Dukkha Unloaded. Loren W. Christensen
street is another. I see a building not boarded but it still looks as if it hasn’t been occupied in a while. Here is one remodeled with a nice all-brick front and big smoked window.
“There,” Angela says, pointing at the brick building.
“What is it? There’s no sign.” The little one over the front door reads: Enter In The Rear.
“Rose City Steam,” Angela says. “Gay bathhouse. Pull in the driveway there. It takes us to a parking area in the back.”
I hang a left. “A gay bathhouse. Your cousin works here?”
“He’s actually my mother’s cousin, God rest her soul, which makes him my … something. Second cousin? Anyway, he’s been living down in Old Town since his wife died about ten years ago. He knows everyone and everything going on in his hood. As far as working here, he says they treat him right and he’s his own boss. Head of maintenance.” She shrugs. “I don’t think he’s gay.”
There are about a dozen cars parked back here, which seems like a lot for a place like this considering it’s only noon. But what do I know? Angela and I walk toward a canopied door. It’s fluorescent purple and guarded on each side by four-feet high, shiny black panthers sitting on their haunches and looking eager to pounce. They’re magnificent stone carvings that must weigh five hundred pounds each.
Angela pulls open the door and we step into a small foyer with sparkly purple walls draped with white, twinkling lights. Straight ahead is a thick Plexiglas teller’s window, and to the right, a heavy-duty door with a buzzer. On the other side of the window, a man wearing only a white athletic supporter sprays cleaner on a small window in an open door on the opposite wall. From here we can see about halfway down the softly lit hall where half-a-dozen men are standing in a group talking and laughing. It would look like an office workplace setting except every man is stark naked.
“Angela!” greets the man whose jock strap makes him the most dressed on the other side of the window. He moves up to the teller window. Yowsa! He’s got nipple piercings. He smiles at Angela. “How are you, sweet cheeks? Haven’t seen you for a … whoa! Like who’s your knock-down-gorgeous-and-sit-on-my-face friend?”
Angela laughs. “This is Sam. He’s a detective.”
“Detective! Oh my. So he’s a dick, on top all of that gorgeousness. Saaaam,” he says, crotch gazing me. “My name is Teddy. Remember it, you’ll be screeeeaming it later.” Angela laughs.
I smile, and say, “Isn’t going to happen, Teddy. I’m straight, it’s great, I don’t hate, and I don’t discriiiiminate.”
Teddy points at me, and laughs. “You’re good, and oh so hot.” He looks at Angela. “Want to see Terrance, sweet cheeks?”
“Just for a few minutes, Teddy. Appreciate it.”
“Hold a sec,” he says. He slips out of the room swinging his bare ass. After three or four steps he looks over his shoulder, and says, “Sam?”
“It’s still no, Teddy.”
He lets out a theatrical sigh. Down the hall, several of the men, most in the twenties and thirties, turn all the way toward us. I’m not sure if they are really interested in us or just want to pose.
“I love it here,” Angela says.
“I bet you do.”
A small sign by the window lists the price and the rules:
• No clothing allowed past the locker room except for sandals.
• No alcohol or drugs.
• Condoms will be worn for all sexual activity.
• When you’re told “not interested” respect it and move on.
There are about a dozen more, but before I can read them the door opens and a fit-looking, sixty-something black man in a blue tank top and matching shorts steps out, his arms spread wide. “Angie baby. How you be? How you be?”
The two embrace for a moment, then Angie says, “Terrance, this is my partner Sam. Sam, this is Terrance.”
“What it is, Sam?” he says pumping my hand “What it is? You taking care of my girl?”
“I got a feeling she can do just fine without my help.”
“Sure ‘nuff the truth,” he cackles, extending his palm toward me. “Sure ‘nuff.” I slap it.
“Can we go outside, Terrance?” Angela says.
“Let’s do it, let’s do it.” He pulls the door open and gestures for us to lead the way out. “This about Ocnod?” he says as the three of us sit on a long bench at the side of the building.
Angela nods. “He lived in Old Town. Did you know him?”
“Talked to him off and on, off and on. If you squint your eyes he looked like a black man, you know. But he wasn’t. Heard he was from Iraq or some such. Don’t think he liked real blacks too much. Maybe cuz everyone thought he was one.” Terrance cackles. “Sad thing hanging him up. Don’t know what to make of it, I don’t.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Angela asks.
“Let’s see, let’s see. I was gone for a few days, but I think I seen him two weeks ago, or some such.”
“Where, cousin?”
“At Hung Far Low.”
“The Chinese food joint on Fourth?” I ask.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir. Lunch time. Didn’t talk. No we didn’t. I waved, but he didn’t wave back. Don’t think he liked real blacks too much.”
I nod. “Any reason you know for someone to kill him?”
“Wasn’t a friendly sort but don’t know a reason to kill him, I don’t.”
“Any strange faces in Old Town?” Angela asks.
Terrance cackles loudly. “For sure, cousin. For damn sure. You probably mean new strange faces.”
She smiles. “I do.”
“More in the winter when it’s cold and folks stop into Portland to get free food and clothes. Now, not so much. A couple dudes with huge backpacks yesterday, but nothin’ too strange about them. Can’t think of nothin’ else …” He looks off for a moment.
Angela touches his arm. “What, cousin?”
“Two ladies—last weekend, I think. Yup, Saturday. Saturday for sure. Big women, not fat-fat you know, but big, like they could knock any man on his ass. Both white. They were walking along Fifth and cut down Everett to Third. One had a camera.”
“What caught your eye, Terrance?” I ask.
“Something about them, something about them. I only looked at them shortly, very shortly, but I remember thinking they didn’t fit in Old Town. Not like folks passing through, or like no tourist, neither.”
“What did they look like, Cousin?”
“Well, no prejudice intended, none at all, but if I had to guess, I’d say they was dykes. You know—lesbos—sisters for sure. Maybe twins. Had short hair combed like a man, both of them. One had her damn head shaved here, on the sides but real long in the back. Wearing work jeans. One wore blue ones, the other had black ones. Both had work shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the both of them. Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes. Just remembered. One had a swastika tattoo. Right here on the back of her hand, left, no, right hand. Right hand. And if I had to guess, it was a Stoney Lonesome tattoo. You know, done down there in Salem at the prison, or some such.”
“Prison tattoo,” I say. “Good info, Terrance. Good eyes.”
“Cousin, where did Ocnod live?”
“I always saw him around