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.