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When they pulled the canvas sack off the shackled mafioso's head, he squinted, expecting

blinding light.

But the warehouse where his captors had taken him was dim and cool. The only light source was a few

columns of dusty sun from high, open windows. He sniffed. The place smelled like fish and

something worse. From outside, he could hear seagulls, ship horns, and dockworkers on the job.

A bit of sea breeze off the bay shook the dirty plastic curtain that hung across the far wall. The mafioso cleared his throat and looked up at the dozens of men gathered around him.

Their faces in shadow, their arms crossed.

They were dressed in denim and flannel and old workboots,

and many had beards or unkempt shoulder-length hair. Huh, what a joke. This new brand of so-called

gangster had no style at all. When he was coming up, in the 60s and 70s, the criminal underworld in the city of Grim Bay had class.

They had Gravitas.

But it was 1986 now, and all that was gone.

...