George (Eleven)

Around this point, I started worrying it mighta been 1 of the mob families behind it, especially when he told me how much he was getting to tell the Diablos what to do. Felt like I was playing football 1 on 11. Mighta gotten lucky and scored once and a while, but most of the time, they were gonna pancake block me into the ground, and I probably wasn't gonna get up.

Thing is, he had a name and a phone number. Problem was, that's all he had. Wilder's boss called himself Ghost, gave real simple directions on what the kids were supposed to paint, then disappeared. I kinda liked the idea, but I woulda liked it more if he left a forwarding address.

Wilder gave us the phone number Ghost used last, and told us he called around 9 PM. Wasn't much to go on, but it was more than we got usually.

Dara dropped me off at the metro stop, then went back to the office. She sorta had to at this point. I'm near useless with computers and the internets, and she can't have much bourbon without going full-on dame and crying [Trace needs an excuse to leave me behind. Not all of us have hardened our lives with over thirty years' experience drinking and fighting.

We should have anticipated the difficulty in tracking down Ghost. Ghost utilized the finest in disposable technology, prepaid cell phones. So long as you could afford it, you could keep the personal information to a minimum. What records existed for the number ultimately traced back to a grave inhabited by one Lester Goldstein, 13 years interred and counting. Seeing as how we weren't willing to buy Lester rising from the dead and manipulating a gang, we assumed it was a cover.

Another clue we could work with, there were scant few calls from the phone, but the first one came about a month ago. I assumed that meant Ghost purchased the phone fairly recently. With some more work, I was able to find the point of sale, a Radio Shack in Derry Mall.

I called Trace to update him, but he steadfastly refused to answer his phone. Either that, or he was talking into the closed clamshell and wondering why I wasn't talking back. -Dara].

Someone with that much flush, that secret, had to be a high class kinda criminal. Kind that got someone to shoot you, instead of doing it themselves. Probably mob connections, which meant Nostalgia, the club downtown where they all hung out.

It's such a classy joint, it's the kinda place where they'd never call themselves a classy joint. Real 30s feel, like Prohibition's back in swing. Got that sliding window in the door up front. I passed 2 large through when the beady eyes asked for the password through that tiny window. Sure enough, door opened and I passed inside. Most the other clubs, I been in fights, they'll throw me out and ban me. In Nostalgia, you get in a fight, they'll end it quick. You might get buried at sea, if you're lucky. No one ever tells us what happens when you're unlucky.