handle of my own god damned gun. I hit the floor yet again.

“Pathetic, Mr Jerome, you got anything else?”

Now he circled me, he was the kind of sadistic bastard that got off on this kind of shit, but even he must be getting a bit bored of this now. I was certain that the end must be near.

And so it turned out…But not for me.

There was a hint of movement at the entrance to the alley, then I heard a peculiar sound, a strange series of low pulsing and modulating tones. It had no other affect on me other than to pique my curiosity as to what it was. The same couldn’t be said for McLane.

He fell to his knees, hands grasping his ears – his sharp finger nails visibly lacerating his own flesh. And he began screaming, such anguished wails the like of which I’d never heard, his agony appeared excruciating.

Faint wisps of smoke began to emanate from him as he writhed and convulsed on the ground, his screams rising in pitch and ferocity. I began to back away, reaching the far corner of the alley, recoiling at the macabre display occurring in front of me.

What happened next was truly incredible and shocking. McLane’s whole body sprouted bright yellow flames and he quite literally disintegrated into a cloud of smouldering ash.

“Whoa!” I looked on in stunned disbelief.

As the smoke and ash began to clear I could see that there was little left of McLane other than an area of scorched asphalt on the spot where he had expired.

And through the haze I could see a figure approaching down the alley. My head was spinning so I couldn’t make out the features, but the poise, the gait and stride, I knew it was a female approaching. It appeared that I did have an angel looking out for me after all…

CHAPTER 9

I must have blacked out for a little while because the next thing I knew I was sprawled out in the back of a moving car.

As my vision cleared I looked across and found myself looking into the big brown eyes of Dr Reana Del-Ray.

“Why, Dr Del-Ray. You certainly are a sight for sore eyes.”

“Shh, you’re heavily dehydrated, drink this.”

She shoved a flask into my hands and promptly tipped half of its contents down my throat. Normally I wouldn’t let anyone take such a liberty but I’d literally just been preparing to accept my own mortality mere moments before, having a pretty girl pour water down my throat was pretty tame in comparison. Besides, I was actually really thirsty.

I looked over to see who was driving – sure enough, it was the doctor’s smarmy little associate at the wheel. I still couldn’t remember the guy’s name.

“Hey there, uh…”

“Walter, Mr Jerome, Walter Smitts. How are you doing, feeling a bit better?” He still had that tone of indignation about him.

“Yes - thank you, Walter. I have to say, I know I was a bit dismissive of you both when we first met-.”

“A bit?” Smitts was loving this, I could tell.

“Okay, look, I was out of line, I was a total ass. I should have listened to you both, the world is indeed full of these, I don’t know what else to call ‘em, vampires, you were right, I was wrong, I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, Mr Jerome, I guess it’s lucky we were on hand to help you out.” Del-Ray was at it now, her tone sounded concerned, but her eyes just yelled, ‘I told you so, dummy!’

“But I have to ask, how did you know where to find me – and what the hell did you do to that vampire?”

“We’ve actually been following you for a little while. You gave us the slip a few times, but eventually we figured if we watched your office for long enough then you’d surely appear,” She smiled a little, “can imagine our surprise when we witnessed a female vampire in high heels exit your office via the first floor window? We would have followed her but she was far too quick, so we were stuck with tailing you.”

“You’re in a hell of a lot of trouble, Mr Jerome, it seems everyone wants a piece of you, vampire or otherwise,”

“No shit, Walter, I had noticed. Mobsters and dirty cops I can deal with, but vampires, they’re something else.”

“Indeed they are, we’ve been tracking them for quite a while.” Now that I appeared to be onside with the whole vampire situation, Del-Ray’s demeanour softened somewhat. “And to answer your other question, this is what happened to the vampire who attacked you in the alleyway.”

She held out a small, rectangular device, smaller than a transistor radio.

“Is it a weapon? It looks a little, uh, underwhelming.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr Jerome,” she said with a slight hint of flirtatious innuendo. “Walter is something of a genius when it comes to microelectronics, it’s all his handy work, really.”

“But what does it actually do?”

Smitts didn’t need to be asked twice, “We managed to get some samples from the local police department of what we believed to be vampire blood and matter. We didn’t have much to work with, but we had enough to experiment on. We discovered that vampire blood reacts violently to sonic oscillations between a particular range of frequencies.”

“Sonic what?”

In the reflection of the rear view mirror I could see him roll his eyes in disdain at my ignorance. “Okay, and I’m seriously dumbing this down for you. There is a certain sound that literally makes their blood boil. right?”

“Okay, and this device reproduces that sound? That’s pretty neat.”

“Indeed. And it’s small enough to fit in your pocket.”

“You’ve invented a portable sonic vampire exploder?”

“Not exactly the name I’d choose for it, but essentially, yes. Impressed?”

“You know what, I honestly had you down as a bit of a dick, but you’re definitely going up in my estimation, you know that?”

“Thanks, Mr Jerome, I’m truly honoured.”

“Well done, boys, now we’re all buddies we have to level with each other. Mr Jerome, we’ve just saved you from certain death, the least you can do for us is tell us everything you know about the vampires – it’s pretty evident that you now know a lot more about them than you did the last time we met. You can start by telling us all about the blonde with the glowing green eyes and a penchant for clambering up and down buildings?”

So we drove and we talked. Del-Ray and Smitts knew part of what was going on, so I essentially filled in one or two gaps. I wouldn’t normally have been so open with anyone, but when people save your life it kind of changes your attitude a little.

Again, with hindsight I think I’d have possibly asked them a few more questions myself – most notably, exactly who was funding them in their research and investigations in vampirism? I should have asked, but I didn’t. A near death experience can really play havoc with your judgement.

* * *

The Santa Justina Institute for Advanced Studies was something of a double bluff. It was housed in an extremely ordinary looking office block, not unlike the one that housed my own office. Yet the reception area was something akin to a science fiction movie – dazzling in its clinical, bright white plastic decor. However, the lab that Del-Ray and Smitts were working from left a massive amount to be desired and destroyed illusion – evidently the reception was just for impressing the public.

The lab was sizable, about 100 square feet, but the equipment looked aged and worn, the lab tables were battered – the whole place looked tired. Del-Ray picked up on my reaction.

“Not as glamorous as you were expecting, eh?”

“I don’t know what I was expecting to be honest. The reception area prepped me for something a bit more, I dunno’ – modern? This reminds me of the chemistry lab at my old high school.”

“It’s the work that counts,” sneered Smitts, “not the splendour of the surroundings.”

“Indeed,” I glanced at my watch, I had somewhat lost track of time. It was just after 10pm, “Say, can I use your phone, I really ought to contact my PA, she’ll be worried.”

“It’s right over there,” indicated Del-Ray, donning a white lab coat.

I dialled Lydia’s home number. It rang a few times then her mother answered.

“Good evening, Mrs Stokes, it’s Johnny here. Can I speak with Lydia, please?”

“Hi Johnny, I’m actually slightly worried. She said she had to pop into the office, just to collect some papers, you know how she is? She wanted to get some work done from home.”

“Oh Christ! When did she go?”

“Well now, about 8pm. I was expecting her back within an hour-.”

“Shit!” And without regard for the fact that I’d probably deeply offended Lydia’s poor mother, I hung up the phone and then frantically dialled my office. It rang twice then a male voice I certainly didn’t recognise answered.

“Yeah?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Is that you, Jerome?”

“Listen, punk, you’re in my God damn office, talking on my telephone – I think that warrants some explanation, so I’ll ask you again – who the hell are you?”

“Okay, if you’re gonna’ be rude then I guess I’ll just cut to the chase. You don’t need to know who the hell I am, all you need to know is that I got that I’ve got that little bitch of yours right here, and unless you do as I say I’m going to rip her throat out, are we clear?”

“Now you listen to me, if you hurt Lydia so help me I’ll-.”

“You’ll do what, Jerome? You got lucky earlier, you know that? Well your luck has run out. We have someone here who is important to you, and her life depends on you ceasing to be a giant pain in the ass and playing ball. Now, you are going to haul your worthless butt down to the Old Docklands, and you are to bring your friends and their fancy vampire slaying gizmo with. Got it?”

“And if I do that, you’ll let Lydia go?”

“Screw you, Jerome, you’ll do it regardless or you’ll hear the bitch die right now – listen.”

I heard the muffled sound of an obscenity and then the sharp, percussive sound which I perceived to be a hand slapping across someone’s face. Then I heard a scream, followed by a muted, pitiful sob. I couldn’t be sure it was Lydia but I couldn’t take the chance – he had me by the balls.

“Okay, okay, please, stop. I’ll be there.”

The phone line went dead.

I stood for a moment. Smitts and Del-Ray had been following my side of the conversation and now they looked at me with enquiring eyes. I slowly put the telephone receiver back onto the hook, then reached inside my jacket and rested my hand on the handle of my gun. They weren’t going to like the proposal I was about to make to them.

CHAPTER 10

To the casual observer it will have looked like Dr Del-Ray simply exited the front door of the institute, she walked a couple of steps in front, myself just trailing behind slightly. The keener observer will have noted that, although expertly concealed, the barrel of my gun was trained on the Doctor’s back.

When we reached her car I unlocked the passenger door then ushered her in, then I climbed into the driver side and quickly pulled away.

She said nothing during our journey. We were both apprehensive and the tension was palpable.

When we were a couple of miles away from the Old Docklands I deliberately slowed the car to a crawl. I checked my watch, it was 11.35pm. Timing was critical – if I arrived ahead of schedule it would be potentially disastrous.

We crossed the Old Portland Bridge at 11.50pm, I glanced down towards the banks of the river below, I couldn’t make out any of the people, sleeping rough down there, but I could see the familiar glows of improvised campfires. I couldn’t help thinking that what I was about to do was for their benefit as well – for their missing friends.

I glanced over at Del-Ray, “Okay, Doctor, it’s time to roll. He’d better not screw this up.”

She allowed the briefest of smiles to creep onto her face, just for a moment, then it was gone and she turned her head away and gazed out of the passenger window as I depressed the gas pedal and got us moving at a decent speed again. As the road stretched away in front of us, heading in a gentle incline, I could see the ominous looking steel gates of the Old Docklands getting ever closer.

* * *

We reached the gates at exactly one minute to midnight, bang on schedule. I’d always believed that immaculate timing is the hallmark of a good private detective.

A welcoming committee of goons stood by the sides of the open gates, brandishing automatic rifles in threatening poses. I assumed these were Vitalli’s regular hoods, I figured vampires wouldn’t need to bother with guns.

I pulled up at the gates and almost in tandem, every goon trained their guns on us. I signalled to them that I was armed and indicated that my gun was trained only on the Doctor. The nearest goon, evidently the senior character here, approached the car.

“Lady, get out of the car and keeps your hands high,” he said, gesticulating to Del-Ray. “And you, throw the gun out the window, then get out, slowly, hands up. And don’t try anything clever.”

I did as he ordered and then two hoods approached and patted us both down. The goon searching me quickly located the Doctor’s vampire slaying device – he removed it from my pocket, looked it over then passed it to a companion. When they were satisfied that we were not carrying any additional concealed weapons, we were ushered through the gates, guns pressed uncomfortably into our backs the whole time.

A short walk into the complex and the goons then handed us over to a different group who obviously were vampires. They weren’t trying to hide it either, their eyes glowing that familiar luminous green, and they all displayed the contorted features and fangs. I ascertained that vampires had an element of control over whether they chose to look reasonably ‘normal’, in human terms, or whether they decided to show their true form, presumably the hideous, green eyed, fanged and contorted variation. I glanced over at Del-Ray – she’d not previously seen one up close, she couldn’t disguise the mix of shock and disgust on her features.

One of the hoods handed the vampire slaying device to the nearest vampire. He studied it briefly, then with a flick of his hand he dismissed the goons, then turned to us.

“Is this the weapon?” He snarled.

“Indeed it is,” I said apprehensively. I was considering trying to make a bit of small talk, but I caught the look in his eye and thought better of it.

The vampire snorted, dropped the device to the floor and crushed it to pieces with a single, violent stamp of his foot.

“Where is the Doctor’s associate?”

“What, the jerk? He didn’t really agree with the plan to come down here, he tried to jump me. I redecorated the wall of the Doctor’s lab with his brains. Messy business, ain’t that right, Doctor?” I was going for the ‘I’m on your side’ angle – I figured that would at least buy me enough time.

Del-Ray looked at me with convincing disgust. The vampire shrugged.

“This way. We’ll take you via the scenic route, I reckon you’ll appreciate seeing the farm,” he sneered as he turned and marched off. The other three vampires shoved us along after him.

* * *

The farm turned out to be an enormous warehouse of prefabricated iron. From the exterior it looked pretty derelict, but the vampires has obviously been very busy inside. We were led through a couple of double doors then into the horrific vastness of the main expanse of the building.

“Oh my God!” Del-Ray, eyes wide, was struggling to keep to her composure.

The huge interior was pretty much filled a gigantic, uniform structure of a metal frame work – and within the individual frames, suspended upright, hung the limp bodies of countless people, all naked, unconscious and hooked up to elaborate tangle of pipes and tubes, intravenously draining the blood and presumably human waste from them into huge separate vats below. The scale of the operation was both mind blowing and horrific.

As we reached the far end of the warehouse we passed a couple vampires pulling down some poor souls who’d evidently been drained clean, their bodies pale as ghosts, completely lifeless. We watched as the vampires dragged the corpses away and dumped them down a disposal shute, with the similar distain of someone disposing of their garbage.

And at almost the same time, two more vampires were wheeling in more people on stretchers to take the places of the deceased.

Thankfully, we were then led back outside through a rear door – if I’d had to spend any more time in that terrible place I’d have been starting to retch.

We walked for a couple of minutes, which took us deeper inside the complex to a main courtyard. A crowd of thirty or more vampires awaited our arrival. We were frog-marched into a clearing in the middle of the throng and waiting for us was the familiar figure of Shelly Valance, thankfully back in her more appealing human form. To her right stood a tall, well built and muscular guy, I estimated him to be in his early thirties.

I decided if I was going to say anything then now would be the time, “well, it’s nice to see you again Miss Valance, but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your good self, Mr?” I offered my outstretched hand towards the big guy, slightly worried in case someone decided to bite it off.

“Shut the hell up, Jerome,” evidently he was in no mood for niceties. “My name is Gianni Vitalli, and you have been a massive waste of my time.”

So, this was the main man, the kingpin of organised crime in Santa Justina. I didn’t fancy my position, Vitalli was a lot more intimidating than I was expecting, but I decided I had nothing to lose – what the hell, it was time to play hardball.

“Whatever, Mr Vitalli. Now, I’ve delivered the good Doctor, here - and one of your goons has taken away her little box, you know, the thing that caused your friend, McLane, to repaint an alleyway with his own innards earlier tonight,” I let that hang in the air a little – I figured vampires weren’t used to someone openly declaring that they weren’t as invulnerable as they obviously believed themselves to be, “now, I want to see Lydia. Or do I have to ask your boss, here, about that?” I said, indicating in Valance’s direction.

I briefly saw her smirk, then my attention returned rather quickly back to Vitalli. He fixed me with a murderous glance, and then…

“Oh crap,” I heard myself utter. His eyes had begun to glow green as well. Gianni Vitalli had not only gone into league with the vampires, he’d actually become a fully paid up member of the God damned club.

I think he struck me violently with the back of his hand – in truth, it was so fast that I didn’t see it coming at all. The impact of the blow was so severe it lifted me off my feet and sent me tumbling backwards a good five yards. My vision blurred, my head throbbed and I felt at least two teeth come loose in my mouth. I lay motionless for few seconds before dragging myself to my feet. My body was still aching from the beating McLane had given me earlier – taking a second severe beating inside twenty four hours was just completely unfair.

I threw a quick glance to my watch – one minute to go.

Vitalli was already advancing toward me, I was worried that he might let the moment go to his head and beat me to a bloody pulp right there and then. I was mightily relieved when Valance spoke up.

“Easy, Gianni. Remember, you must control those primal urges – you’re part of the superior species now.”

Reluctantly he held back.

“Johnny!” A very familiar voice reached my ears, I looked over and I saw Lydia, face bruised, clothes torn and battered, had been dragged in the clearing. Valance, eyes green, fangs bared, behind her – clasped her arm violently around Lydia’s throat.

I instinctively moved toward them.

“Stay there or I rip the bitch’s head clean off!” Lydia’s eyes widened in horror as she looked at me helplessly.

I flicked another glance at my watch – thirty seconds.

“Okay, Miss Valance, you win, congratulations,” I raised both hands in as diffusing a manner as I could muster, “now, please – I’ll take you up on your offer, I’ll work for you, hell, I’ll work for free – I’ll do anything you ask, just let her go.”

“Oh, you really are a prize idiot, Jerome!” She was cackling now like a demented witch, “none of you are walking out of here.”

“Yeah? I figured you might be full of shit, guess I was right. Well, c’mon then, you better make this quick,” I said, trying to summon up a last bit of bravado.

Ten seconds.

“Kill you? Don’t be so stupid! Three healthy humans – chock full of blood, that would be a horrendous waste. Oh no, Jerome, you’re all going to spend your last days in the farm with the other scum that we’ve dragged in. Think of it as probably the only truly useful thing you’ve ever done. How ironic it’ll be that as your life blood slowly drains away, you’ll be contributing to keeping my kind nourished.”

Times up.

“Is that right. Well…” I stalled, listening intently. Nothing.

“What’s the matter, Johnny?” she mocked, “not got one of your trademark wisecracks to throw at me?”

I hesitated, my mind pondering all the things that could have happened to scupper my plans. I thought for just a moment that this could really be the end for me…And then – that sound, that sweet, blessed sound. It was the unmistakable din of audio feedback.

“What the hell?” Vitalli glanced around, “That’s the city public address system. Why in the hell would anyone be broadcasting anything in the middle of the night?”

“That sure is, Gianni, my boy. I’m about to play you a little tune, and trust me, it’s going to literally blow your mind, you son of a bitch!”

It was my turn to give him the murderous stare. I wish I could have seen my own face at that moment, I’d wager I was grinning like a complete crazy bastard.

Quietly at first, a high pitched sound started to emanate all around, the city public address system had output speakers almost everywhere, including several within the complex – there would be no escape.

The vampire’s expressions all rapidly began to change from confidence, to indecision, to confusion – and then to blind terror.

The volume of the sound rose higher and almost simultaneously they all clasped their hands to their ears and began screaming and howling, falling to the floor and writhing. About ten seconds later the first vampire, one of the thronging mass all around me, exploded in a fiery and pulpy mess. He was followed by another, then another.

I looked at Lydia, she had gotten free from Valance – Del-Ray had clasped her arm and pulled her clear of the screaming horde.

Gianni Vitalli was on his knees in front of me, making the most tortured sound I’d ever heard a grown man make, blood and smoke poured out of him. I couldn’t resist it, I smacked him across his face the same way he had done to me just minutes earlier – admittedly nowhere near as hard, but it didn’t matter. His entire head split into two and fell clean off his shoulders and a geyser of flame and blood spurted from his neck about ten feet into the air. His torso fell forward and as it hit the ground his entire body disintegrated into a cloud of grey dust right before me.

Next, I began to make my way over to Valance, with every intention of giving her some similar treatment. Alas, she beat me to it. She hoisted back her head and let out an ear-splitting scream.

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo-.”

And then she literally exploded in an impressive orange fireball.

“Whoa!”

The blast knocked me backward, I was temporarily plunged into a thick haze of acrid smelling, black smoke. After a few seconds the smoke began to clear, Shelly Valance was no more.

I looked around, all of the vampires appeared to have suffered a similar fate, reduced in seconds to nothing but smoke, piles of ash and splatters of powdered blood.

“Jeez!” I said out loud, “I sure wouldn’t want to be the one who’d have to clean this mess up!”

CHAPTER 11

We didn’t hang around long after. We quickly scouted the vicinity and found the destroyed remains of vampires everywhere. There were one or two hoods still about, but they were busy re-evaluating their choice of career - in light of their employers untimely demise. They weren’t really concerned about us.

Lydia was in a bad way, she was pretty traumatised and almost blacked out a couple times as we tried to make out way out of the Docklands complex. Del-Ray and I had to carry her the last few yards to the car.

Just as we drove away, the noise from the City public address system came to an abrupt halt. I had to admit, Smitts had done a fine job.

I was quite proud of the ruse I’d concocted. Smitts and Del-Ray had built a device that made a sound that could kill vampires, but it was small, only effective to a very localised degree. I figured the city public address system would be just about the best mass delivery system for carrying out large scale vampire genocide. Boy, was I proved right!

We’d agreed that Smitts would take the working prototype of the vampire killing audio device, sneak out of the institute in secret and head to the downtown broadcast station which controlled the signal fed out to the city public address system. I insisted he take a gun, not that I expected him to use it – hell, it wasn’t even loaded – although I didn’t tell him that, it was just as a precaution should there be a security guard on duty. As it turned out there was, thankfully some skinny runt of a guy who almost shit his pants when Smitts pointed the gun at him – he complied completely and pretty much let him do everything he needed to, and to make good his escape.

We’d synchronised our watches and agreed that at exactly five minutes past midnight, Smitts, having hooked up the device to the city public address system, would broadcast the signal for as long as he reasonably could before making his exit.

Mine and Del-Ray’s part in this carried infinitely more risk. The device we’d given to the vampires was fake, thankfully no-one inspected it that closely, it was nothing more than loose collections of wires, transistors and an old battery, all stuffed in a small, plastic casing. And they bought my story about me apparently murdering Smitts to explain his absence. But by far the biggest risk was that I had to bank on the vampires not slaying us the moment we arrived. Once in the complex I knew that the public address system had speakers dotted almost all over the site, providing Smitts did his part I was confident the plan would work. I guess in fact that I didn’t even have to go in there myself, I could have just broadcast the signal myself and kept out of harm’s way, but I was sure the vampires would have had eyes on us – they’d have either stopped us or tipped off Valance that something was up – I couldn’t take the risk that she wouldn’t just kill Lydia there and then.

It was an educated guess that Valance and Vitalli would confront us out in the open, I figured their egos would dictate that they go for grandeur. It was fairly fortunate that they did, I had been slightly worried that they might have some soundproof bunker or something – where the public address system might not have been audible. If that had been the case we’d have been totally shafted.

We’d agreed to rendezvous with Smitts back at my office, and on the way there we found that the streets were crawling with cops and medics – I flicked on the radio and the local news was alive with multiple, alleged reports coming in from all over the city of people apparently spontaneously combusting at just after midnight. It appeared that we’d not only taken out the vampires at the docks, but quite a few who had been stationed throughout the city.

When we reached my office there were a bunch of uniformed cops keeping a small crowd at bay that had gathered just down the block. A couple of vampires had apparently been keeping tabs on my office, we caught a quick glimpse of some crime scene investigators sweeping up their remains into plastic sacks.

Smitts was already there, he’d taken the liberty of helping himself to a large glass of my bourbon, and I found the cheeky bastard slouching back in my chair with his God damned feet up on my desk. Under normal circumstances I’d have probably shot him for doing that, but I figured the guy had done good and would let him off… But only just this once.

I left an anonymous call with the cops to get their asses down to the docks with as many cops and ambulances as they could muster, then I called Richard Jameson to tell him that while I wasn’t sure if Anton was still alive, I at least knew where he’d been taken and that the cops would be in contact soon.

* * *

The news the following morning was full of the discovery at the docklands. Over two hundred people were rescued from the vampire blood farm, but the dead bodies of at least fifty others were also found. Neither the press nor the cops had a clue what the hell had been going on. There were rumours, let’s face it, I’d put the basics together myself and come up with vampires, but until I actually saw them – and they started trying to kill me, I hadn’t the gumption to mention it to anyone else. It sounded way too crazy. And I think that’s what the cops and the press thought too, it was a damn strange set of events, but no-one wanted to be labelled as the crazy one who dared suggest it was anything more than that. Santa Justina made the national news that day, and the incident entered into folklore such was its notoriety, and the city would forever more be a magnet for conspiracy theorists and paranormal enthusiasts. But we all made a pact to keep quiet about what actually happened. Hell, who in the world would have believed us anyway?

As it turned out, Anton was alive, but he’d been incredibly lucky – in a couple more hours in the farm and he’d have ended up down the shute like those other poor bastards we’d seen. Richard Jameson paid up in full, with a bit extra, so it was a double win for me.

Even Lydia forgave me, eventually, for getting her involved with this crazy mess. She had as much trouble truly believing what she had witnessed as I had, and I’m sure she carried some deep emotional scars long after her physical wounds had healed up, but being a real trooper, she put it behind her and moved on with her life.

Reana Del-Ray and I hooked up for a couple drinks and dinner dates afterwards, she really wasn’t anywhere near as much of a tight-ass when she wasn’t working, but alas, we certainly didn’t have much in the way of romantic chemistry. In fairness, that girl was just too damn smart for a humble caveman like me! But we remained good friends. About two months after, she called me to let me know that herself and Smitts were being reassigned. She refused to tell me where, so I suspected that it was either government or military. Our paths would one day cross again and I was to find out that there were a lot of things that she hadn’t been completely honest about, but that would be much later.

So that just left me. I took a couple of weeks leave, Jameson’s fee saw to that, and I rested up and tried to come to terms with the significance of everything I’d experienced. Eventually, I had to get back to work, and so I threw myself into it with the same old vigour, and nobody knew any different.

But I was different, inside. The nightmares persisted too. I found that the only way to avoid them was to drink a lot more in order to deepen my sleep. I didn’t become a fully fledged drunkard, but I’d have to admit that I became functionally alcohol dependent, the dreams would have driven me crazy otherwise.

The dirty city, having toyed with me for a few years, had finally taken its first proper bite out of me – and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last…

Note From The Author

Very many thanks for taking the time to read this, my debut book, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.

I’m currently working on a companion book to The Dirty City entitled ‘Tales From The Dirty’ - this will reveal some of the history behind Johnny Jerome, the origins and mythology of the vampires, the backgrounds to some of the key characters in The Dirty City, the backgrounds to some characters that will be key in future books in the series, and of course, the background to the city itself, Santa Justina.

The fully fledged second book in the series is also in progress, entitled ‘The Dirty City - Call Of The Undead’.

Both should be available in the Fall of 2014.

You can keep up to date with my work on my author platform website; www.jimcoganauthor.com

Where the best way to be kept up to date of new releases, promotions and freebies and is to sign up for my newsletter. Don’t worry, you won’t be constantly spammed to buy my books - you’ll hear from me once a month normally, with the odd extra if there is a particularly relevant bit of news to announce. Newsletter subscribers hear about everything first, they get the advanced notifications on offers, discounts and free giveaways. Here is the link to the sign up form; www.jimcoganauthor.com/p/mailing-list.html

I’m also active on social media, you can find on the links below;

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jimcoganauthor

Twitter: www.twitter.com/jimcoganauthor

And if Podcasts are your thing, please feel free to check out my audio round up of all the news of my week just past; www.jimcoganauthor.com/p/blogcast.html

And again, very many thanks for reading my book :)

Jim Cogan

Content

Cogan Jim The Dirty City

Dedications

About This Book

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

Note From The Author