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September, 2015: Undisclosed Location, France

Now then, ma’am, you wanted to know about what’s been going down in New York. Hell, what’s not been going on?

Oh yeah; Cuba Libre on the rocks.

But yes, I don’t know where these powers-that-be get their funds, but I’m assuming they’re running low. Damn fools have us out working regular jobs, the putos. You’d think you’d be able to run some sort of outfit properly, but what did I expect. I swear I’m just part of a goddamn travelling circus somedays….but oh well, Nattie’s still pretty happy there, and if he’s happy, I’m happy.
Thanks, mijo. Tell your cousin I’ll be down to join him around five.

Fortunately, I was able to find something at least a bit enjoyable. I might not look it, but I’ve got a bit of a singing voice. I got a gig singing at some sort of nightclub by the name of Gatsby’s. It’s this place they’ve tried to make look like some sort of speakeasy. I’ll tell you, they did an okay job, but it’s not quite there. For one, nobody smokes. Air’s so damn clean you could eat off it. That’s ‘cause the government over there’s a pain in the ass. I can’t light up a damn cigar anywhere around that fucking city. Yeah; I know, right?

Now I know what you’re gonna say, mija, but it’s my life and my body. I’ll do whatever the hell I please with it. Yes, I know what happened to your husband, but I’m fine. God, you and your probing questions. Heh; but I guess that’s why we’re spies, right? Just part of the trade.

Anyway, I usually sing a couple sets a night, usually old stuff from back in the day. It’s not bad, I just stand up there a bit, maybe make eyes at some of the richer-looking guys up front, gets me some extra tips sometimes. Heh; nah, Nattie don’t mind a bit. Hell, he even came the first night and let me tell you, he loved the hell out of my act.

Yeah; he did. It was funny though…I felt sorta bad about it…

No, well…you see…damn you probably don’t want to hear about this shit…it goes way the hell back.

Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you…I sort of saved a life with my singing. You remember last time at one of your little therapy sessions, I told you about wandering my way way the hell up north after the rancho was taken out, ‘bout 1910 or so?

Yeah; well, eventually…I made it up to San Diego in the Gaslamp Quarter.

Yeah; I’m fine…just got some shit in my eyes…but yeah; I was alone, I was young, and I was pretty. Long story short, I became a damn whore. It was terrible, most humiliating thing I ever had to do…night after night of disgusting men having their way with me for chump change. It was in this dingy old brothel on a dank street. There was an old piano there..a guy who played it…old ragtime stuff, you know? Scott Joplin?

Dammit, I’m fine, mija. Gotta finish it, you know. Well, fine, I’ll lie down at least, if only to complete the picture, Miss Freud. Well shit; guess that’s what happens when you try to chug it…heh, well, I’ll have to send this dress to the cleaner’s. Just…give me a moment…okay?
Anyway, you don’t do that sort of shit too long before you get yourself pregnant. Yeah…no, I haven’t told Nattie. Are you kidding? Why would I want to? …but you don’t understand…I barely…he’d be disgusted with what I did…but…but anyway…

I ended up feeling and showing it before long…think it was 1912 or so..Yeah; that’s what the case would be. You get knocked up? Here’s the guy with the coat hanger; have at it. Well, I wasn’t gonna just loose him. Fuck that. So I remembered singing as a girl…these pretty old Mexican songs in Spanish…sang a few for the madam and she loved my voice…

Yeah; I ended up singing for my whole pregnancy. All sorts of stuff, old Spanish songs from when I lived at the rancho, stuff I leaned from the piano-guy’s song sheets. I actually got pretty damn good. But anyway, I had him. He ended up being a boy…didn’t name ‘im…

Couldn’t keep him, you know? A brothel’s no place to raise a little boy…I’d seen a nice couple around town when I’d go scrounging around downtown on my days off. They were the Robinsons. From what I gathered, they weren’t able to have any of their own and they lived in Coronado, way the hell across the bay. I saved up my pay for a few weeks and took the ferry over there. I found out their address and…and…I…I left him on their doorstep…

Dammit! This was over a hundred years ago…why the hell am I still guilty?! Fuck it all…dammit…shit…who even knows where he is now? Sorry, mija…it’s just…damn…it still hurts like hell…but…anyway…

Anyway…singing in that club reminded me of being back there…the little guy sloshing around in there as I was singing…it was sota…bittersweet in a way…I knew I’d have to give him up but…I felt a certain satisfaction knowing he would be safe once he was out…I’m sorry…don’t know what’s come over me…

Thank you…glad you feel that way…don’t know if I ever will tell him, but you’re probably right. I know it’s silly, but I still am afraid of how he’d react…yeah…I do…But yeah; that’s what the Reapers have been up to.

It’s alright…no, I’ll finish my report. Talking to you helped though, it really did. Thank you…But yeah; that’s about the size of it. They’re broke and disorganized as always. Hell, you’d think this damn psychopomp could get off his ass and maybe conjure some cold, hard cash or something. Yeah; I know that’s not how it works, but it would be a good idea. Hell, if I had me one of those, I’d never have had to take up bootlegging in the ‘20s.

Anyhow, Nattie’s probably wandering somewhere on the grounds, looking adorably lost and lonely…yeah; I know I’m still sniffling, but he needs me. Thanks again and I’ll be back in another month perhaps, or at least when it makes sense to slip away for a little while. Bye mija, tell the husband I expect another Charleston when that one-armed showboat magician gets hitched.

Description
September, 2015: Undisclosed Location, France

Now then, ma’am, you wanted to know about what’s been going down in New York. Hell, what’s not been going on?

Oh yeah; Cuba Libre on the rocks.

But yes, I don’t know where these powers-that-be get their funds, but I’m assuming they’re running low. Damn fools have us out working regular jobs, the putos. You’d think you’d be able to run some sort of outfit properly, but what did I expect. I swear I’m just part of a goddamn travelling circus somedays….but oh well, Nattie’s still pretty happy there, and if he’s happy, I’m happy.
Thanks, mijo. Tell your cousin I’ll be down to join him around five.

Fortunately, I was able to find something at least a bit enjoyable. I might not look it, but I’ve got a bit of a singing voice. I got a gig singing at some sort of nightclub by the name of Gatsby’s. It’s this place they’ve tried to make look like some sort of speakeasy. I’ll tell you, they did an okay job, but it’s not quite there. For one, nobody smokes. Air’s so damn clean you could eat off it. That’s ‘cause the government over there’s a pain in the ass. I can’t light up a damn cigar anywhere around that fucking city. Yeah; I know, right?

Now I know what you’re gonna say, mija, but it’s my life and my body. I’ll do whatever the hell I please with it. Yes, I know what happened to your husband, but I’m fine. God, you and your probing questions. Heh; but I guess that’s why we’re spies, right? Just part of the trade.

Anyway, I usually sing a couple sets a night, usually old stuff from back in the day. It’s not bad, I just stand up there a bit, maybe make eyes at some of the richer-looking guys up front, gets me some extra tips sometimes. Heh; nah, Nattie don’t mind a bit. Hell, he even came the first night and let me tell you, he loved the hell out of my act.

Yeah; he did. It was funny though…I felt sorta bad about it…

No, well…you see…damn you probably don’t want to hear about this shit…it goes way the hell back.

Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you…I sort of saved a life with my singing. You remember last time at one of your little therapy sessions, I told you about wandering my way way the hell up north after the rancho was taken out, ‘bout 1910 or so?

Yeah; well, eventually…I made it up to San Diego in the Gaslamp Quarter.

Yeah; I’m fine…just got some shit in my eyes…but yeah; I was alone, I was young, and I was pretty. Long story short, I became a damn whore. It was terrible, most humiliating thing I ever had to do…night after night of disgusting men having their way with me for chump change. It was in this dingy old brothel on a dank street. There was an old piano there..a guy who played it…old ragtime stuff, you know? Scott Joplin?

Dammit, I’m fine, mija. Gotta finish it, you know. Well, fine, I’ll lie down at least, if only to complete the picture, Miss Freud. Well shit; guess that’s what happens when you try to chug it…heh, well, I’ll have to send this dress to the cleaner’s. Just…give me a moment…okay?
Anyway, you don’t do that sort of shit too long before you get yourself pregnant. Yeah…no, I haven’t told Nattie. Are you kidding? Why would I want to? …but you don’t understand…I barely…he’d be disgusted with what I did…but…but anyway…

I ended up feeling and showing it before long…think it was 1912 or so..Yeah; that’s what the case would be. You get knocked up? Here’s the guy with the coat hanger; have at it. Well, I wasn’t gonna just loose him. Fuck that. So I remembered singing as a girl…these pretty old Mexican songs in Spanish…sang a few for the madam and she loved my voice…

Yeah; I ended up singing for my whole pregnancy. All sorts of stuff, old Spanish songs from when I lived at the rancho, stuff I leaned from the piano-guy’s song sheets. I actually got pretty damn good. But anyway, I had him. He ended up being a boy…didn’t name ‘im…

Couldn’t keep him, you know? A brothel’s no place to raise a little boy…I’d seen a nice couple around town when I’d go scrounging around downtown on my days off. They were the Robinsons. From what I gathered, they weren’t able to have any of their own and they lived in Coronado, way the hell across the bay. I saved up my pay for a few weeks and took the ferry over there. I found out their address and…and…I…I left him on their doorstep…

Dammit! This was over a hundred years ago…why the hell am I still guilty?! Fuck it all…dammit…shit…who even knows where he is now? Sorry, mija…it’s just…damn…it still hurts like hell…but…anyway…

Anyway…singing in that club reminded me of being back there…the little guy sloshing around in there as I was singing…it was sota…bittersweet in a way…I knew I’d have to give him up but…I felt a certain satisfaction knowing he would be safe once he was out…I’m sorry…don’t know what’s come over me…

Thank you…glad you feel that way…don’t know if I ever will tell him, but you’re probably right. I know it’s silly, but I still am afraid of how he’d react…yeah…I do…But yeah; that’s what the Reapers have been up to.

It’s alright…no, I’ll finish my report. Talking to you helped though, it really did. Thank you…But yeah; that’s about the size of it. They’re broke and disorganized as always. Hell, you’d think this damn psychopomp could get off his ass and maybe conjure some cold, hard cash or something. Yeah; I know that’s not how it works, but it would be a good idea. Hell, if I had me one of those, I’d never have had to take up bootlegging in the ‘20s.

Anyhow, Nattie’s probably wandering somewhere on the grounds, looking adorably lost and lonely…yeah; I know I’m still sniffling, but he needs me. Thanks again and I’ll be back in another month perhaps, or at least when it makes sense to slip away for a little while. Bye mija, tell the husband I expect another Charleston when that one-armed showboat magician gets hitched.