Chapter 9

Clemson slipped into the just-vacated bar stool next to me. I studiously didn’t notice.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

My boobs had done their duty.

I looked at Clemson as if seeing him for the first time. “That’s it? That’s your best pickup line?”

“Who says I’m trying to pick you up?” Hint of whine.

“Then no thanks. I’ll buy my own.”

Silence while he regroups. I do too. I hope I’m not playing it too cool. I hunch my shoulders fractionally. More cleavage.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” Not a bad line, a whitebread suburban bar.

I laugh, “Good question. I just stopped for a pop on my way back to the hotel. The burbs aren’t really my thing.”

“What hotel?”

“Marriott.”

“On Metcalf?”

I’d just told him I didn’t like the suburbs. Probably too much chest-attention.

“No. Downtown. Kansas City. On 12th Street.”

“Oh.”

I let him buy me a drink. He told Corky, “Make it a double.” She looked at me. I nodded. Corky turned her back as she left out the vodka. Needn’t have bothered, Clemson’s eyes were locked onto my chest. Good.

He was nursing his Coors Light. Two things wrong with his choice of brews. Coors. Light.

I sipped my drink, shook my head, “Whew, that’s strong.” Clemson smiled at the sissy.

I asked, in a tone that suggested interest, “So what do you do for a living?”

“IT. Group VP at Sprint.”

“Impressive.”

Modest shrug. Another glance at my boobs. I sat back and raised both arms as I arched my back to stretch. Hey, if you got it, flaunt it.

He was working up his nerve. In the unfair universe we all inha bit, he and I both understood I was out of his league. Way out. Looks, brains, character. Boobs. It wasn’t a Beauty and the Beast chasm, nothing that radical. But our differences were out there in the open, pulsating almost.

Gotta give him credit for trying though.

“I live not far from here.”

“Convenient.”

He ordered another Coors. I was still nursing. He decided to go for humble. “Look, you’re a classy lady. Up here.” He raised his hand, palm down. “I’m a regular guy, down here.” Second palm completing the illustration. In case I’d suddenly lost my ability to understand words.

“Don’t fish for compliments.”

He blushed and frowned at the same time. Then, nothing to lose, “Come by my pad. It’s close. Ten minutes.”

“Is that the best thing about it? It’s close?”

Blush deepened. Then, “No, the best thing is I’m in it. You won’t regret it.”

“Look, you seem like a nice enough guy. You probably have your share of little Kansas girls who take you up on that offer. Not me. If I wanted to hook up with someone, it would be at my hotel. Not some stranger’s house.”

I’d upgraded him from a small apartment in a mediocre complex to a house. He didn’t correct me. Naturally.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want to hook up?”

I turned to face him fully. This time he was staring into my baby blues. “Maybe.”

Clemson smiled and made a twirling gesture with his finger. Corky looked at me, I nodded.

“Maybe is better than no.”

“Sometimes.”

I had him, so I turned the conversation to tactics. “I’ll finish my drink and leave. Give me 20 minutes, then come to my hotel. Room 705.”

I handed him a Marriott card that the hotel didn’t know about. It had the right address, but the phone would be answered by Sarah Cunningham, another of my freelancers. She’d say, “Marriott.” Probably over-planning on my part, but I tend to do that when dealing with cockroaches.

I wrote ‘Sally Fields’ and ‘705’ on the back of the card. He read it, simpered and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“Why the 20 minutes?”

“I want to shower and change.”

“Gotcha.”

I left. I had parked out of sight of The Peanut, but I still checked before I got into my truck. When I was sure he wasn’t following me, I called Sergeant Finch. “I think it’s working.”

“We’re in place.” In the Marriott lobby.

I looked in my rearview. Smiled. Bear was in his souped-up Chrysler, he had my back. I hadn’t asked him to, but it didn’t surprise me.

I did have Birdy Cummings, my grandmotherly freelancer, tracking Darrel Clemson. She was parked near his blue Mustang and would call me when he left. And would let me know if he changed his mind and didn’t head for the Marriott. Unlikely, with pussy on offer.

I wasn’t the slightest bit worried that he’d spot Birdy. People in their 20s don’t really see the elderly. And she drove a tan Camry, about as nondescript as you can get.

My main reason for engaging Birdy was in case Clemson did change his plans. I didn’t want to tie up Sergeant Finch and her team a minute longer than necessary. She was doing me a mega favor. But doing the world a favor too. One less maggot among the general population is one less maggot, population-wise.

I drove, as I almost always did, on surface streets. Wending my way generally north and generally east toward downtown. I took Broadway and Bear honked goodbye when we reached his restaurant. I waved my thanks out the window.

Louise Finch was in street clothes. I spotted two burly uniforms, one man, one woman, off to the side of the lobby. She was letting them make the pinch. She’d learned from Daddy to share the fun.

Vanessa gave me a hug. She would tape the arrest. With Sergeant Finch’s permission. She knew we wouldn’t post it online. No matter how smoothly it went down, some shade tree lawyer would spot something to squawk about.

No, the tape was intended for an audience of one. Cherry Conners. It wouldn’t make up for Clemson’s fucking up her life, but it should give her some satisfaction. It would be a surprise, I hadn’t told her anything about my plan for her former lover. A very happy surprise.

That, and knowing that Clemson would be going away for a good long time. Cherry had agreed, reluctantly, to testify if it went to trial. But the prosecutor was pretty sure she could get him to cop to some serious time. Especially after he’d been entertained by the general jailhouse charm squad.

She would threaten to turn Clemson over to the Feds who could charge him on several counts, starting with 18 U.S.C. § 1470 - Transfer of obscene material to minors.

She told Sergeant Finch and me, “Clemson will fold. Punks like him always do.”

There is only one axiom I live by. I call it the Winter Jennings Code: The road to power is paved with hypocrisy. And casualties.

I was 90% packed for The Globe. It was sailing from Freeport to Buenos Aires with several Caribbean ports of call along the way. Envoy Assets had booked me for a month’s stay. If we mutually agreed that it was necessary, I could extend it.

Walker was a little anxious. It’s so sweet that he’s sweet on me that way. But he’ll be fine. Vanessa and Pilar would see to that.

Still, he’s been a little clingy lately.

Then he sat down with Vanessa and me. Sat up straight so I knew it was important to him. He looked at me, Vanessa, back to me.

“Could I get a massage table? With the oils, candles, everything? Like you guys?”

We knew what was on his mind. Pilar.

Shit.

Vanessa said, “Up to Winter, lamb.”

Both of them were looking at me. I tried for nonchalant. “Sure. Use your debit card.”

I was telling myself that massages weren’t any more or any less likely to start them fucking each other. That’s what I told myself.

Darrel Clemson strode into the Marriott lobby ten minutes ahead of time. Birdy had let me know his ETA and the police were ready. He broke into a huge smile when he spotted me sitting with Sergeant Finch, “You’re here!”

The good sergeant flipped open her ID case, the badge centered in the bottom half. “You’re under arrest for the transfer of obscene material to minors.”

She was reading her Miranda card carefully and slowly as the two uniforms cuffed an astonished Clemson’s wrists behind his back.

He wasn’t hearing her, he was in shock, staring at me, “What ... what ... what?”

Vanessa was taping. I was smiling. All I said was, “Cherry Conners.”

His expression went from stunned to momentary confusion to rage. “You fucking cunt!” He lunged at me. Was able to move maybe half an inch with both uniforms gripping his biceps. Maybe not that much.

I thanked Sergeant Finch and she said, “My pleasure, Winter. Sincerely.”

On the drive to the Wrigley, Vanessa cheek-kissed me, “You did good.”

I smiled, “Yeah, I did. When they call you a cunt, you know you’ve nailed ‘em”

Back to the future. Kansas City used to have hundreds of miles of passenger railways. St. Joe to Olathe, a north-south distance of around 70 miles. Lawrence to Independence -- 50 miles going the other way.

Then WW II ended, car culture kicked in, some prosperity, the Interstate system. Oh well.

The new trolley -- River Market to the Crossroads -- is only a couple of miles. But it’s a start.

At least we didn’t do like a lot of other cities and replace grand old downtown buildings with parking lots. Didn’t do it too much, anyway.

There’s an unconscious, or maybe subconscious, symmetry to some relationships. Example: Walker and Pilar.

He’s a product of his middle class roots, his Midwestern upbringing, as unorthodox as living with Vanessa and me may be. Pilar is mature far beyond her years. More so than Walker.

His innate kindness and her hard-earned toughness somehow blend to form a twosome that is kind of unique. Somehow, they are dependent on each other. Symbiotic. Walker shows his need a lot more than Pilar. Yet, she’s always here, always with him.