Geralt Bernardi was not a patient man. Walking three blocks through the city outskirts at midnight, courtesy of a broken radiator on his private car, did little to improve his disposition. Still, here he was: the eminent executive of the Bernardi family which laid claim to little less than half of the city, tracking snow and grit through the streets alongside his assistant Anthony, tire iron frigidly in hand. It was a call back to harsher, earlier times, and no less infuriating for it. Of course, there was something to be said for the nostalgic satisfaction of wringing answers from his subordinates personally.<br/><br/>The Valman-Weiss City Raceway loomed before him, a veritable metropolis of streamlined concrete, circular windows, oxidized copper roofing, and soaring towers bedecked with spotlights and angular engravings; a city within a city - one his enterprise had built.<br/><br/>The gateway was cast in brass and buffed to a mirror shine, its arch a pair of stylized art deco scolipedes interlocked about a regal goblet - the racecourse's grand cup. Like everything in the city it was opulent beyond its means, and owed a storied past to the effervescent whims of an illegal gambling racket. Beyond, fittingly, was a wall of darkness. The front office was closed, shuttered, and seemed to have been abandoned in a hurry, with circuit panels still ajar from the moment the facade's lights were shut of. The teller stood empty before the yawning mouth of the entry tunnel which connected track and entrance hall, promising a night of joviality to an empty wind-blown street with posters of the latest events.<br/><br/>Geralt stood before the bars, nonplussed. "I guess no-one's home."<br/><br/>He eyed the heavy chain barring the gate, gave it a cursory tug, then passed the tire iron over his shoulder without bothering to turn around. "S'pose I'll let myself in, then."<br/><br/>A steely hand took hold. "Very well, sir." Anthony stepped forward and jammed the crude implement between the loops of chain, his immaculate black livery all but invisible against the night. A single long breath hung in the air as the dark-skinned young man levered it back to the sound of a sharp metallic snap. Momentarily the gate swung ajar - his white-gloved hand motioning for Bernardi to enter.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://www.seventh-house.org/wp-content/themes/naota/images/NavDivider3.png">[ img ]</a></div><br/>A half-hour's toil rifling through the office and ticket booth found Geralt cold, baffled, and more irritable than ever. They had scoured the entry hall for any sign of Weiss, walked the length of the tunnel, patrolled the galleries, and even broken into the stable to wordlessly menace its contingent of giant insectoids. Had the spineless coward cut and run, leaving every inch of his accomplishment behind for the taking? He couldn't imagine a man as greedy as Weiss giving up his racket for anything less than a fortune, let alone at the cost of one. So why?<span style="font-style: italic">Where?</span><br/><br/>He stood tapping his foot nervously while Anthony liberated a set of car keys from the garage, opposite a snow-covered bronze statue of Valman - the raceway's co-founder - motioning gaily onward with an overturned bowler hat. The effigy was a damning likeness, showmanlike smile and all. Geralt shivered, suddenly feeling the cold and the darkness press in upon him. Something about the statue's face unnerved him, but he couldn't bring himself to look into its eyes.<br/><br/>He swore loudly and turned away. "I came here for men, not ghosts."<br/><br/>"Is there a problem, sir?" Anthony loomed behind him, more rigid than the damnable statue. "I've arranged for transportation if you're prepared to depart. If Mr. Weiss was here, he is no longer. Shall I contact one of your associates?"<br/><br/>"Morris," he stated flatly. "That up-dressed dandy's been trying to crawl out of his father's shadow for years now. This'll give him the chance." Anthony turned to the open fuse box and began to strip wires with a set of pliers he produced from seemingly nowhere. Momentarily a single exterior phone kiosk flickered to life beneath the soaring entryway, casting a pillar of light onto the marble floor. The assistant gave a microscopic smile of satisfaction and shut the panel.<br/><br/>Bernardi started forward; something felt wrong. Wrong and<span style="font-style: italic">dangerous</span>. "Wait," he hissed. "On second thought, don't let anyone else know about this. I don't like the way this sits... not one iota." He reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb from the kiosk, then glanced around suspiciously.<br/><br/>"Anything you need, sir." Anthony replied, a tiny crack of concern showing through his ironclad composure.<br/><br/>"A clue would be a start, Anth. What am I, a private dick?" He snapped his fingers as a sudden thought came to him. "Happily enough, I figure I can buy one."