First the drains filled, then the gutters; soon
the overflow flooded the sidewalk and Larry scrambled to keep his goods dry.
As soon as the silver-dollar sized rain drops
began to fall the old-newsy pulled everything off the sidewalk, stacking the
papers and other bundles under the roof of his shanty, leaving only the morning
news on the concrete as he began to sacrifice the remaining bundles of the
evening news to divert as much water as he could away from his shack.
The rain fell hard, and it did not take long
for the roof to begin leaking.
Larry used backstock of magazines from last
week to seal the gaps in his tar-papered roof. With continuous management he
managed to stop the water from streaming through unabetted and to protect his
more valuable merchandise; tobacco and other dry goods.
Larry was drenched and miserable with water
pooling in his boots, and there was nothing he could do about it; he couldn’t
close the stand and go home.
He owned his little piece of the action, but
only at pleasure of the bosses. That had been Colonel Forrester his entire
life, but now there was someone new; a heavy hitter named Karl Thorrson had
taken over the racket in St. Anthony…all parts south and west.
Larry purveyed more than news, he also sold
powders and get tally on a few girls for a pimp named Franky, and despite the heavy
rain the flesh markets and drug dealing on Lake Street were proceeding as usual.
An addict is more reliable than a mailman,
neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow will stop them from getting their daily fix…and
taking care of what ails them.
Bad weather wouldn’t stop a junkie from
leaving their home or whatever filthy corner of the world they lived in, a
junkie would come out to find whatever it was they needed to get through their
days and nights, a junkie would hit the streets and do whatever they had to do to
get by.
Larry had a job, not that he made any money
for the part he played, a little bit yes, but hardly more than the cost of the
protection he had to pay the bosses, whoever they might be. Technically he was
his own boss, but that was just a technicality. He had to pay for protection,
and then he had to serve.
Nothing in life is free, and it could always
get worse, he told himself. Karl
Thorrson and his gang were a tough bunch, tougher than Colonel Forrester ever
was, he ran the streets.
There were no days off, not for Larry, not in
Saint Anthony; so he sat on his stool and smoked his cigar, waiting for the storm
to pass and the night to finally be over.
Larry was watching the street when he suddenly
unnerved at the sight of Karl Thorrson, the one eyed giant crossing the street
in front of his shack.
He went into the Round-Up all alone. That’s
unusual Larry thought. Having heard that the giant had an enormous propensity
for violence. It was unusual for a boss, any boss, to conduct to come to what
was in effect hostile territory before terms had been struck and the
hostilities ceased.
Larry knew that his friend, Gary Holmes who
owned the Round-up, was still holding out. He was the last man on East Lake
Street still loyal to the Colonel. Gary had told him that he wasn’t going to pay
the new guys on principle, one of them had rubbed him the wrong way, “A slick
looking fellow in a silk suit,” he said.
Gary was stubborn as a German.
Larry Miller felt that something bad might be
about to happen, he kept his eyes on the Entrance to the Round-up, hoping to
stay safe inside his shack if bullets started to fly.
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