Helga Magnusson

Helga Magnusson sat in the back seat of the cream-colored sedan with Celene Forrester while their mutual friend, Dr. Peirce Johnson chauffeured them about town.

The car belonged to Celene, or to her father to be precise, the notorious Colonel Forrester who was the most powerful man in Saint Anthony. The three of them had spent the afternoon together, primping and preparing for a night on the town, smoking opium and ingesting various other substances apart from the alcohol that Celene appeared to drink like water.

Helga covertly hid the scant amount of substances that she actually imbibed, while giving Celene and Dr. Johnson the impression that she was keeping up with them.

Helga had an agenda.

She was in Saint Anthony pretending to be her twin sister. It was a game she had played with Ingrid many times before, and they were good at it; she was getting away with it. Helga was certain that neither the foppish Pierce Johnson, who seemed to be preoccupied with something else entirely, nor the reckless drunken debutant suspected a thing.

She and Celene had dressed themselves like ladies of the night, wearing nothing but scanty lingerie, while donning clear plastic raincoats to keep them dry through the storm. They left Pierce’s house just as it was beginning to rain, together they visited a couple of speakeasies where wealthy people met anonymously to explore their hedonism.

She and Celene danced like lovers as Dr. Johnson watched and fretted, but Helga was only killing time until she would be able to rendezvous with her husband, the crime boss Karl Thorrson.

Karl had no idea that she was here in Saint Anthony. Karl had no idea that she had tricked her sister into leaving town for the day. Karl had no idea that Helga was posturing as her Ingrid, and he had no idea that she intended to kill him.

Helga left her companions to make a phone call, by which she confirmed that Karl would be on his way to Ingird’s Studio, and that he should be there soon. With little time to spare she corralled her companions, suggesting that they go to the warehouse for more fun. She was not surprised that the two of them were eager to go with her.

On the ride from the Bohemian Café at Jewett’s Park to the studio off Lake Street Helga became fixed on her desire for vengeance, as such the illusion she had been casting for her friends began to crack.

When they pulled up to the loading dock and she saw that Karl had already arrived, her heart began to pound with a heady mixture of bloodlust and fear.

His end was near!

She had come to hate the monster she was married to, the man who had turned into a grostesque thing, and she was intent on seeing him dead.

Stan Morgan (Park Patrol)

Sergeant Morgan took the call coming over the radio requesting a response to a disturbance at the Round Up on East Lake Street. He and his partner were just a few blocks away doing patrols around Powderhorn Park; the storm had made for a slow night and he was tired of driving around the perimeter in circles.

The call came from Lieutenant Standish, Stan had grown up with him and knew him well, a guy who was born bad and without a friend in the world. It didn’t bother the sergeant so long as Standish kept his dirty business to himself and didn’t ask Stan to do any cover-up work for him, not that he would refuse a direct order, but there was nothing he hated more than cleaning up after a brute like him.

They were on the lookout for Karl Thorrson and he wasn’t hard to spot, they saw him running down Lake Street, as large and fast as a locomotive. They were half a block away when they saw the gargantuan turn into an alley.

Sergeant Morgan directed his partner to go around and enter the alley from the other end of the block. They came to the north end in time to see a cream-colored coupe pull into the alley in front of them, he couldn’t see inside the vehicle, through the heavy rain, but he joked with his partner about the man they were following as he pointed at the car: “The fat man was probably running to be on time for his date.”

His partner laughed, it was hollow.

They waited until they saw the cherries and the search light belonging to their back-up turn into the alley opposite them, then they rolled in themselves, stopping in front of a loading dock where the coupe was parked.

He called their location in then got out of the car into the heavy rain; he went over to the coupe and tapped at the window until the gentleman in the front seat rolled it down a crack.

He was lanky, with thin hair and a beak for a nose. Sergeant Morgan asked for his identification and while he waited he took a look at the blonde in the back wearing next to nothing and pouting at him like he was some kind of sucker

He recognized her; he was looking at Celene Forrester and he knew that she was trouble.

Before the driver was able to furnish his credentials Morgan heard a cacophony of mad laughter, followed by a woman’s scream coming from inside the building. Lightning struck, he felt waves of thunderous force crawl up his legs and into his spine, the lights went black, and without thinking about what he was doing he was heading for the warehouse with one of the rangers from the other squad was hot on his heels.

Burt Girard (Squad Car – Park Patrol)

Officer Girard cursed under his breath when his lieutenant came into the duty room and ordered him out to investigate a situation on Lake Street, in the red-light district.

It was raining hammers and nails and he was in the middle of a ham sandwich, but when Standish came into the room with orders he knew better than to talk back; he and his partner got to their feet and put on their rain gear without delay. They were out the door and in their squad in less than five minutes.

Girard got behind the wheel, drove north down the King’s Highway, merged onto Dupont Avenue and took a right turn on Lake Street. There wasn’t much traffic west of Nicollet Avenue. They drove with the cherries rolling and moved through the traffic lights.

There was a crowd gathered out front of the Round Up where Lieutenant Standish told him the incident had begun. Crowd control was the job of the 5th Precinct, he wasn’t going to stop for that. Standish told them to be on the lookout for Karl Thorrson. Girard didn’t know him by sight but he knew that this Thorrson was a heavy hitter, new in town, some kind of crime boss running the rackets on Lake Street, and people said he was ten feet tall.

The young ranger doubted that.

They were given an address, told to take a sweep through the alley between 4th and 5th Avenue.

So he took a left turn down the corridor and drove in slowly; right at the entrance to the alley there were two 5th Precinct beat cops huddled together under an awning with their backs against the storefront. One of them looked to be having some trouble, the other looked up at Girard as he passed them by. The look on his face suggested that he was seeking some assistance.

To hell with them, Girard thought. I ain’t getting wet for a couple of city cops.

His partner had the same idea and didn’t say a word.

They turned on their search light as they got into the alley.

Officer Girard thought he saw someone slip into a gap between two buildings. Probably just a junkie, he thought to himself. A radio car came toward him from the opposite end. They each stopped in front of the loading dock of a warehouse that belonged to the giant they were looking for. There was a cream colored coupe on the ramp with a couple inside.

Then there was a blinding light, and a thunderclap so loud it shook them in their cars; all the city lights went out for blocks.

They heard a woman screaming from inside the warehouse, Girard decided he had better go in.

Tom Kaplan, Bar Back at the Round Up

Tom Kaplan was glad to be working, glad to be at the Round Up, and glad to have a place to be on a stormy night.

On this night he was particularly glad to be there because his older brother had come in with his pals from the ROTC; they came all the way from Pig’s Eye and the University of St. Thomas with money in their pockets and they were making him feel like a star.

Tom was busy, the room was crowded and he would have done anything to be finished with his duties so he could join his brother for a pint of beer, but he was having the best night of his life seeing his brother with his college friends, watching them sing songs and tell stories. He was determined to follow in his brother’s footsteps.

Tom was busy pouring drinks and clearing tables when the giant, Karl Thorrson, came into the room. Tom thought it was funny, the giant stood at the bar right where a little man who couldn’t have been more than three and half feet tall had been sitting minutes earlier.

He didn’t know who the giant was but his boss did, and Tom could tell that the huge man made him nervous. Tom couldn’t hear what they were talking about but they seemed to be arguing. Then big man ordered a round of Aquavit for the house.         

His employer, Mr. Holmes snapped his fingers and nodded his head at Tom, and Tom got busy pouring, he even had to go into the basement for extra bottles.

Tom served the drinks and poured one for himself, then he joined in with the room while the giant raised his glass and silently toasted everyone.

As soon as the moment was over the big man and his boss appeared to resume their quarrel. Then the giant’s hand shot out like lightning, he appeared to barely flick his boss on the shoulder with two of his fingers, it was enough to send Holmes flying backward into the wall.

Everybody saw it.

His brother and his brother’s friends came to their feet and began to push the giant out the door, it took all of them to do it. Tom got the feeling that if the big man had not let them, he would not have been moved.

Tom was determined not to be the only guy standing around doing nothing. He tabulated the man’s bill, grabbed the bowler that had fallen off his giant head and onto the floor, and went outside to make sure that the bill was paid.

It was the right thing to do.

When he got outside the big man was coming to his feet. Tom had a hard time believing that anyone or anything could have knocked him over, but apparently his brother’s friends had suceeded.

The heavy rain felt good to Tom especially after the adrenalin that had been surging through his body when he was watching the struggle inside.

He approached the gargantuan, returned his hat and presented the bill. The giant threw his head back and laughed.

Tom looked at his meaty face, at the lifeless black glass set in his eye socket, he saw the jagged lightning bolt inlaid there, then he saw the rainbows jumping off it as he was consumes by heat and light.

Hank Jeffers

Hank Jeffers had an appointment to keep at the Round Up.

He made it there well before the rain began to soak the city, he got there early thinking he might do a little business and take a few bets for his bookie before meeting the tall blonde lady who had become the biggest brightest star of his life, the loveliest person to enter his dreary little world for the better part of a decade…maybe ever.

It wasn’t in Hank’s character to complain; who’d listen? He would say if someone asked him, and the answer was…no one.

Hank was a few inches shy of four feet tall. He was quick witted and insightful. His parents had made sure that he had a good education, they ensured it by sending him to boarding school and keeping him away from them, their other—normal children, and their society, embarrassed by the fact that their first son had been born malformed.

After that he was on his own, formally disinherited and alone.

He was fourteen years old the last time he saw them, waving goodbye to their backs after they put him on the train to Fairbault, off to Shattuck of Saint Mary Preparatory School.

They never invited him back home for the holidays, they never wrote or returned his letters. There was a couple of hundred dollars left on account for him when he graduated, along with a message asking him to find his own way in the world and never come home.

It broke his heart, but he knew it was coming.

He had brothers and sisters he would never get to know. They would have children who would never know him, or that he even existed.

Hank wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, not then, not ever, so he turned away from his past and moved on.

Things could have been worse, he would tell himself. They might have sold him to the circus.

The priests at Shattuck encouraged him to enter a monastery, to join up, but he didn’t see much happiness in that way of life, and he had a hunger for adventure.

Hank wanted to see the world, and he made his just fine. 

While he waited for Angela to join him, he talked to a few fellas’ and took a couple of bets, then he sat at a table by himself in the corner where he watched the room fill up with boys from the Saint Thomas ROTC. They had come all the way down Lake Street to lift a few pints and ogle the working girls, without a thought for the rain.

When he saw the giant Karl Thorrson come into the Round Up he was both surprised and nervous.

The big man had taken over all the rackets on Lake Street, including the numbers racket that Hank was into, and so he was operating without permission, which could mean trouble for him. In addition, the gal he was waiting for, Angela Guthrie, worked for his business partner at an reading room that had his name on glass.

Hank and Angela had been looking for a way to get an angle on him and seeing him come into the bar while he was waiting for her, had hank imagining something bad had happened to her, and was about to happen to him.

However, it wasn’t long before Angela came through the door herself, looking out of place in the room, but not ill at ease. She handed Thorrson a journal of some kind and a small, metal money box, who slipped them into his pockets as if they were a child’s playthings.

Then he dismissed her with a glance.

Angela spotted Hank sitting by himself in the corner. She quietly walked across the room and sat down with him at his table, Thorrson didn’t even notice her, or pay any attention to her movements. To him, she was nothing.

Seeing that made Hank feel better.

Joe Samuelson (A Round-Up Regular)

Joe Samuelson sat at the end of the bar near the place station where the waiter picked up drinks, to carry to the tables.

The Round Up was the third bar he stopped in on his walk home. At each place he had a pint and a shot, talked for a little bit with whoever would listen before moving on.

There were two more bars along the way  he would stop at before getting home, but with the rain pouring down like it was Noah’s flood, Joe decided to stay in place and enjoy the company of the strangers he counted among his friends.

He sat on his stool next to a little man, barely three feet tall, they talked a bit about the numbers game, and the man offered to take a bet for him. Joe had talked to him before, though he could not remember his name, and he declined to place any bets because he wasn’t a gambling man.

The bright-eyed dwarf turned away from him and moved into the shadows then.

There was a group from the ROTC singing in the room. One of them was the older brother of Tom the barback. The whole group of them were having a lively time drinking with their captain at the center of it all, encouraging them to have a good time.

It was a welcome change of mood, Joe thought, compared to the atmosphere of desperation and fear that had fallen over Lake Street in recent years.

He ordered another beer and hummed along with them.

Joe had his nose in his pint and his head in his hand when there was a sudden commotion at the door.

A dark-haired giant walked in, and with him a murmur swept the room touching everyone but the gang of boys in uniform.

The giant went to the bar and ordered a round of Aquavit for everyone.

Joe had no idea who the giant was, but Gary Holmes did, the man who owned the bar, and he approached the juggernaut with hesitation, trembling, but not showing any sign of deference to him as he helped Tom pour the round of shots.

Joe watched as they spoke in low tones for a minute.

They appeared to be having some kind of argument, Gary shaking his head telling the big-man something the giant did not want to hear.

He was threatening as he encroached on Gary’s space.

Gary’s voice grew louder. His trembling and shook. His face reddened, as his body surged with adrenaline.

There was shouting.

Gary stomped his foot and ordered the man to leave, pointing at the door, his arm outstretched.

The giant’s hand shout out with blinding speed, he tapped Gary on the chest with two fingers, sending him flying backward into the wall of liquor bottles.

And with that mayhem broke loose.

Sandy O’Rourke (Beat Cop 5th Precinct)

Sandy O’Rourke caught up to his partner, wheezing and out of breath. He stopped, doubled over, and vomited into the rain filled gutter. What spewed from his mouth was little more than sputum and bile, and that minute he spent hacking with his head between his knees was the last long minute that he struggled for his breath.

His young protégé, Officer Randy Parsons, had taken off in rush, chasing a tall man in a long coat, who was himself chasing a giant down Lake Street, a man so large and menacing that he could only be one person—the notorious Karl Thorrson, the new crime boss over the city of Saint Anthony.

There had been an incident at the Round-up, a busy watering hole that Sandy was fond of drinking in. Sandy didn’t know what had happened but Karl Thorrson had been involved. There was a fight and then a terrible stroke of lightning struck down and a kid who worked behind the bar…maybe killed him…then Karl Thorrson took off running followed by the stranger.

His partner, Officer Parsons, who didn’t have the sense to leave well enough alone, took off after them, and Sandy followed suit. He didn’t even think about it, its what his training told him to do.

Sandy wasn’t sure how far they ran, four maybe five blocks or so. Thorrson and his tail turned down a dark alley and his partner had the wits to slow down to wait for Sandy to catch up, instead of going in alone.

Sandy was spent, he puked and clutched at his heart while his partner watched, unsure of what to do.

He fell to his knees in the pouring rain and pushed his hat off his head, finding some relief in the falling water as it washed his face clean.

His partner came up behind him and put his hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right old man?” He asked.

Sandy just nodded and shook his head in an uncertain motion, he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to push out any words.

Officer Parsons pulled him backwards, away from the curb and up to the windows of a store front. He got the old timer under an awning and set his cap back on his head.

Just then a squad car pulled up, it had the markings of a park police, radio car. Parsons tried to flag them down to get some help for his partner. He watched as the driver looked at him, with no emotion on his face, and no indication that he was willing to offer any kind of aid.

Parsons spat and cursed.

Sandy took his hand and tried to tell him that it was okay.

Another stroke of lightning hit the city somewhere nearby, and the lights went out everywhere, just as the lights went out from Sandy O’Rourke’s eyes.

Randy Parsons (Beat Cop 5th Precinct)

Officer Parsons was miserable.

He had left the Chicago slaughter yards and come to Saint Anthony to join the police force. He was young and strong, and happy to follow orders, but he had no idea what being a police in a city like Saint Anthony would mean when he came here, becoming little more than uniformed muscle, a pimp with a badge, less than that…just the pimps’ enforcer.

Three out of four weeks he worked the night shift on Lake Street, like a postman working through rain, sleet and snow, keeping the working girls busy, the brothels quiet, and making sure that the drug trade was uninterrupted.

His police salary allowed him to keep a small apartment on Dupont Avenue, a couple of blocks from the precinct. He took the cash that his captain doled out, the monies they received from the local crime bosses and stuffed most of it in a jar after giving up ten percent to the church.

He 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.

It was raining when Parsons clocked into the 5th Precinct; he passed Captain Dougherty in the locker room, grumbling in his brogue, harshly reminding him to keep the hookers busy during the storm.

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

He made note of what Captain Dougherty said, believing his work would be under scrutiny that night; he was determined to go hard on the girls, to set an example.

His partner, Sandy O’Rourke was late as usual, though no one ever bothered him. Sandy had been on the force for more than twenty years and had been busted down from Sergeant twice, but he was a personal friend of the Captain and so he could pretty much do as he pleased.

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

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

Randy didn’t have a say in the matter, he buttoned up his rain gear and followed the old man out the door, beating his night stick in his gloved hand thinking about how he might use it.

Jane Lovejoy, Patroness on the Strip, The First Day

When Jane Lovejoy’s husband phoned to tell her the news that he had been passed over for the promotion he had been hoping for, and denied the raise he expected, she knew that she would have to do something special to raise his spirits, and she knew that she would have to do the heavy lifting.

In many ways Richard was more fragile and temperamental than their four year old son, and he would need something special to soothe his bruised ego, Jane thought that a trip to Lake Street and an evening of debauchery was just the sort of thing he would need to keep himself calm…though she would enjoy it too, more importantly it would keep him distracted and keep him from turning his resentment and anger against her, or their son.

She sent the boy to her mother’s house in Linden Hills, and 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.

After her maid helped her with her hair and dress Jane sent all the servants home, then she poured herself a martini about a half an hour before Richard came home.

It was raining hard by the time he came through the door, but her timing was perfect. He had parked under the port cochere so he was barely damp. She greeted him in the parlor with a lit cigarette in one hand and a Manhattan made just the way he liked it in the other.

Richard came through the door with his shoulders sagging and the air of defeat 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, with her make-up done in her signature sultry-style, his mood began to change.

He only paused for a second, as his sense of failure magnified for the span of a heartbeat before he let it go so that he could extend his imagination to the expectation of what the rest of the night promised.

He understood that his 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.

The sting of shame melted away when he saw the hem of her stockings and garter belt below the fringe of her too-short, emerald-green dress.

She walked toward him with her pale thighs barely rubbing together, handed him the drink and the lit cigarette, and then kissed him lightly on the lips brushing them languidly with the tip of her tongue as he moaned with delight.

The house was quiet. He 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 some immigrant girl, then she would call his boss in the morning and tell him that he was too sick to come in. 

John Fields – Patron on the Strip

John Fields was eager for a night of R&R as his lodge members called it…ribald-revelry.

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 up all night.

He was eager for it, despite the storm.

It was well before sundown but the sky had darkened as the rain clouds thickened and a genuine deluge had begun soak the city.

John was not deterred.

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

Since the end of prohibition Saint Anthony had become the most licentious city on the northern plains, a destination for those who delighted in the skin trade, and Lake Street was an open-air brothel.

It was the reason John moved here, that and his lucrative job at the grain exchange.

He rolled down his window when he pulled up to the curb in front of the apothecary; a teenage boy soaked to the bone took a handful of bills from John, counting it in a flash before pocketing the money.

“Two balls of cocaine, one opium,” John said to him.

The boy nodded and flashed some hand signs to someone John could not see and seconds later another boy came up to the car with a brown paper bag to hand him.

He pulled away from the street pharmacy and rolled down the strip a little farther looking for his next score.

He was just in front of the Round-Up when he saw a commotion at its front door.

And then a bright flash of lightning appeared to strike the sidewalk twenty-feet in front of him, its thunder shook everything, including him inside his car. He pushed on the brakes and came to a quick halt, and then he was rear ended.

John cursed his bad luck.