What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
With all the commotion of the previous day, and all the rumors swirling about the scandalous happenings, few citizens of Kalispell had noticed that a defunct building on Main Street had been quietly occupied. A sign painted. A new shingle hung: KRIEGER SPECIAL SERVICE COMPANY.
But as the new day dawned, and the townsfolk went about their business on a much drier day than the one before, they began to take notice.
Krieger? Who is that?
I think it's Norweigan.
I saw him come into town. Tall man. He rode a mule.
What sort of man rides a mule?
I've ridden a mule.
Precisely!
What's a 'Special Service?' It sounds seedy.
Maybe he's a barrister.
Then it would say that, wouldn't it?
Meanwhile, Eric sat behind the front counter, periodically sipping a cup of coffee while reading the latest edition of the Kalispell Union newspaper. Time and curiosity were out among the town, working hard, and working for free. He hoped to have some result from their endeavors soon. And if not, then he'd take a long lunch and tour the town in more detail.
There was something to be said for the freedom a life of leisure granted. He had never felt more at peace than at this moment. It was the first time he'd charted his own course, beholden to no master. A strange course it might be, and perhaps even fraught with dangers. But they would be the dangers he chose, for the people he chose. Not the dark deeds of insidious and greedy masters.
@Come One, Come All
"Well? Are you hiring? Because to tell you the truth, Mister, I don't think I can stand the competition!"
The woman standing before Eric's virgin counter, and taking its maidenhead by some force, was clearly a tart, and one of the lowest, cheapest order. However, as she was also the only working working girl in town, that made her also Kalispell's most beautiful and expensive courtesan.
Sally started to list her attributes "Now listen, I got lots of experience in the field; I can do the mean stuff, I can take the mean stuff, I can do dressing up, or just the ordinary clothes or no clothes. I can do quick, slow or in between. I admit some of the more complicated positions are a little beyond me nowerdays, but all the staples are there: missionary, cowboy, kneetrembler, reverse kneetrembler, Old Smokey. I can even do 'The High Chaparral" if it's not too cold and damp: it's the rheumatism you know, well..." she coughed "I am nearly forty, though many of my clientele say I don't look a day over thirty!" she smiled. They were presumably as short-sighted as she was.
Sally tipped her head, no good, she couldn't tell what the blurry man was saying.
"Hold on big boy, just a sec..."
She reached into her little carpet bag and took out her ear trumpet.
"Say again?"
She could hear now.
Even without her seeing glasses on she could make out that the chief pimp of this 'Special Services' concern was one tall and mean looking son of a bitch. Best be in with a feller like that than going head to head. Get in a territorial war with a feller like that, why, there wouldn't be a safe side-alley in Kalispell for her to take her customers to.
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
Eric blinked at the woman who'd just walked into his shop and started talking.
He was not shortsighted, nor hard of hearing, but still it took him a moment to understand what she was saying, and to put together what sort of person she was.
Well... that was his fault. 'Special Service' was vague enough to allow for... all sorts of interpretations.
"Krieger," he said, putting down the newspaper and holding out his hand to take hers, as though she were a high-born socialite at a formal dance, "enchanted to meet you, Miss-?"
It seemed to him that this woman was reaching the end of her useful service life in her chosen profession, given the accessories she needed to hold discourse with someone at arm's length. Indeed, forty seemed to him as unlikely a marker as thirty in regards to her age. Or perhaps life had simply been very hard on her. Especially if she was into the 'rough' stuff.
"I'm afraid I don't sell... matchmaking services here. But tell me, do you enjoy your current line of work? Would you be interested in making a change?"
"Krieger," he said, putting down the newspaper and holding out his hand to take hers, as though she were a high-born socialite at a formal dance, "enchanted to meet you, Miss-?"
"Oh! he he.." she tittered like a schoolgirl "... it's Mrs Adams... but I'm a widow. Ah, poor Mr Adams. It seems like only yesterday they brought me the terrible news that he'd fallen through a trap door and broken his neck. He was building a house, you see. And they caught him stealing the building materials and hanged him. Oh, and ever since then I've been just a little soiled dove, a Lady of the Evening, selling my voluptuous charms to every Tom, Dick or Harry."
He didn't say anything, so she turned up the pitch.
"I mean, please, don't be shy Mister Krieger: I don't expect you to take my word for it, I wouldn't expect you to buy a melon without giving it a bit of a squeeze first." she leaned over the desk and presented her ample bosom to within mauling distance. "I'm more than happy to audition for any openings you have!"
But then she frowned "I mean... just how 'special' are these services? Even I have some scruples. I mean I don't do..." but Mr Krieger cut her off.
"I'm afraid I don't sell... matchmaking services here.
"Oh." she said with a smile, very glad to hear that she still held a monopoly in a vital resource.
But tell me, do you enjoy your current line of work? Would you be interested in making a change?"
"Oh I love it!" she beamed "I get to meet so many new people all the time, with so many different interests. I mean, some of the fellers do drone on a little too much about their wives, and how they don't understand them, and their jobs and what-not, but if it gets boring, I just take my ear trumpet out. I would like to live a little nearer the saloon, of course, it's kind of a traipse to my hovel, especially with the pain in my knees these days. What I'd really like to do is get a bigger place nearer the saloon and maybe take on an apprentice: a nice girl I could train up, you get the idea."
A thought suddenly rolled across the desert of her mind like a windblown tumbleweed.
"Say, if this isn't a whorehouse, Mister, what do you sell here?" she asked, and then leaned in even closer, so the poor man was at risk of being suffocated "Is it, you know... surgical devices... trusses and support equipment?" she whispered pointing towards his nether regions. "You got trouble down there?"
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
"You got trouble down there?"
Eric smirked. This was far from his first encounter with someone of her demeanor. Though... perhaps Mrs. Adams was a degree further in her comportment than others he'd met. When he'd served with the Rangers in Virginia, certain types of Fräulein tended to hover around behind the Union lines to... service... the troops on a regular basis. While Eric had never availed himself of the service, he was well familiar with the bawdy and unsophisticated nature of people who lingered in the profession.
"I've had no complaints."
He took out a pad and pencil from under the counter. "It is not goods I sell here, but services. And it is beginning to sound like those services will already need to widen in scope from what I anticipated."
He put pencil to paper as he spoke, "Which property would you choose for your trade, Mrs. Adams, and how much would it cost you? Have you inquired about a loan with the bank?"
Already he was scribbling- 'Unconventional Loans to Risky Operators?'
He took out a pad and pencil from under the counter. "It is not goods I sell here, but services. And it is beginning to sound like those services will already need to widen in scope from what I anticipated."
Well, Sally heard every word of that, but didn't understand a one of them. She looked at her ear trumpet: seemed OK, must be her: she probably needed a drink.
He put pencil to paper as he spoke, "Which property would you choose for your trade, Mrs. Adams, and how much would it cost you? Have you inquired about a loan with the bank?"
Uh? Was this feller a lunatic? Still, she shrugged, he was asking, she would answer. She was used to doing what fellers asked, no matter how outlandish. She sure could do with a drink, though.
"Well Mister Krieger, no I, Mrs Sarah Dunglas Adams (née Bateman) have not availed myself yet of the many, many loans given out daily by Mr Charles Wentworth of the Kalispell National Bank to whores to start Brothels. I'll pop in tomorrow and get one." She fished out her looking glasses, she wanted to get a proper gander at this joker. She put them on. Yeesh, a face that only a mother could love (or her for a few pennies).
She was serious for an instant and visibly steadied herself on her feet.
"There is a place, though, 'matter of fact. A regular John of mine used to live there. Back of the undertaker's. Be just right for me and some girlie. Think it's empty now." a strange osmosis was fizzing in her addled heart.
"Who are you?" she asked suddenly.
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
From her sarcastic reply, Eric judged that- as he suspected- traditional financing was not an option for someone in her trade.
He made some notes about the location she'd mentioned, scribbling vigorously into his little paper notepad.
"Who are you?"
Eric looked up from his pad, "Eric Krieger, Mrs. Adams. There must be some ground rules. I won't be involved with anything vile."
What he might have considered vile was hinted at in his following statements.
"I will not finance a brothel where any coercion is used. And no 'rough stuff' either. From every dollar earned, ten cents goes to me. Ten cents goes for building upkeep. Ten cents goes to you. Ten cents goes to the security man. And sixty cents goes to the girl who works each customer. She can refuse any customer for any reason, and refuse any type of work she doesn't want. If that is agreeable, go find me the price for the building. You have an investor."
He set down his notepad.
"I am trained as a barrister, though I have no license to practice. I will write up a contract and have it ready for when you return. I do not expect the building will cost more than two-hundred dollars, based on your description of its... premium location. We will need to have a word with the saloon about providing drinks. If we buy it from them, we will not be seen as competitors."
He smiled, then. "You are my first Service rendered, Miss Adams. Thank you for your business. And also for your business idea. It never occurred to me to invest in other people's commerce concerns."
Eric looked up from his pad, "Eric Krieger, Mrs. Adams. There must be some ground rules. I won't be involved with anything vile."
"Well, I'll just do what you ask me to, Mr Krieger. If you don't want anything vile, on this occassion... well, er, sure!" she smiled her best smile, thinking she'd scored a customer after a dry spell of some two and a half hours.
"I will not finance a brothel where any coercion is used. And no 'rough stuff' either. From every dollar earned, ten cents goes to me. Ten cents goes for building upkeep. Ten cents goes to you. Ten cents goes to the security man. And sixty cents goes to the girl who works each customer. She can refuse any customer for any reason, and refuse any type of work she doesn't want. If that is agreeable, go find me the price for the building. You have an investor."
By the time the mysterious Mister Krieger had finished this dissertation on the financial ins and out of a successful cathouse, the penny had finally dropped. Sally was open mouthed. But...
She needed a drink.
No! She didn't need a drink, she needed to think. She felt like someone about to fall over a precipice, whose life suddenly flashes before her eyes and reaches a sudden level of clarity in her thinking.
She looked at Mister Krieger and heard herself speaking.
"Girls get 50 cents, the other 10 cents goes on food and laundry and what not, plus medical expenses, they'll need to be checked over by Doctor Danforth every couple of weeks. They can leave any time they like. And, yeah, no rough stuff on the girls... but rough stuff on the fellers if that's what they wanna pay for. That's... that's kinda a specialism of mine." She took a deep breath.
"Again, Mister Krieger, Who the Hell are you?"
"I am trained as a barrister, though I have no license to practice. I will write up a contract and have it ready for when you return. I do not expect the building will cost more than two-hundred dollars, based on your description of its... premium location. We will need to have a word with the saloon about providing drinks. If we buy it from them, we will not be seen as competitors."
That gave Sally pause for thought.
"Saloon folk don't like me..." she admitted quite frankly "... I'll need a go-between." She nodded slowly. "I think I know someone." she said, mentioning no names. "But yeah... YEAH!... It's a deal!"
He smiled, then. "You are my first Service rendered, Miss Adams. Thank you for your business. And also for your business idea. It never occurred to me to invest in other people's commerce concerns."
Suddenly, the horizons of Sally Adams, Mrs Sarah Dunglas Adams, were expanded. They expanded right round the universe and met around the other side, and carried her along with her. Her own place! No more living from hand to mouth, no more need to drown her sorrows in booze, no more drudging through the streets hitting on tired men who weren't interested in her, no more standing up against the back wall of a dirty building holding up her skirts, her knees killing her... It might not work out but, it was hope.
She looked at Mister Krieger, but this time she didn't ask who he was, she hazarded a guess.
"God damn it - are you Jesus Christ?"
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
Belle Endicott, Proud Southern Beauty and Ace Confederate Spy, had barely recovered from her last mission, a small matter of smuggling General Lee out of a Yankee Prisoner of War Camp under her petticoats, when she was being thrust into the limelight of history once again. She gave a roguish smile as she recollected how tickly the General's white beard had been and walked on toward the office of the hated Union spymaster, Alan Pinkwhistle, determined to seduce him into telling her General Grant's battleplan. She felt the reassuring cold barrel of her dinky little gun, hidden somewhere close to her body, but not in her previous hiding place, where it had required a sultry striptease in front of the entire high society of Washington D.C. before she could access it.
Not that Belle always required a gun. Hadn't she once singlehandedly defeated Mary Todd Lincoln in a catfight on the floor of the Senate, before escaping in a Union observation balloon?
Arabella shook her head and tried to stop fantasizing. She actually was at the newly opened 'store' on a spying mission, but for Mr Jolly, not Jeff Davis.
She entered. Hmmm: no dark heavy velvet drapes, no coffins, no sickly-sweet smell of lilies. Oh! She did just get a strong whiff of embalming fluid... but liftin her hand and sniffing it, she realised that was her. The man behind the desk sure looked like an undertaker. Come to think of it, he looked even more like one of the undertaker's customers, but there was only one real way to be sure. She marched up to the cadaverous looking man and announced herself in her best, most refined voice: she had been learning from listening to Mr Smith.
"Good day to you, my good man. My name is Miss Mudd, two Ds, of the Virginia Mudds. You may kiss my hand if you please, though I must warn you, Sir, it smells. May I enquire, do you do Funeral Services? I represent Mr Jolly, you see, of Jolly's Funeral Parlour - perhaps you have seen our advertisement in the Union "Give you loved ones a Jolly funeral"? Anyway, I wish to know if your Special Services are of a sepulchral nature or not: in other words..." all this fancy talk was wearing her out, so she reverted to American: "... are you fellers a-steppin' on our range?!"
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
Mid-morning had evolved into lunch, as it tended to do on days ending in 'y.'
Eric was perusing the contract he'd drawn up- meticulously so and in his best penmanship- for the good Sally Adams to sign. As he read it over looking for any misspellings or improper letter formation, he took a bite of his ham sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.
I should have put a conditional rider here, he mused, but then dismissed the idea. One didn't do a good turn and then chain it up in manacles. This would work or it wouldn't. An additional rider wouldn't be what made the difference.
Just as he came to that conclusion, the door opened. He didn't have a bell on it, as was customary among most shops. But the hinges did creak a bit, and he supposed that did the job just as well. Setting down his sandwich upon a tin plate, he smiled at the new arrival: A girl who was just barely becoming a woman. She had a good-natured air about her. There was a glint of fire in her eye that suggested the spark of intelligence.
Then she introduced herself.
The Virginia Mudds? He arched a brow but said nothing right away, reaching out to take her hand before recoiling somewhat when she mentioned a smell.
He let her get on with what seemed like a rehearsed introduction... but which fell apart towards the end.
He wondered what play or show she'd seen, and which actor she'd been duplicating the speech patterns of? A very interesting young woman. But at last, the point of her visit became clear.
"Miss Mudd," Eric acknowledged, dipping his head in a slight bow, "I too am from Virginia. " A statement which might seem suspicious given his slight foreign accent, unless one was familiar with the German communities in Spotsylvania county. " Eric Krieger, at your service. I regret I never made acquaintance with the Mudds. But Virginia is a big place."
If there was a notable family named Mudd in Virginia, he'd never become aware of them. But then, he was from a family of farmers. Law school had finished polishing the language lessons his mother had chiseled into him. But he'd never been a society type himself.
His mouth formed a slightly unsettling smile. "Jolly Funeral. I like that. I've always thought funerals should be a celebration of a life, and not just the lament of one lost."
Though he might be in the minority on that score.
"In any event, I assure you, the Special Services offered here do not extend to the preparation of the dead for burial." He paused, thinking about how he hadn't been a business investor, either... until this morning.
"Currently."
His gaze dipped down to the sandwich he'd taken a bite out of. "I just started my lunch. I'd be happy to share, Miss Mudd, if you wouldn't be appalled at taking the un-bitten half?" He reached under his jacket and un-sheathed a long knife that was harnessed there, preparing to cut his meal in twain. He didn't have the sense that Miss Mudd was the squeamish type. Not in her line of work.
"I have some lemonade, too. Probably from the last lemons shipped out from California before the cold sets in. The grocer had a special."
His smile broadened, as though he was confessing a dirty secret, "And I have real granulated sugar."