Chapter 9

Walker now has three bikinied girls in framed photographs over the bedroom bureau. I’m the original, Girl # 1. In my too-tiny pink bikini. Vanessa, classic Slavic beauty, in a green micro number. Mindy, in yellow, rocks the tiniest bikini of us all.

She doesn’t seem to mind when Walker’s weekend buddies openly ogle the pinup array. In fact, Mindy seems to be like Vanessa and I are. Amused. A little proud to be ogle-worthy.

Okay, fuck. A lot proud.

And I know Walker is beyond pleased to be seen out and about with any one of us. Even his old mom, and that’s saying something for a 14-year old boy.

Lately I’ve been taking him to the Unicorn for dinner. With Vanessa working at BEAR and Mindy at Mary’s shelter, it’s fun to enjoy the casual Unicorn atmosphere. And the tasty Gullah cuisine.

But our chef, Mingo, Lucy Cuthbert’s husband, had branched out from that South Carolina low country cooking from the start.

Delicious, greasy, fat, cheeseburgers. Fried chicken. Cobb salad. Caesar salad. Salty, crispy, house-made chips.

One of the draws for Walker, and for all others of the male sex, was our head waitress, Bess Cuthbert. Late 20s, sassy, flirty, sexy, gregarious, smiling, she has a smoked-honey Southern accent and uses it to full advantage.

She sat with Walker and me, arm around his shoulders, nipple greeting his arm, lips against his ear whispering, “Baby, ditch Winter. Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you my bedroom.”

Walker, in deep blush, the red blush, not the pink one, crossed his legs.

Bobby ‘Just Kidding’ Armstrong called me late on a Friday morning. “Poker lead.” The robbery at the Wrigley poker game.

I met JK at Harry’s Country Club in the West Bottoms. Or River Market, as some prefer to call it. It’s close to my office in the stockyards and a favorite hangout for JK. The joint isn’t a club and isn’t in the country. It’s just a down-to-earth bar and restaurant.

JK is another of my part-time freelancers. Like Buster Fagin. Like the portly Tony Gonzales who helped me out on a stamp scam a while back.

JK looks like a racetrack tout. Or how the movies portray them. Slender, kind of weaselly-looking. Pencil mustache that compliments the dyed-black combover. Which is rarely seen because he rarely removes his leather English racing cap.

JK orders 18-year-old Jameson Reserve Irish Whiskey, specifying the vintage, the brand, the adjectives. “With Dr. Pepper. And olives.”

I have iced tea, unsweetened.

JK leans across the table to me. Lowers his voice, which is sort of a good thing, since it’s kind of ... weaselly. “Listen, sugar, it’s a thou up front.”

He grins, “Just kidding!”

The drinks come. He sips appreciatively, nods to himself, “Pappy was right, good booze costs more, but it’s worth it.” Especially since I’m paying. JK isn’t noted for his long arms when it’s tab time.

Leaned forward again, “Lenny isn’t flashing a lot of cash, but... “ Shrug.

“Lenny Wooster? Lenny Comstock? Lenny Fucking Bruce?”

“Nah. Lenny the Harm.” Tone of voice like I’m a little slow for not grasping the basics. Lenny Harmford.

Waitress returns with JK’s refill. He orders the City Fried Steak, I match him with the City Fried Chicken.

Leans forward, “The Harm got his Vette tuned up. Over by Morey’s. Almost four thousand Smakeroos.”

“Remind me.”

“The Harm, he’s always between jobs. You know the type.” Yeah, like Bobby ‘Just Kidding’ Armstrong.

“Describe him, JK.”

We dig into our lunches, big delicious fried things, mashed potatoes with country gravy, seasoned green beans. Another Jamison and Dr. Pepper. With more olives, please.

Mouth full, “Tall fucker. Dark hair. Full arm sleeves.”

The poker game robbers had worn long-sleeved shirts, all four of them. No ink was showing. Maybe JK was on to something.

Outside, I slip him a Grant. Just about doubling the cost of our $60 lunch. He knows that if it pans out, I’ll take care of him.

And I will. Just as Daddy had taught me to take care of my equipment -- guns, cars, pepper spray. Typical girl stuff. Well, I also take care of my people. More tips than not don’t work out. But when one does, I’ll reward the tipster. Nicely.

Mindy was spending the night with her parents in Mission Hills. Every once in a while Walker doesn’t join her. Gives his little girlfriend some time alone with Rebecca and Phillip. Nice kid.

It’s Friday night and Vanessa had told us, “Don’t expect me, we’ll be slammed tonight.” Fridays are usually busy at BEAR’s but dinner reservations had been especially strong this night. So she’d work late, sleep in the upstairs loft.

Walker and me, two best pals. We’d lived together, just the pair of us, for almost ten years after his father left me for a newer model. And we still enjoy it, just the two of us. I don’t know how much longer that will last, so I enjoy it while I can.

We brushed our teeth together, just as we had almost every night. Between living with Richie and then Vanessa. Walker nude, tonight I’m wearing one of my ex’s long dress shirts.

In bed, Walker sighs softly, a little boy sigh of contentment. So happy to spoon back into me. I kiss the back of his neck like I used to do all the time. I’m circling his little nipples with a middle finger fingernail. I wonder to myself, ‘Is a friendly, goodnight blowjob really that much different from a friendly, goodnight hand job?’

Answer: yes.

I trail my right hand down over his smooth, flat tummy to the Promised Land. Walk sighs again.

Mildred Suen, Jin’s mother, was one sick puppy. While her own childhood had been miserable and I felt a minor tug of sympathy for her, nothing excused what she and her only son did to their pitiable victims.

Mildred had been raised right where she was born -- Oakland, California. Her Chinese-American family had been well off for generations and wealthy for the previous two. Money that came from hard work and a disciplined financial rigor.

But Treviño Tortillas made the family rich. The grandfather held the patent on the most efficient tortilla shaping machine of its time. Mildred’s father refined the assembly and distribution process. Invested heavily in marketing and he paid premiums for valued shelf space in supermarket chains. Money piled up. Smart businessmen.

A great American success story, in its way. But the Suen men were also monsters. Polite, smiling monsters. Misogynists, women-despising savages, as some Asian men are. Some American men as well.

Mildred was raped on a daily basis. By her grandfather. Her father, her uncles, her male cousins, her brothers, older and younger. Raped casually, indifferently, front, back, mouth. Kept naked, a virtual prisoner in that wretched house.