From the Tales of Saint Anthony, the Johnny Holiday Mysteries
These short stories follow the lives of people who populate the fictional city of Saint Anthony (Minneapolis, Minnesota), and make their appearance in the first Johnny Holiday novel, The...
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 5th 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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