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the one doing the talking, not me.
    “Hugo. I’ve been sent to-.”
    I interrupted promptly, “Hugo, great, now – tell me, Hugo, do you work for Mr Vitalli?”
    This was definitely not what he was expecting, so far so good.
    “Uh, yeah.”
    “Excellent, has he sent you to give me a message?”
    “It’s more of a warning, really.”
    “Does it involve not asking any more questions about Anton Jameson or poking around near the Old Docklands?
    “Uh-.”
    “Only, I’d have to query Mr Vitalli’s choice in respect to yourself for this kind of job.”
    Hugo looked confused, as I had anticipated, words were not his strongpoint. I could see from his expression that he knew he was not in control of this conversation and was mightily uncomfortable about it.
    “Now, I respect Mr Vitalli is a busy man, but so am I, we’re both just trying to make a living, right? But in my game, and I’m sure in his - you got to know you’re speaking to the organ grinder and not, and I don’t mean to be insulting when I say this, the monkey. D’you get my drift?”
    It’s fair to say Hugo almost certainly didn’t get my drift. I could tell his patience was wearing thin, I sensed he was planning a much simpler method of action – one that probably involved lifting me up by the scruff of my neck and merging me face first with the office wall. I elected to change tack.
    “So, essentially, you can tell Mr Vitalli that I accept his conditions, I shall drop the Jameson case, you won’t be bothered by me anymore. And here is a little something for you, for your trouble.”
    I handed Hugo a sealed envelope, I always had a few of these knocking around. What can I say? Money talks.
    “There is $100 in there, but please, if Mr Vitalli can give me any indication as to the ultimate fate of Anton Jameson, he does have a family that could do with some closure. You got my number, get in contact.”
    I got up and extended my hand toward Hugo, not totally sure if he would still be up for giving me a beating or not. After a moments indecision he accepted my hand and shook it firmly. With that, I was able to usher him out before he really had time to process anything else. I waited until I saw him disappear down the stairwell, then closed the main office door and locked it. I exchanged a very relieved glance with Lydia.
    “There you go, sweetheart, that’s how you deal with the mob. How about some coffee?”
    *
    I knew I was taking a risk, but I figured having thrown off the mob, for a little while at least, that perhaps I could move around incognito for a day or two without anyone realising I was still on the trail.
    That evening I donned an old coat and hat, then left my apartment via the secluded fire escape exit off the main street. I was reasonably happy that no-one had observed me leave.
    I took a cab to within about half a mile of the Old Portland Bridge. It was time to interview the underclass.
    The Old Portland Bridge was one of the oldest major river crossings in the city. The old suspension bridge still carried it’s fair share of commuters to other side of the river, but newer, better located bridges had since been built and were much more used.
    The embankment of the river below the bridge had been adopted by the city’s dropouts and hobos – as I approached on foot I could make out the little improvised campfires of the ‘residents.’
    There had to be about two dozen wretched looking people, dressed in a typical mishmash of tattered and stained clothing, crowded around the fires to keep the cold out. I could see many of them swigging from bottles and smoking in the shadows. The stench of the place was horrendous, I didn’t want to think about their sanitation arrangements.
    I had a pocket full of $1 bills, this would be my third act of bribery that day – I was glad Richard Jameson had paid so generously upfront.
    I approached a group of three men at the first fire, dished out one bill each, flashed Anton’s photograph and