Free Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) by Erik Rivenes Page B

white State Capitol. The dome was still under construction, but farther along now than it had been when Queen had raced past it in that streetcar in January.
    The Church of the Assumption’s twin spires burst through the skyline to the east. Saint Paul was a working-class Catholic town, and it made sense to Queen that the Assumption should have such prominence. This was a city Doc might do well in, he thought, as he’d always been supported with vigor by the lunch-pail brigade. Too many Irish, though, for the old man to handle. The mayor had admitted to him his dislike for the Irish. Queen wondered how Doc felt about the new Police Chief of Saint Paul, John O’Connor. He was a full-tempered Irishman, who he’d heard ruled his city like an ancient Celtic king.
    Queen pushed his thoughts to something else, like the plan ahead. They were headed to Saint Paul’s red-light district to find Maisy, once and for all. Pock would confirm the address, and their disguises would get them in the front door. After that, he honestly wasn’t sure. He hoped the quiet morning would continue uneventfully, and they’d make their way unscathed across the river and back into the Minneapolis city limits.
    The detective wasn’t much for details when it came to the chase. In business, where money was involved, he tried to tread more carefully. Planning the mitt games, for instance, had been deliberate and thoughtful. But out in the open, when a woman was in the soup? He preferred, like now, to make his choices in the moment, with his gut.
    These jumbled city streets must have been planned by someone either bughouse or three sheets to the wind, he thought, as they twisted and turned their way towards the river. Queen finally recognized Seven Corners, a large, confusing commercial intersection made up of West Third Street, West Fourth Street, West Seventh Street, Front Street and Eagle Street.
    “Eagle,” Pock said, and Snorre must have understood, as he veered down that street’s gentle slope, crossing curving trolley rails.
    It had been a while since Queen had frequented Saint Paul’s lower levee, and the area known to locals as “below the hill.” The Mississippi River lapped up against a community of ramshackle houses nicknamed Little Italy. It could be dangerous along the water at night, but this morning there were no screams of robbery, rape or murder. Only the melodic warble of songbirds and the faint hum of a distant train whistle. The Italians here worshipped the Mother Mary, and as it was the Lord’s Day, the streets were empty.
    The wagon reached the intersection of Eagle and Washington. Most of downtown Saint Paul was now above them, sitting on the bluff to the northeast. The Wabasha and Robert Street bridges stretched across the river from the city center, and to the west, a criss-cross of iron beams made up the suitably named High Bridge, connecting to the towering heights of the opposite bank.
    The notorious Bucket Of Blood saloon marked the entrance to the brothel district. Queen noticed a couple of men passed out in front of the door of the plain-looking one-story building. It was a saloon where knife fights and shootings were as a common as a piece of bread with a plate of spaghetti. The lonely bray of an accordion emanated from inside. The door was already open, beckoning the Italians who already were resigned to drinking their way to Hell instead of morning mass. While in the past Queen might have answered that call, he was beyond imbibing simply for the sake of it, despite the familiar tug of temptation. They continued on Washington, which turned northwest, towards Third Street. It rose steeply towards downtown. Snorre snapped on the reins to keep the team of horses moving against the incline. A series of a half dozen or so “boarding houses” hemmed the avenue’s west side. All of these houses, he was aware, plied their feminine wares to the city’s denizens. Farther down was Saint Paul’s Central Police Station,