Free The Lost Angel by Adam C. Mitchell

Part One
    I glanced around the bar, checking out the punters as the barman refilled my glass. Whiskey topped up, I focused on the man perched at the far end; fat, sweaty, early forties. His hair was dirty blond and thinning on top, his clothes expensive but unkempt. Fatso wore a dull blue striped number, crumpled shirt and scuffed leather shoes. He was spending money like it was going out of fashion. His drink of choice was Old Forester. He drank heavily, trying to buy friends in the process, showing off and bragging like he was Lord of the keep. 
    After downing my drink, I moved towards him. He turned on his stool and gave me a toothy smile. “A drink, my friend?”
    I pulled a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wiped the man's spittle off my cheek. He spewed his words and drooled like a lout. He was ten sheets to the wind and getting more inebriated by the minute. His name was Tony and he was a drunken big-spender and barfly at most of the clubs and betting establishments around the city.
    We met for the first time a year back. He latched on to my doll, giving her a drunken advance and a below the belt grope. We fought. He got the doll and I got the heave hoe and a night in the cell.
    Tony ordered a whiskey and pushed it in front of me. I didn’t want it but played along. In truth, I was checking him out. His pockets were going to feel real light soon. The tarnished fob watch nestling in his loose, stained waistcoat might be worth something. It didn’t look like nothing special but it’d be easy to fence or sell down the markets. They didn’t care where their stock came from so long as it sold.
     
    He raised his glass to his lips, which is the exact moment the breath froze in my throat. There, beneath the loudmouth's jacket, hung a brown holster and a gun. I groaned. Trouble was the one thing I didn’t need. Not right now.
    Downing the two fingers straight, Tony smacked his lips with a satisfied gasp and put his hand on my shoulder. “The name’s Tony Santeeni. I’m celebrating a new job, you know, working the door of the Lost Angel club,” he slurred. “I’m coming into money. A big deal. Then, pal, I’ll be on easy street.” He swayed in his seat and I caught sight of the brown paper parcel stuffed in his jacket pocket.
    Without warning, he slugged me clean off the stool. I landed on the floor with a thud . He must have remembered my face from our last encounter. For a long while, I made it my business to make sure every black-and-white in the area stopped by and gave him a little visit. If not that, maybe the almighty slap my former doll gave him across the chops. Tony drew the gun from its holster and waved it in my direction. “You’re trying to get me drunk and get in on my big score!” His arm swayed and the gun went off, blowing a hole in the floor by my head.
    I pulled my gun out and fired back. Instinct, nothing more. I hated packing heat, but the club scene and the city made it a must. You either carried heat or died by it.
    Tony slumped over the bar, bleeding from a hole in his head. The bar emptied of customers as I got up. More than likely expecting a visit from a copper or reprisal from the barkeep. Everyone knew about the shotgun kept behind the bar in case of trouble. I holstered his weapon and relieved Tony Santeeni of the parcel. He didn’t need it where he was going.
    Five men rushed inside, all square-shouldered and broken-nosed. They hurried to the bar. Lord knows who they were. Likely people Tony owed money to and more than likely working for one of the crime families. Seeing the parcel in my hand, they made a b-line in my direction.
    I fired twice, just to keep them away. They flipped a table over and dived for cover. I dived too, but towards the door at the back of the bar.
    II
    The unforgiving night closed in. The crisp cold air stung my face and burnt my lungs. Dim street lights bathed the maze of seedy back alleys in a ghostly light. I stopped to catch my breath. The grim