Journal Entry #2

10:23pm, November 14th, 198X
 Greenwich Street Apartments, Greenwich Street, New York

Patrick Winston. Slimy bastard and ex-informant, now turned goodie-two-shoes, after being relocated by witness protection. Winston still kept his underground connections and even continued to make shady deals with the Fornelli crime family. For a guy protected by feds, Winston was easy to find. Goes to show what happens if you end up pissing off every cop in New York. This guy was a computer hacking freak who believed he was ridden the world of scum using nothing but his computer. As much of a freak that he was, he knew the criminal underground well. Very little went on which Winston didn't know about. I made my way across town with hours to spare and found myself outside Greenwich Apartments. The apartments were fancy looking, complete with plenty of rooms and even a balcony for when the occupant felt a little too edgy. I'd bet all my chips that there was more than one person involved. A group of people conspiring to the end, set out in a pyramid like a house of cards. If he was involved, Winston would be at the bottom. That’s where I come in. If you take away the foundations, you'll end up bringing down the house.

Remaining to the shadows, I moved onto the entrance, politely ignoring other citizens and cars that made their way by. It was only a short matter of time until I realised that the door was buzzer activated. There was no way Winston was going to let me in, but since there was no other way to gain access, I would have to improvise. With a firm thumb and a changeless wit, I held the buzzer for his apartment down, hard. All I could do was wait. Static and movement came from the speaker, until a young-sounding and squeaky voice talked.
“Hello, who is it?”
“You know who it is.”
Silence followed. Something was definitely going on. Winston wasn't going to let me in, nor was he going to respond. He was definitely a lead.

With as much force as possible, I put my boot through the main door and made my way toward and up the stairs. Winston's room was 3a on the third floor. Even if it was a tiring marathon, I was not about to let the snivelling weasel get away. Three steps at a time, I forced my way up the stairwell and eventually ended up in his hallway. Hearing a multitude of crashes and bangs, anyone would think someone was about to become a victim of domestic abuse. I knew better. Playing from the sleeve, I ran to his door and attempted to kick it through. Bad mistake. Winston had bolted it closed. There was no way of access for those who stuck to conventional methods.
“I'm not saying anything! I'm outta here!”
Winston's muffled words from within his room. I took it as a challenge but all it did was make me angry.
I drew my Pocket Hammerless and put two shots near the hinges and again, attempted to put my boot through the door. This time it succeeded. The door slammed to the ground and the sight of Winston cowering in the corner of the dark room greeted me. I was pissed off. I raised the gun and shot the wall mere inches from his head, which was followed by a shriek. I walked over the remainder of the door, heavy footed, toward him. He was cowering, scared shitless. He was right to be. I stood three feet from him and raised my pistol in-line with his head.
“Adri-” He shouted.
“You know, I could put a bullet in your head and with your reputation, the cops of this city would claim it suicide. Start talking!”
“I don't know what your talking about!”
The anger built up and I was losing patience.
“Swedish mechanist, Jorgensen. What happened to him?”
“I don't know of any Swede!”
Patience lost. A bullet to the leg got Winston talking, after he finished screaming.
“I don't know much! Ya gotta believe me!”
“Then let's start with what you do know.”
“A Fornelli thug wanted me to check some background on this Swedish guy, something Jorgensen-”
“William.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy!”, Patrick held his wound. “It hurts so bad.”
“Forget the pain, why did he want the information?”
“I don't know. After I gave it to him, he lost interest. This was a good few weeks back. Then he contacted me yesterday, saying he needed me to look over some disk, but I haven't heard from him since.”
“A disk?” I was onto something. “What was the thugs name?”
“I don't know!”
I grabbed his scruff, pulled him toward me and pressed the gun against his head.
“I don't know!” He cried, balling tears. “I honestly don't know! All I know is he ain’t on speaking terms with the Fornelli family and that the old Don wants his head!”
I loosened the push of my pistol and let go of his scruff.
The old Don was a patient man, so what ever this thug had done, it must have been pretty bad to piss him off. Recent rumours had suggested that he was succumbing to cancer in a hospital down town. I knew, in his state, that Winston wouldn't tell a soul what had happened here, which could be useful. Problem was, I wanted this thug to know I was after him, and that I was only a few steps behind.
“You're going to tell this contact of yours that I'm coming for him. Understand?”
With a slight nod, this whimpering runt of a man acknowledged what I wanted him to do, and what would happen if he refused to do so. In the distance, I could hear sirens. No doubt a worried old bint down the hall had called the cops after nearly having a heart attack, hearing the sounds of gunshots. It was time I go out of here. I holstered the hammerless, and walked toward the door. I stopped in the doorway and grabbed a towel from the rail in the not too distant kitchen area and threw it toward Winston.
“Keep it pressured. You'll be fine, that is, if your information is right. If it isn't... well you know what happens then.”