In the eyes of a child, Hillwood was a paradise. As much of a paradise as an urban sprawl could be, Arnold Shortman supposed. Large stretches of the city were relatively safe, allowing one to roam around as one pleased. There was no shortage of arcades and candy shops and toy stores, spots where children would veritably blow their meagre allowance with glee.
As he gazed at the drawn face of his former friend with adult eyes, Arnold saw Hillwood was not a paradise by any means. Hillwood was like any other city: a presentable face with a foetid underside. Arnold looked away as the man, flanked by a bailiff, strode through the courtroom the best he could with his feet chained. His dark eyes were haughty, but haunted.
Arnold almost wished that he was nine years old again, playing baseball with the innocent child that man had once been.
But the Lord of Dogtown, Sidney Gifaldi, hadn't been a child for a long time. Arnold knew that man hadn't been innocent for a long time.
Lord of Dogtown
Arnold's heart was beating against his chest in a fearsome rhythm. Sometimes, he likened it to a war drum, but tonight, it just made him feel nervous. The hotel was sticky and damp and full of rot. There was a bulb at the very end of the hallway that kept flickering and he could hear distant screams. Arnold made sure the grip on his gun was sure before he looked up and nodded at his partner, his long time best friend, Gerald Johansen.
Gerald nodded in return and opened the door, gun out and ready in front of him. He crept into the room, eyes alert. Arnold followed.
They had been called here because someone had reported gunshots. It wasn't the first time they had been called to this hotel, it was a favourite of street walkers and other night creatures. After talking to the people around the hotel, they had pinpointed the room number the shots supposedly came from. No one had answered the door at their knock, so they were ready for trouble.
The room was dark and stank of cigarettes. Gerald jerked his head toward the bathroom door, where a thick crack of light was visible from under the door. Arnold swallowed and kicked it open, swinging his gun around the room. It stopped on a shaking, half-clothed form huddled in the bathtub.
"It's clear out here," Gerald called. "Someone's dead."
The form in the bathtub lifted its head up and Arnold saw that it was a young woman with wide, dark eyes.
"Are you hurt?" Arnold asked her, kneeling down to her level. She nodded, drawing away the arms around her middle to reveal a bloody stab wound. "The paramedics will be here soon."
"Hey, Arnold, get in here," Gerald said, his voice sounding urgent.
Arnold gave the young woman one last look, then stood up. With his gun preceding him, Arnold walked into the main area of the hotel room. There was a man, obviously dead, lying on the bed. His dress shirt was half unbuttoned and his visible chest was peppered with bullet wounds, so that the white shirt was stained red. Though it was coming undone, Arnold recognized the pompadour and the boyish, round face.
"Piras," Arnold said quietly.
"Yeah," Gerald breathed.
The keening of sirens came through the thin walls. Arnold nodded at Gerald again, who left the room to go greet the emergency responders who had just arrived. Arnold himself went back to the bathroom to stay with the young woman in the bathtub. He had no idea the extent of her injuries, she obviously had a deep puncture wound or could more seriously have a perforated bowel.
Arnold kneeled down next to the bathtub and put at hand on the woman's shoulder. She stared widely at him, red lips pursed tight and pain in her eyes.
"Can you tell me your name?" Arnold asked.
Her eyes flickered down to her bare feet, where blood was slowly winding its way.
"Miranda. Miranda Dennis," she said slowly.
"All right, Miranda, you're going to be okay, all right? Can you tell me what happened?"
"He was gonna... came at me angry-like with the knife. So I took his gun. Didn't die. Got me," Miranda said. "I won't be okay. Didn't know."
"You didn't know what?"
"That it was Gino," she lowered her lashes and gripped her stomach tighter.
"That doesn't matter. We won't let his guys get you," Arnold said.
Arnold got up when he heard the door open again. A stretcher was wheeled in, followed by a pair of paramedics, who immediately attended Miranda. Gerald surveyed the scene and let out his characteristic mm-mm-mm along with a shake of his head.
"Did you talk to her?" he asked of Arnold.
"Yeah, sounded like it was self-defence. He was going to do something to her, so she shot him. He stabbed her before he died, apparently," Arnold said.
Gerald shook his head again, "Well, if I was her, I'da shot the guy too. Thing is, that's Piras right there, they've been tryin' to get him for years. So who was Piras's right hand guy? Who's leadin' his men right now?"
Arnold's heart leapt up into his chest.
–
Sidney Gifaldi was a made man. He had spend most of his young life hungering for, lusting for, needing money, and now he had it. Running around with Gino was one of the greatest decisions he ever made. Gino's operation inside school had been strictly small time. It was his operations outside school that really brought in the money.
At first, Sid had been scared. He realized that this was much bigger, much deeper, and much more illegal than anything he had ever done before, but once he saw how much money it made, he couldn't turn back. He figured that he was lucky, Gino had always liked him, and he was Gino's right hand man.
Gino liked him because Sid had a natural canny for ideas. His thinking was fresh in an operation that had long fallen prey to the same tactics. Sid was grateful that Gino liked him, because it saved him years of grunt work, labouring under Gino. Sure, he most likely had enemies because of that, but he was Gino's right hand man. No one dared touch him.
Sid rolled out of bed and stumbled over to his dresser, where a plentiful stock of liquor was kept. He poured himself out a tumbler of whisky. He was hungover. Very hungover. He had long maintained the idea that one of the best cures for a hangover was to never stop being drunk in the first place, and so far, he'd done very well utilizing said cure.
Once the whisky was imbibed and taking effect, Sid got dressed. Gino had a liking for dressing nice, no matter the occasion, and the mentality had rubbed off on Sid. Today he put on a suit, all black of course, setting off the monochrome ensemble with a red tie. Then he slipped on his familiar white winkle-pickers and placed his Omega watch on his wrist. He had never cared for Rolex's style.
He had business to attend to before he went to his nightclub.
On his way out of his room, he made sure to grab his pistol, which was sitting on the night stand. He dared not go anywhere without it.
–
"You better make sure he gets the money then, or it's going to be pretty fucking painful for you around here," Sid said, starting out calmly but letting his voice rise to a shout as the threat came to an end. "Tell him then that he won't be getting any more of our products. Get guys to take what he has. Let his customers find him out for the rat he is."
"Yes, Sir," the man nodded earnestly before scrambling out of the room.
Sid hadn't been called by the name Sid for a long time. Around here, he was addressed as Sir and never anything else. He figured he couldn't be too careful. The fewer people to know his true name, the better. He had a number of other aliases, some normal, unassuming names, like John Piers and Andy Kisinger. Some of his aliases were words like Noir and Nose, although he had stopped using that last one. He thought of his nose as too distinctive, and had taken to covering up most of his face with a bandanna and shades when meeting people he thought untrustworthy.
To Sid, a name was disposable and meant to be dropped as soon as it started leaving traces. And in this business, everything left traces.
"Where is Gino?" Sid hissed at one of his closest men.
"We don't know, Sir. No answer at his house, and nobody knows his cellphone number but you, Sir," he whispered.
Sid rubbed his forehead, letting our an exasperated sigh. Someone always answered at Gino's house. If no one was answering at his house, then Sid didn't want to risk calling his cellphone. Goddammit, this changed everything. Gino was supposed to meet him today. A very large shipment was coming in, one of the largest they've had, and it was some of the purest shit Sid had ever laid eyes on. They were about to make a fortune.
"I'll call around, Sir," the man, Vince, brought out his phone.
"Good, fucking son of a bitch, Gino," Sid muttered, bringing out a cigarette and lighting it. "Heads are going to roll."
The room was hot and stuffy. It quickly became hazy, due to a ceiling fan circulating the smoke from Sid's cigarette around. The other man in the room, Marley, had lit a cigar and was puffing on it. Marley and Vince were Gino's long time friends and the only two men Sid trusted. They were intelligent and sharp-witted, but possessed enough muscle and brawn to scare anyone. Sid was nearly always with one of them if he wasn't with Gino.
Sid's razor sharp eyes locked on Vince when he cursed. He was still on the phone, but quickly shut it. He had a blazing look in his eye that Sid had never seen before and it made him nervous. Vince gave Sid a look that plainly said, "Things are bad."
He lit up a cigarette and took a few draws before speaking. Marley had actually put down his stogie, letting it smoulder in an ashtray. He wore a hard look on his round face.
"Gino's dead," Vince said.
"Jesus, mother fucker!" Sid stood up in shock, bringing his hands to his head to pull on dark hair.
He paced around the room, then stopped and punched the wall, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall. Sid spit out every curse word he knew, still unbelieving that such a mighty man had fallen.
"Who said?" Sid shouted at Vince. "Who said he's mother fucking dead?"
"Lucky, it's all over the damn newspapers if you want to check yourself. A streetwalkin' cunt shot him with his own gun."
Lucky was Sid's inside man. He worked for the police and was able to feed information about their plans to Sid. So the police had narcs. Sid had his own spy. He was lucky because he had never been convicted of any misdemeanour's or felony. He had never been caught. He was lucky.
Gino hadn't been so lucky. Sid had always said that women would be his downfall. They were nothing but trouble; they were gorgeous rats with conniving minds. And now Gino was dead, shot by one of the women he loved so much. That meant, that as the man in charge below Gino, Sid had now just inherited all of Gino's assets and responsibilities.
Sid was now in charge. In seconds, he had become one of the most powerful men in Hillwood. He was the one to run the show, to give the junkies their fix, to orchestrate rackets, and to extort. He was the King of Hillwood, and he wouldn't succumb to the same vices that Gino did.
Sid ran a hand through his hair and locked eyes with Marley, "Get men to his place now. Strip it. GO!"
Marley scrambled to his feet and was out the door. Sid watched it swing shut behind the retreating dress shoes. Once the door was shut, Sid turned and walked slowly to his desk, where his gun was resting. He picked it up. Vince stood, putting on his own jacket and grabbing his own gun.
Sid pulled open his drawer. Several gleaming bullets rolled forward, tumbling over one another. Sid grabbed one and held it up the light, letting it shine, before he placed it in his gun. When the weapon was fully loaded, Sid put it on his person. He threw on his jacket while sharing a look with Vince.
"Let's go. People need to know who their new Lord is."
–
Well, this is my new story, herp derp.
Hope it will be one of my more serious-toned stories, even though I don't really do humour in the first place...
Anyways, I try to write about things I know, but I'm obviously not a police woman nor am I a drug dealer. So I'm winging those things both. Tell me if things should be different.
Vince and Marley are the names I decided Gino's two goons have, but if they were mentioned as something different in the credits, let me know so I can fix it.
One of the residence hall coordinators showed up at my door this morning at about 9 am. I was like oh god what did I do now, I didn't do anything this time, but it turns out my bathroom was flooding because a pipe had broke on the seventh floor and it just happened to be 739, which is one of the numbers of the room I'm in. All the 39's bathrooms flooded, right down the first floor. So my makeup got ruined by dirty floor water, everything's wet, and I just spent half an hour cleaning all the rest of my stuff up and wiping down the walls.
YAY n_n