Chapter 8

I guess you’d say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl (my girl, my girl)
Talkin’ ‘bout my girl (my girl)

Sometimes Vanessa and I glam it up. Just for the fun of it. She was taking a Friday night off from both Euforia and BEAR on Broadway. A sure signal that she had both operations running the way she wanted.

We were wearing bandage dresses, tight, form-fitting. Vanessa’s was black with fringes hanging from mid thigh to mid calf. They swirled as she strode through the night, drawing eyes to her long, long legs.

I wore an orange scoopneck that showcased what it was designed to. No fringes, but plenty of thigh. Thighs.

Both dresses were backless of course.

Walker stared at us for the usual reasons. Pilar assessed us, probably sensing something about her own future.

Vanessa and I took Lyft to the Unicorn Club, down by the Missouri River. The Unicorn is raucous on weekends. Well as raucous as Lucy Cuthbert allows.

I won’t say the room hushed as we swept in. For one thing, it didn’t. But eyes were paying attention as we threaded our way through tables to the three-deep bar. Two barstools were made instantly available. It’s endearing, almost, what silly boys think might score them some pussy.

We weren’t allowed to buy a drink that night, so, as co-owners, Vanessa and I bought the house a round. Which drew appreciative cheers.

A night out was just what I needed. Away from that fucking laundry, away from that fucking Silicon Valley.

Vanessa and I didn’t order dinner, we just nibbled at bar snacks for a couple of hours. Then she looked at me. Smiled at me. Her eyes had that golden tone. She wanted me. I can’t get over the joy it fills me with to be desired by my gorgeous lover.

We were back at the Wrigley sooner, obviously, than the kids had expected. They’d taken a page from Vanessa and me and were rollerblading in the nude. Pilar, as usual, was unperturbed. Walker, as usual, blushed furiously.

Vanessa gave his erection a friendly goodnight squeeze as she went by. Being naturally competitive, I wouldn’t allow even Vanessa to outdo me.

The kids turned down the music, but we could still hear the swoosh of the rollerblades as we came out of our shower.

I had Felicity give Daddy and me a grand tour of the Bay Area. An all-day drive that included Marin, the East Bay, the Peninsula and San Francisco. It was an orientation for Daddy who hadn’t been out here since his Army days. And a reminder to me of how vast and varied this pocket of the country is.

The three of us had lunch not that far from the Bay and sort of close to the Cal campus in Berkeley. Spenger’s, which is now owned by a restaurant conglomerate. Ordinarily, snob that I am, I wouldn’t have eaten in a chain, but it was a favorite of our Uber driver. And Felicity flirts with Walker when he’s out here.

We started with oysters and the three of us went with the waitress-recommended daily special -- petrale sole with lemon-shallot cauliflower. Daddy is basically on a Mediterranean diet these days. And is regaining some of his color. He’s down about an inch from his previous six feet, two. And he’s down about 24 pounds which he plans to keep off.

Back at the Four Seasons, Felicity free until 8 in the morning, Daddy and I agree to naps and to meet in Quattro for dinner. Quattro is Italian and Italy juts into the Mediterranean so it must be healthy, right?

Daddy went for scallops, no starters, no dessert. So I sacrificed and limited myself to the duck. Not even one glass of wine, although I’d make up for that back in my room. Red goes well with Le Wand. Been my experience anyway.

Daddy stopped by my room to pick up the 1,664 pages of my surveillance summaries. Plus over 200 pages of random notes, idle thoughts, speculations. An additional 300 pages of God Pill research.

Le Wand was tucked securely away in the bedside table. Plan ahead.

I wasn’t worried about burying Daddy in paper, he’d survived 30 years in one of the most bureaucratic institutions in Kansas City. Plus, I knew from my mother, that he wasn’t sleeping as well as he used to. Getting better though.

I knew Daddy would find my paperwork amusing. It was tidy, neatly double-spaced with right and left margins justified. As if my subconscious had believed that an orderly presentation would lead to insight. Looked good, though, looked professional. Told me fuck-all.

Vaping. It had been a fringe thing, some 60s head shops. Then, overnight, it was everywhere. Shops seemingly on every block. Some bars allowing it, even though it’s illegal in KC.

I’m, absent the slightest smidgeon of scientific evidence, against it. It encourages kids to smoke. And, from what little I’ve read, it may not be as healthy as proponents claim. Gum damage for one.

Vanessa had the talk with Walker. We weren’t really that worried, he’s pretty sensible. About most things.

Of course at home we vape a little bud. That’s different.

My mother bitched, lightly, about Daddy flying out to California. Going back to work in a way. But she knew it was healthy for him. A legitimate part of his recovery process.

The caveat emptor has no clothes. Or whatever that saying is. My KC investigation uncovered no Mob ties, no mastermind behind an international apron conspiracy. Just the usual hoi and polloi.

Before Bobsy Atwater flew Daddy out to California, I decided to bring the laundry caper to an end. It took me two more 3 AM laundry counts before Courtney Hammil upped her tally.

I checked the Excella clipboard in Vanessa’s office and the total was off by just under 12%. Hammil was still loading those green laundry duffles into the back of her truck. I walked up the metal ramp from the street and she called out, “Hey! You can’t...”

I flipped my mail order badge in her face and said, quietly, calmly, “You’re in trouble, Hammil.”

She didn’t try to brazen it out, her face seemed to melt in on itself. “Shit.”

I led her down the ramp and into the cab of her truck so we could talk privately. It had McDonald’s containers from her breakfast on the floor of the passenger side. My side. She scooped them up, already fully into subservience. Good.

I lied, “I know what’s going on. Tell me what you know, don’t leave anyone out. Talk first. While you still can.”

Fortunately, people watch a lot of television and think they know about plea bargains, prosecuting attorneys. Grand juries. Jail. They don’t, not usually.

It came gushing out. One woman, Bonnie Hendricks, in Accounting. She diverted an occasional customer check into a private account in a different bank. Hendricks did this only when the excess from the fake inventory had created enough extra money so the misdirected check wouldn’t be noticed at Excella.

Not bad. Hendricks didn’t raise any corporate flags because the gross income stayed fairly steady.

Hamill knew of one other driver in on the scam. But there could be others. As far as she knew, Hendricks was on the top, no other Excella home office staff were involved.

There were tears streaming down Hamill’s cheeks and her hands were shaky. Good thing I’m a toughie, I might feel sorry for the stupid girl. “Talk to no one. No one. I’ll let you know what I’m going to do.”

Which was lay it out for Vanessa and let her decide. Based on my too-small sample, Euforia was out around 13% every other month. If nothing else, we’d recoup that from the home office. But with at least one other driver involved, there was no telling how many other customers were being ripped off.

Vanessa was annoyed, but not that upset. “Thank you, Winter, this will help our bottom line. And erase a thing that was nagging at me. But I’ll leave it up to you, what to do with the whole mess. As long as we’re reimbursed, I’m okay with whatever you decide.”

I had a signed, handwritten confession from Hammil. Admitting her own guilt and implicating Hendricks and one other driver. But I didn’t have any idea how widespread the internal corruption was. Had we been back in the 30s, when KC had been divvied up, the head of Excella would have been behind it.

Today, who knew? But I doubted it was much more than a single greedy accountant roping in a couple, or a few, gullible drivers. Fuck. Wish I could lasso in Jeffrey Mallow and prove myself right once again.

Taking the high road, I called on an Assistant City Prosecutor. In the 1100 block of Locust, a neighborhood familiar to all of us involved in law enforcement.

Helen Thornton, unglamorous, in an unglamorous office, doing unglamorous work, smiled and asked about my father. “Really well. Just has to keep from straining himself. Watches his diet. Doesn’t complain.”

“No, The Captain never did.”

I outlined the Excella scam, gave her the conflicting inventory lists, Hammil’s confession, and my notes on Bonnie Hendricks.

Thornton glanced through the bumf and sighed, “Petty shit, looks like to me. But we’ll look into it, thanks Winter.”

Weeks later, Hendricks was arrested, she’ll maybe do some time, although overcrowding is a problem here, like most places. Hamill and two other drivers were threatened, scared, and put on probation. The president of Excella, Bruce Hendricks, no relation -- I checked thoroughly -- brought in an outside accounting firm.

Excella would make full restitution, along with a 25% ‘we’re sorry’ payment on top of the reimbursed amount. They lost a few customers, but most, like Vanessa, were satisfied.

The “Kansas City Star” gave it a one-day play, buried inside. Not exactly the Crime of the Millennium.

Bruce, no-relation, Hendricks came to my office after his secretary made an appointment. Tall, slender, hunched a bit, 74-years old. He gave me a small smile and a check for $3,500.

Once my primary Nelson-Eamons lead, Dickie Axelrod, crashed and burned, suspect-wise, I returned my focus to another Nelson guy, Josh Emmonds. My old drinking buddy at The Treasury in San Francisco’s Financial District.

I had explained the lay, so to speak, of the land to Vanessa. She smiled, a genuine smile and said, “Don’t enjoy it too much, luv.” Then she hugged me and whispered, “Condoms.”

I told Walker about Josh. I didn’t want to and he certainly didn’t want to hear about it. But I’m determined not to have that kind of relationship with my son. My lovely, wonderful son. I don’t want to hide things, don’t want to lie.

I’d count on Vanessa to comfort him, to reassure him. And Pilar too, she’d give him her tough, realistic perspective.

Josh Emmonds looked somewhat like the stereotypical Valley nerd. He didn’t have a slide rule clipped to his belt. Do people even use those anymore? Probably not. Not when a cell does everything and more.

He’s skinny, not quite as tall as I am. Doesn’t wear glasses and actually has a smart haircut, nothing geeky. No dress sense though, none whatsoever. He’s not as bad as Bobsy’s studied dorkishness, but it’s obvious that his mother, sister, aunt, girlfriend, whoever, didn’t teach him much.

Tonight it’s tan cords, shorts no less, with a brown belt. Blue sneakers, velcro. Red hoodie. Nothing radically wrong, nothing very right.

Fuck, get over it, Winter!

I turned him down the first two times he invited me back to his apartment. Tonight, “Okay.”

It was raining. Really pouring down. The Joshes of the world, like Bobsy without the genius, don’t think about practicalities. Like what the fuck my shag would look like by the time we walked three blocks.