We pull up outside a dilapidated brownstone, right in the center of Old Town. Vinnie goes in alone while Neil and I wait out by the car. I lean against the hood, taking in my surroundings. Beside me, Neil fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Being here makes him uneasy, and while I don't share the feeling, I don't blame him. We both feel the steely gaze of unseen eyes watching us. Like me, he has a Beretta under his jacket, but they offer little comfort. If it even looked like we were going for our guns, we'd be cut down by a dozen shotguns, rifles and submachine guns before we could we could even draw them from their holsters.
The girls of Old Town.
Beautiful and deadly- the angels of death.
They own these parts and unless they're soliciting, pimps, police and mobsters aren't welcome here.
Vinnie has an understanding with some of the girls around here which give us some leeway, but all the same, we keep our hands visible at all times and try not to push our luck.
My partner takes his packet of smokes from the dashboard, fumbling awkwardly with the lighter.
Neil Burke was originally from Australia, but has been living in this hell on earth for the past five years or so. He's also my best friend. While he's not actually a part of the family, Salvatore lets him hang around out of deference to me. We work together a lot.
He finally manages to light up and takes a long drag.
"What d' ya reckon he gets up to in their?" he asks.
I shrug. I've never really thought about it. After every fight, we come out to Old Town and Vinnie goes into that brownstone with his cut.
"I mean, he's in and out of there too quickly to be doing the obvious."
"I dunno. Maybe it's child support," I offer.
"Y' think so?"
Across the street, there's a sudden
CRASH!
...followed by angry yelling.
My first instinct is to pull iron, but then I remember where we are.
This isn't our fight.
Some punk has barreled through a flimsy screen door. His haste and lack of pants indicate that he's done something incredibly stupid. There's an Amazon war-cry and a girl bursts and throws an axe at him. Not a hatchet or a tomahawk either. A dirty great big fireman's axe. It buries itself in his bed with a loud, wet
THUNK!
The man screams and kisses the tarmac. The girl pulls out the axe, rolls the guy onto his side, reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a billfold. Judging by the cut on her lip, the schmuck must've got rough with her, trying to take his money back.
Two very big mistakes.
The girls of Old Town have a very strict "No Refunds" policy, eclipsed only by their "No Tolerance for Assholes" policy.
Here, the girls dispense their own brand of justice.
Here, they are judge, jury and often executioner.
Here, they are the law.
The rules are simple: pay up front, be respectful and keep your hands to yourself unless explicitly given permission to do otherwise.
Follow the rules and everybody wins.
Break the rules and you won't live long enough to regret it.
A couple more girls come out to loot the body and drag it back into their block of flats to be dealt with once the sun's gone down. Knowing better than to draw attention to ourselves, we look away.
"Strewth," Neil mutters under his breath, "Those birds are mental."
"Careful, if those birds hear you, we'll be next," I warn him.
"Alright boys," says Vinnie, coming out of the brownstone. "Let's roll. We don't wanna be late now, do we?"
Today also happens to be Vinnie's 30th birthday and Vincenzo Senior is throwing a big dinner party for his son. We all pile back into the Jag and take off.
As we leave Old Town, I spot someone standing on the roof of the brownstone, watching us go.
I can't be sure, but it looks like they're wearing a samurai sword…