I sat in my office, high in the Hoeschler building- truth be told, on the top floor! I am not one to run up my many achievements, but to be on the topmost floor of such a prestigious building was high on my list.
I gazed out upon my domain of downtown La Crosse- there below me spread out the vista of King street, and 5th street as well. I knew the layout perfectly.
Were this a typical mystery fantasy adventure thriller, I would love to say that, looking down upon the corner below, just north of the La Crosse Children’s Museum, there was:
1. Not only incredible violence from Black Lives Matter and-
2. Wizards from Hogwarts, converging onto 5th and Jay streets, and into the alley behind the Hoeschler building- Diagon Alley?
Unfortunately, to both points I can say that the answer is NO- I saw nothing like that!
All that I saw was the minimal traffic of a peaceful, well-run, north-midwestern city. No violence at all, peaceful citizens walking and driving the streets. No crime, nothing untoward- just a law abiding citizenry upon the street, without any wizards, no BLM protests- nothing!
One would think that this peacefulness, this adherence to the law, would be the answer to my prayers! For after all, I am Jess Thornton. My sign says as much just above my frosted glass, 1930’s Art Deco door: Jess Thornton- Private Detective Agency.
Impressive! But the crossed revolvers underneath, billowing black smoke, made it so much more effective.
But, as I held the magical sapphires that I had obtained from the ancient witch Guin Britton in my hand, I felt a bit worried. Would these sapphires, that had been such a godsend before, be enough to rescue me from the unremunerative boredom that my life had settled into?
For truth be told, I was a bit bored. Tragedies were everywhere in today’s world, from rampant crime in our major cities, to corruption in higher governments not only here, but all around the world! The media was covering it all up, and you needed to be a determined researcher on the internet to figure out what was really going on.
Even our medical system was incredibly corrupted nowadays, taking huge amounts of dollars to treat illnesses, most of which were completely preventable- requiring only a change of lifestyle and diet to reverse- but were being ‘treated’ by massive amounts of drugs and surgeries instead- because that is where the profit lay! Treating the symptoms.
This train of thought brought to mind my good friend Alexander Blackdeer, who was an expert on natural health care and diet, and had literally zero time for the standard medical paradigm of drugs and surgery, with no attention at all to diet and lifestyle. Many was the time he had waxed eloquent on the subject, cursing those for-profit clinics of which we had two ‘gold-standard’ ones in our small city of La Crosse Wisconsin. They were the Gundersen Clinic, and Mayo, and both were wonderful for emergency disease and accident care; while being also completely worthless at restoring or fostering health. I ran those bright blue sapphires through my fingers, as the bright outside sunshine made them glisten in my hand. I knew their power; they had transported me back through time, back to 5th century Britain, and back again. Time travel is intoxicating stuff, let me tell you…
I looked around the office, and remembered when Guin had walked through that frosted glass door, a sweet little old lady. She hadn’t remained in that form, leading me back to 1956 and the old Mary E. Sawyer auditorium, and the young Elvis, not to mention early England! And she had given me those gemstones, those sapphires, to enable me to do so, and I still had them. But I didn’t have much else, right now- I needed a case, and I needed some cash. Peaceful La Crosse was both a blessing and a curse, at least to me. Except for Chicago and Milwaukee transplants coming in and committing awful crimes, (for which they were quickly jailed, and yanked from their section 8 housing and put into government-provided jail instead), there really was very little in the way of crime in the wonderful Coulee Region. And Danger- (and crime of course)- Is My Business! Geez- I even had those smoking revolvers on my sign atop the door. Perhaps I should just open a candy and ice cream place- kind of a Pearl Ice Cream and Candy store, maybe Hoeschler’s Top Floor Sweets! Maybe with a smoking ice cream cone crossed with a lollipop…
The phone rang then, and my idiotic fantasies were shattered, which was a good thing. I looked at my candlestick phone, a reproduction of a 1930’s telephone, and listened to the antique ring. I am a living anachronism, wishing that I lived in 1930’s La Crosse- and, in most ways, I am- kind of. I drive an antique car; while not a 1930’s vehicle, a 1950’s Packard is still in my wheelhouse. And, I dress in retro clothing for the most part, and try to ignore most of modern music and culture, since it all seems like a huge step downwards.
I answered the phone, but only after 2 rings. I like to keep them waiting. It was Alexander.
“Thanks for finally answering, Kemosabi,” he said.
“My faithful Indian companion!” I answered. “I expected a smoke signal, but I guess this will have to do.”
“Wampum low,” he said, “firewood dear, but Obama phone free!”
Alexander was quite the kidder, since he deplored any government program, and especially those that were earmarked for a particular race, or races. I did have to laugh, though. Quietly, and sadly, since there was truth in this joke, a sad truth about the devolution of our society.
“So, Alexander- to what do I owe this call?” I had a big smile on my face- I always love hearing from my best friend, actually the one true like minded person I think I have on this planet.
“I think we need to take a road trip!” he said in his deep voice, a voice that was almost a rumble, so low was it. “I am on my way.” he said then, and hung up.
I was waiting for him downstairs. He only had a short drive down from Indian Hill on the near north side, and soon appeared in front of my high rise detective top-floor office building. I was wearing only a light suede jacket I had found in a vintage clothing store, tailored to my exact size probably about 70 years before I was born. For truth be told, although I dress and drive old things, I myself have not yet attained 30 years of age.
I had my Brewers hat shading my eyes from the bright, early spring sunshine as a red Studebaker pickup rounded the corner, coming down 5th street from a left turn in front of the post office. Like myself, Alexander had an old vehicle, a 1960 Studebaker that had been totally restored and updated. My friend had kept the original, manual four-on-the-floor gear shift, along with manual steering however. Most modern men would have found turning that steering wheel difficult, but for Alexander it was effortless. He glided the big, solid steel machine from an earlier era into a slow stop in front of the art-deco Hoeschler building.
“Hello there Ta-Tonka,” I said as I got into the passenger seat beside him. The vehicle gleamed like a stop light, it always seemed to be freshly waxed.
“Custer,” he answered. He pulled out onto 5th street, heading south, and was cut off by a New Glarus Beer truck. He honked loudly with that antique, braying horn, and then looked at me. “Big Horn,” he said with a small smile. Alexander is a laconic man, not usually given to talking much at all, unless on one of his favorite topics, like ancient history, early architecture, or nutrition and exercise. Even then, he only says what is germane, and necessary to convey his points.
Now, the beer from New Glarus, Wisconsin is a good beer, an excellent beer in fact. One of our favorites, really- with its Spotted Cow and Fat Squirrel, among many others. Alexander and I had drunk many of their beers in our time, and always enjoyed them.
A large man got out of the big brown beer truck, followed by another man. Both stalked back towards us with scowls on their faces. The larger one had tattoos all over his arms, and presumably the rest of his frame as well. The other had a nose piercing, and multiple earrings. Wisconsin’s finest.
I don’t think they could actually see Alexander that well, as the bright sunshine was reflecting off of the New Glarus’s truck windshield. Tattoo boy was indeed large, but this included his gut as well as his chest and arms. He slammed his meaty fist down on the Studebaker’s hood, and then reached to open the driver’s side door, to pull out Alexander.
He didn’t have to. Alexander had flowed out of his truck, like a tiger leaping from a cave rather than a man lumbering out of a vehicle. He towered over both men, his long black mane of hair framing his angular face. He grabbed the offending fist, the one that had struck his truck, and held it aloft, as he examined the hood for damage. As he did so, the left fist of the tattooed man lashed out at the side of his head.
Without appearing to even take notice, Alexander whipped back his other hand, effortlessly catching the approaching fist with his own larger hand. The face of the tattooed driver was red, and turning redder, as he tried mightily to move, and found himself held completely motionless, and helpless. A definitely stoppable cannonball had met up with an immovable wall. And both of the Wall’s hands were relentlessly squeezing.
Tears started from the man’s face, as both of his hands were being crushed as if in a human vise. It was apparent that he was struggling to escape, but could not move at all. The other, earring boy- although he looked pretty strong, and I’m sure thought of himself as really tough, seemed torn as to whether he should intervene.
I caught his eye, as I sat looking out the truck side window, and slowly shook my head in the negative. He got my drift, and slowly slumped down dejectedly, as Alexander satisfied himself that the dent in his hood was small enough to be easily buffed out. Standing to his full height, he looked down at the tattooed driver, glaring at him with burning eyes of glinting obsidian.
“Get back in your truck and go,” he said. With one last squeeze of both hands, he finally let go. The driver winced, and headed back to the truck, rubbing his injured hands as he went. With a look at the other man with the piercings, they silently switched places, with the injured man going to the passenger side. I’m sure his hands hurt mightily, too much to drive. They drove off.
Alexander, calm as ever, got back behind the wheel. He resumed driving, slowly and carefully as always, not ruffled at all.
“I hope you didn’t break his hands!” I said at last. I know something of my friend’s strength. I examined him as he drove.
Finally, he smiled slightly, glancing at me briefly. The sun gleamed off of his hair, so black that it gave off a subtle blue highlight. “No- I merely gave him a deep tissue massage!”
I am always glad that Alexander is my friend.
Alexander drove to The Charmant. This is a wonderful old building that has been restored from an 1800’s candy factory, and then a furniture store, into a boutique hotel and restaurant. We love this place, and eat (and drink) here often. Lots of available parking right in front, and the historic Riverside Park and the convergence of three rivers is right outside the big windows.
“What’s not to like?” said Alexander, as he lifted his Spotted Cow beer from New Glarus Brewing to his lips. He had anticipated my own thoughts. I toasted him briefly, and we both drank deeply. It truly was a beautiful day here on the river- the mighty Mississippi was the big one here, along with the Black and the La Crosse rivers. What a place to be, on any day!
The waiter came. I ordered the Omelet- asiago, gruyère, fine herbs, side salad. Alexander got the Smoked Salmon- red onion, capers, bagel, mascarpone, dill. We were not depriving ourselves, obviously. Food and drink are incredibly important for both nutrition, and for our experience of life, which is ultimately all that we truly have! No truck stop food for Jess Thornton, nor Alexander Blackdeer. Oh, we also ordered their signature Bloody Mary. If it had been later, it would have been the Brandy Old-Fashioned- only in Wisconsin!
I smiled. Alexander smiled back. The waiter came, bringing our bloody Mary’s, (with beer chasers, of course), and smiled. Even the sun outside, glancing brightly off of the river seemed to be smiling brightly. The world was perfect! Almost.
“I need a case. I need money, my friend,” I said.
My large Indian pal smiled, again. I swear, he was starting to resemble the statue of Hiawatha in Riverside Park just outside more and more. But that statue never smiled, probably because he was worried about being removed by politically correct thought police- P.C. liberals clustered all about the University of La Crosse, all worried way too much about mythical White Privilege.
Again, Alexander smiled. Like I said, he often mirrors my own thought process. “We both need money,” he said. “I’ve been thinking on it, a bit. Money does not really motivate me much, however.”
I feel the same way. For whatever reason, money is not my prime directive, my prime motive, my goal. I want enough, sure. But money itself, for its own sake- it’s simply uninteresting!
Alexander quaffed his beer, and then sipped his bloody. “I think I know how we can get some money, and have an interesting time doing it as well,” he said. He was looking at me intently, dark eyes boring into my own gray ones. “We use those sapphires,” he said simply. “The ones that take us back through time- you know, like before?”
I did indeed remember, when we had traveled back to see Elvis at the Mary E. Sawyer auditorium in 1956, and then back to 5th century Britain! Amongst other places. But I wondered what he had in mind?
“I have two ideas,” he said then, his voice a deep, conspiratorial rumble. “Both are in 1850. And both are right here, my friend- right here in La Crosse!”
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