19
Nov
Lynn didn’t mind suddenly finding herself in a homeless shelter eating pancakes. Her FBI training kicked in when she realized that no one there knew who she was or what she was doing there. She could move freely amongst the men in the shelter and no one would suspect her of being anything other than a young woman alone on vacation or business. And besides, she was hungry.
“So, how is it you ended up needing this shelter? If you don’t mind my asking.” She asked a relatively young man seated near her.
“Logging dried up. This is my home. Don’t wanna go nowhere else.”
“Why did logging dry up? Don’t tell me it had to do with some protected species or something?” She played coy.
“Fish. Salmon. Go ask a fisherman how that worked out for him.” He was clearly NOT in a chatty mood.
“Pff. As if it was our fault.” Another man chimed in. “You destroyed the breeding grounds by over logging!”
“Right,” said another, “Overfishing had NOTHING to do with it I suppose?”
“There will be none of that here, boys!” Came a surprisingly sweet but firm voice of Mrs. Little, the shelter matriarch. She looked at Lynn. “One of the main rules here. No fighting, especially over jobs. We are all in the same boat here. Sorry, bad analogy.” She blushed at her slight.
Then she spoke to a little boy sitting across from Lynn. “Billy it is not polite to stare.” Then to Lynn, “I hope my son doesn’t bother you. He can’t talk, but he can get underfoot sometimes.”
“It’s no problem Mrs. Little. He isn’t hurting anything. Besides, I think I have something he wants.” She smiled at Billy and slid a syrup dispenser over to him. He smiled and blushed.
-MRC
13
Nov
Cora was special. Not because she was a call girl, sure, that helped. No, it was because she was a pretty call girl. She had all her teeth. Her hair was always done up and perfect. She was clean. THAT was rare in these parts. Cora had a benefactor back east. He sent her a claw foot tub. No one in Portland in 1875 had a claw foot tub. Something else about Cora was pretty interesting. She could read. An hour with Cora could sustain a man for a year. But no one just walks in, drops a dollar, and gets under Cora’s dress. There was a ritual involved. Cora had rules. First, you had to close the door and lock it behind you. Then take off your boots in the mud room. Next, in the mud room, take water from a bowl and wash your face. This part is interesting. Take tooth powder and clean your teeth. Exit the mud room and you would find yourself in a parlor/bedroom. Everything was clean and fresh. Cora would come from another room in a long silk robe. She would have just had a luxurious bath.
Now, this aint cheap mind you. Usually the men at the docks would gamble until someone had sufficient funds for a visit. The other men would actually follow the victor, rooting him on. All of them imagining what wonders awaited in Cora’s house.
-MRC
11
Nov
My father failed at everything. Even his death was a failure. It was mid winter in Dakota Territory. The ground was too cold and hard to dig a grave. His burial would have to wait, but not for me. I was the last one to call that shack home. The land never gave us anything. So, I left. I went west, again. Oregon Country it was called then. The place had been called “The Clearing” by most at that time, but in 1851 it was named Portland.
After 2 semi-successful years in Sumpter, Oregon, I made my way to Portland to start a business. What business that would be I had no idea. I had a pocket full of gold and some ambition and figured that would be enough. The docks were always buzzing with activity. Gold Rushers to California and Oregon kept the business of moving goods alive and flourishing. This also kept the business of crime flourishing. Prostitution and smuggling were hotter than gold mining in 1875. Gambling and Grog followed swiftly behind that. Part and parcel I suppose. So, it followed that the business of crime prevention grew exponentially. Portland’s Marshal had a very difficult task of keeping up with this new business and actively recruited police. The pay was decent and there was no overhead, so, rather than hanging a shingle, I ended up carrying a badge.
-MRC
10
Nov
My name is Roger Collins. I am a Night Spy or rather, a detective. Or at least I was. I think I am dead. I can’t be sure really. I have always believed that most deaths are preventable and I hope that mine wasn’t. I’d hate to think I died for something stupid or unnecessary. Maybe you can help me. I am going to trace my steps and see where it all went wrong. I hope you don’t frighten easily. Things got a little, how should I say. . .bloody.
-MRC