Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Coercion, Consensual, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Crime, Mystery,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Hiya, I'm Winter Jennings, formerly a single mom, now married to the delicious Vanessa. Our son, Walker, is 14. Who else? Well, Daddy is Homicide Captain Dave Jennings with the Kansas City PD. I lasted three years on the Job before going private. My caseload has gone from mostly digital to more street. Sex tape with a corporate twist. Abusers. Snuff. Inevitably, working the underbelly, several pimps are on my beat. Sex life? Outstanding. I'm at my peak. Walker too. For better or worse.
This may be where the rumor about the snuff tape originated -- the 31st Street corridor. At a certain pimp’s domicile in a Kansas City zone now claimed by the Bloods. I’d feel better with some backup, say the 101st Airborne. A few Apache attack helicopters to soften things up.
Then I remind myself that I’m trying to be a cool cookie, a tough girl. Or at least a tougher one. So I park my red F-150 in a tow-away zone directly in front of Ramone’s shabby crib. Two cornrowed black kids, a fat, greasy teenager and a scrawny kid, eyeball me as I walk up the root-cracked sidewalk to the front porch. Which was shaped like a sway-backed mule. Ramone isn’t much into home maintenance.
Someone peeks out of a front window.
“Whatchu want, fish belly?” The kid.
“I’m looking for love in all the wrong places. Tell Ramone that Winter is here.”
The kid looks up at the sky. Probably checking for snow.
A second curtain moves, this one upstairs.
The fat teenager clumps inside.
It’s mid-May and I’m looking for a runaway kid, a girl. The runaways are fewer in number this year, I’m not sure why. Maybe there were too many unhappy endings and the word spread. Maybe we good guys became more efficient. Maybe pimps became softer.
When sows soar.
Brandisha Jefferson had been gone for two weeks before her mother reported her. Concern about losing food stamps was one of the excuses for the delay. Or, as I understand the terminology, these days it’s an EBT card -- Electronic Benefit Transfer. In theory, it can’t be used for booze and cigarettes. Unless you shop at the right stores.
The mother, Krystall, accent on the second syllable, wasn’t quite a total mess. But she was usually on the nod. She was plump, worn down, matted hair, wearing a formless housedress with tatty sneakers. A basement apartment off Prospect Avenue, not one of the city’s premier addresses.
Krystall is basically an absentee mother even when she’s home. This is an all too familiar scenario. In my short time in the cop business I’ve seen what little care some kids receive transferred from the grandmother to the great-grandmother to the state.
Grandmothers in their 20s. Babies having babies.
Brandisha would be another pro bono case for me, but it was better than looking to adjust an abusive husband’s attitude. Anyway that’s what I told myself that fine Spring morning. It was sunny and cool, just right.
I was back in what’s called the Northeast section of Kansas City. It lies just east of downtown. Or the Power & Light District as it’s now known. There are periodic rumblings of a neighborhood revival in the Forgotten Northeast, but there’s not a lot of evidence that it’s taking root.
Trying to change the name to the Historic Northeast hasn’t yet taken hold as it did when marketing types named the Crossroads and the Power & Light District. Maybe someday.
I stopped by my favorite shelter run by my favorite nun, Sister Mary Packer. Although if she’s still a bride of Christ ... well no one from the Church has contacted her since Our Lady of Adversity shut down years ago.
Mary is 60 or so, small and determined. Dresses in shabby jeans and tops, but always sports neon-colored kicks. She provides the first six girls who knock on the door with a meal, a shower, and a bed. No questions asked.
She shook her head at Brandisha’s picture, “No, sorry, Winter. How long’s she been gone?”
“Two and a half weeks.”
Mary sighed, “She’s probably hooking. Better try Harold. Cocksucker.”
“I’m on the way. Although she’s a little old for his stable.”
Mary shrugged, just another movie that she’s seen every day for years. Although as I was leaving that modest house, I had an idea. Well, later. Compartmentalize. Pimp time now.
Harold was actually up and about at 10 in the morning. He doesn’t usually stir until 4 or 5 in the afternoon. How sad is my life that I know a pimp’s daily routine?
He’s long, lanky, mean as a snake. Quick as one too. He and his bodyguard / enforcer, a man-mountain named Colombo, were chilling on the small front porch like a couple of Portuguese grandees looking over their estate. This particular set of nobility was inhaling a couple of large splifs. Easing into the day.
“Go away, cunt.”
“Morning. Seen this girl?”
“Look at the picture, asshole.”
He did. When your father is a respected Homicide Captain, and mine is, ... well some lowlifes reluctantly find themselves in a cooperative spirit.
Harold frowned. He had recognized something.
He was torn. He didn’t want to talk with me, he was no rat. But something was bothering him.
Columbo murmured, “Zip it.”
I waited. I didn’t have to threaten Harold, he knew what one call from Captain Dave Jennings to Vice could mean.
Harold looked at Colombo. “Shit, man.”
Columbo heaved to his feet and went inside. Holding his breath to retain the smoke.
Harold glanced up and down the street. “Look, I take care of my girls.”
“The Chamber is real proud of you, Harold.”
He wanted to slap me. Or worse. He took a breath. “There’s a new guy, been around a month or two. Sort of with the 31 Bloods. But not with them, know what I mean?”
Waiting is one of the things I do well.
“They don’t know where he’s from. Back East maybe. Now I never seen him. Goes by Gin. Like hootch. He’s a Chink. Flashes money, acts tough.” Harold looked at me, hating to be talking with me.
He took a large hit, held it. Let it out. Looked at me again, evaluating. Sighed, “Word is ... sick motherfucker. Buys kids. Or takes them. Shoots snuff films.” Harold stood up, slinking across the porch toward the front door.
I saw two naked, young girls, both with bright pink hair -- a marketing gimmick that Harold is proud of -- scrubbing the living room floor. His whores keep that house spick and span.
I don’t have a good feeling about Brandisha Jefferson. I rarely do when they’re young and have been missing this long. Stir in the snuff rumor ... well, I didn’t have a good feeling.
Our Harold doesn’t beat his girls very often. Works them seven days a week at a couple of sleaze-ball motels on Paseo. But keeps them fed, decently dressed.
The problem with Harold, and there’s one problem or another with every pimp, is that he likes his girls to be young or young looking. He’s the go-to procurer for what we call kiddy-fuckers.
But the pimp in the nearby Bloods neighborhood is just as bad. Maybe worse. Ramone. His girls, and a few boys too, are punching bags. They may get fucked sometimes too, but mainly they’re bottoms for the sadists.
And Kansas City is like any other metropolitan area, there’s always a market for punching bags.
In the 31st Street corridor, some of it controlled by the Bloods, Ramone graced me with his presence. Fat, but not soft. A neck as thick as his head. Pomaded hair slicked back. Manicure. Smelling, not unpleasantly, of Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male for Men Eau De Toilette Spray. I know because that’s what Richie, my ex, still uses. His new wife must approve.
“How is The Captain, Ms. Winter? Give him my best.”
“You in search of another lost soul? Let me see if I can help.”
“Brandisha Jefferson.” Something flickered in his eyes for a nanosecond. There and gone.
He shook his head, smiled at me. One gold tooth. “Nope, sorry.”
That’s two out of two pimps. Something.
I said, “Where do I find Gin?”
This time he couldn’t disguise it. A jolt of fear.
He looked around. None of his posse was near enough to hear. Ramone shook his head, “Who?”
I stood quietly.
“Look I gotta split. Good luck with the kid.” He turned and stepped toward the house.
Stopped, but didn’t turn to face me. I knew this was my one chance with him. Off balance. Not knowing what I knew. Startled at the name, Gin.
“Talk to me.”
He stood rigidly still. I’d never before seen him uncomfortable.
“Ramone, I’m on my way to see some of your associates. Harold. Bugger. Pantone. I could mention how you told me about Gin.” Whoever the fuck Gin was.
It doesn’t work that often, but it can happen. Ramone obviously didn’t want his business out on the street. His Gin business.
He turned slowly, all false pleasantry gone. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. What you’re fucking with.”
I hoped my tummy flutter didn’t show.
I’m Winter Jennings, a 33-year old private detective. I used to be a single mom of a single kid. Walker, now 14. But I married up, married Vanessa Henderson. Along the way the three of us acquired a girl, Mindy Montgomery, 16, who has somehow become my son’s live-in girlfriend.
We live in a large, recently renovated loft in a century-old building -- the Wrigley Hotel. Except our fifth floor loft isn’t part of the hotel. The Wrigley is on Main Street, in the Crossroads art district, just south of downtown Kansas City, MO.
Our little family:
> Winter Jennings, deponent: that’s me. Your tour guide through the underbelly of Midwestern life.
> Walker Jennings. Our son hit puberty a while back. Or vice-versa. What can I say, he’s a teenage boy, with all that entails. Which, these days, is mostly erections.
> Vanessa Henderson, my love, my life. Now that we’re married, she’s Walk’s second mom. She’s my age, and the most gorgeous woman in KC. Okay, I’m slightly biased.
> Mindy Montgomery, Walker’s 16-year old live-in girlfriend. There’s a tale in how Mindy migrated across State Line Road from tony Mission Hills, Kansas to the artsy Crossroads.
There are other players involved in this sordid tale, some of them key. One of them truly nasty. Maybe someday I’ll learn to recognize true evil when it’s looking at me.
Or maybe not.
I do have some private eye credentials beyond the fact that Daddy is one of the most respected police officers in town.
I managed to graduate on schedule from John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York fucking City. Three rather tumultuous years with the Kansas City Police Department. I don’t respond well to supervision and was allowed to resign one step ahead of the ax. Or axe, if you prefer. My preference is not to meet either one of those two gentlemen.
It wasn’t that I had a bad attitude when I was on the Job.
I simply wasn’t a good fit. The police hierarchy tends to tell newbies what to do. I’m an independent girl and at the time shared the belief espoused by that wise philosopher, RuPaul, “What people think of me is none of my business.”
I learned that this particular credo works better in a sophomore dorm room than within the confines of a rigid bureaucracy.
I’ve been a private detective for five and a half years.
When I look in my post-shower mirror each morning, here’s what I see: a 5’ 7 1/2” natural blonde, with a short, asymmetrical shag. With hair this thick, I think it looks sassy and sexy. A couple of years ago I wore it medium long, but I grew bored with the purposely disheveled look, no matter how on-trend it was.
In fact, fuck trends.
I’m slender except in the boobs department, a source of quiet pride for me ever since I was Walker’s age. Well, younger than that. Starting when I was 10, actually. My older sister Autumn and I were early developers.
I keep my favorite little pussy freshly waxed. I prefer the bald look even though some of my friends have moved on. Men seem to like it. Of course they would.
Good cheekbones, generous mouth. Large blue eyes without the aid of contacts.
In my mind, my most distinctive physical feature is my year-round tan. An hour a day when I can, three days a week in Wendy’s salon. She also does my hair, top and lower. For some genetic reason, I don’t burn. Instead I have a natural-looking, healthy-looking, golden glow.
I wear a bikini when I tan. I like the contrast when I’m naked.
Okay, end of self-adulation.
Let me don my tour guide cap and let’s get started. Underbelly-wise.
Even though the snuff tapes are just a rumor, it’s one I can’t ignore. Previously I hadn’t told the police that a bad actor named Hugo Blenheim was back in town and looking for revenge. On me.
Well, he didn’t get me, but four innocent girls were mutilated and murdered.
Still, I don’t overreact and go the police every time I’m suspicious of something. Or nervous. Or afraid. But I’m not about to ignore it if someone really is buying kids and killing them on camera. Or taking them and killing them.
I was on my way to see Sergeant Louise Finch. Now that I’ve gotten to know her better, I admire her. Plus she was the one who let me resign before she fired me.
I’d made a courtesy appointment and she smiled and held out her hand in a greeting that was more friendly than our parting had been when I left the cops. She’s a couple of inches shorter than I am and a few pounds heavier. When I run into her socially these days, she’s ‘Louise.’
“Good morning, Sergeant, I have a crappy rumor to dump on you.”
She smiled, smooth coffee-colored skin. Doing her best in a white world. In a man’s world. In a white man’s world.
I showed her the Brandisha Jefferson photo. “A pimp told me a new guy in town, Chinese, is buying kids and shooting snuff tapes.”
“Harold?” She knows this town better than I do.
“Any name for our Asian friend?”
“Gin. Like with tonic. But I suspect it’s J-I-N.”
The sergeant nodded, “Jin. Gold. Common name. Kim in Korean.” Police know shit.
We left it that’d she’d ask around. Starting with the gang intel guy working the east side. The 31st Street Bloods. And I’d continue my rounds of charming the pimps and checking the shelters. Poor Brandisha.