Chapter 24

 

 

One thing that kept the slightly illegal – and isn’t being slightly illegal like being slightly pregnant? – activities from getting onto the law enforcement radar was collusion and cooperation between certain bar owners in Portland. No one knew about it except for those bars that offered illegal services or substances, and a few well-paid off cops and members of the local sheriff’s office.

The only vices allowed by these select few men and women were agreed upon ahead of time, and to keep the whole thing under wraps, those previously agreed upon activities were strictly adhered to by all parties.

First of all, no selling of heroin or methamphetamine. All the players involved knew that trusting people with addictions to either of those substances was asking for trouble. Heroin addicts, as meth addicts, will do anything to keep up the habit. If those addicts weren’t functional human beings with jobs, it meant they had to rob, steal, cheat and defraud.

Second, if there was to be flesh peddling – better known as prostitution – there was no toleration for using under-aged women. Lou Brodsky at the Club Festival didn’t like the idea of having prostitution come into his venue, but he knew that most of the other clubs in the bund offered that vice. It didn’t matter to him, he had his way of operating.

Third and last was gambling. Whatever the race track or off-track betting operations didn’t offer, most of the time at these bars and clubs you could get in on all sorts of interesting action. Illegal cock or dog fighting, football games, TV shows and Presidential elections. That was another thing Lou didn’t like at his club, but as with prostitution, he’d send those curious to another bar or club for that action.

Every once in a while key members of the bars and clubs involved in these illegal activities would meet, often with a member of law enforcement on hand to give out advice.

At the latest meeting, held at the Club Festival early one morning, the de facto president of the combine – a man known as “Jerry” – was trying to figure out if someone in the organization was feeding information to the press. A small mention in the city’s biggest alternative newspaper gave passing notice of a growing crime organization in Portland, carrying on a tradition of accepted vice in the otherwise staid quintessential American city.

Linda happened to show early at the club – it was her day off – to pick up her check. She and Lou had a burgeoning friendship, so he had nothing to hide from her. Anyway, although she hadn’t been around for a long time, she had been good to Lou, helping him keep customers in line at the club. She knew as much as Lou about the illegal activity there, being one of the marijuana dealers, and had her share of experience with street trash and thugs.

“Jerry,” Lou said, “it’s not a big deal. Who reads that goddamned rag anyway?”

“Don’t try to ignore me,” he said, visibly upset by the situation. “I don’t like to be ignored.”

Everybody looked around at each other. The routine meeting had turned into something volatile. The apple cart had turned over, spilling the goods onto the street. Everybody was suspicious of one another.

“Everybody stay calm,” said Jerry. He thought by getting the upper hand, he could control the outcome of this situation; at this junction, that’s what was needed. Someone to take charge, to give the proceedings momentum, instead of stalling and heading into chaos, which it would be doing in only seconds, if not given a new direction.

“So now we gotta find out who’s the rat,” he said. “We gotta find out which one squealed, ’cause it’s obvious to a blind man that we got a squealer.”

“Shit, you’re right!” a couple of participants added, nearly in unison.

“You bet I’m right!” he yelled back.

Now the shit hit the fan.

The spotlight was pointed right at Linda. She was the new one. She was the one no one knew. She was the only stranger that couldn’t be accounted for. Jerry and a couple of the bar owners turned their heads toward where Linda was seated; Jerry gave her an icy stare.

“Don’t look at me,” she looked up at the crowd – which included one fierce-looking woman – with all of them ready to take off her head.

“Don’t think for a minute…” she said.

But it didn’t matter. The group was in a mean mood, and was ready to hang someone, and Linda appeared to be the likely suspect. Several of them stood up and began to converge on her.

A shot rang out.

It was Lou.

He was brandishing his .38, and had taken a shot straight into the air. A stream of dust came trickling down from a hole in the ceiling above his head. A rotating ceiling fan nearby carried the white dust spray into the atmosphere at the Club Festival. The barroom was suddenly quiet. Everyone, frozen in position, starred at Lou.

“Well, now that I’ve gotten everybody’s attention,” he said, quickly taking hold of the situation, “let’s see if we can get some sanity into these proceedings!”

That broke the spell. The angry mob acted like a balloon taking a dart – quickly deflated. Anyone standing sat down in their seats.

Lou slowly lowered his weapon, stuck it back in his pocket, turned around and walked out. Linda followed close behind.

“Scuze me,” she said as she squeezed past three of the men who were threatening her. Lou was headed to the front door with Linda in pursuit.

“Lou!” she yelled at him. “Wait a minute!”

By the time the two hit the street outside the club, everything seemed normal. No one had been walking by the club when the gunshot rang out, and no one had heard it. That was partially due to the excellent acoustics at the club, but also that it was early morning, and the gunshot could have sounded like a car backfiring.

“Thanks for having my back, Lou,” she said, the cold morning air causing her breath to be visible.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” he said. “Those boys sure get testy, no?”

“What’s up with all that?” she asked.

“They’ll all wacky,” he said, “totally wacky. But you get used it after a while. That’s the nature of the business. You’ve got to be a little crazy to be in this business.”

“Well, anyway, thanks again. I ’preciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, getting out a cigarette. “You’d better get out of here. Take off.”

“Thanks, Lou,” she said, and was gone.

Linda Avery, cigarette girl, once again was safe and sound.

Safe from danger. Sound in the mind.

The next day, while having a bite to eat in the food court at Portland’s oldest shopping mall, the Lloyd Center, she thought about what she’d learned about hospitals.

Linda remembered what she’d learned about the inner workings of hospitals almost entirely though her nurse friend Beverley Beech. She enjoyed visiting Bev at the hospital were Bev worked, and finding out how a hospital functioned. The gathering of that knowledge seemed to give her a sense of calm. Maybe it was because life for her, and life for most Americans, started and ended in hospitals, with many trips to them in between.

To Linda, hospitals and the people who operate hospitals were mysterious and interesting. Because she’d been paying attention to details, over a period of time they became less mysterious but not less interesting.

She began to realize that a hospital was a business, sure, but more like a family business. The nurses, doctors and staff were there to help make people better, certainly, but Linda found out it was the turf of those who actually worked there; those employees were there to help each other as much as to help patients. She discovered a profound sense of territory and ownership, and that each person who worked there did so with the knowledge that every other staff person was there to back them up if the going got tough.

Linda knew that hospitals had rules and regulations, called protocols, and when a patient entered a hospital, that patient was under the exclusive care of the personnel working there. There was nothing insidious or nefarious about a hospital, but much like the military, the police and the Mafia, those coming into a hospital were considered “civilians,” and as such were given a structure with which to adhere.

Understanding this basic notion was what separated a confused, casual observer from a mature, enlightened participant. Know the rules, know the regulations and you could get along easily with hospital staff. Try to bend or break the rules and you were immediately placed under scrutiny. Linda wasn’t sure, but it seemed to her that nearly everything that happened in a hospital was recorded somewhere for future reference. Troublemakers and those prone to argue with hospital staff were noted, if not on paper, then in the minds of hospital personnel.

Linda developed a personal philosophy about hospitals, not as much to manipulate the nurses and doctors, but to rather make sure her feelings and thoughts could be considered seriously if there were any need. There were ways to get along with the staff in such a way as to be able to receive maximum consideration.

Like any business, a hospital is filled with individuals with idiosyncrasies and quirks. The more experienced, older doctors and nurses were wise to anyone trying to pull a fast one. Those hospital staff with less experience generally had to look to those above them for guidance. Those simple facts made getting along with everyone easier.

Another interesting discovery Linda made about hospitals is that, like any business, the people who worked there around the clock, the male and female nurses, worked in shifts. Linda watched and listened carefully to Bev explain some of the ins and outs of the business of a hospital.

“One thing that most people don’t realize,” Bev told Linda one day in the hospital cafeteria, “is that we operate in shifts, usually simple eight-hour shifts. The way I try to explain it to friends is that if a family member wants information from a nurse attending a loved one, all they have to do is ask. Be direct. Be persistent.

“But,” Bev continued, “if someone from the outside is trying to get information about a patient, and they run into a brick wall, my advice is to call back in a few hours. Chances are good they’ll get a different person, working the next shift, and that person may be more forthcoming with information. It’s all a matter of attitude.”

Linda loved learning about how hospitals worked, and felt truly blessed that her friend Bev let her in on the secrets and inner workings of these vital institutions.

Each of us has an accumulation of experiences that create the person as a whole.

Randi Obvitz was familiar with another facet of modern life: racism. She’d seen it up close as a young black woman growing up in New Jersey. She wasn’t old enough to remember the civil rights marches of the 1960s, but had older relatives who’d lived through the ordeal, a trial by fire.

She dreamt of a country where race did not matter, where gender did not matter, where all that mattered was what you could contribute to society. She believed in the Constitution, in freedom of choice, in the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It was no accident that sooner or later she’d want to defend her rights. It was no accident that one night she and one of the customers at the Club Festival would get into a lively discussion bordering on the subject.

“Thank you, sir,” Randi said as she finished delivering the hamburger and beer.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ young lady,” the man replied.

“You don’t have to call me ‘young lady,’” Randi said.

“What exactly am I supposed to call you?” The man was beginning to sound angry with the banter between him and his waitress. “Do you want to call you a ‘liberated black woman’?”

Randi thought about the question and placed a hand on her hip. She gave the man the most serious look she could.

“I am liberated. I am black. I am a woman. I guess you’ve got those parts right. Now if you could just mean what you say, instead of patronizing me.”

“I am the patron,” he said, with a big grin.

“You know what I mean, sir.”

“I told you not to call me sir.”

“I’m sorry, buddy, but it’s just the props,” she said, then correcting herself. “I mean proper respect. You are the customer, after all.”

“I guess what we’re doing here is defining our roles,” he said, smiling. He was no longer angry, more curious than anything else. The waitress had given him something to think about.

“I’m glad you brought up the subject,” Randi said. “I appreciate the opportunity to express myself freely. That’s OK with you, isn’t it, honey?”

“Now it’s ‘honey,’ is it? I’d like to say I like a woman who’s got something going on upstairs other than shopping and the beauty parlor.”

Randi felt that the conversation was deteriorating rapidly. She decided to cut it off before either one of them said something more than mildly offensive.

“I’ve got work to do,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thanks, honey, I’ve got everything I need.” He hastily began chowing down on his burger.

Randi walked to the back, not sure what had happened, if anything, with her latest customer. She retrieved the customer’s order from the food line, and made sure he was being charged correctly for everything. He struck Randi as the kind of customer who would complain, and loudly, about any discrepancy in the bill.

“Liberated black woman,” she thought to herself. “We have come a long way, baby.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!”

An argument between Emily Lou Resnick and the aged cook in the back had, like the food, gotten a little heated up.

“I’m just saying,” said the cook, his long grey hair done up in a ponytail, “that in a few generations, people will be wondering what the hell we were thinking of believing in God.”

“I don’t understand how you can say that,” Emily Lou gave back. “It doesn’t make any sense. How can something that’s so much of our culture disappear like that? It won’t ever happen. There will always be a belief in God.”

“Don’t count on it. I can tell you that attitudes have already changed, in the last couple of generations. Look at the number of people not attending church, you read about it all the time, how certain churches are going downhill because the aging parishioners are dying off, and no one is replacing them.”

“Oh, I heard about that,” Emily Lou said, “but there are people taking their places, young people who believe in God and church.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure of it. But the numbers are dwindling. Unless of course you watch TV, where the audiences are packed into auditoriums.”

“You’re egging me on,” she said. “I’m trying to have a rational conversation here, and all you do is bait me. I don’t think I like talking with you.”

“You must,” the cook said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing there giving me such a hard time over something so trivial.”

“I don’t consider the belief in God a trivial matter.”

“Well, for once we’re in agreement. The belief in God has never been trivial. Look at all the people who have fought and died and killed over the belief in their God.”

Emily Lou glared at the cook. She was, like the soup, about to boil over.

“You are such a jerk!” With that final comment, Emily Lou turned abruptly around and walked away from the discussion.

Randi stopped Emily Lou as she stormed out of the kitchen area.

“I overheard you two,” Randi said. “Quite the heated discussion, no?”

“I’m not interested in talking anymore about the subject of God, church or anything related.”

“OK, OK,” Randi said. She stood as Emily Lou took off for parts unknown. Randi was thinking to herself that it was possible Emily Lou had exited the premises and was on her way to church to pray.

“That’s not fair,” Randi thought to herself. “I shouldn’t prejudge the woman. Maybe she’s not a rabid God believer. I don’t even know her.”

Randi finished looking over the bill for her customer, and went back out to see if all of her customers, including him, were happy. That was her job.