Randy Parsons, Beat Cop (5th Precinct) - The First Day

Officer Randy Parsons was miserable in his job.

He had left Chicago a year ago, putting the cattle yards and slaughterhouses behind him, for better prospects in Saint Anthony.

He joined the police force; the recruiter had convinced him that it would put him on the sure path to prosperity.

Randy was young and strong, and happy to follow orders, so he decided to give it a try, but he had no idea what being a police in a city like Saint Anthony would mean to him personally.

St. Anthony was a rich town, and the recruiter didn’t lie to him; the money was good, but the work was little more than uniformed muscle, he was a pimp with a badge, less than that…he was just the pimps’ enforcer.

Randy Parsons hated himself.

On three out of four weeks he worked the night shift on Lake Street, walking his beat like a postman, working through rain, sleet and snow. His time was spent keeping the street walkers  busy and the brothels quiet, making sure that the drug and alcohol trade were not disturbed.

Randy’s salary allowed him to keep a small apartment on Dupont Avenue, a couple of blocks from the precinct house.

He took the cash that his captain doled out from the precinct slush fund, kept full by St. Anthony’s crime lords, after giving ten percent to the church, he stuffed most of rest in jar as if it were some kind of savings account.

Randy thought of his tithe as a way to do something good with the devil’s money, and he trusted the pastor at Joyce Methodist to do what was right with it…though he was wrong about that. With the money he stashed in his cupboard he thought he might buy one of those kit homes from Sears and Robuck, a big one with a broad porch, and he thought about getting a wife off the boat from Sweden.

It was raining when he clocked into the 5^th Precinct.

He passed his captain in the locker room, grumbling in his brogue, the old Irishman harshly reminded him and the rest of the boys to keep the hookers busy during the storm.

“There is no rest for the wicked,” Captain Dougherty said. “We have quoted to make.”

Only the wicked got a break in Saint Anthony, Parsons thought to himself, and everybody else was expected to suffer for them.

Randy made note of what the captain said however, believing his work would be under scrutiny that night, and despite his misgivings he was determined to go hard on the girls, to set an example…he was an enforcer after all.

His partner, Sandy O’Rourke, was late as usual, though no one ever bothered him about timeliness.

Sandy had been on the force for more than twenty years and had been busted down from Sergeant twice over the course of his career, but he was a personal friend of the Captain and so he could pretty much do as he pleased.

Sandy was cheerful when he came in, whistling and smiling, tipping back his flask.

“Its hot and wet out there,” he said as he winked at Randy. “We’re on the beat from Nicollet to Chicago; lets head out now.”

Randy didn’t have a say in the matter, so he buttoned up his rain gear and followed the old man out the door.

He beat his night stick in his gloved hand as if he were trying to beat the lurid thoughts  out of his head.

Officer Parsons might have wanted to do some good in the world, the make-believe world in which he was a pious man, that world had nothing to do with girls at work on Lake Street.

 

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Jane Lovejoy, Patroness on the Strip - The First Day

When Jane Lovejoy’s husband telephoned to tell her that he had been passed over for the promotion he had been hoping for, and also that he had been denied the raise he was expecting, she knew she would have to do something special to raise his spirits, and that there was some heavy lifting ahead.

Richard was more fragile and temperamental than their four-year-old son, and he would need something sweet to soothe his bruised ego; Jane figured a trip over to Lake Street and an evening of sinful-fun would be just the thing to keep him calm…she would enjoy it too. More importantly it would distract him from his worries and his shame, keep him from turning his resentment and anger against her…or their son.

She sent the boy to her mother’s in Linden Hills, she had the servants prepare a platter of food they could eat at room temperature, including a roast beef and a chicken that would keep well for hours in the ice box.

Her maid helped her with her hair and dress, after-witch Jane sent everyone home so that she could be alone with her husband when he arrived; then she fixed herself a martini about a half an hour before Richard came home.

It was raining hard by the time he arrived and Jane’s timing was perfect.

He had parked the car under the port cochere so that he was barely damp when he came through the side door into the parlor. She went to greet him there with a lit cigarette in one hand and a brandy Manhattan, made just the way he liked it, in the other.

Jane loved her husband and she was sad to see him come through the door with his shoulders sagging and the air of defeat hanging about him.

His face was set in a mean-grimace, but when he saw his wife standing in the light of the Tiffany chandelier, slender and blonde and wearing a slinky dress, his mood began to change.

Jane wore her make-up done in her signature sultry-style, I married a movie-star, Richard thought. As kind as Dorris Day and as daring as Mae West, the perfect woman.

Richard only paused for a second, as he felt his sense of failure magnifying for the span of a heartbeat, then his troubles simply vanished as he gazed at Jane’s glossy red lips. He let those feelings go and allowed his imagination to fill the hole in his heart with expectations of what the night promised to become.

The way jane had greeted him gave Richard the understanding that his loving-wife was going to spend her money pampering him once again, not to celebrate his success, but to compensate him for his poor performance at the Lumber Exchange where he sat in her father’s chair.

Jane walked toward him with her pale thighs barely rubbing together, allowing him to see the hem of her stockings and catch a glimpse of her garter belt below the fringe of her too-short, emerald gown.

She handed him his drink and the lit Pall Mall; then kissed him lightly on the lips, brushing them languidly with the tip of her tongue as Richard moaned with delight. With one sip of his Manhattan and a puff from the Pall Mall, the scent of his wife’s perfume and the luxuriousness of her kiss, the sting of shame he had been nursing since the morning meeting with the board melted away.

The house was quiet.

Richard knew they were alone, and soon they would be headed to the strip; his wife would dope him up and let him smother his woes between the breasts of an anonymous immigrant girl, then she would call her father in the morning to tell him that he was too sick to come in.  

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John Fields, Patron on the Strip - The First Day

John Fields was eager for a night of R&R, as his lodge members called it…not rest and recuperation, but ribald-revelry. Tonight it was his turn to pick up the girls, visit the apothecary and return to the lodge with enough cocaine and opium to keep a dozen people loose and full of energy all-night…until the sun came up.

He was eager to undertake the mission, despite the stormy weather, john always enjoyed taking a drive down lake street.

It was well before sundown, but as the rain clouds thickened, the sky had become dark as night, and what felt like a biblical-deluge had begun to drench the city…John was not deterred.

He navigated Lake Street in bumper to bumper traffic with his windshield wipers working overtime; he merged into a line of cars filled mostly with men, though there were some couples, all looking to do the same thing as he was doing, all hoping that a pretty young woman (or a young man), that a beauty with blonde hair and blue eyes would jump into their car for a night of sex and booze, drugs and debauchery.

In the era of prohibition Saint Anthony had become the most licentious city on the northern plains, a destination for those who delighted in the skin trade; Lake Street, from Nicollet Park to Cedar Avenue was little more than an open-air brothel. It was the main reason John had wanted to move here, that and his lucrative job at the Grain Exchange.

When John pulled up to the curb in front of the druggist, he rolled down his window and gave a handful of bills to a street hustler who was quick to step forward though he was soaked to the bone.

“Two balls of cocaine, one opium and three girls for the night,” he ordered.

He counted the bills in a flash before pocketing the money, nodded and flashed some hand signs to someone down the block, who John could not see; seconds later another boy came to the car to hand him a brown paper bag. Then he pointed to a spot up the street where he could pull over to pick up the girls.

Traffic was slow moving, and he was just in front of the Round-up, a local tavern that John enjoyed visiting when he was taking in a baseball game at Miller Field.

There was a commotion at the front door. A hulking figure of a man had been shoved out of the bar, then a bright flash of lightning appeared to strike the sidewalk a mere twenty-feet in front of him, its thunder shook everything, including John inside his car.

He pushed hard on the brakes and came to a quick halt, one second later he was hit from behind.

John cursed his bad luck. He still had to pick up the girls and now a crowd was blocking the place where he was supposed to pick them up. There was confusion all around, and he didn’t know what to do.

He got out of the car, stepping into the heavy rain.

John wanted to inspect his rear bumper for any damages, even as the man in the car that struck him, laid heavy on his horn and cursed at him, telling him to move on.

His heart was beating fast.

The big man who had been fighting ran past him like a locomotive heading east down Lake, another man jumped out of the doorway of the druggist and followed after, and there were two cops in following behind in hot pursuit.

Just then John noticed a sickly looking blonde almost hiding around the corner from Franky’s bar. He waved her over and she got into the back seat.  

            John gave the finger to the pale swede yelling at him to move on. Got behind the wheel and pulled away.

            One girl will have to do, John thought.

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Greta Swenson, Working Girl on Lake Street - The First Day

Greta Swenson was sick with a fever and chills. It wasn’t the everyday sickness she experienced when she felt the deep yearning that caused her skin to crawl and her stomach heave when she was late to receive her daily-fix. Today’s sickness was something else, it was the sickness that came with the end of summer, it was the sickness that came with the rain and the sudden shifts in the weather, but despite being ill she was out on the corner because her pimp didn’t give her a choice.

She had told Franky that she was feeling horrible, and he gave her a little extra something, a pick me up he called it, and it stung as it went up her nose, but it gave her energy even though agitated her something fierce.

“Earn or burn,” Franky told her. That was all the compassion she would see from him. She suspected that he didn’t even know her name.

Greta stood under the rain-soaked awning hoping a man would take her off the streets and bring her somewhere for the whole night. She was on the look-out for one of her regulars, hoping that one of the nice men would find her and get her out of the weather.

There was a lot of business on the street, even with the downpour, but nothing had been coming her way; she didn’t have the hustle in her that night.

Greta took a spot around the corner from Franky’s Bar, a place where he wouldn’t be able to see her from where he sat, not that it mattered because the beat cops were patrolling, and they would keep the girls active as they were paid to do; they would do anything short of beating a girl with a night-stick if she wasn’t on her mark turning tricks…or trying at least.

She had her eye on a young, good-looking fellow standing by the newsstand. He was tall and had a nice face, though his shoes were a tattered and his coat was somewhat threadbare. Whoever he was, he wasn’t paying attention to Greta at all; his eyes were glued to the opposite side of the street, like he was waiting for something to happen.

Greta followed him with her eyes as he walked from the newsstand to the drug store where he bought a bottle of brown liquor, then he stood in the doorway and continued his watch.

He had some money in his pocket, Greta thought. That was a good sign, it encouraged her to approach him, to show that she was making an effort.

She was tired of being ignored. She began walking toward him when suddenly there was a commotion across Lake street in front of the Round-Up Saloon..

A giant of a man had been thrown out onto the curb.

Greta didn’t know who he was but she recognized him; she had seen him once with Franky and she knew that Franky was afraid of him, and if Franky was scared of him then he was someone to be feared by anyone, Greta thought.

The scene in front of the Round-Up had the complete attention of the nice looking man. He was watching closely, and so was Greta as the barback from the Round-up came out with the giant man’s hat in his hand, and something else…a piece of paper, maybe his tab she thought.

Then there was a powerful stroke of lightning, a bright-white flash that hurt her eyes, and the thunder that followed rattled every window on the street.

Greta stumbled, and when she recovered from the crack-and-boom of the lightning bolt everything and everyone around her was in motion.

The giant was running down the strip with her mark in swift pursuit him, and two beat cops were fast on their heels.

“Fuck!” Greta cursed out loud.

She knew enough to know that there was going to be trouble; and she thought about using the confusion as cover to get out of the rain and go back to her room.

 

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