The only time the police showed up was when Baalth requested their presence or the national news got whiff of something big and it couldn’t be swept under the rug. Even then, the residents of Old Town understood in the end, no matter what, Baalth was pulling the strings behind the scene. He was the law: judge, jury, and willing executioner. To paraphrase the Vegas commercial, what goes on in Old Town, stays in Old Town, usually in a shallow grave or hastily converted BBQ pit.

Full of rat-infested tenements, immigrant clothing shops, low-end car dealerships, and bustling pawn shops, Old Town was a haven for criminal activity.

Those who frequented the area were either crooks or victims, all too poor to escape.

I parked at a seedy pay-by-the-hour lot downtown and walked the rest of the way to Old Town, grumbling about the price. While the car belonged to DRAC and I really didn’t care whether some lowlife snatched it or not, I didn’t want to hear the endless diatribe about my carelessness. I’d heard it way too often.

Once on the strip, I pulled the hood of my dirty sweat jacket over my head and tried to appear inconspicuous, stuffing the folder Abraham had given me into my back pocket. Face toward the sidewalk, I peeked out of the corner of my eyes as I strolled down the walk. Harangued by the scads of shopkeepers trying to sell me everything from velvet Elvis paintings to generic prescription drugs, I pushed my way past them. I could smell the stinging aroma of green chili peppers being roasted nearby. It did nothing to hide the biting stench of the trash cans, which overflowed with rotting meat and decayed vegetables. Worse than either of those, I could smell the desperation of the Old Town residents, thick in the air. The cloying scent, like a losing high school locker room after a big game, stuck with me as I walked. Combined, it all smelled like Hell. I felt a little homesick.