In the heart of Motor City, dilapidated buildings loomed over the concrete jungle and steel bridges with peeling paintwork crisscrossed the flood control channels leading to the Detroit River separating Detroit from Canada. Fog swallowed the city as dusk descended upon the city. Ganymede reclined awkwardly in a creaking office chair, his enormous mass causing the wood and leather upholstery to groan loudly as the arms cut into his sides. He was known for two things: his size and his wit.

Nobody knew his real name anymore; "Ganymede" had stuck years ago, thanks to his larger-than-life presence and a belly so huge it seemed to mimic the moon of Jupiter. At 6'2" and tipping the scales at over 400 pounds, Ganymede was impossible to miss. Yet for someone so conspicuous, he had a knack for slipping into places unnoticed and walking out with things that weren’t his.

He wasn't a hitman or an enforcer, however - that wasn’t his style. Ganymede’s gift was his brain. He was the fixer, the planner, the man with the schemes. His employers in the Martinelli family valued his knack for turning impossible problems into solvable ones.

And when the Martinellis called on this foggy winter’s evening, Ganymede knew trouble was in the air.

The summons came through Carmine, a wiry young foot soldier with an ever-present scowl. He showed up at Ganymede's dingy basement floor apartment with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Boss wants to see you.” Carmine began.

“Boss wants a lot of things,” Ganymede replied, not looking up from his newspaper. “What’s this about?”

Carmine shifted uneasily, surveying the environment nervously. “Somebody skipped out on paying. Big somebody. A guy called Rizzo from the west side. You know the type - flashy, thinks he’s untouchable.”

“Rizzo,” Ganymede muttered, folding his newspaper and heaving himself upright with a grunt. “Doesn’t he run those gambling dens in the docks?”

“That’s the one,” Carmine confirmed. “Boss wants you to go... persuade him.”

“Persuade him? My knees don’t persuade anybody anymore. I can barely persuade them to carry me to the corner shop down the road these days.”

“You don’t gotta kneecap the guy, Ganny. Just figure out a way to get the money. Convince him it would be in his best interest.”

Ganymede sighed. He wasn’t thrilled about going out in the rain, but when the Martinellis asked for a favor, it wasn’t really a request.

Rizzo’s operation was based in an old cannery, now converted into a gaudy gambling hall. Neon lights flickered weakly through the drizzle that had developed from the fog, casting a sickly glow over the warehouse’s cracked facade.

Ganymede entered, his coat dripping onto the sticky flooring, and was greeted by the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional slap of cards on felt tables. His bulk filled the doorway, and conversations stuttered as eyes turned his way.

“Who’s the whale?” a gambler muttered.

Ganymede ignored him, scanning the room until he spotted Rizzo - a small, skinny man in an ill-fitting suit, sitting at the poker table with two buxom women on his arms.

“Rizzo,” Ganymede called, his voice like gravel.

Rizzo looked up, frowning. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Martinellis,” Ganymede said, waddling closer. “You owe them money.”

The gamblers at the table froze. Rizzo’s smirk faltered. “That so? Well, you can tell the Martinellis I’ll pay when I feel like it.”

“That’s not how this works,” Ganymede said calmly. “You’ve had two extensions. I’m here to collect. Tonight”

Rizzo leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “And if I don’t pay, what are you gonna do? Sit on me?”

The room burst into laughter. Ganymede’s face remained impassive.

“No, I won’t sit on you,” he said. “But I’ll make sure you wish I had.”

With that, he reached into his coat and pulled out a matchbook, striking a flame and lighting a cigar. The room fell silent as Ganymede exhaled a plume of smoke over the poker table.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rizzo asked, his voice tinged with unease.

Ganymede leaned in close, his bulk looming over the smaller man. “It means I know about the broad you’ve got in Chicago. The one your wife doesn’t know about.”

Rizzo’s smirk vanished.

“Imagine what’ll happen if I let slip that your business trips have really just been excuses to entertain the other woman in your life,” Ganymede continued. “Your wife - Janette, isn’t it? She has a brother with contacts of his own, as I understand it. And between you and me, they’re not as forgiving as we are.”

“You’re bluffing,” Rizzo said, though his voice wavered.

“Am I?” Ganymede smiled, flicking ash onto the poker table. “Maybe. But are you willing to bet your life on it?”

Walking into a well kept, yet otherwise relatively ordinary looking complex, the true scale of the building only became known upon entering the marble floored foyer, beyond the ornate vestibule at the entrance of the building. Decorated and fitted with gold plated fixtures, it was clearly an opulent home furnished with the finest of things. Following the well dressed butler, Ganymede waddled up the curved staircase and through a wide corridor to a lavish study at the back of the building. The door closed at his back and Ganymede approached the desk.

Don Martinelli looked pleased when Ganymede produced an envelope stuffed with cash. But the problem with solving one issue was that it often led to another.

“You’re good, Ganny,” Don Martinelli said as he counted the money under the dim orange glow of a desk lamp which only partially illuminated the rest of the room. “Too good, maybe. Makes me wonder if I’m using you enough.”

Ganymede shifted uncomfortably in the leather chair that creaked under his weight. “I just do what needs doing, boss.”

“Well, there’s something else that needs doing,” the Don said, sliding a beige A4 Manila envelope across the desk. Inside were photos of a man in his thirties, clean-cut and well-dressed.

“Who’s this?” Ganymede asked.

“Detective Colin Hart,” the Don replied. “He’s been sniffing around our operations. Got one of our guys arrested last week. I want you to... take care of him.”

Ganymede frowned. “I’m not a hitman.”

“I’m not asking you to kill him,” the Don said. “Just make sure he backs off. Find some dirt on him. Scare him. Whatever it takes.”

Ganymede didn’t like it, but he nodded. “Consider it done.”

Detective Hart was a man of routines, and Ganymede was patient - a master of observation. For two weeks, he followed Hart discreetly, watching his movements, learning his habits, and following his daily routine. What he discovered was surprising: Hart had a weakness. Every Thursday night, the detective visited a seedy bar in the outskirts of town, where he spent hours drinking alone.

One Thursday evening, Ganymede decided to pay a visit to the watering hole he had observed Detective Hart frequenting. The bar was dimly lit and smelled of stale beer. Ganymede squeezed onto an empty stool beside Hart, who was nursing a whiskey.

“Rough day?” Ganymede asked.

Hart glanced at him suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you,” Ganymede said, lowering his voice. “You’re the cop making life hard for the Martinellis.”

Hart tensed. “You’re one of theirs. You can’t touch me, people will notice if I disappear.”

“Relax, I’m not here to hurt you,” Ganymede said. “I just want to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“About why a decorated detective like you spends his Thursdays in a dump like this, drinking himself into oblivion.”

Hart’s face darkened. “None of your business.”

“Fair enough,” Ganymede said, signaling for a drink. “But let me guess - trouble at home? Wife left you? Or maybe you’re in debt.”

Hart slammed his glass down. “What do you want?”

“I want you to leave the Martinellis alone,” Ganymede said bluntly.

“And if I don’t?”

Ganymede leaned in close. “Then I start asking the chief inspector questions about what a cop like you is doing in a place like this. And I don’t think you’d like the answers he gives.”

Hart stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll back off. But if you or your people come near me again, I’ll bring the whole department down on your heads.”

“Fair enough,” Ganymede said, finishing his drink with one final large gulp before throwing down a couple of bucks and motioning to the barman “His drink is on me too. He’s had a rough week.”