bones in the buildings and building in the bones

As I lay in my warm bed in the dark cold Saran-wrapped* studio late last night, ear loosely to the ground for ghosts (after having blogged on it), I was reminded suddenly of something someone told me.

(*you do know it's not Saran wrap but a film like it, designed for window insulation and available in kits in hardware stores.)

I'm trying to remember where it was I met this fellow. I'm a bit of a vagabond so that can be a stretch.

I remember the guy and our conversation, within the last two months. He was a native of Tacoma and his mom had worked for years and years in the town's city government. This was back when Tacoma was a dot on a map.

Don't recall her position — assistant to someone? human relations? — seems it was the latter. Whatever, it was one that very much kept her in the loop and know in the behind-the-scenes actions, secrets and shenanigans.

It was the era of the mob running Chicago / Illinois politics. Whenever they needed someone to lay low or shake off the heat, they'd send him to Tacoma.

From their perspective, it was a perfect place. Small town. Relatively unknown. No one "cared" about Tacoma, a sentiment that lingers still (especially in nearby north, Seattle).

It was well positioned in transportation, railroads and shipping. The perfect gritty small-town coastal hub where the rules were lean and oversight lax. Made sense really that the men would send their boys here.

As a result, much of the development and construction that took place during that time was mob funded.

"There are a lot of bodies in the concrete here," the guy informed. "A lot."

Information and knowledge passed over by his mother from inside the loop. The mob was pretty well running the show with the officials.

I can believe it. Did not surprise me one iota.

Which got me speculating about my building and the person(s) beneath it.

I posted yesterday about it. About someone being there who didn't want to be and-or an unpleasant manner of death. I'm not itching for a good ghost tale.

That conversation with the fellow popped into my mind. It wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility. This neighborhood in that era was well-heeled and -moneyed, significantly so. Away from the waterfront, it was the heartbeat of Tacoma.

Which also explains why I'm so drawn to this pocket. My heart is with, and in, Tacoma's.

Perhaps someone's heart stopped beating and was laid to not-rest in the foundation that holds solid and firm this old building.

Perhaps it's not the person(s) deep beneath the flooring but (former mob boss) Big Jim Colosimo with whom I ought be having that psychic powwow …

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