American Nazis: Winter Jennings
Chapter 1: Business as Usual

Copyright 2017

Thriller Sex Story: Chapter 1: Business as Usual - May: the murder. June: the chase. July: the end. Three months in the life. I'm Winter Jennings, private detective. I have a full case load. Plus a family. Vanessa with her new restaurant. Walker's ... um, emerging sexuality. Pilar's continuing journey into womanhood. Hobo's competitive sheepdog trials. Then the Buckshot Video explodes in Kansas City and nothing is the same. Clitorides: Best New Author -- 2017.

Caution: This Thriller Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers   Consensual   BiSexual   Heterosexual   Mystery   Mother   Son  

Psycho Killer
Qu’est-ce que c’est
Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far
better Run run run run run run
run away oh oh


I was up to my elbows - yellow latex gloves - in sudsy dishwater. Walker came into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me from behind. His slender forearms crossed over my tummy and his hands cuddled my waist. He bent down to nuzzle my neck. How the fuck did he grow seven inches taller than I am?

“Mama-san.”

“Yes, my darling.”

“I am your sensei.” A pause for teenage drama, “In the blood-sport of life.”

“Ah.”


This morning, a Saturday, Vanessa, Walker, and Pilar are sitting at our kitchen table watching me disassemble my new handgun. It’s a beaut - Heckler & Koch P7M10. Nickel plated with a four-inch barrel. It holds ten .40 caliber shells.

My Bastex cleaning kit is open, the tools neatly arranged. The not-unpleasant smell of Hoppe’s bore cleaner permeates the air. There’s something oddly satisfying in taking proper care of a vital instrument.

But it’s also a grim task in a way. German killing-precision in a sunny Kansas City loft.

Weeks earlier, a Winter Irregular - a freelancer of mine, Birdy Cummings - had been working on the nightmare Oasis case for me. In the course of the investigation Birdy had her head blown off by a close-up shotgun.

I up-armored the next week.

Walker pours me another grapefruit juice over ice. Pilar feeds Hobo another piece of sausage. Vanessa kisses the back of my neck and begins clearing dishes.

I double-check the Heckler action before reassembling it.


“Butch up, Winter.” Gertie Oppenheimer, our financial advisor. “Sign the fucking contract.”

Vanessa shoots me a rueful smile and holds out a pen.

I butch up. And sign the fucking contract.

Vanessa, Gertie, and I now own a titty bar.

BaBoomz is in the nabe. Fact is, in our Wrigley loft, I can look out the Main Street windows, peer across the street, shift my gaze one block north, and there it is. Neon lights blinking, BaBoomz.

A titty bar. I can explain.

Pretty sure.


Walker, aka Hormone Boy, is trying to casual it, trying to act as if BaBoomz is no biggie. Well, he’s 15. Not an easy age for someone of the male persuasion.

Pilar of course is merciless. “So sorry, Walker. I’ll try to grow my boobs faster.” And, “Please don’t dump me for Miss Dixie Delight.” Pronounced DEElight.


Vanessa, genuinely puzzled, asked me, “What would normal people do about three bullet holes in their floor?”

Normal people. I said, “We must know some, let’s ask them.”


I’m in therapy. No, not because of BaBoomz. There I question my judgement, not my mental well-being. I’m seeing Dr. Lindsay Conners because I’m still burdened by my last major case. Where Greta Gunther tried to kill my family. And came dangerously close to succeeding.

I’m Winter Jennings, private investigator.

The jeopardized family:

Walker, my 15-year old son. Vanessa, my love. Pilar, my son’s ... something. Girlfriend. Lover. Friend. And a lot more.

Oh, let’s not forget Pilar’s border collie, Hobo. A player in the Gunther imbroglio.

Guilt led me into Dr. Conner’s office. And is the reason I’m a steady caller there. My family was threatened because of what I do -- detect. And the objects of my inquiries are not always solid citizens.

Being in psychoanalysis is hardly a career-burnisher in a tough-guy field. But, head held medium high, I persevere. As Daddy says, “It’s just another fucking tool. Use it.”


I compartmentalize my life; maybe everyone does.

There is family and there is work. The twin tentpoles that my life revolves around. But there’s also a frisson of uneasiness that’s been lingering in the back of my mind. Ever since the Oasis case.

But, life marches on. I’ll half-skip a beat to get back in step, back in cadence.

Family means people. And Hobo of course. When I think about my loved ones, I usually picture us at home. In our loft in the Wrigley Hotel. It’s not a suburban life, thank god. It’s idiosyncratic, often offbeat, sometimes bizarre.

Take the Wrigley Hotel for example.

It has been garnering a little regional recognition lately. Partly for the conscientious and tasteful restoration of a building more than a century old. Partly because of the marvelous Wrigley Restaurant and the wink-wink Wrigley Speakeasy. But lately, also for its casual eccentricity.

The hotel recently acquired its fourth permanent resident. Gerald Nuttinger. He had been a scout. Cub, Boy, Eagle. And apparently never journeyed much beyond his idyllic days of golden youth-hood.

The two original permanents - Wally Maypole and the imperious Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna - are allowed resident status because of the owner’s generosity. Gene Austin accepts their intermittent rent, pennies on the dollar, without demur.

Wally is seldom seen, he scuttles back to his room from whatever mysterious errand he’s been on. Quiet, shy, unassuming.

The Duchess? Quite the opposite. She looks down on Wrigley World with a skeptical eye. Who are these underlings? Head held regally high, she regards her fiefdom through pince-nez glasses.

The hotel staff was surprised how well the rightful heir to the throne of Imperial Russia hit it off with Reggie Rowbottom. The third permanent resident. Who often doesn’t wear any clothes at all, earning him the sobriquet, Nature Boy.

Nature Boy voluntarily took command of the freight elevator. The only elevator. New hotel guests are naturally startled at the naked attendant. But he is unfailingly polite, shyly friendly. Deemed harmless. Interesting, but innocuous. If anyone had thought it through ... well, it simply seemed to fit into the Wrigley zeitgeist.

The Duchess and Nature Boy can often be seen strolling the hotel corridors, arm-in-arm, engaged in quiet, serious conversations. Pilar often lets Hobo loose to promenade with the two permanents. The Grand Duchess in the middle between Nature Boy and the people-friendly border collie. Whenever a hotel guest passes by, the two permanents instantly stop talking. Topic obviously on a need-to-know basis.

Where Mr. Gerald Nuttinger will fit into the unlikely Wrigley ménage is YTBD.

But one thing is certain -- he will be wearing his full Eagle Scout uniform. With the square-knotted badge above his left shirt pocket. A sash from his left shoulder to right hip displaying all of the merit badges he’s earned over the years.

He also sports, every single day, an Eagle cap, polished belt buckle, neckerchief, and ring.

The speculation is that he owns several complete sets of uniforms because he shows up in the Wrigley lobby every morning in a spotless, tautly creased outfit.

He doesn’t comment on his attire as he collects his mail. Never has mentioned it. And no one addresses the uniform choice with him.

Live and let live.


BaBoomz, a block north of the Wrigley, is housed in a two-story white brick building. Or a brick building painted white.

The first thing we did was close it down. Tip-to-toe cleaning, serious cleaning.

Well even before then, Gertie contracted with Madge Roper. Gertie said, “She’s a pit bull.” Said it fondly.

We have two immediate challenges with BaBoomz.

One is to convince the city to allow the new owners, that’s us, to run the joint. The other is more onerous - obtaining a liquor license. Not easy for a titty bar. In fact, it’s against the law.

Enter Madge Roper. She’s sort of a narrow-focus version of Bulldog Bannerman. And her métier is red tape. The obliterating of it. Municipal and county and state. A specialized fixer.

Vanessa, Gertie, and I met with Madge at BEAR’s on Broadway. May as well have some booze in our system while discussing tedium. Bureaucracy. With a capital “B”. And that rhymes with “P” and that stands for pussy. We hope. Sort of hope. I still have mixed feelings about the entire venture.

Tanqueray-rocks for Gertie. Vanessa and I split a bottle of Old Winery Red from Argentina. Bonarda grapes, it says so right on the label.

Madge had iced tea. With about thirty packets of sugar. She doesn’t look like a pit bull. More like someone’s dotty aunt. Around 50, dressed in a green summer frock with a wide white ribbon for a belt. Generous Saratoga-racetrack hat. Red high-top sneakers with untied green laces.

Louis-Louis brought us a basket of the house-made chips. Crisp, delicious, salty. Gertie crunched, nodded in approval, “BaBoomz.” We’ll serve lots of salt at our bar. Thirst-quenchers are profitable. As are tits. If we can find the right formula to skirt the law. Laws.

Madge said, “You don’t want to know the details,” then proceeded to give us the details. In detail. I gazed longingly out the window. A few people walking by. Steady car traffic on Broadway. I had that same ache I often felt in school - watching adults who were free to come and go. School felt so confining, so stifling. I did a forced refocus on Madge and her plans for BaBoomz.

Form an LLC. We’d already done that.

> Pay the city $500 for an Adult Entertainment permit.

> Notify all property owners within 1,000 feet that we’re the new proprietors.

> Background checks for Vanessa, Gertie, and me. Felony checks to be precise.

Madge rambled on. Gertie, on her third drink now, was still paying attention. Vanessa nodded at Louie-Louie. Another bottle of red, please. Hurry. He also delivered bacon-wrapped shrimp. Jalapeños were quite properly involved in the deep-frying process.

I don’t text as adroitly as the kids, but I was keeping up with Madge on my iPad. Yawn. Okay, I’m a note-taker. Left over from middle school days. Do my random scribblings ever come in handy on a case? You damn skippy.

The liquor license process is even more involved than the Adult Entertainment paperwork.

Photos, drawings, background checks, licenses, permits, bureaucracy. I was determined not to hat-in-hand my way to Bulldog’s office. Even though one of his Dragon Ladies could probably speed the procedure, grease the wheels, ease the way.

My balance at the Favor Bank is in arrears. So, Madge Roper. Municipal pit bull.

I forced myself to keep from yearning after the outside world. I felt Vanessa’s hand on my thigh. She understood. I just kept tapping away. Dutifully. It may have something to do with being an adult. Or maturity, something like that.


My life, post-Oasis, is mostly back to its normal rhythm. Not back to normal-normal, not exactly, but I’m now in a familiar pattern. Breakfast in our Wrigley loft. Walker and Pilar usually fix it, Vanessa and I clean up. Then the kids are off to school on the Main Street bus - Walker to Pembroke near the Country Club Plaza. Pilar a little further south to Brookside.

Vanessa will go into Euforia, her Brookside restaurant, later in the morning.

Hobo will guard the home front.

As for me, I usually thread my way north through the Power & Light District, over those fucking freeways that raped downtown, and into the stockyards. To my office in the refurbished Livestock Exchange Building. An office now equipped with new Medeco locks and a steel-reinforced door.

Being a private detective has its plusses and minuses. One of the downsides is that someone occasionally tries to do me wrong. As in kill me. But my last major case - Oasis - was worse. The Gunthers wanted to wipe out my family as well.

And it’s that memory, that haunting mortality-reminder, that has altered some of my behavior. Altered something deep inside me, actually. Therapy is an easy choice. Once I admitted that I needed the help. A more powerful handgun, another no-brainer. Extra caution in everyday activities ... why the fuck not?

Though not all of the Oasis fallout is negative. Therapy may bring insight. Someday. Being more watchful is simply common sense for someone in my line of work. But I’m simply not comfortable with that subliminal thrum of ... what? Doubt? Uneasiness? Could it be fear? Um.

It’s not incapacitating; more annoying than anything. I don’t jump at sudden noises, not more than anyone does. I don’t see enemy faces everywhere as I go about my day. I’m no more paranoid than I’ve ever been.

Oh well, this is probably goût de terroir better left to therapy. I’m going to choose to look at my heightened awareness as a positive. Wait! That looks suspicious. Oh ... just my mirror.

Get over yourself, Winter.


Tableau:

Childhood memories. My mother in the middle, Autumn and I on each side. Arms swinging, legs marching in place. Mom’s husky contralto belting out,

“I dunno but I been told...”

Children’s reedy chorus, “I dunno but I been told...”

“Sergeant Jennings growing old...”

Chorus, “Sergeant Jennings growing old...”

“Go to your left, your right, your left...”

“Go to your left, your right, your left...”

“We are Davey...”

“We are Davey...”

“Mighty mighty Davey...”

“Mighty mighty Davey...”

Daddy sitting in his comfortable chair, sipping something brown with ice cubes, a benign smile on his creased face.


I don’t know if the Eagle Scouts have a height minimum. If so, Gerald Nuttinger may have just squeaked in. I’d estimate that he’s five feet, two inches. In shoes.

But, resplendent in his uniform, with that parade-ground posture, ramrod straight, he looks to be ... almost five feet, three.

Cathy Austin, not mockingly, saluted him one morning and called him Scout. Nuttinger was inordinately pleased so that’s now the norm. We all salute him. Pilar calls him Mr. Scout. He comes to a complete halt, salutes back smartly.

Nobody at the Wrigley, so far as I can tell, teases him about his height. As Vanessa told the kids, “He’s been short all his life.”


Walker: Who was the world’s first carpenter?? Pilar: Eve, because she made Adam’s banana stand??


Some people have presence. Vanessa does. Bear, and not just because of his size. He commands the room.

So does our financial guru, Gertie Oppenheimer. She’s short and sort of lumpy. Her voice is rough, accent straight outta Da’ Bronx. But when she speaks ... well, people tend to EF Hutton it. They listen. (For those of you who don’t YouTube, the Hutton commercial is featured on a lot of ‘best American TV commercials’ videos.)

Even that Northeast pimp, Harold, listens to Gertie. And does what she says.

I know because I introduced them. A retired Chase banker and the purveyor of the youngest pussy in town. Why is a certain visitor known as ‘unholy alliance’ knocking at my door? Well, I’ll think about whores later.

This afternoon, in the Wrigley, Gertie said, “Know what the cleanest dirty shirt is?”

Vanessa, Walker, Pilar and I looked puzzled. Not an uncommon occurrence when Gertie starts on one of her rants. Hobo looked thoughtful. We were lounging around in our loft, in the sitting area that showcases the Main Street views. Sipping red wine, nibbling a variety of soft cheeses - Brie, Camembert, Roquefort, Gorgonzola.

Listening to Gertie kick off on one of her soliloquies.

“The cleanest dirty shirt is what Wall Street calls the dollar. Currency. It doesn’t have to be great; just trusted. Ten years ago there was speculation that the Chinese renminbi, maybe the euro, would become the dominant global currency. There was the Bush recession, digital payment systems were emerging, confidence in the dollar was eroding.”

Pilar said, “Renminbi,” liking the sound.

Walker, who had been five back then, asked, “What about counterfeiting? Doesn’t that threaten the dollar too?”

Gertie snorted. Took a long pull on her blunt, held it in, then shook her head, no.

“Counterfeiting is a faux threat. The US spends more on countermeasures than there is any loss to counterfeiting. Know how much fake money there is?”

Walker shook his head. Hobo was studying Gertie. He always looks at whoever’s talking. The word ‘food’ or ‘roof’ might come up. And he’d, by god, be ready.

“There’s more than a trillion dollars’ worth of currency out there. Counterfeit bills? A minuscule fraction of one percent.”

“Oh. Then why do we fight it so hard? I mean in movies and books and stuff.”

“Think about it, buttwipe.”

Gertie uses the Socratic Method to encourage conversational participation.

Vanessa guessed, “The cleanest dirty shirt. Trust.”

Gertie, for Gertie anyway, beamed, “Exactly right! People have to trust the dollar. Have confidence in it. The reason the Wrigley accepts a banknote is because they know the next person in line will honor it too.”

Hobo, eyes darting to the cheeses, yawned. Pilar scratched behind his ears in just the right place.

Gertie said, “I have to admit the technology is fascinating. Pretty soon Crane Currency will be able to manufacture bills with complex animation - George Washington walking to a chair and Ben Franklin winking and waving.”

Wanting to contribute, I said, “Wow.” And poured myself a congratulatory glass of Aguilar.

Gertie was just getting started.


Okay, it’s time, past time, to address an uncomfortable, emotional, divisive, subject - Kansas City BBQ.

Just bringing up the subject - “The best BBQ in town is...” - can be injurious to friendships, employment prospects, marriages, physical wellbeing.

Fortunately, I have the answer. Answers. For decades, there was only one king of the mountain - Arthur Bryant’s at 18th & Brooklyn. In the Northeast. Calvin Trillin, a KC native, called Bryant’s “The best restaurant in America.” Or maybe it was the world. This was in the “New Yorker”. Or maybe “Playboy”.

The sauce isn’t sweet; it has a pleasant tang with a hint of vinegar. The burnt ends used to be giveaways. By not throwing them out with the trash, Bryant’s started a trend that spread across town, then around the country.

The sliced brisket and ham could have inspired Kinky Friedman’s advice, “Never eat a sandwich bigger than your head.”

So, Bryant’s.

Oh sure, there are fans of other joints. Gates, also on Brooklyn, just down the street, has its adherents. Jack Stack, despite its mediocre sauce. Slap’s, Lawnside, L. C.’s, Winslow’s, Woodyard ... a case could be made for all of them if Bryant’s weren’t in town.

A couple of newcomers - Q-39 on, logically, 39th Street and Char Bar in Westport - have gained ardent supporters.

Then a new gunslinger moseyed into town. Joe’s. Just over State Line in Kansas City fucking Kansas, Joe’s is housed in a functioning filling station. There’s usually a line out the door indicating a wait of an hour or more.

Worth it? Yeah, dammit, it is. Ribs are outta sight. Try the Z-Man sandwich - smoked brisket, smoked provolone, onion rings, on a Kaiser roll.

I keep Bryant’s a fraction higher for old time’s sake. But don’t miss Joe’s.

You’re welcome.


Now that Oasis is behind me, I have other, ongoing cases. I’m fielding more and more inquiries from attorneys. They must be such gossips. Word of mouth, the best kind of advertising some say, is spreading about me.

“Jerry Edwards said you did a fantastic job. Reasonable prices too.” A mistake on Helen Rodman’s part. My daily rate for lawyers just went up 20%. Why not, they’ll just pass it on. And if they can charge, like $200 an hour and up, I can justify $450 a day. Plus expenses and performance bonuses.

One attorney-generated challenge I’m taking on is rather interesting. Started a few weeks earlier. Kate Mulligan is a full partner with Rankin, Usher, Moses, and Pinkerton. A century-old law firm specializing in mergers, acquisitions, banking, insurance, etc. Blue chip. Wills for the wealthy.

The associates are encouraged (read, do it or else) to do pro bono work with Kansas City nonprofits. It could be the arts, summer camp funding for poor kids, education, animal shelters ... the belief is that each associate selects a field that’s of personal interest.

Kate told me, “It doesn’t work every time, what does? But it’s an efficient system for the most part. The kids take on a cause that means something to them and they usually put a lot into it.”

The kids she’s referencing are in their 20s and 30s. Kate is 57. And still volunteering, 30 years later, at the Edwin Caruthers Foundation for Children.

Kate smiled across her desk at me. The morning sun was streaming in through her 47th Street corner windows. RUMP had moved to the Plaza from their downtown offices more than 20 years ago.

Kate, a large, florid woman, is low key. Not a courtroom presence, much more of a backroom attorney. She said, “I have an interesting problem involving the Foundation. Probably more of a challenge than a problem.”

“Okay.”

“The President, Barney Farnsworth is retiring at the end of the year.” Six months from now. Seven, this is May.

“Okay.”

“He’s been a steady hand at the tiller. Almost 35 years. Nothing spectacular, but no scandals, no improprieties even. Revenue growth could have been stronger, but the Foundation kept ahead of inflation. Until inflation wasn’t much of a consideration.”

Rather than repeat myself, yet again, I nodded.

“Today we have three candidates to replace Farnsworth. All from outside the Foundation. Two men and a woman. But there’s a snag. Potential snag. Someone, someone anonymous, sent me an email. Enigmatic. It didn’t name anyone, just claimed that one of the three candidates is hiding something. Something in their past. His or her past. The ... troubling thing is ... it came to my private email account. The one only my family knows about.”

Winter Jennings, instantly alert, on the case.


American Snapshot:

Since 9/11, Islamic terrorists have murdered around 100 people in this country. During the same period, over 500,000 Americans have been killed by guns. Over 33,000 per year. Every year. On American soil.

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