Chapter 4

Bulldog Bannerman, fixer extraordinaire, came by my office. This time one of his three assistants, all 60-something ladies who were tougher than shoe leather, called to alert me.

Bulldog, thick white hair cropped short, a sinewy body that still calls to mind the Golden Gloves fighter he had been in his teens, has an air of quiet competence.

He gave me a small smile, “Favor.”

“Of course.” I didn’t know him that well, not with 40 years difference in our ages. But we knew each other through Daddy. I respected Bulldog. Didn’t always agree with some of the strings he pulled, but I’m no politician. He saw angles around corners, down twisty streets that I had no interest in navigating.

He once, out of the blue, took Walker to the first game of the first World Series that the Royals had been in since before I was born. It was a night game and Walker sat between Bulldog and the mayor. I imagine they had good seats.

They saw an inside the park home run which, as Walker has told me 1517 times, is rare. Walker couldn’t remember a word the men with him in the box seats said, but that game is etched in his little brainpan. Bulldog gave him a baseball autographed by the guy who hit that home run. Whose name I never can remember.

So I knew I would do whatever it is that Bulldog asked. It would be fair, proportional to my talents. And maybe even appropriate. Perhaps even legal. I reached for a pen.

He didn’t shake his head no, but sent out some sort of signal. I put the pen back down.

“Hotel Phillips. Room 707. Two men, you know one of them, 3 o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Okay.” I was waiting for some guidance, some perspective, some ... something.

He gave me a half salute and was gone. I didn’t bother to look out my office windows to Genessee. Bulldog’s driver and bodyguard, Emile, would be opening the back door of that gleaming black Cadillac, the one with the extra legroom in back. No KC cop would ever pull that car over; no meter maid would ever ticket it.

Emile was in his 50s and no one fucked with him. Part of his background was hazy, something about the French Foreign Legion in lieu of prison. Something about Thailand, the CIA, a small airline. Emile had a concealed carry permit which was superfluous. He never hid the shoulder rig he wore everywhere.

I called my field operatives, no Jin rumors. Buster Fagin in Raytown told me, “I’d like to fuck your brains out, Winter.” These days, we take our compliments where we find them.

That night at dinner it was just Walker and me. A bright spot in my life, my son. I could tell he had shaved again. Not from the absence of whiskers, he didn’t really possess any to be AWOL. There were a couple of tiny nicks. It’s a learning process.

I took my quick after-work shower and donned an ‘I Suck Cocks’ Tee-shirt. One of Walker’s favorites. Naturally.

I watched my favorite son as he frowned in concentration, frying pepper bacon and eggs over easy. Sourdough toast. Shoestring fries. Ice cold dark Beck’s.

Mindy has him wearing his wavy blonde hair longer this season. I approve. His deep blue eyes sparkled as they eyeballed me up and down, “Commando?”

“None of your beeswax. Feed me, rude boy.”

This evening my across-the-table reading matter was, ‘My Mom Licks Pussy.’ Walker likes wearing it. Well, why not, it’s true.

As I was doing the dishes, Walker stood behind me, his slender arms around my waist. He’s a good head taller than I am and he bent down to nuzzle my neck, “I love you, Winter.”

Spontaneous affection. It just pops out of him sometimes. Not as often as when it was just the two of us, but it’s still ever so welcome. Then he slowly slid his hands under my Tee, up my tummy to just under my boobs. When I didn’t protest, he cupped my breasts softly and whispered, “And not just because of these.”

“I know babyboy, I know.”

I felt his erection against the top of my butt, but didn’t escalate, didn’t rub back against it. Thought about it though.

Daddy told me, “The FBI field office in Oakland has been by the Suen house three times. Nobody knows nothing. They’re keeping a loose eye on the place. And a looser one on the business.”

Treviño Tamales.

“What do the Suens say about Jin? Foster, I mean.”

“Just that he’s been gone for a long time. Nobody knows where.”

We later learned the FBI didn’t ask if anyone else in the Suen household was gone. No reason to at the time, I guess.

I hated doing it, but after Jin’s second visit to my Exchange office, I loaded my Mossberg Silver Reserve shotgun and placed it by the front door. That was dumb, I’d be over 100 feet away at night. Moved it to our bedroom.

It didn’t bother Vanessa. Not in the least.

Then, and I hated this even more, I took Vanessa and the kids way out in the country to practice. Just in fucking case. Mindy was massaging her shoulder on the drive home, but didn’t say a word.

Daddy, 6’ 2” tall, imposing in manner, had a slight potbelly, mostly just a hint of one, for a couple of years. Then he didn’t. Discipline. That minor outward sign of weakness annoyed him. Annoyed ‘The Captain’ as Kansas City, good, bad, and indifferent knows him.

He’s staunchly Republican, so is Mom and my older sister, Autumn. I’m not so staunch, but I lean Democratic.

Daddy has never, not once, tried to influence my politics. He’s always wanted Autumn and me to grow up to be independent thinkers. It’s working with me.

I’m writing this in the Spring of 2017 and Daddy is becoming increasingly uncomfortable with our new President. And even more disgusted with our super-partisan Congress.

What a mood the country is in. I have to wonder how it will affect our lives. My career. Vanessa’s.

The Hotel Phillips, 20 stories of art deco elegance, was recently refurbished by its new owners. It’s on 12th street in the heart of downtown. Excuse me, the Power & Light District.

It’s a business destination, but I have fond memories of the Phillips. Several fond memories. Various men and boys had brought me here for well over 15 years. Ever since I got my boobs and then learned to enjoy what goes where. At first, I was sure Daddy didn’t know. Hey, I was young and dumb.

I don’t know if I’d actually been in 707 before, but I’d spent sack time in its equivalent rooms more than once. It was a king deluxe which meant it had a sofa, desk and media console in addition to the sleeping quarters.

The man who answered my knock was a stranger. Still wearing his suit coat. Conservative dresser. My height, balding, horn-rimmed glasses. He nodded and stepped aside. There was Phillip Montgomery. Phillip at the Phillips. Not that I’d need a memory-jogger to recall this meeting.

He hugged me, “Sorry for the silly cloak and dagger, Winter. You’ll see why. The bank keeps rooms here for business guests.” He nodded, “This is Morgan Fleetwood, from DC.”

It wasn’t even an artful nom de plume. Or nom de guerre. Morgan Fleetwood, my ass.

He held out an open identification folder, “State Department.”

Maybe.

Morgan said, “Phillip will explain the ... situation. I’m here merely to assure you of your government’s approval. Of your being part of things should you choose to do so. Of our support for Phillip.”

He shook hands formally with Phillip, nodded to me, started to leave, then looked back at me, “We want you to take this project on. And we’ll honestly try not to big-foot you.” He looked me up and down, then went out the door.