90s Noir: The City's Dying Breath

"Smith's dead..."

"Yeah, no shit he's dead. Did you see that? Those motherfuckers popped up out of nowhere. They were waiting for us, I swear," snapped Francesco angrily before descending into a fit of coughing -- a solid decade of smoking hadn't exactly kept his lungs in tip-top shape.

"Oh, no doubt they were waiting for us. It's obvious we were set up. I just don't know who would be fucking stupid enough to try to pull that shit on the Dukes," pondered Grant, obviously the more fit of the two thugs. "How many you got left?"

"Three, I think. I lost count, man. Bullets were going everywhere, shit..." he wheezed. "Hey, where's our other guy? What was his name? Jay?" asked Fran, finally beginning to catch his breath.

"That internet motherfucker? He ran as soon as we got ambushed by those psychos. You don't think he was the one who set us up, do you?" queried Grant, instinctively checking his mag to make sure he still had a few bullets left. The sound of sirens nearby didn't exactly ease his mind, and he was sure as hell going to need bullets if this night were to get any worse.

"Who else could it be? The boss man said all the Russians involved were solid, and I don't doubt him. In case you forgot, the Russians were the first ones to catch bullets. I think only one of their guys made it," said Francesco, who dropped to a squat and leaned against the wall. Grant wisely chose not to comment on Fran's comical lack of athleticism; now was not the time to be fucking around with petty insults.

"Then it had to be that Jay guy. He was the only wild card. Smith hired him to fill in for Waterson. Can you believe that? Some random fuck on the internet we don't even know. What the fuck was he thinking? I should have my fucking head examined. Can't believe I agreed to this shit..."

"We're gonna need to get our heads checked for bullets if we don't make like a couple fat cats and get back to Washington. Come on, maybe we can figure out how to explain this to the boss man on the way over."

~

James returned to his apartment in such a hurry that all the usual steps of his homecoming ritual -- putting his keys in the dish, chaining the door, dumping any spare change, sorting through his mail, and putting food out for Chauncey -- were completely forgotten. Nearly slamming the door off its hinges, James made a beeline for the couch, tossing his jacket aside carelessly before flopping down, exhausted and panicked. Chauncey, his finicky longhaired cat, began to whine angrily after noticing the distinct absence of FancyFeast in his bowl, but his complaining fell silent on James' still ringing ears. Clutching his pistol with shaking, sweaty hands, James finally allowed himself to drop it on the coffee table. He buried his face in his hands, as he always did when overly stressed.

It was his first job that wasn't a hit, and boy had he fucked it up royally. He was hired as extra muscle by some Dukes dealers to fill in for a sick buddy. The pay was dismal at best, but James thought it was safe enough and he was honestly just happy to receive a non-hit request for once. He was only there as security for a big deal with some Russians from out of town. Jay and three other Dukes were to meet with the Russians in an alley to exchange a briefcase full of cash for a parcel of Russian heroin. It was simple enough, until three psychos dressed in all black showed up on motorcycles and shot up the place. Without even a second thought, James tore out of there and left the Dukes to their fate. It was only now that James came to realize that the Dukes would most likely suspect James of masterminding the whole thing, especially with the way he'd just up and left like that.

The Dukes had a lot of connections, and James was just one man with a revolver and no experience. He figured he had a week to live, tops. He either needed to clear his name or get the fuck out of town. Heaving a deep sigh devoid of relief, James rose from the couch and made his way into the kitchen, he grabbed a can of cat food from the cupboard. Chauncey brushed against his leg, as he always did when about to be fed.

"Oh, you poor thing. I wonder who's going to feed you after the Dukes burn me alive."

Dee woke with a start. He flinched, looked around the shitty and cluttered trailer he called home. He had fallen asleep --passed out-- on the couch sometime during the night. Dee blinked the sleepiness from his eyes and reached out for the table next to him. The table was covered in 10-13's, a little inside joke the force had when it came to empty beer cans, and fast food bags. He grabbed the clock resting on the table and checked the digital readout. It was a quarter past eleven. Sighing, Dee sat up and leaned against the couch.

He had been dreaming about Denise, his first wife, and that time they had had a picnic in Alamo Square back in San Fran. In reality, the picnic had been the high point of their marriage, they went there a week before they moved to Vanitas. While they had been young, happy, and full of promise in the actual picnic the dream was a bit different. He spent most of the dream arguing with Denise. They argued about shit they argued about after they moved. Dee's heavy drinking, the bad neighborhood they were living in, Dee's cheating. Then, as it always is in dreams, the arguments began to meld with the arguments he and Meg, wife number two, had. The arguments were pretty much the same, except he and Meg would argue about Michael, Dee's only son.

Dee grunted to himself and picked himself up off the couch. He was still dressed in yesterday's clothes, his body smelling of old sweat. He padded through the trailer in his socks and peeked his head into the makeshift dark room he had set up in the trailer's spare bedroom. The photos he had been developing were dried and ready. He made a note to call Berkley's office and set up a meeting. Conrad Berkley was a mid-level businessman in the Vanitas area. He owned a chain of electronic stores in the city and county. Berkley had paid Dee a week ago to tail and follow his son. Berkley was convinced that young Cameron Berkley was a drug addict. Dee's photos showed that he was, but the truth was more than Berkley had expected. Cameron had been stealing anything -- VCRs, microwaves, stereos-- from his dad's company in order to pay for his smack. Dee had the young man dead to rights with the photos. Now it was just a matter of handing the proof over to Berkley and getting paid.

After checking on the photos, Dee hit the head and pissed for what felt like a solid minute. Once he flushed and washed, he went to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the the fridge. He cracked it open and took out half the bottle in two gulps. Swallow it down, he wiped his face. Off in the distance, Dee heard the sound of a motor. He put his beer down and walked to the front door. A black car was rolling down the long gravel driveway towards his door. Dee cursed under his breath and grabbed some shoes. He was coming off the front porch steps when the car door opened.

"Johnny," said a little man in a white suit as he came out the car.

George Economos, as he was known by most people Greek Georgie, ran book. He was mostly independent, but Dee knew he got protection from some mob people. He couldn't remember if it was from the Cartigos, the Russians, or those redneck assholes that called themselves Dixie Mafia. Georgie would take bets and make book for anybody who were either too dumb or too in debt to put down bets with the casinos. Georgie took bets from only those who were desperate enough. Poor people and the addicts were who Georgie prayed on.

"What do you want?" Dee asked curtly.

"Need some muscle," Georgie said as he ran his hands through his curly black hair. "You see the Bulls game last night? They got upset by Denver, only the fourth game they lost all season. Not only that, but they didn't cover the spread. Guess who was smart enough to bet against both?"

Georgie chuckled to himself and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"So, you need a bagman?" asked Dee. He suddenly wished he had brought his beer with him out to the porch.

"For the most part," said Georgie, lighting up a cigarette. "I don't expect any of the guys who owe me money to put up a fight, but in this business you never know what to expect. I'd say keep a blackjack handy just in case."

"How much to run bag?"

"Three hundred."

"Fuck you," growled Dee. "Three hundred for this shit? Go to hell, you little Greek asshole."

"Dee," said Georgie. "Look, I'm trying to do you a favor here. I'm throwing you a bone. I could easily get some muscle to do it for free."

"Then why don't you? I don't want your fucking charity."

"Because," said Georgie. He took a dramatic pause to suck on his cigarette and blow smoke into the air. "I use that muscle to collect, then I don't need you. Suddenly, I feel like collecting on that eight grand you owe me. Maybe I get my new muscle to come over here and fuck you up? You want to be an asshole, Dee, fine. Just remember it's a two way street."

Dee stood in silence while Georgie looked at him with that smirk Dee wanted to wipe off his face so badly.

"Five hundred," said Dee.

"Four-fifty," said Georgie. "You do this, that's four fifty you owe wiped off your ledger."

"Deal," said Dee. "Give me a list and I'll get to it."

Georgie smiled and pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Dee and nodded.

"That's a good boy, Johnny."

Dee stayed silent while Georgie got back into his car and drove away. Dee waited until the car was out of sight before he flipped it off. He tucked the list into his coat pocket and went back inside. He flopped down on the ouch and sighed. Six years ago, he was a goddamn lieutenant on the fast track to being a captain. He was one of the PD's comers, and he would break bread with Don Cartigo almost as an equal. Now all he rated was this rundown trailer and acting as Georgie Economos' goddamn lapdog.

Dee shook his head and went back into the kitchen. He took the beer and polished it off in two more gulps. He sat the empty down on the counter and pulled out the list from his pocket. Six names and addresses written in Georgie's chicken scratch writing. Six deadbeats he might have to make bleed. Dee took another beer from the fridge and downed it just as quickly as he downed the last one.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jonesy, watch the road. Put the can down, let me roll the doobie." Renshaw growled sourly for what had to be the fifth time that night as his partner tried to drive while balancing a Coors Tall Boy and rolling a joint one-handed. For the hundreth time he had to wonder how he got roped into working with this idiot.

"Sorry. Just so fuckin' excited, man. You see that shit back there? His head was like Pllfft." Jonesy said, taking the older man's advice and setting the beer down in the cup holder and handing him the half rolled joint while still giggling his ass off. He was a young kid, probably not much older than 23, scrawny and trying pass off those scraggly whisers on his chin as a proper beard. He was also a complete raging dumbass. If Renshaw hadn't beent here, he'd be the one in the truck right now rolled up in a rug instead of the snitch. Right now the body was probably starting to bleed through the rug. They'd have to burn the car later. Renshaw finished rolling the joint a moment later, handing it back to Jonesy and lighting him up, much to the kid's joy. He never understood the appeal of that crap.

The south bridge was one of the most popular spots to dispose of a body in the city for two reasons. First, the water underneath it was deep, almost forty feet at its lowest point, and dark to boot. Second, when night fell, it was almost deserted for fear of the local gang bangers, though those in the underworld had little to fear from those idiots. Even Bloods knew it wasn't a good idea to take a shot at the White man dumping a corpse over the edge. Third, the bodies that were dumped here never remained long, thanks to the bull shark population in the river. Naturaly, this made swimming extremely hazardous, so any police divers could go looking for evidence only at the risk of severe injury or even death. Tonight, Renshaw was about to add another body to the long list of those that had vanished in this dark water over the years. With a grunt and a heave, the Renshaw and his idiot partner hurled the rug and the corpse over the railing and into the inky blackness bellow.

"Yup. Sharks'll eat well tonight." Renshaw said with just a hint of a smirk, taking a slow, satisifed drag on a menthol KOOL as he watched the water ripple bellow. Now it was just a matter of enduring the ride back to town with this dumbass, and collecting his fee. He kept telling himself that it would be worth it. If Jonesy didn't shut up, though....well, he still had a few shells left.

The white Panama hat rested on the table, a careful arrangement of napkins separating the surface of the table from the spotless white straw. Handmade in Ecuador. Had to keep it clean, which meant keeping it from making contact with anything being served at this greasy spoon. While careless in many things, in dress Tobias Dooley was nothing less than fastidious.

Not that it was much of a greasy spoon, Tobe noted as he looked around. The steak and eggs before him were actually pretty palatable, the coffee was hot and fresh, the furniture new, the waitress approaching with a steaming Bunn flask actually kinda cute. He gave her a welcome smile as she neared, pushed the enamel mug closer for her.

"How's everything?" she asked politely as she freshened his coffee.

"Just fine, hon, just fine," he said. "Nothin' like a good hot breakfast before a busy day." His soft Southern accent made the young woman's ears perk. That was one advantage of moving out to this city, he thought to himself- the local broads dug his accent. Exoticism.

"Oh yeah? Big plans for the day?" she asked with a smile as she finished pouring coffee for him.

"Daleyeah, hon," he said with a grin. "After this, I'ma swing round Endeavor and beat the shit out of Clean Willy for dealin' ice without permission. He fights back, then I'm thinking I'll shoot him in the hand. Or maybe the leg, haven't decided yet. After that, I'm going to round up some of the boys and their shotguns and head on out of town on the V-7. Word on the drums is there's a truck loaded with Pall Malls passing through the county, so we're gonna hijack it and bring it back to town. With any luck, one of the usual buyers will take the lot of them. That'll be a good take, so I'ma take my share on down to the casinos, try and get something more outta it at one of the rigged tables, unless I get drunk and either get in a fight or shoot someone again. In that case, I'll probably steal a car to get home, I'd rather not be wreckin' my own. Oh, and if I can beat up a homeless guy somewhere in there, that's just gravy."

He grinned, enjoying the waitress' aghast look for a moment before shaking his head. "Naw, I'm jus' fuckin' with ya. I'm gonna be doing a full audit of the books for my company."

The waitress looked stunned for a moment further, before cracking into a smile and a nervous chuckle. "You had me going for a second there. You really did."

Tobe brushed invisible lint off the lapel of his cream-colored suit jacket. "I'm just funnin' ya, hon."

The waitress walked off with a little giggle. Cute girl, Tobe thought. He'd leave a nice tip before driving off to deal with Clean Willy.

Dee rapped on the door with three sharp knocks halfway between the doorknob and the top of the door. It was a cop's knock, loud and disruptive. He was on the third floor of some rundown apartment building. More like a flophouse, thought Dee, but given the state he lived in who was he to judge?

"Who is it?!" a voice behind the door shouted. Dee heard dogs barking somewhere further away.

"Leroy," said Dee in a deep and stereotypical black voice. "I live down the hall, some UPS guy dropped off a package for you."

Dee heard the voice curse, then the scrape of a chair and footsteps. Dee had his back in his left hand, down by his side. A lock snapped on the other side of the door. Dee heard a chain slide off and then the door peeked open. The face of a black man peeked through the crack. Not much, but more than enough for the blackjack.

"Shit," the black man shouted. He tried to shove the door closed, but Dee thrust the blackjack out and blocked the door with the club. "I ain't done shit," the man said as he tried to wrestle the door shut. "I'm up to date on my rent and car payments."

"What about your bookie fees?" Dee asked as he wedged his foot into the door. The man back-peddled into the apartment. Dee swung the door open and followed him in. He kept the blackjack down low, but also kept it high enough to remind the man he had it. "The little Greek wants his due."

"I-I-I don't have it," the man said in a near stutter.

"He figured you'd say that," said Dee, creeping towards the man. He began to back up further into the apartment. Dee took a quick look around the room. Clean looking place, sparse furniture. Nothing that would be worth much value to Georgie. Stealing from people who owed him was Georgie's preferred method of dealing with deadbets. In light of loot, Georgie settled for having the shit kicked out of them until they paid. To Dee it looked Like had to go with plan B.

"Look," the man said. "Just.. just tell him I'll have his money by the end of the week."

"Tell me," Dee said, inching closer with the blackjack now up by his chest. "What hand do you jerk off with? I'll make sure not to break that one."

"I don't jerkoff," the man spat. "Unlike you, I got women do that for me."

"No argument there," Dee said, tapping him in the chest with the club. "Look, I'll be square with you. I don't want to hurt you, I know you don't want me to hurt you. I know where you live and I can find out where you work real fucking quick. You don't pay your debts at the end of the week, I go find you."

One quick move, Dee smacked the man in the knee with the club. A glancing blow that didn't break anything, but it sent the man down to his knees. He yelled and grabbed his knee. "The fuck you do that for?!" he yelled. "You said you didn't want to hurt me."

"I didn't," Dee replied flatly. "But I had to. That's just to show you what I'd do to you when I don't want to. You welsh on your debt, and then I'll want to hurt you. Don't make me do that."

Dee backed away from the man and calmly walked out of the apartment while the man cradled his knee hurled obscenities Dee's way.

~~~~

He repeated the process five more times. Four of the gamblers paid him, but only two had all the money they owed. The one that didn't have the money, Dee did what he did with the black man, only on this guy he went after his hip. After he was done with the names on his list, he headed down to the sports bar Georgie ran book from. TVs showing ESPN were hung from the ceiling. In the back office, Georgie was on the phone with his feet up on a desk. He motioned to Dee when he saw him come through the office door. Dee had a crumpled brown bag in his hands that held his take from the past few hours. A grand and a half in gambling debt collection with the list Georgie gave him, names marked off and how much they owed scribbled in the paper's margins.

"Yeah," Georgie said into the phone. "What are the casinos putting the line at? Thirteen and a half point favorite for Dallas? Shit! Let it get around that I'm giving the Steelers a seven point favorite. Yeah... then put me down for ten grand on the Cowboys not to cover the spread. Alright? Alright, bye."

Georgie hang up and shook his head as he put his feet off the desk.

"With how easy this shit is, I don't know why anybody would do anything else."

"Maybe they like having real jobs?" asked Dee. "You know, not ripping off desperate people while they line their own pockets."

"This coming from Dirty Dee?" Georgie said with a grin. "The same guy who pulled a goddamn Houdini on a pound of coke?"

Dee balled his fist and tried to keep a neutral look on his face. Georgie was pouring salt into that old wound, he was goading Dee to act. The little asshole was practically daring Dee to hit him.

"Here," Dee finally said. He tossed the bag on to the desk and leaned back while Georgie sorted through it all.

"Shit," Georgie said with a shake of his head. "This was all you could get?"

"Don't forget your clientele. You make bets for poor people and then you wonder why they don't have money? Ever heard of trying to get blood from a stone, kid?"

Georgie rolled his eyes and plopped the bag into a desk drawer. "These fuckers who didn't pay, I'll keep an eye on them. I'll call you if they don't pony up and you hit them hard. Got it?"

Dee nodded silently. "So, about my debt?"

"Fair's fair," Georgie said with another one of his shit eating grins. "Three hundred dollars has been wiped from your ledger."

"You asshole," said Dee. He thrust his finger out and pointed it at Georgie. "That wasn't the deal. We said four fifty, goddammit!"

"Yep, four fifty. For all the money collected. You didn't live up to your promise, so why should I?"

"You son of a bitch," Dee grumbled. He stood up, the urge to knock the shit out of Georgie was at its peak. Georgie just looked up at him and continued to smile.

"C'mon," he said. "Hit me. Hit me and see what happens, you piece of shit. I dare you."

Dee could feel heat in his face and was pretty sure he was the color of a beet. He turned and stormed off, leaving the bar in a hurry. He got into his car and drove in silence until he was outside his trailer. He leaned back in the seat and caught a glance at himself in the rear view mirror. A fat man nearing the backside of fifty, his face red from getting pushed around by a snot-nosed punk twenty years younger than him. Dee yelled and jerked the mirror from the windshield. He tossed it out the open window and punched the steering wheel in front of him. Dee imagined it was Georgie's face as he laid into it with his meaty fists. He screamed as he hit the wheel. Before he knew it, Georgie's face had shifted to the face of the real person behind all his trouble: himself. He was imaging hitting himself. Call it payback for all the stupid shit he had done over the years. He was the only one to blame for all the shit that lead him here. Him and him alone.

Dee hit the wheel until he was exhausted. He leaned back in his seat and breathed heavily. His heart was racing, sweat was dripping down his face. He got out the car and found the rear view mirror in the dirt. He picked it up and shambled into his trailer. He'd fix the mirror as soon as possible. Right now, he needed a drink.

Deandre woke up to loud repeated knocks on his front door. "A'yo, give me a second!" He crawled up out of bed, picking up the Glock 17 on the bed side table. He quickly checked to make sure that a round was chambered, before proceeding to the door. He looked through the peep hole, spotting an older man. It was Frog, the guy that was responsible for their crew's stash house. "The fuck you doin' here so early homie?" Frog frowned. "We ain't got nothing to work today, we gots the day off bee." Deandre raised his eyebrows and waved Frog in with the pistol. "Can't be too careful these days, yo'." He tucked the pistol in to his pyjama pants, rubbing his hands together as he walked over to the couch with Frog. "The fuck is going on then? We ain't workin' today so what the fuck are we gonna' do?" Frog snorted in response and grinned at Deandre. "Tango got me a job bee. Ten grand's da' pay out and I need someone to help me out. You want to make some money?"

An hour later, the duo were parked outside of a diner on Magnolia street. "It's a hit, Deandre. This nigga' been short on his count the past few weeks. Shaundra been saying that this Tony guy was at a party a few nights ago, sniffin' his own product. That ain't fly with Tango." Deandre nodded a little bit. "He always in this diner at this time, wears a Red Sox fitted. Get his name before you hit him, name's Tony." Deandre opened up the door to the car and stepped outside, adjusting the orange bandana that was tied around his mouth and nose. He pushed the door open to the diner and walked inside, surveying his surroundings before his eyes landed on Tony. He was eating breakfast with his mother. They were seated in a booth, with Tony's mother facing Deandre and Tony sitting in front of her. "A'yo Tony, what it do?" Tony looked over his shoulder, only to be greeted by a Glock 17 in his face. His mother shrieked in response. "No!" Deandre pulled the trigger three times, the first shot snapping Tony's head back. The second shot made his brain matter splash all over his mother's face. "My baby, no!" Deandre shot her in the face too and tucked the pistol in his waistband, walking out through the door.

It was the aftermath of a rather sour turn of events that led to one such James Weaver pulling up in front of John Dee's trailer in his rather modest white Honda Civic. A glance at the car would reveal that it did not belong to anyone from this particular neighborhood; for one, it was as clean as it was the day it rolled off the lot, most likely as a result of the weekly car washes (although, of course, only on the days the city water commission permitted private vehicle car washes -- he was no criminal, after all). The collection of Genetech Computer Engineering bumper stickers and decals proved this point further, but the one thing most indicative of how much James didn't belong was the picture of his cat (Chauncey) hanging from his rear-view mirror on a loop of decorative yarn. It was perhaps the least threatening vehicle one could own, unless of course James had elected to roll up in a pink plastic carriage drawn by a hazelnut brown miniature horse.

The driver-side door flew open with unusual haste for the typically easy-going Mr. Weaver, who was carrying a black leather briefcase that was as well-polished as his car. Carefully closing the door behind him, James began a nonchalant yet obviously motivated pace towards the trailer, impulsively checking his watch in doing so. In reality he wasn't even really absorbing the information; the hands and numbers on the face were utter gibberish to his distracted mind, something that he realized only after he'd already finished his instinctive watch-glance. However, there was no way he could look at his watch again now -- what if John Dee, Private Investigator, happened to be watching? He would think something like: "Jesus, this motherfucker's too stupid to read his god damn watch. I should shoot him in the face and then eat his cat." It was only in times of great despair that James was ever this paranoid, but seeing as how this was the first time James had ever really experienced despair, one might excuse him being a bit more scatterbrained than usually.

Ascending the few short steps to the trailer's makeshift porch, James cleared his throat nervously, and then knocked politely on the door. Indeed it would seem strange at first glance, to see a well-dressed and well-groomed black man out on your porch carrying a shiny briefcase; he'd often been mistaken for an insurance salesman in the past, leading to a lot of doors being slammed in his face when he was just there to ask directions or a return some misplaced mail. James absentmindedly glanced back at his parked Civic, at which point he realized he'd forgotten to put up his sunscreen before getting out of his car. He secretly wished this consultation of John Dee, Private Investigator, would be a fairly short affair, but he knew that wouldn't be the case. He had quite a bit of explaining to do.

~

On the side of an off-road connecting to the V-7 sat a parked truck. While at first glance just a parked truck with a cracked windshield, upon closer observation, an entirely different story could be gathered from the scene. Two bullet holes penetrated the windshield at head-height, and from the considerable amount of blood in the cab, both seemed to be on target. The back doors of the truck were also riddled with bullet holes. Whoever had attacked the truck wanted to be very thorough. As to be expected, the back of the truck was empty, save for the bodies of four Mexicans, two of whom had bullets in the head and the other two with various gunshot wounds. Perhaps as some sort of a sick joke, a fresh Pall Mall cigarette was stuck into the mouth of each of the corpses.

Leading away from the truck were some odd tire tracks. There seemed to be another truck, followed by four motorcyles. Near the front of the truck was another peculiar clue; a discarded, half-smoked hand-rolled cigarette cut with opium. Not your typical Mexican cigarette.

Dee was polishing off his third beer when he heard the knock on the door. In his mind, Dee was in the process of showing Georgie Economos what he exactly thought of him and his piece of shit bookie business. In his drunken daydreams, Georgie never got two words out before Dee knocked half his teeth out with a single blow. He would yell protests in half-guttural screams, but Dee kept pounding into his face.

The knocking brought Dee out of his violent fantasy. He looked up from the couch towards the door. "What the fuck is this," he mumbled, swallowing the last of his beer before he stood. He shuffled over towards the door and looked through the peephole. A young black man in a suit and carrying a briefcase calmly stood on the other side of the door. Even with a buzz on, Dee was able to quickly do a checklist on who this guy might be:

1. A door to door salesman selling some shitty wetnaps, or something like that.
2. A Mormon, Jehovah's Witness, or some other goddamn religious nut.

If it were one of those, Dee figured he'd just slam the door in their face and be done with them.

3. A lawyer, or someone working for a lawyer.

Couldn't be one of his ex-wives. He stopped paying alimony years ago, and Mike was old enough that he didn't pay child support anymore. If it was a shyster, it was someone he had fucked up for Georgie suing him. Somehow, they'd figured out who he was and was preparing to burn his ass in court. If it was a lawsuit, he'd just have to take it like a man.

4. A cop.

Briefcase made it unlikely on it being a cop, but you never know. If it was a cop, it was either good news about his firing... or they were going to do something worse to him. If they had an arrest warrant, no way it'd be just one guy with no gun out and no briefcase.

5. A potential client.

That one made Dee laugh. Four years as a PI, nobody ever came to his trailer. All the clients, the few that he managed to get, always called.

6. Someone to hurt him.

Maybe Georgie got pissed at his outburst and decided to call in that muscle he had been threatening Dee with. If this was muscle, then Georgie was really fucked. Guy on the other side of the door looked like he couldn't fight worth a damn, but Dee tabled that. He had seen some unassuming motherfuckers kick major ass back in his day.

His options laid out in front of him, Dee stepped back to his coat rack. His shoulder holster hung on the rack. He pulled the .38 from its holster and left it down by his side at the ready. Dee tried to shake the cobwebs from his head as he opened the door a crack. The left side of his face showed through the door's slim opening.

"Help you with something?" he asked the man on the other side of the door.

A small bell attached to the door jangled when Motya entered Uri’s barbershop on 51st street just across from the raised rail tracks that crisscrossed the city. The squat brick faced building was little more than a one story hovel consisting of a store front and apartment back, smashed between two five-story stone tenements. Full length windows flanked the front door but were covered on the inside with newspapers, the articles yellowed and in Russian script. The words “Uri’s Barber” where lit in blue neon above a front door that rained a little more dried blue paint flecks every time it swung open. The rest of the neon sign that said “shop” had been out of commission for three years now. The inside was something out of a perestroika propaganda movie. Institutional green ceramic tiles covered the floor, wooden benches lined the walls against the windows and two barber chairs, all worn leather and stainless steel dominated the store front. CCCP posters, angular artistic representations of the noble Soviet worker, covered any wall not taken up by a mirror. Pictures of the Kremlin competed with pictures of Uri’s friends and family taken outside the domed St. Alexius church here in Vanitas and a gold framed portrait of Gorbachov hung above the door.


Motya entered as if he was coming home, a quick nod to Uri his only acknowledgment of his old friend. Uri looked up from his current customer for only a moment and then returned to his work. Motya, a hand rolled cigarette firmly stuck in the corner of his thin mouth, removed his wool sweater and piled it onto the bench next to where he sat. The blue and white stripped sailors T-shirt he wore did nothing to conceal the pale blue ink that covered his forearms and as Motya brought his right hand up to take the cigarette from his mouth the customer in Uri’s chair looked a little uncomfortable. A thin cloud of smoke built around Motya and he blew the smoke, which smelled more like pipe tobacco than a cigarette, away from his face and with his left hand rubbed the stiff silver whiskers that covered his face. Motya’s bones ached and he failed to notice the man’s discomfort, his fatigue pulling his eyes to the floor while he waited for Uri to finish his work.


When the man had paid and gone Uri began to clean up the barber station, sweeping, rinsing the sink, and dunking combs in jars of blue disinfectant. Motya stood wearily and locked the door behind the customer and flipped the switch to the neon light. With the cleaning completed Motya followed Uri back into the apartment section of the building locking and chaining the heavy door that separated the two. Uri’s apartment was a spartan representation of the man and the life he lived. Second hand furniture was arranged neatly around the small studio, old lamps cast a dim yellow glow for light, and small tasteful religious icons were all that filled the small studio besides a stereo system where most people would have a television. When they entered what served for a living room Uri and Motya finally both smiled and embraced in a friendly hug. Motya took a step back, his hands on his friend’s shoulders, and began speaking in Russian, his voice quiet and reflective, the tone of a man whose mind was heavy with thoughts of the past.


“It is good to see you Uri.” Uri smiled and removed himself from his friends grasp making for a pipe and tobacco pouch on the coffee table. The barber flopped down onto the couch that had lost any firm spring tension and sucked the sitter into amber colored fabric.


“We all thought that maybe the harbor patrol had gotten the better of you friend, word was the latest Baltic shipments were almost late.” Uri said banging some of the old burnt matter from the simple wooden pipe and packing fresh pressed hashish in. Motya listened to his friend while making his way into the corner of the apartment that served as a kitchen. He returned to Uri on the couch with a bottle of vodka in hand, a local distillation from the old neighborhood in Moscow. Motya set the half empty bottle on the coffee table with two small glasses and fell onto the other end of the couch.


“Almost, is not late Uri... I am sure everyone even now is getting what they wanted.” He said reaching out to unscrew the cap from the bottle and pour the clear liquor into the two glasses. A heavy puff of smoke from his cigarette mingled with Uri’s pipe smoke and soon the smell of fragrant smoke was joined by the clanking of glasses.


“Plus, you know it is not these things I came to talk about today.” Motya downed the contents of the glass as did Uri. Motya extinguished the small remnants of his first cigarette and lit another as Uri poured the next round.


“Today would have been Alina’s forty-third birthday, yes I know.” Uri said as the second round of vodka disappeared. Motya’s gaze held the bottle for a moment after the second round had vanished and then drifted to a small black and white news article bordered by a simple wooden picture frame that rested on the coffee table. The article, a flavor piece on the street children of Moscow, was from a State newspaper dated from the late seventies; the picture was of a young Uri, Motya, and Alina laughing in the slum they were squatting in at the time.

"I know you came to love her while I was in the labor colony Uri..." Motya said the sadness in his flawless Russian deeply apparent. "... but at least you had time with her, she was a sister I was never there for." Motya set the framed article down and swapped the cigarette for a new glass of vodka.

"Motya." Uri said his hand reaching out and griping his friends shoulder reassuringly "Your absence may pain you but you were never far from us in those days and the time I got to spend with your sister only made the loss that much more painful." Motya's hand gripped his friends until Uri withdrew his hand to light his pipe again. The memory, even five years later, was still obviously painful for the both of them. Despite the sorrow the vodka and company was beginning to brighten Motya's mood.

"Do you remember the time that the State police thought they had...." A sudden forceful knock at Uri's backdoor stopped Motya's story telling. Uri looked to Motya and from the expressions on both their faces neither had expected company. Motya stood from the couch with some effort and reached to the small of his back wrapping his hand around the grip of the Makarov tucked there. Uri walked to the door keeping his right hand free to reach for the sawed off Remington 500 he kept in the umbrella bin next to the door. For a moment Uri's gaze lingered on the peep hole and finally he backed away gesturing for Motya to remove his hand from the gun before he opened the door. Motya trusted his old friend and complied.

When the door opened no light from the dimly lit alley came in because a monster of a man filled the doorway. He was dressed in simple slacks, sensible shoes, a white T-shirt and black pea coat. How any of it fit him was a mystery. The man conjured images of a living mountain, his face and head square blocks of chiseled granite covered by a thick black swath of hair and a heavy beard. Motya recognized him instantly and offered for him to come in only seconds after Uri had extended the invite. The man was Rostislav Timur, a man most people called the Red Bear and where the Red Bear was Yegor Iosif was not far behind.

"Why thank you for your hospitality Uri." A spindly man said as he entered shortly after Rostislav. Looking at him one would think he was the best dressed librarian in Vanitas. His suit, all elegant pin stripes, perfect tailoring, and priceless materials had probably cost more than Motya's boat and car combined. The man himself though was bent with age, skeletally thin, but given life by a wiry malevolence that seemed to brew just beneath the surface. Both men took seats across from the couch, Yegor looking to Uri for a moment before Uri took the not so subtle hint and returned to his store front leaving Motya and the two alone in the apartment. Yegor stared down his hawk like nose through wire rimmed spectacles at Motya, like a buzzard waiting for a wounded animal to die.

"It seems that Mr. Veniamin may have some work he needs done that you are... suited to Motya." Yegor spoke in Fenya, the Russian cant language used among the criminal underground, his voice lending the coded language an ominous nature. The book keeper of the local Russian mafia made a steeple of his fingers and waited for Motya's response.

"Whatever it is the Thieves in Law may need, I will provide for Mr. Veniamin." He responded directly in Fenya.

"My, my, my," Tobe Dooley noted. "Someone didn't want to play nice." He hoisted the over-under onto his shoulder, and since there was no longer any point to it he removed the ski mask, absently stuffing it into the pocket of his worsted trousers.

They had found the truck purely by accident. When it failed to arrive at their prepared ambush on time, Tobe had insisted on looking for it, despite the protests of his two comrades. They had turned in on this off-road, intending to go back and search in the other direction, when Tobe had spotted the truck. A careful approach on foot, long guns at the ready, had proved to be wholly unnecessary.

Tobe prodded one of the dead Mexicans with his foot. "Someone had it bad for these wetbacks," he noted. "And why are they even here? We was told a couple of teamsters. No muss, no fuss." He shook his head. "Something here jus' don't add up."

"Hey, Tobe, check it out!" a voice called from the side. Tobe looked over at Harold "Bigfunk" Coker, a mountain of a man, hard muscle covered by slabs of fat. The big man had crouched down, butt of his M1 carbine resting on the ground as he examined something up by the cab.

"Whatcha got there, Bigfunk?" Tobe asked as he unhurriedly walked over.

"Handroll of some kind," Bigfunk replied, holding up the stub for examination. "Don't smell like any tobacco I ever knew, though."

Tobe took a delicate sniff. "Hell, man, that's opium."

"You sure, Tobe?"

"Damn sure. Had to deal with some opium fiends in Louisville. You don't forget the smell."

"You guys done yet?" a third voice asked impatiently. Tobe looked over at Carter McGonagall, a small, dark man, sitting in the driver's seat of their '74 Cutlass Supreme. McGonagall impatiently tapped his hands on the steering wheel. He had refused to investigate the truck with the other two, instead tossing his mask and Ithaca into the trunk and insisting on leaving soon as possible.

"Hold you horses, Carter," Tobe said. "This tells me two things. One, something valuable was on this truck. Maybe opium. We didn't know it, even though we were planning to knock this truck over. That's good intel."

"And two?" McGonagall asked.

"Two is more of a thought. If their intel is that damn good, they must've known we had designs on this here truck. But they went ahead and hit it anyways. We might've gotten in the way, in which case they would've gone ahead and killed us. Whoever this is, they're confident enough that they're willing to risk war."

"Ballsy operators," Bigfunk supplied.

"That they are," Tobe said. "That they are. I'm intrigued. I wanna know who hit this truck and whose cargo it was. I get the feeling something big is gonna go down in this town. I want in on it. When we get to town, put me in touch with Georgie the Greek. I get the feeling he might know something."