Page 20 of Unleash Hades
“He’s got quite a bit on all the mafia families, including the old Vasilievs. He’s got something on the DA too.” Gavin let out a breath of air, his nostrils flaring with some repressed emotion. “It's like he’s greasing the wheels and conducting the train at the same time. But not actually doing any of the real work himself.”
He went on to explain that Richard forced the police to turn a blind eye, and collected protection money from the swine who traded in guns, drugs and souls.
“He makes a great living at it,” Gavin said. “That’s the money you’ve been seeing. The sudden flush of cash you’re always receiving.”
“How are they giving him cash? How much?”
“Hundreds of thousands.” At my bewildered look, he tilted his head. “$100,000 stack comes to the height of about a standard pen. A briefcase will do. You won’t need a huge Santa Clause sack, with a dollar sign on the side to carry that much around.”
I mentally tried to calculate how large that stack would be but wasn’t able to conjure the image.
“He gives them a carrot and stick,” Gavin continued, “He blackmails, takes their bribes, and also offers them protection. He won’t let stories about them come out in the Media. He blocks them outright. I’ve seen the trail.”
“He’s very clever,” I said, studying the red bricks of the wall of the alley. “Can we turn this in to the police?”
That seemed too simple, but it was worth asking.
“No,” Gavin almost laughed. “This USB drive will look like it was fabricated by a scorned wife. There’s no evidence unless we can find more. Witnesses. Other traces of moving money, which will be difficult.”
“Witnesses?”
“The Underground Circuit,” Gavin said with a nod. “You know it? That’s where they hand over the money.”
“I’ve heard rumors of it, but I thought it was an urban legend,” I said, lifting my shoulders to my ears as a particularly terrible breeze blew into the alley, swirling trash at our feet.
“Nah, it’s real,” Gavin said, his hands digging into his pockets even further. “I shouldn’t be giving this to you, but…”
He handed me a piece of paper.
“My son, Kieran, goes to the fights.” He bit down on his lower lip, pulling it through his teeth. “It’s exclusive, and people get times and addresses to the fights a week before. The moment they see it, all traces of the address disappear, and there’s never a number attached. It’s all quite hush-hush, but… I let my son know what was happening, and he gave it to me. He said if you go, that he’ll look out for ye.”
I held the paper in my hand, seeing the address was in a warehouse district.
He put his hands in his pocket, and gave me a nod.
“Be careful,” he said, tilting his head towards me, before squaring his shoulders. “I’m going back inside to have a pint with my son. Will you come in and meet him?”
“Isn’t this a mafia bar?” I asked, looking at the building, and the shamrock above the back entrance.
“No! That’s a filthy lie! What they call the Irish Mafia is just a legitimate enterprise,” Gavin said, though he was protesting a little too much. “The Greens are good folk, just trying to do their jobs.”
I smirked. “Is that right?”
“Hand to God!” He put up his palm up, as if he was taking an oath. “Though, I understand how a respectable woman like you might not be in with the riff-raff like me.”
He went to the back door, ready to re-enter the establishment. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, looking at me with worried eyes. He opened his mouth, probably to tell me to be careful, but then shut it again. It was bad luck to say things like that.
So he just pushed the door open and went inside.
That was how I ended up in a glass manufacturer’s warehouse, staring at a temporarily erected octagon. A canvas mat elevated the fighters above the seated crowd. A chain link cage surrounded the stage, like the fighters were animals in a zoo.
The audience was well-dressed. Cocktail dresses, and neckties. The expensive clothes of the audience contrasted sharply with the near-nakedness of the fighters within.
A bell sounded as two men in the ring touched their fingerless fighting gloves. Then they separated, fists up, ready to pummel each other into oblivion.
The crowd hummed with quiet conversation, punctuated by the sound of ice clinking in crystal glassware.
The air smelled of sweat, and alcohol. It was an odd mixture - real champagne, artisanal beer, expensive perfumes mixed and the scent of human exertion. The rich with the poor; the gladiators with the patricians.
