Chapter 11

I sent my Irregulars out to search for the two one-digit cars. A black Jeep and a probably-beige Honda SUV.

Birdy Cummings, grandmother.

Joey Viagra, steroid juicer.

Bobby ‘Just Kidding’ Armstrong, mooch.

Sara Cunningham, now at City Hall.

Cathy Austin, home on a break from Michigan.

Squeaky Collins, in her mother’s gigantic Buick.

‘Jittery Gerard’ Malden, I hope his nervous tics don’t affect his driving.

Mingo Bernard Cochran, he’d be casing joints while looking for the cars.

Corky Dawson, bartender at the Peanut in Overland Park. Fucking Kansas.

I deployed them thoughtfully. And not only because I was paying them $100 for each four hour session. The odds were against it, but one of the cars could be Mr. Sniper’s. And I didn’t want my Irregulars spotted by him.

I gave each of the nine scouts a map with nine clearly defined boundaries. I scheduled them to drive one neighborhood at a time. Then move on to the second location.

In four hours, each of them would have driven in every block in the nine sectors. Looking at cars parked in the street, in lots, in driveways. If they spotted a dark Jeep with the last digit reading ‘9’, they were to keep driving. Then pull over, mark it on the map and call it into me. Same with a lighter colored Honda Pilot, last digit, ‘4’. Keep driving, pull over, call it in.

In addition, I was making my own rounds of the nine areas. At different times than the Irregulars.

We’ll see.

Pilar: “Oscar Levant said, ‘I’m not sure they’re using subliminal advertising’...”

Walker: “But yesterday I went out and bought a tractor.”

Harold called. My new bestie.

“Come check out my new crib, Winter. My financial ad viser say, buy it.”

I knew Harold would drop a lot of ‘financial advisor’ references into a lot of KC pimp conversations. Well, let him enjoy his newfound status. Gertie wouldn’t mind, would probably be amused. Maybe it’ll become a new business subcategory for her. Bankers, corporations, individuals. Pimps.

The two story, red brick apartment building -- the Buena Vista -- was only two blocks from Harold’s house, but in one of those almost intangible ways, it was a better neighborhood. Not necessarily safer, but inching toward gentrification.

In fact, Harold had paid a legitimate commercial remodeling contractor to renovate each of the 12 apartments. Not that he was too legitimate to pass up pussy in lieu of some payments. Hector Martinez and his crew had reasonable, not unfettered, daytime access to the kids.

Harold was not only dressed, but wearing a tie. Gertie Oppenheimer had affected him. Posture a little straighter. Pride as he gave me the grand tour. There were two young whores in each apartment. Nude and pink-haired. And scrubbing, vacuuming, polishing.

Harold said, “I keep two at home. Pussy and cleaning. Rotate them.”

“You didn’t sell your house?”

He gave me a pitying look. How could I be 33 and so fiscally naive? “Don’t sell real estate, Winter. Hang on, buy more. Everyone know that.” Nodded to himself, pleased.

“Your remodeler did a good job, Harold.”

Another nod, “Them spics like young boys. Glad I diversified my inventory.”

By taking young boy whores from a dead pimp. Well, every type of business has its insider strategies.

Harold’s house was nice. And nicely maintained. But I had to admit, the Buena Vista was an improvement. The kids could ply their trade in-house, so to speak. No more trips to those shabby Paseo motels.

There was a covered parking lot in back; so as far as the neighbors were concerned, the foot traffic in and out would be fairly discreet.

Harold hired a new manager for the whores. Cassandra was not quite as large as Columbo, but big enough to keep any wayward clients in line. That and her 12-gauge.

Columbo would continue to live in Harold’s house, body-guarding and helping him with his other interests. Which I didn’t want to know about. Let his financial ad visor worry about that.

In our Wrigley loft, we have that iconic black and white photo of Grand Central Terminal taken in 1930. Just after the Crash. Maybe you’ve seen it. The sun is streaming down at an angle from four of the 42nd Street windows. Plenty of travelers caught in mid stride. Uniformed attendants keeping watch.

But I know from my John Jay days that the negative has been flipped. What is actually the Vanderbilt side, the west side, is on the left. Where the Lexington Avenue wall should be.

The mistake not only doesn’t bother me, I actually like the imperfection. Not sure why. Maybe because no one else notices it. No, that would be petty, wouldn’t it? Feeling superior, that’s not me. Surely not.

In a CYA moment, I told Daddy about my Irregulars, about the car-canvassing south of Union Station. As with most things, he was unperturbed. “Might get lucky. I’ll let Hank know what you’re up to.”

Which, I admit, was my intention all along. I’m not supposed to be working the Oasis case, yet I can’t stay away. And I’ll worry a little less if Hank knows.

Vanessa and I were working on our second bottle of Cáliz de Luz. Hey, we’d shared the first bottle with Walker and Pilar at dinner. It’s a tasty red, Tempranillo grape. So Vanessa informed me.

We were watching the kids play-wrestle with Hobo, their beloved Border Collie. Unusual coloring -- bay and white. Hobo is such a people person. People dog. Out on walks he assumes he’s welcome everywhere and that everyone likes him. Not a bad attitude.

Vanessa said, “Cats are sociopaths, of course.”

Of course? “Oh?”

“Not that we can blame them for, say, killing birds for pleasure. It’s in their nature.”

I looked at Hobo with new fondness.

Birdy Cummings, the oldest of the Winter Irregulars called me, “Honda Pilot. It’s gray, not beige. But the last digit is 4.”

“Where?”

“Fifty-five hundred block of Rockhill. East side of the street.”

“Good work, Birdy. Don’t go by there again. Just keep making the rounds.”

I slow-drove through the UMKC campus, then circled around and came to Rockhill from the west, heading south. My window was down and I snapped a quick shot of the car. Zapped the photo to the Sullivans.

Jessie called me right back, she’d run the plate, “Unlikely. He’s a dentist and she’s a teacher. At Pilar’s school actually. He’s 55, she’s 49. Teenage kids, two of them.”

Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible. But this didn’t have the right feel. I said, “Background them anyway.”

Another false positive. Maybe that’s what it’s called. A dead end by any other name.

Once when I was around 10 I heard my mother talking on the phone with a friend, Shirley Aronson. They were having quite a detailed talk about a porno movie they’d seen recently.

Porn was still interesting to me back then and for some reason it pleased me that Mom was digging it. But I looked around for my older sister, Autumn. I didn’t want her to overhear our mother. Not sure why, but I felt protective of Mom that morning.

Odd.

Daddy told me that the FBI wasn’t making any progress on Mr. Sniper. Though they believed they’d tracked down the guy who’d leaked the software that was used to infiltrate Oasis.

“A part-time NSA subcontractor. Nothing subversive, no foreign powers. Just greedy.”

Then Joey Viagra called, “Winter, I got major wood. Right this minute. Crowbar.”

“I’m so happy for you, Joey. But why else did you call?”

“Black Jeep. Bellevue, just north of Valentine. West side of the street.”

Not that far from the Thomas Hart Benton home.

“License?”

“That’s a big niner, babe. Just like I’m sporting.”

Sigh. “Good catch, Joey, don’t drive Bellevue anymore.”

As I drove slowly up Broadway, past BEAR, I knew it was still very much a long shot. But at least I was out of my fucking office, fucking driving somewhere. Doing something.

Jesse called me this time on the Jeep plate, “It’s a fake, Winter. The first number is supposed to match the expiration date.”

Walker: “My wife has a speech impediment.”

Pilar: “Everyone once in a while she stops talking to breathe.”

Pilar isn’t fearless, I doubt anyone is. Saints and madmen maybe. Misdirected pit bulls. But she is brave. Tough. That treacherous trip from Hondo, Colombia to the US had imprinted something on Pilar. Her brain, her heart, her being.

Pilar’s mother had gone through even more -- a gang rape, unwanted sex, constant bribes. But Lina had been older, experienced. Intelligent enough to research the trip and make an informed decision. She knew what they were getting into.

I was thinking about Pilar’s toughness, her strength, because I was thinking of telling her she could go ahead and fuck Walker. They sleep together almost every night. And probably do everything except fuck.

But ... I decided to think about it some more. Chicken.

The black Jeep that Joey Viagra had spotted meant something. I’m not sure what, but something. I called each of the Irregulars, “Keep looking, but stay out of Area 5.” Which included Bellevue.

Of course I should turn this over to the FBI. Immediately.

Buster Fagin answered on the first ring, “Yo. Sup, sweetheart?”

“Your bike handy, darling?”

“Always.”

“I’ll pick you up. 20.”

“I’ll call BJ.”

“No, not this time. It’s a solo operation.”

And, I didn’t want a black boy and a white girl seen together. Not in that particular Kansas City neighborhood. It would draw too much attention, even as young as they are. Memorable was the last thing I was looking for.

I let Buster out three blocks away. “You know the drill -- glance. Don’t stare. Go around the block, you can see part of the back.”

He was looking at my boobs. But listening. Pretty sure.

About 10 minutes later I loaded his bike into the back of my F-150. He said, “There was some prime pussy on the porch so I just kept the petal to the metal. Nothing in the back yard except a grill and some chairs. You know those outside chairs Whitey likes.”

It was illogical, but I didn’t like it. A woman. I had, without really thinking it through, pictured Mr. Sniper as a loner. A personal loner. Not someone who had a person who lounged on his porch. A person like a wife or girlfriend.

I dropped Buster back in Raytown, a hundred dollars better off. Him, not me. Then I added a Jackson, “Take BJ out for a sandwich, tell her next time.”

He fist-bumped me, still eyeballing my chest. Little fucker.

Jessie called me before I arrived back at my office. “It’s a rental house. Lease is signed by a Carol NMI Rothingham. We’re working the databases, nothing on her yet.”

Maybe Mr. Sniper was using NMI as a beard. Having her sign for everything. Although I imagine he secured, or manufactured, the fake license plate. Men’s work.

Should I tell Daddy? I should. But I was afraid he’d give it to the FBI, to his friend Hank Morristown. It was still the slimmest of slim, but it was ... maybe something. I wanted to work it.

However, I’d made the same bad decision about Hugo Blenheim a while back. I’m not saying, I’m not even admitting it to myself ... but maybe two girls would be alive today if I’d gone to the police right after Blenheim had been spotted.

I sighed, U-turned from the stockyards without reaching my office and headed to Meyer Boulevard. The good little girl goes home to Daddy.

Someone, maybe an ancient Greek dude, said there are two horses in the soul. Unruly and self-indulgent v. dutiful.

I’m dutiful. Most of the time. Pretty sure.

Daddy perked up at the news of the mismatched digits on the license plate. He said, “I’ll drive.”

We cruised Bellevue at a sedate pace, not going too slow. It was a midsize house, a lot smaller than some of the old mansions in the Valentine neighborhood. But larger than some of the bungalows.

We were heading north because the house was on the west side, the driver’s side, of Bellevue. No one was on the porch and I didn’t see anyone else around so I snapped some more shots. Daddy drove around the block and I took some backyard photos.

Then we headed downtown. Hank Morristown was expecting us.

There’s a certain female dynamic in our Wrigley loft. One that Walker is acutely aware of. It’s a hum, an undercurrent of ... well, it varies from teasing eroticism to outright hotness.

Its seeds were cultivated when Richie left us. Well, actually after that. When my son began to realize that his mother was a woman.

A woman with boobs. And other mysterious stuff.

Then Vanessa. Walker was older, more aware, by the time she and I married and began living together. There was a period of adjustment while Walker tried to get used to the idea that a goddess was among us.

Vanessa is every bit as aware of the people around her as I am. And she was understanding, indulgent even, with Walker.

Of course when Mindy Montgomery took him on as a boyfriend the Walker-excitement, and embarrassment, quota shot up. Mindy was only two years older than he was. And she connected on a level that two old bats simply couldn’t.

Once she decided to fuck him, things became more open. Autofellatio is a good example. Mindy was genuinely proud of her little boyfriend and shared her enthusiasm with Vanessa and me.