Prologue

It's raining. The sun tried to fight it's way through the clouds, but gave up early int he morning.

Not that I mind.

The rain cleans the city. Cleans the dirt, the blood, the puke and the stench of sin off New Avarus. I also like it because it reveals the guilty. Innocent people, they walk around with umbrellas or parkas, not wanting to get wet. But the guilty, when they've done something so heinous they know they'll burn in Hell for it, they let the rain hit them, let it try to cleanse their body, their soul.

I hate this city and the people who run it.

"Sir, the mayor is on line two," comes my secretary over the intercom.
"Yes, sir?"
"Connor, what's the good word today."

There is no good word, not as long as the Russos and the Malones are out there, corrupting everyone and everything they touch.

Except me.

Rain. It peppers the windscreen of my car like a barrage of automatic fire. In this city a day and already it rains. To hear the others talk that's all this city ever seems to get; rain and the odd belt of fog. It never snows here. It's never hot. New Avarus is the city of whores and bums. NA; city of the middle ground. The city of the grey. NA. Not available? Not applicable? No answers. I give up counting the letters. It got boring long as soon as I started.

Wiping a spot of dust from the steering wheel with a gloved hand, I lean back in my seat and watch the rain pummel the car. The gloves are black leather, like the band of my wristwatch, but they hide the tattoos on my hands. Apparently that's important here. I have to hand it to Nikolai, the car was a good find. Audi A4; grey, new enough to give no trouble, classy but not flashy, the way a car should be. No matter how small this gang is its important that we come across as professionals. Russos. I laugh in spite of myself, sipping the lukewarm coffee from the paper cup in the dash. Odd that we're working with those that share a name with us. Still, business is business and the Russos pay. And as long as they pay, then I have no problem with them.

There's a noise like a door slamming and two dark forms jog across from the warehouse to the car. I switch off the autolock casually, waiting for them to enter. Stepan and Andrei, Nikolai's embassadors to the Russos. A weapons deal in the Industrial corner, right in the middle of New Pack turf. They were supposed to be organising this whole deal. Looking at them in the rearview mirror, I find that hard to credit. They aren't vors, but they suffice for the task at hand. I'm the driver for this deal, strictly observation. Stepan reaches into his jacket for a cigarette, I raise a hand to forestall him.

"No smoking in car."

Stepan laughs dryly, letting his hand fall.

"I had forgotten," he says, "you don't smoke."

"No, I don't. And as long as you are in my car, neither do you. How did it go?"

They shift uncomfortably, but Andrei soon meets my eye.

"They came through with the money," he says, patting the briefcase in his lap. "So we came through with the weapons."

I nod. That is the deal for now. Simple exchange, nothing complicated until we know where we stand. I tell them about the news report on the radio, about the bank heist they say the Russos pulled. Stepan almost spits before I silence him with a look.

"Savages."

I have to agree. Real thieves should not rely on such heavy handed methods. Banks are a young man's game, and this speaks volumes about the state of things here. Yes, I think Vieslav will be doing a lot of business here. I say as much to the other two. They shrug and refuse to meet my gaze. I watch over the rims of my glasses for a moment, then turn my eyes to the rain-soaked waste outside the windscreen. A red car pulls out of an alley ahead. Probably our contacts. Its safe to move now.

Switching the radio to a jazz station, I put the car in gear and ease him into motion. The engine purrs like an oiled kitten, and soon the industrial park is behind us. Taking a left at a red light, I head west towards New Quarter. Stepan and Vieslav get off at Avarus Condominiums, muttering a vague goodbye. I'm glad to have them out of my hair. I have enough to do without babysitting those two. Heading back east at a coast, I enter the Highlands, my new base of operations. There's a contact at this bar, Twist and Shout, a Saul Russo, Nikolai says he will have news for me. I'll have to take his word for it.

I pull up at a parking lot around back and stroll up to the door under a concrete hallway. This place is a bit ostentatious, but then so are the Russos. There are three bouncers outside. Two at the door, one on patrol. The walker mutters into his radio as I pass, signalling to the others. They move to stop me as I approach. I know the drill. Giving them my name, I put my arms firmly behind my head and try not to look too bored as they frisk me. They take my pistol, knife and ammunition before waving me through. I ask about Saul. One of them points me towards a bar at the back. I thank him and move on through, sparing a glance for the decorations as I go. Approaching the bar, I signal to the man there.

"You are Saul Russo?"

-------------------------------------------------------

This colour means I'm speaking Russian.

It's pretty dead right now, but that's to be expected. Morning drinks are for the rich and alcoholics, but even the rain will keep the rich at bay. So just the alcoholics are on display right now. Even then, there are a few lacking. Most probably got wind of cousin Vincent's bank getting knocked over last night and probably want to avoid this place right now.

I hear the door open and in walks the tallest man I've seen in this place yet. He isn't dressed like a lush for this hour, but who knows. He walks straight over to me and then says something. I can't tell if it's German or Russian or Ukrainian or what.

"Eh, Russian bar is in the Danks, comrade," I respond, not sure if he'll understand me, "we speak English here."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Had no-one informed him? It wasn't important I reminded myself, taking a stool. The bar seemed empty enough, but that was to be expected at this hour of the morning.

"My apologies," I say, my accent twisting the words. "You are Saul Russo? Aidan Patyenko. Nikolai Vielsav says you are man to contact about news."

There are, essentially, three types of people that I can’t stand. First of all, there’s the thugs that mob old women on the middle of the street. They have no class, no style, they act as if there is no such thing as organised crime. Punks. I can’t stop myself from smiling whenever I read that one of them tried to flee the scene by jumping over a fence, only to get hit by a cab or a metro.

Secondly, there’s the bums. Now mind you, I’m not claiming that they’re not useful, but honestly, if I knew as much as they did, I would organise and take over the damn city. Hell, they outnumber any gang here, two to one, but instead of taking their rightful place in the business, they live on the streets and spend their money on junk. No brain. Unless there is something going on that I don’t know about, some kind of bum-vow which keeps them to the streets.

Mom always said I should visit the bums before making contact, an advice I had kindly ignored. One of the many privileges of the son is to ignore the advice his parents give him. I like to think so. ‘Joshua,’ she would say, ‘one of these days, you’re going to tumble down the rabbit hole and get seriously hurt.’ She’s fond of saying that. Why take away an old woman’s pleasures.

Anyway, like I said, three types of people I can’t stand. Thugs. Bums. Third are these damn cabdrivers. I’ve told him four times already; Russo’s place. Told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. Smug. Takes me down the scenic round, is he? Damn him, I will pay. As long as he takes me where I have to go. “One last time, man, ‘Twist and Shout’, Russo’s place, double time.” Another hollow laugh.

"My apologies," I say, my accent twisting the words. "You are Saul Russo? Aidan Patyenko. Nikolai Vielsav says you are man to contact about news."

I put down the glass I'm cleaning and look over the man's shoulder. Security is already walking towards him but I shake my head them. They stop where they are and I look back at Aidan, here.

"I ain't seen your mug around here before," I tell him, "and with that accent I can tell you ain't from around here, so I'll cut you some slack, this time." I turn around and start organizing the glasses, figuring out which ones need cleaning and which ones don't. "Unless you're blood or blood-in-law, don't ever use my Christian name, or that's a one-way ticket to the street."

I turn back around with a new glass and work to clean the spots off. "Now, I don't know no Nikolai, and I ain't the News. You need a drink or something?"

I shrug, rising from the stool. This wasn't my contact, and this was a waste of time. I pull of my gloves lightly, tucking them into the pockets of my coat.

"I was led to believe you were a friend in our arrangement," I say by way of apology, "I was mislead it seems. Tell Vincent that more gear is on the way then."

Casting a wry glance to the bouncers, I take my leave of the man, moving for the door.

"I was led to believe you were a friend in our arrangement," I say by way of apology, "I was mislead it seems. Tell Vincent that more gear is on the way then."

I shrug as the man takes his leave. "Sure thing, comrade."

He made his way to the door and I kept cleaning the glasses. Clearly the man thought he was bigger than he really is. "Gear"? Is he really trying to talk business in the open. And who did he think he was calling Vincent by his first name. I motion for one of the bouncers. If the Ruskie wanted to hang himself with the authorities by speaking so openly, then that was his business.

The bouncer approaches me. "Boris there isn't allowed in this bar anymore, got it?"

The man nods and goes off to inform the rest of the security team.

I think for a second to tell Vincent about what the man had said, but I'm specifically not supposed to know about this stuff so I can have complete deniability. That's how it's always been. I grab another glass to clean.

And that's how it will always stay.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the man, Saul, talking to a bouncer. Wonderful, I think, walking out the door. Damn Vlad and his information. No way I was getting in there again. Another opportunity wasted. Accepting my weapons from the security at the door, I pull out my phone and dial Vlad as soon as I reach the archway.

"The banya is a bust, friend," I say, shrugging as I arrive in front of the car. "The helper knew nothing."

Vlad swore.

"You are sure?"

"Yes I am sure. You want me to contact our friend directly?"

Vlad rattles off a number that I memorise quickly, watching the rain fall. Call, ask for Cass, wait for a call.

"And if no-one answers?"

"Then you find the other two, something is wrong."

Nodding, I end the call, letting out a breath. Beautiful. Entering the car, I leave the engine off and dial the number Vlad gave me, no-one answers, but I get switched to a machine.

"Is Cass home?"

That done, I put the phone down and settled in to wait.

-----------------------------------

This color means I'm speaking Russian.

I step out onto the sidewalk avoiding the water streaming down the road. It appeared filth was clogging the city drains literally as well as metaphorically. I slam the door on my Capri. She's lasted 30 years I'm not gonna go easy on the old girl now.

Right now I'm an unknown. Spent a night in some motel and listened to some bum. It had been a lousy night and I'd awoken to a lousy morning and now I was down some lousy street looking at some run down bar. The place looked derelict, almost wondered if I had the right place. But I heard that was how this place was meant to be. Out of the way, out of mind, out of others reach. My type probably wasn't welcome here. I guess I was about to find out.

Sven's. Vigilantes were its clientele and I wasn't that. I was the law and that meant I shouldn't be involved with these people but from what I gathered these men where of more use to the town than the police force were and far straighter. I used to be by the book. USED TO BE. Now I was doing things differently. I'd busted their kind before even though it conflicted with my morals. Even though I envied these men been able to act without been held back by a set of rules laid out for a bunch of low lives that weren't worth the paper it was written on. I almost didn't take up the job here almost went freelance. Almost but not quite. Man's gotta make a living and while I'll tolerate their methods I won't quite become one of them. Not just yet anyway.

There's no one at the door. No one to refuse me entry flat out. I step in wondering if possession of weapons would pose an issue. No doubt I'd soon find out if I got past the first hurdle of been allowed to stay in. I approach the bar but don't take a seat I know I can act faster that way if need be. Know the barstool can be more just a seat. Know that it can be an impromptu weapon. My eyes flit all over the joint. I've already processed available weapons. Know the pool cue will let me hold my ground without killing anyone. Know I can use the balls if need be. I don't want to draw my weapon if I don't have to but I've already pegged this joint as the kind of place that may well have a shotgun under the bar. My legs aren't what they used to be won't be trying any fancy flips or swings over it to get there.

Probably been paranoid anyway. I give the man a nod and remove my trilby as a sign of respect. I'm not the kind that wears a hat in a building. My fringe is drawn over as always. I'd considered wearing an eye patch before but didn't fancy it. I'm not same kind of pirate.

"Whiskey" This isn't the place for manners but I hope it’s the place for talk. I'm new in town and I need to establish myself. Contacts, allies something that lets me know where I stand. I have enough enemies in town already that’s why I'm here and I'm not foolish enough to think I can take them out on my own.

I cast a glance at the man who just walked in. He wasn't a regular, that's for sure. But he certainly didn't look like he stumbled in here by accident.

"Whiskey."

Definitely not an accident. Already, the other patrons are glancing in his direction. No one says a word. I grab a class and drop a single ice cube in it before tipping the bottle. The cube melted immediately and I shrugged it off before sliding the glass to the man.

"That'll be five bucks, Champ."

"Is Cass home?"

I can already tell what this is about. I roll over and try to go back to sleep, but I don't want this guy to wake me up again. I roll back over and grab the phone. I go to dial the number, but realize the guy left no number to call back on. That's kind of him to make me get out of bed.

I grab my black book and thumb through it until I get to a couple of numbers. I'm not really sure which one of them it was. All these damn Russians sound alike. I take a stab and dial the second number. I hear someone pick up.

"Aidan?"

Champ? I liked this one. An improvement from old man that was for sure. Still the price was a bit hefty. Not a habit I could really afford on a legit wage but hell I needed a drink and a man can't just walk into a bar he's not known in and not get a drink. I fork over the cash. I'd prepared for the place my wallet in my top inside pocket not only did it avoid been pick pocketed it meant there was no risk of me flashing my badge. It was no longer attached at my waist, hidden but still no harm in habits, covered you if you slip up. These men weren't run of the mill anyway. I'd assessed the surroundings and no doubt they were familiar with these they would be assessing me and a wised up one would clock the notches on my belt from where it had been attached. A smart one could make an educated guess to what might normally reside there. But like I said I didn't let them get a glance down there. I catch them looking. Feel them eyeing me up, sizing me up but I gave away nothing. My baggy overcoat doesn't even let them adequately assess my build. Just how I like it. Know the enemy but don't let them know you.

I pick up the glass and take a sip. Not the best whiskey but the weight of the glass in my hand was promising. A quick knock on the bar and an upward swing and it would slice through anyone’s throat if need be. Despite the taste I try to savour the thing. It had a kick but the aftertaste was surprisingly better than its taste at the start.

"Are your patrons always as fond of new blood as this?"

"Aidan?"

The voice sounds groggy and displeased. Well that makes both of us, I think, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.

"This is 'Cass', yes?"

"Are your patrons always as fond of new blood as this?"

"Well," I say motioning to the other people, "we're just not used to people coming in here purposefully. Usually it's some drunk college kid who walked into the wrong place or a regular... and you're neither drunk, nor a college kid. Which means that you didn't come here to order bottom shelf whiskey and to talk about sports. Or if you did, you should consider going to another establishment."

College kid? He didn't take this place as the kind to have some kind of education establishment but then again if a kid wandered into a place like this it probably didn't say much about his education.

"Yes I'm here on purpose and no I'm not just here for the whiskey which by the way I wasn't aware you did better. Dare I ask how much something with a bit of class would set me back? A 12 year Islay malt perhaps or am I been to bold to hope for it here. As for the bars I don't see many others been that welcoming either, correct me if I'm wrong."

"So my purpose? Can't say I could tell you that. Not to sure myself. Lets just say I'm new in town and I heard this was the place to be for a man with my new found approach to the law."

The cold water rushes over my head, spilling down my neck and soaking my collar. I don’t really care, too busy rinsing my hair. Thick streaks of red liquid run down the sink into the drain, like someone just hacked my skull open with a carving knife. It’s like the scene in that film, Psycho, the shower scene, where all the blood slowly drains away. I read somewhere that was actually chocolate sauce.

Well, it’s not like this is actual blood either. Hair dye. The box said in bright red lettering: ‘Lustrous, natural looking hair in just 10 minutes!’. The waiting felt like forever though. I kept looking at my watch – surely seconds aren’t really that long? - and as soon as the second hand struck ten minutes my head was under that tap.

Eventually the water no longer runs red, but a pale pink colour and then, after a while, just clear. Slowly I turn the tap off and lift my head, wringing out a few locks as I go so my hair’s just wet, not saturated. When I look in the mirror though, I stop. It’s a strange feeling, seeing yourself with a different hair colour for the first time. The face is the same; heart shaped, fair skin that looks even paler now. The same, pale green eyes, the same nose, lips, ears. But instead of long, golden curls, my hair is now a striking copper colour. Distinctive. Kind of like that streak of red you see when a fox dashes across the road. Maybe too distinctive. Well, it’s different at least. No time to worry about it now.

Next, a change of style.

A little nervously I pull my stiletto knife from my sleeve, where it lies strapped to my wrist. I’ve had hair down to my waist for as long as I can remember, so I’m a little scared to do this. That old fairytale, Rapunzel, pops into my head. She had all her hair cut off too, because she tried to escape the witch that kept her locked up. A wry grin twists my lips at that thought. It’s sort of a similar situation I’ve found myself in.

I take a deep breath, and bring the knife to my hair. I want to close my eyes as I saw away. Long curls drop to the floor around my feet. I half expect them to come to life; hissing snakes biting at my ankles, glinting menacingly in the glare from the overhead lights. Sooner than I like, I’m finished. My curls are gone, leaving only a short, wet pixie crop. It feels like a different person is staring at me out of the mirror. A different person with my face.

It’s not enough to fool anyone serious about finding me, but it’ll make it more difficult for them to spot me quickly.

I look at my watch. I’ve been locked in this bathroom for near on 45 minutes. Definitely time to go. I hurriedly retie my stiletto to my wrist, then scoop up my cut hair and shove it into the bin. I glance in the mirror, roughly mess up my hair a bit, then unlock the bathroom and leave.

The woman waiting on the other side gives me a strange look as I pass her, no doubt wondering what the hell kept me in there so long. I shrug, and say, “Bad shrimp.”

I try to hide a grin as she pales.

As soon as I leave the run-down, roadside diner the rain hits me in full on force. My newly-cut hair is slicked to my skull, and I’m soaked through in a matter of seconds. So much for keeping my collar dry. I pull a nondescript black mackintosh out of my pack, and shrug it on. I pull the hood up high, casting my face into shadow. I try not to let my fingers linger on the wads of cash in my bag as I pull the zip closed, and stand up. Just another NAC’er trudging through the rain.

I wander around for about half an hour before I decide I’m really sick of the rain. Rain, rain, go away, come again another day … Doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon. I look around for someplace I can escape it, and my ears are caught by the smooth sound of low jazz music emanating from a nearby building. Frank Sinatra if I’m not mistake. You’ve got to love the classics.

I look round. It’s a bar, with a sign that declares it ‘Twist and Shout.’ I stop then. That’s the Russos’ bar.

I may be a newcomer to NAC, but I’m not stupid. I’m also a survivor and everyone who wants to live past their first few days in NAC quickly learns about the Russos and the New Pack. Bitter rivals. You go into one of their bars, you’d better have chosen wisely ‘cos you’ll never be allowed in the other afterwards. Not unless you want a bullet between the eyes and a first-hand viewing of the bottom of the Rose River.

I hesitate. Do I really want to go in? Do I want to get mixed up with the Russos?

Well, if anyone can protect me, keep me hidden, it’s them. If they want to. And it would get me out of the rain. The music does sound good …

Aw, screw it.

I warily enter, taking in the black-and-white décor, the two stages. The Sinatra music’s coming from a white grand off to the left. The pianist is certainly talented, and no doubt a Russo.

There are already a couple of people here, but the place is by no means buzzing. I pull down my hood, and feel very conscious of the water steadily dripping from every inch of skin and clothing. I’m practically standing in a puddle already. That’s not going to make a good first impression.

I try to adopt a confident air, shrugging my bag further onto my shoulder and making my way over to one of the bars. I pull a slightly bedraggled note, but a note nonetheless, from my pocket and slide it across the bar. “A white wine spritzer.”

It comes quickly, and, drink in hand, I make my way over to one of the chairs where I can sit and enjoy the Sinatra music.

As I towel my hair dry, naked in the plume of steam left from the shower, I reflect that even if this is a cheap hotel at least it’s got a good supply of hot water. It helped to wash away the long angry trudge here after Vander left me in the street to stomp out of that slum with all of my things.

I force myself not to frown, straightening and flinging my wet dark hair back, my misty reflection in the vanity mirror doing the same. Frowns cause wrinkles, after all.

Moving to the bedroom I sort through my clothes till I find a silky cinnamon-colored slipdress patterned with tiny golden flowers. With the help of a push-up bra it goes from casually sexy to sensational. The hem falls just past the knee, a slit at the back offering the occasional extra flash of leg.

Lace-topped silk thigh-highs, a pair of five-inch gold and brown spike heels, my favorite plain gold gypsy hoop earrings, and a nice collection of bangles on my left arm complete the outfit.

While my thick dark mane dries, twisting into casual waves at the ends, I outline my eyes carefully, giving them a smoky, exotic look. A slick of sheer rose color across my lips and my reflection passes my critical inspection.

The secret of makeup is a light hand. Eyes can afford to be more dramatic, though.

It’s time to look for a job. Vander isn’t coming back for me and I’m glad. I was mistaken thinking he was some kind of prince charming when he turned out to be merely a pig, coolly suggesting a business arrangement that I wouldn’t have considered in a million years.

I hope Vander’s nose is still bleeding, damn him.

Slipping into a tan trench coat and tying it, I sling the nose-breaking calfskin purse over my shoulder and head out to the cab that should be waiting. Time to head out to the hot spot that my inquiries have led me to.

“Twist & Shout,” I tell the taxi driver.

He spares me a look that says anyone with a foreign accent is most likely an illegal or a terrorist. I ignore him and stare out the window, watching New Avarus City flow past the windows. It reminds me of Mexico City, built by old money and old corruption overlaid by new dealers in both.

Of course the skies open as I pay the taxi driver and get out in front of Twist & Shout and I’m doused pretty thoroughly in the dash to the door.

Pushing through, between two bouncers who I barely see though I can feel their guard-dog gazes, I shake the water from my hair once inside then let my eyes adjust to the lighting while I undo my coat. A low wolf whistle greets me from the depths of the room and I ignore it, scanning instead for whoever might be in charge.

Nice enough place. I'm not entirely sure why the swarthy wire-haired woman at the front desk had mentioned Twist & Shout the way she had...with a kind of sidewise glance that meant that all might not be as it seemed. I'm sure I'll find out why that is eventually. Won't surprise me a bit if there is some kind of gangland war in this city. It seems there are such groups in any city.

I'll keep myself to myself and do my job. If I can get one.

I laugh and motion at the meager offering of liquor, "There's plenty of other reasons the younger crowd doesn't stumble in here other than the unwelcoming party that is inside. You can always find the fancy stuff at Twist and Shout down the street."

I slide his money back towards him. "But given your reason for coming in here, I'm thinking Twist and Shot is the last place you want to go."

"What's your name, champ?"



Me oh my oh me. Plenty of beautiful ladies come in here. But never this early in the morning. I never get tired of working at this place. One approaches the bar and I put down my glass.

"Who can I speak to regarding employment? I'm a singer," she asks and looks over at the pianos, "I can do a range of styles."

I'm laughing on the inside. Plenty of girls came in here saying they could sing, none of them had the pipes, though.

"You'll need to talk to Trey when he comes in in a few hours to warm up and visit the family," I tell her. "Can I offer you a drink? I make a mean Bloody Mary."

Any less of a man would've been sour about the whole ordeal. Not I. With a smile on my face I watch him stuff three fat suitcases full of my money into the trunk of his brand new Cadillac. With a proud grin I watch those red taillights disappear into the storm. I watch as the rain swallows him up, never to be seen again in this city. He couldn't win the game, so he's quitting. Running away. Lost his nerve, like so many fools before him.

But when one player gets benched, another steps up to take his place. I just swooped in to pick up the pieces and turn a bad hand into a checkmate. What? That analogy doesn't even make sense, she says to me. "It's all the same," I say as I turn back toward the dark warehouse, my latest piece of real estate and my first purchase in this god-forsaken city. I step inside, dripping wet, and open my umbrella. That's bad luck, you know, that familiar voice rings in my head again. "You know I like to play against the odds."

It's not as promised. I was told this warehouse was full of guns and armor, enough merchandise to get me started in Avarus. I was in talks with this guy for about two months and he swore up and down he had all the latest stuff. I knew he was lying, but I also knew it wouldn't matter. I knew he had something in there -- a lot of something -- and everybody knows I'm pro at making a little something into a lot of everything.

So I showed up today to survey the property. The place is damn near a junkyard; row after row of surplus parts -- everything from oversized bearings for battle tank turrets to aircraft landing gear to weatherproof stripping for a Ford Pinto. What kinda idiot drives a Pinto? "I got a cousin in Alabama with a Pinto, so watch your mouth." My bad. Anywho, I paid the fool his money and took what's rightfully mine. My own place to call home, filled to the brim with any and everything I need to build an empire. Or to bring one down. "Now you're thinkin'."

With the property deed in my back pocket, I take off my hat and climb into my car, wade through the empty energy drink cans on the floor, and crank the engine. Drove nine hours straight to get here and don't have a hotel room yet. Haven't laid my head to rest in over 24 hours. Don't need to. Justice never sleeps. Smiling again, I let the accelerator have it and lay down some rubber as I fly out of the Bat Cave. The garage doors creep shut behind me. My lair disappears from the rear view mirror as I turn onto the next street and put the windows down so I can breathe in the air, rain and all.

Time to see what this city is really about. Only been here a half hour or so and I already hate Nac. Is that what they call it? 'Nac?' I think 'New Av' sounds better. I continue to drive, ignoring her silly comments. The locals can call it what they want, makes no difference. The place is a mess either way. S**t in a million diferent languages is still s**t. So I keep rolling and don't stop 'til I find the place I'm looking for. Sven's. Is this the place?

I pull in and park behind a gaudy Ford, yellow with racing stripes. Better than a Pinto? "Not by a long shot," I say. I step out into the rain, throw on my hat, grab my umbrella, and head for the front door. There's nobody guarding the joint, so I stroll in, dripping wet, with my unopened umbrella in hand. Two nobodies standing by the entrance look at me like I'm crazy and I stare right back at 'em while I size up the place in my peripheral vision. Bar. Pool table. Other tables. People, people, more people, and the things they park their asses in. Typical billiard joint by the looks of it.

So this isn't the place? "Of course it is," I say in a low voice as I head for the bar. "Everybody in here is on the straight and narrow. Where else can you walk in, dripping wet, and give the first person you see a staredown without getting punched out?" You may have a point there....

Anywho, I walk up to the bar and take a seat next to some old guy who's standing around, chattin' it up with the bartender. He's got his hat off and I consider following his example. Nah, screw that.

"What's your name, champ?" he says to the guy.

"Fitz McGee," I say, knowing damn well he ain't talking to me. "I heard you're the man to talk to about an... ummm...." I scratch my chin for a moment, thinking about nothing. A sex on the beach without the- "A mile high club without the airplane. Where can I get some of that, hmmm?"

It appears all was going well. Seems I had a place in the establishment and I'd even got a drink out of it. I took a sip of the new whiskey and genuinely savoured this one. This was how whiskey should be. I slipped the money back gratefully after toying with the idea of giving him it back but then thought the symbol of me drinking the drink was more important. Though no words of it were spoken I figured this symbolised my allegiance to this bar and some kind of regard to its patrons. Hopefully my job wouldn't cause too many conflicts of allegiance. Hopefully I agreed with the vigilantes aims even if their methods were somewhat dubious. Just think of them as a glorified contact or a cop in deep cover then you could appreciate their presence and excuse their means.

Another man enters and my hand casually slips on to the barstool to the casual observer it would appear I was about to take a seat having been accepted but I knew it doubled as been prepared for the man that approached from behind me. He took a seat and I followed suit now that I was more at ease.

The barman addresses me once more and this new fella, Fitz McGee apparently, decides to but in. I look him over without appearing to critical he's not like some of the other patrons I can see he has some experience even if his age hasn't brought the manners still shouldn't be looking for manners in this kinda joint unless it was respect you commanded by fear and I wasn't that kinda cop or at least the town hadn't had a chance to corrupt me that much yet.

"Names Graham Griffon and I'm going to take a wild guess your Sven." I'm not quite sure if my attempt at humour will be appreciated but I go for it anyway if my line isn't appealing I'm sure this Fitz will take the heat instead with whatever his sex and plane jabber is about.

"Yeah, buddy," he responds, "I'll take this call, but once Vinny gets you off the blacklist, you're going to have to use the system like everyone else. There's too much heat from too many directions to have suspicious repeating numbers on my bill."

"I understand," I tell him, "Just give me the person to call. Vlad seems to have mislaid the information."

"There's no one to call, Aidan. Go back to Twist and Shout in an hour. You talk to Carnie. Tell him 'Put it all on Moneyonme.' He'll slide you a betting card. Write down what you need to say and give it back. All the notes are seen first by Junior, so don't worry about being coy. And don't worry about Carnie. He don't look, he don't ask, and he definitely don't tell."

There was a noise as the man spat at something. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, waiting for him to get back on track.

"Anything else you need?"

"Carnie is Saul's nickname? Alright," I say, wondering what it is with this idiots and nicknames. There was only so far you take an open secret after all. "Tell Vincent that the deal went ahead. We can begin regular shipping within the week if he is agreeable."

"Carnie is Saul, correct," I tell him. "And if junior likes his subscription, he'll expect it every two weeks."

And he'll get it if he pays.

"Very well. Will I get call when I am off blacklist?"

"No, you will be off soon after we get off the phone. However, it'd be best to maybe wait instead of immediately returning."

Alright. I need to get some breakfast anyway. What the hell kind of system was this that any moron can wander in and ask for work. It's too direct, but then it's none of my business.

"Fair enough. Don't sleep in too long, 'Cass', is bad for health."

Glancing at my watch, I end the call quickly and clear the calls list on the phone. One last call to Vlad and things are in motion. All going well he'll have a time before the hour is out. Now to find a decent eatery in this hole. I'd heard good things about some places in New Quarter and apparently there was a good Russian restaurant in Newbury Quarter, but I'd rather stay in the vicinity until Vlad gets back to me. Starting the car, I ease him out into the street and cruise a few blocks. There's a nondescript diner two blocks down. That'll do.

Pulling up outside, I spare some change for the meter and head in, none too wetter for the experience thanks to the overcoat. Sliding into a seat by the window, I order breakfast and a black coffee, noting with a small smile that I can make out the bar's entrance from here. This should be a quick enough day.

Its been two days since I arrived in this shithole, first day I entered I knew the fedora had to be back on me. I'm not your typical super hero, I don't wear masks, capes, or my fuckin' whites over my pants, no I'm not that. If you want me to be a hero, then you'll only see me with a fedora and trenchcoat, and I'll be coming down the hall at you, pipe in hand, beating the living **** out of you. That's the kind of hero I am.

Day two in here I already start looking around for some kind of info, but I can't just get any info, and I can't just hide in any rat hole, no I need a proper establishment. I heard something about hobos knowing the street, took a look at it, nearly broke a man's fingers for my info. Told me about a guy name Sven, sounds like an normal genius willing to give info for a little cash in return.

I walk down the streets, I don't use a car, too noisy for my work, I travel the streets, the buildings, above ground and below. I'm stealthy like, don't need for anyone to find me yet. The rain pours down the tip of my fedora, like a running sink. I find what I'm looking for, a shabby building, definately a place for info. I appraoch the establishment, open the door and walk inside, two men are talking to the bartender. Two ordinary men? Or out of the ordinary?

Doesn't matter, I take a seat at a table, hang my head low, no need to talk yet. Someone wants to talk they can walk their asses over here.

I don't think that meeting a potential employer after a few drinks is what I want to do. But hanging out here has a certain appeal, there are comfortable couches, it's warm, and as the weather splashes rain against the street windows I consider that it's dry.

"Make it a Virgin Mary for now," I reply in my Mexican-accented purr, narrowing my eyes briefly like a pleased cat, favoring him with a tiny smile, "and I might take you up on the Bloody later."

Sven's

Another man enters and I notice once again the patrons look at him like he's an alien. For a place that doesn't get many new visitors it sure seemed crowded. Three new customers in the morning no less. It wasn't expected that you started drinking in the morning often it was a sign of an alcoholic but still he found himself staring at the latest man that entered who had promptly sat down and isolated himself trying not to draw attention to himself. This didn't strike him as the place that you could keep a low profile. He didn't check his watch or produce a phone and I interpreted that as meaning he wasn't expecting anyone instantly making me more curious about his purpose here.

Sure he might have checked the time before he entered or just be confident the person would arrive soon but I knew that most people went with theatrics just so anyone looking wouldn't think they'd been ditched. I remember one night waiting for a girl at a bar for 30 minutes on my own in my younger years. Pint in one hand, phone in the other sitting at the bar. Eyes locked on the door expectantly, texting occasionally catching the occasional sideward glance knowing what the people probably thought. That's why I'd made a scene when the girl finally arrived just to redeem my reputation with these people I'd probably never see again. Interesting how you act when you’re young now I just didn't care. Still memories back when I was innocent, untainted were nice hell maybe I'd be joining the dating game again soon if I could will myself to but I wondered what kind of braud you would find in a town like this.

"Say Sven is it normal to get people in here that don't get a drink and don't get a conversation going. Kinda makes you uneasy last time I saw that was a poor hit man observing his target. Needless to say his target clocked on. Quite a good day actually got to bust a wood be hit man and a con that we had on surveillance. Sloppy workmanship." As I went on with my story I wondered whether I hadn't had nearly enough alcohol to loosen my tongue but I hear I was talking about busting a hit man in a vigilantes bar sure the practice was slightly different but it might be a bit to close for home for them.