Chapter 3

I got a call from, sad to say, a pimp I know in the Forgotten Northeast. Harold. My respect for him ticked up a notch when he had the foresight to call me one day not long ago. Some maggot had kidnapped a girl from Pilar’s school in Brookside.

And had given the little girl to Harold to cancel a $7,000 gambling debt. Well, Harold’s inventory does fall into the young range. But he was smart enough to know that the heat would be intolerable. A kidnapped girl, white, young, from Brookside, upper middle class. Despite a voluntary media blackout, word raced all over town.

He turned the girl over to me, I handed her off to Sergeant Louise Finch, and this one anyway, ended happily.

Harold said, “Can you come by, Winter? I got me a problem.”

I knew better than to ask about it over the phone. Bad enough he had my number at all. But Harold and I had a tenuous sort of relationship. We don’t respect each other, but he sometimes helps me out. Still does, even though Daddy is now retired from the KCPD.

I told Harold I’d see him an hour or so. It was around 11 on a Saturday morning, early for Harold to be up and about. In my own little world, the kids were off on kids’ errands and Vanessa was at Euforia going over that night’s menu with Lina and the kitchen staff.

I drove in the general direction of Harold’s house like I usually do, taking surface streets instead of freeways, side streets instead of main drags. This allowed me to drive more slowly, see more things. And people.

The long-anticipated economic recovery in the Northeast must be taking an even more circuitous route. Most things were still pretty shabby. Although there were signs. The Kansas City Museum, located in the majestic Beaux-Arts mansion now called Corinthian Hall, is undergoing a major facelift. It’ll be closed for a couple of years, but would reopen completely transformed. Even have a restaurant like the Nelson-Atkins and the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art.

Both of those upscale museums are located a couple of blocks east of the Plaza. Corinthian Hall though was in the Forgotten Northeast. In a pocket neighborhood that housed many onetime stately mansions.

I parked my F-150 in front of Harold’s paid-for-by-young-whores home. Oddly enough, the house has those classy, and classic, Richard Neutra house numbers. I doubt Harold was responsible, probably one of the previous owners.

The lawn was tidy, the grass neatly mowed, hedges recently clipped. Harold’s bodyguard / enforcer, Columbo, was on the front porch sipping a 40 with his left hand, a blunt in his right.

Columbo, like Harold, had thawed toward me. I’d kept them out of the Brookside debacle and hadn’t teased them when a scary snuff film producer had strolled in and taken away Harold’s youngest whore.

So, détente of a sort. Harold and Columbo still made my skin crawl, but the pimp you know...

Columbo nodded, “Inside. Expecting you.”

The screen door opened easily without squeaking. Harold maintained his property. Or his whores did. Naked, they scrubbed, polished, waxed, dusted during the day. And provided pussy at night. Two underbelly motels on Paseo. Not that much of a commute -- Columbo piled them into a van and dropped them off around 9. Picked them up around 4 in the morning.

The same thug -- Jin -- who had taken Harold’s whore had also killed another pimp, this one named Ramone. When Ramone hadn’t been seen for a couple of days, Harold, Pantone and a couple of other entrepreneurs scooped up Ramone’s whores. By some sort of archaic chivalry, the other pimps left the youngest ones for Harold.

And that’s how he ended up with his first two boys. He must have found the additions profitable because I spotted those two and two others on their hands and knees, cleaning the baseboards in the living room.

Harold keeps his whores naked and I saw eight of them that Saturday. All quiet, all earnest, all working diligently on the house. And they all had that trademark pink hair. A marketing gimmick that Harold was extremely proud of.

It was an open secret in the Northeast. Shop owners, cops, waitresses ... everyone recognized Harold’s whores as they went about their daytime errands.

One naked girl was standing on a step stool, on tiptoes, trying to reach the top part of a window. I recognized her, she bounced back and forth between Harold and Sister Mary’s shelter. Now run by Gloria VanLandingham. This girl was not quite a lost cause, but flirting with it.

“Hi Laquita, where’s Harold?”

She beamed, “Ms. Winter! I’m going back to Ms. Gloria’s next week. Or maybe the week after.”

Yeah. “Good girl.”

“He’s in the kitchen.”

Well, this is the life I’ve chosen. I not only know where Harold’s kitchen is, I can also pinpoint his bedroom. Upstairs, third door on the right if you’re curious. Upstairs, third door on the right if you’re not curious.

I went through the living room, down a gleaming hallway, into the kitchen. Harold, nude, was sitting on the table, a pink-haired boy busily sucking his cock. Using both hands on the long skinny penis.

Oddly, I wasn’t bothered by the sight. Certainly not offended. My outlaw girlfriends and I had given plenty of blowjobs in front of each other. Back in the day. I’m married now of course, and ever so respectable.

This was another new boy, not one of Ramone’s. Young of course. White. Eyes closed in concentration as he diligently strove to please Massa.

As I calmly watched his efforts, I thought about this ... this thing, this whatever it was between Harold and me. We were about the same age -- 33 -- but worlds apart.

Or, maybe not so far apart. We were, mostly, on the opposite sides of the criminal justice system. Not necessarily opposed, but opposite. I think prostitution, like drugs, should be legal. Problem is, nobody seems to give a rat’s fart what I think.

As I self-philosophized, young girls, young boys, came into the kitchen. To rinse something off, to get more disinfectant, clean rags. They barely glanced at the kitchen table activity. Nothing new, not to them, not with what they did for a living.

Laquita though, did notice, she’s a pretty sharp girl. She placed a hand on Harold’s thigh, “Want to give Fitz a rest? I can finish you off.”

Harold smiled and patted her head, “Nah, that’s okay, Laquita. I’m about there.”

Harold turned to me, “My whores be getting sick. A lot. One goes down, a lot of ‘em go down.”

“And that costs you.”

“Fuckin’ A. Last week four of ‘em. Vomiting, got the shits, couldn’t work for two whole days.”

“What does Dr. Lambert say?” A veterinarian who treats -- mostly STDs -- whores for several Kansas City pimps. In return for pussy. At least the whores are getting some kind of medical attention.

“He say, kids get sick. Can’t do nothing. Oh, he gives ‘em flu shots, like that. Meds.”

“What kind of meds?”

Shrug, “Who knows?”

One more thing for me to overlook in my tightrope relationship with Harold. Short of rounding up all the whores and forcing them into some probably ineffective structured setting there wasn’t much I could do. And anyway, he’d have a new batch within a week.

“Why’d you call me?”

“Insurance. Think I could get insurance on my whores?”

“Health insurance?”

“I guess. The kind that pays me when they can’t work. Loss of income insurance.”

I sighed. “Harold. Prostitution is illegal. Your whores are just over the Age of Consent.” “I was white, I could get insurance.”

I didn’t respond, just continued looking at him. His turn to sigh, “Maybe not.”

The subject of insurance was interesting though. I wonder if, probably not, he could get health insurance for his whores. They could see a people doctor, have appropriate meds prescribed. Even go to the hospital if it turned into pneumonia or something like that.

Or maybe the Oasis Challenge is too much on my mind these days.

I watched, without it quite registering, as the blowjob continued.

Harold said, “Whatchu thinkin’ Winter?”

“Health insurance. For your kids. I’ll look into it.”

“Better not cost too much.”

“Bye Harold.”

The pink-haired head continued bobbing up and down.

At Vanessa’s request, Walker and Pilar gave a full report on their Hamburger Week adventures.

First they abandoned their original plan to hit all 16 participating restaurants in 7 days. Not they would run out of appetite, not at that age. Ages. No, some of the featured burgers at a few of the lesser joints hadn’t looked that good.

Pilar said, “We checked them out before we ordered.”

Walker said, “When we could.”

Then they discovered a gem of a burger. Dempsey’s in Westport. Pilar said, “So good we ate there three times.”

Walker, “Tuesday, Friday, Sunday.”

Pilar, “Friday and Sunday we skipped the barbecue sauce.”

Walker, “Too sweet.”

Vanessa and I nodded, typical restaurant mistake, even in Kansas City.

Pilar smiled, “Dempsey’s.”

Walker smiled, “7 ounces. Cheddar. Onion strings. Bacon.”

My stomach growled. “Excuse me.”

My first call when we left Abilene was to Bulldog Bannerman’s office. Even on a Sunday, at least one Dragon Lady would be on duty. I didn’t waste time, one doesn’t, not with the Dragon Ladies.

“Winter Jennings. I need to talk with Emile.”

Emile Chanson, Bulldog’s mysterious driver / bodyguard. A fixer for the fixer.

I didn’t tell her what it was about. Didn’t tell her it was important. Bulldog is a pragmatist and works with people who are practical. Level headed. Fast.

A minute later my cell rang. Emile. I sketched an outline, which would be all he needed. I ended with, “Loose Park.”

He said, “Office,” and rang off.

Emile’s background is ... murky. French Foreign Legion. CIA airline front in Southeast Asia. Prison. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe Bulldog knows, maybe not. For sure I won’t learn, Emile keeps his own counsel. In fact, his backstory is one of many things I don’t want to know.