Chapter 6

We were dining on pizza this Thursday evening. Thin-crust pizza from Waldo Pizza to be precise. Scimeca’s Italian sausage sprinkled with hot pepper flakes and salty Pecorino Romana to be more precise.

Vanessa and I were drinking icy cold wheat beer -- Harpoon White Ale since we’re reporting with such accuracy. Walker and Pilar were splitting one and sipping, as if they were almost civilized, from freezer-fresh mugs.

Pilar smiled at Vanessa, “Four inches.”

Vanessa didn’t miss a beat, “Fantastic! Walker, we are so pumped.”

My son, as his proud mama noted, didn’t blush. Not even slightly pinkish.

Autofellatio had long been an open subject in our house, dating back to Mindy Montgomery days. But tonight, pizza night, marked a line of demarcation. Apparently we can now talk about Walker’s sucking his own cock without embarrassing Flex Boy.

Honestly curious, I turned to Pilar, “How do you measure it, honey?”

She grinned, “Magic Marker. Right where his lip meets ... you know.”

Vanessa and I nodded. We knew.

Vanessa said, “And you still have him swallow? Of course you do.”

“Usually. Sometimes we snowball.”

“That is so sweet, baby.”

I glanced at Walker. Still no pink. Excellent.

Pilar said, “Mama thinks it’s very bi. In a good way, I mean. She’s very positive, very encouraging.”

I turned to Walker, “What about you, babe? Does it feel bi?”

No hesitation, “Yeah, I guess. I mean it’s what bi guys to. One of the things.”

Pilar patted her boyfriend’s thigh, “A girl in Walker’s class is flirting with me.”

Vanessa said, “Oh?” I said, “Who?”

Walker answered, “Heather Dunlop. You met her.”

I had met her. Cute girl. Quiet, shy.

Vanessa said, “How do you feel about that, Pilar?”

Elaborate shrug. “Walker and I are talking about it. He might let me have a little fling. I’m kind of curious.”

I said, “What about your mother?”

“She says it’s up to me.” She kissed my darling boy on the cheek. “I’m leaving it up to Walker.”

I got up to fetch three more beers. I wasn’t surprised that Lina Paloma had a rather laissez faire attitude to her daughter’s fun and games. Not after what they’d been through. And letting Pilar live, live openly, with Walker ... well, hands off is hands off.

Although I seriously doubted Pilar was really leaving it up to Walker. She left him that impression from time to time. But Vanessa and I knew she called the shots.

I didn’t drop the bottles of Harpoon, but the two in my left hand clinked together when I turned back to the table to hear Vanessa say, “Honey, when Walker is ... pleasuring himself, have you thought of massaging his prostate?”

Pilar frowned, trying to picture it. “How would that even work?”

“You know where the prostate is?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, when he’s rolled back on his shoulders...”

Walker and I listened as Vanessa worked through the possibilities in some detail. The lesbian explaining male anatomy to the virgin. Then I remembered Vanessa’s closeness to Bear. And Barry. I remembered all those nights she worked at BEAR on Broadway, listening to the late night conversations ... gay staff, gay customers.

Pilar was paying attention, staring into Vanessa’s eyes. So was Walker. Ears a little pink. Understandably.

I was in my Exchange Building office in the stockyards. A quiet Monday. I’d come in the day before and caught up on all my paperwork. Invoices, reports, correspondence. Paperwork which is mostly digital work these days.

The ambient noise, inside and outside the building, was merely vague background to my thoughts. I was in a reflective mood, a good mood. Counting my blessings, actually. Which are many.

I’d come from a good family. Mother and sister a little batty, but that’s probably true in most families. At least we didn’t have a dotty uncle in the attic. Daddy of course was Daddy. The best.

Walker, I couldn’t ask for a better boy.

Nor a better wife.

And I am feeling so much closer to Pilar these days. Partly because she decided to hold off on fucking Walker. Partly because she is actively seeking out Vanessa and me. Volunteered to help out at Euforia. Asked if she could join me in my self-defense classes. Yes.

And Bear, my best friend. We don’t see each other as often as we used to, but we instantly reestablish our closeness every time we get together. And now that I’m helping him with Barry’s blackmail problem ... well, all the better.

My job. Sometimes it’s frustrating. Boring. Scary. But I love it. Love being out on my own.

So, happy days. But not gloating days. More thankful for my blessings than bragging about them. I don’t want Nemesis stalking me. And she shouldn’t. Thankfulness doesn’t draw her ire. Does it?

I feel as if I have two lives. Maybe most folks do. There’s my outside life, work, social, Meyer Boulevard. Like that.

Then there’s life inside the Wrigley. Vanessa of course. Walker and Pilar. Family. But there’s also the Wrigley heartbeat. The hotel lobby with its gift stand / newsstand. Check-in traffic. People watchers.

The restaurant. Bar. Speakeasy. But those are more nighttime destinations for us.

Work and school during the day.

Nature Boy hit it off with the Duchess. Excuse me, Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna. The haughty, head-held-high matron took a liking to the stylish naked man. If one can be stylish without clothes. Which I believe one can.

They were seen, arm in arm, strolling the Wrigley hallways, talking in animated whispers, the Duchess, often fanning herself. Two flâneurs, taking the air. One of them starkers. As in stark fucking naked. Maybe the other too.

Pilar: “What’s the difference between a zit and a Catholic priest?”

“Walker: “A zit will wait until you’re 12 to cum on your face.”

I parked my red F-150 in front of Harold’s house for the second time in a matter of weeks. Oh well, this is the life I’ve chosen.

It was around 8:30 in the evening. In the gloaming as we say in Edinburg. The porch light was on, illuminating the two rocking chairs. I went in without knocking. Maybe I should take library science or something like that and find a career that doesn’t have me so comfortable entering a pimp’s house.

The whores, nine of them, were lined up, naked and pink-haired in the living room. Columbo was checking them out carefully. For cleanliness. Which as we all know is next to profit. Or something.

He nodded at me, pausing his inspection for a moment. Laquita said, “Hi Winter!” The others murmured their hellos, friendly but a little shy.

I watched Columbo, the first time I’d seen this ritual. He examined each kid, front and rear. Even checked their fingernails. Harold strolled in like the lord of the manor that he is. Nude, that long, skinny cock slapping from thigh to thigh.

“Winter.”

“Harold.”

Columbo clapped his hands together twice, quite loudly, and the kids scampered upstairs to dress for the ride to those Paseo motels. Didn’t take long, just flip-flops and tee-shirts. Condoms. They followed Columbo and piled into a large, black van, Dodge. Another day at the office.

Harold gestured to a blue club chair and sat on a red sofa. Both were leather, both gleamed.

The odd thing is, I didn’t even think about being left alone in a house with a naked guy. And not a good guy, not by a long shot. Later, as I was driving away, I reminded myself -- my Bling Sting was on top of my purse. Right next to my gun.

But I hadn’t been worried then. And probably wouldn’t be if I went there again.

Harold said, “Bottom line.” Setting the tone for this meeting. All business.

I nodded. I have my own tradecraft.

“I got me some good whores. And a line on a couple more.”

“Hmm.”

“They hard workers, all of them. And not just because of C. He don’t have to beat them anymore. Usually. They want to do the right thing by me.” He frowned. “Most of them.”

“I see.”

“But I got lowlife clientele. Scumbags. You wouldn’t believe some of those fuckers, Winter.”

Actually I would, but no need to make this about me.

“So I’m thinking. I got good product, prime merchandise. But I put ‘em in a shithole. Not many bankers come down to Paseo.”

Ah. Real estate.

“And who got the money? Whites. Always has been, always will.”

I didn’t disagree.

“So I’m watching the TV and this cat talks about upmarket. That’s what I’m gonna do. Upmarket the fuck outa my ... inventory.” Harold leaned back, pleased that he’d plucked that word out of the ether.

This was interesting in a car wreck sort of way. “Are you looking for a house to ... to work out of?”

“Nah. I’d like that, but too much heat. Fucking neighbors. The Association be callin’ the cops every 15 minutes.”

“Then what?”

“Apartment building. Whole building. Mine.”

Actually not that bad an idea. The right building in the right neighborhood. Managed with circumspection ... Fuck! What in the world am I doing? Helping a notorious pimp plan a new business model?

Yet. Think about those poor kids. Working out of those two sleazebag motels. An apartment building in a decent neighborhood would be better for them than those motels. Probably. Maybe.

I sighed. What am I getting myself into? I heard myself say, “Want me to look into apartment buildings?”

“Please.”

Please.

“How big, how many units? Apartments.”

“I be flexible on real estate, Winter. Just like everything. Eight apartments. Or 10 or 12, round there. Two bedrooms be best.”

He had been thinking about this.

“Price range? How much cash do you have for a down?”

Harold turned crafty. “As much as be needed.”

“All right. I’ll check with my financial adviser.” I stood.

Harold stood. “Financial ad viser? You got one of those? How much he cost?”

“She. She’s a ... she, Harold. She earns a percentage of the deals she puts together.”

“She work for me, this ... finance ... lady?”

I kept a straight face. Not easy when I imagined Harold and Gertie Oppenheimer in the same room. Then I caught myself. Dismounted from my high and mighty horse. Who the fuck am I to decide that Harold doesn’t deserve professional counseling? To screen out a potential client from Gertie?

She’s tough. A New Yorker. Harold wouldn’t intimidate her. Plus, on a practical side, I have no idea what his financial situation was. Maybe, ill-gotten as it was, he had enough money to interest Gertie.

As I walked through the hall to the front door, I told Harold, “I’ll ask her. But she’s busy. I don’t know if she’ll take on a new client.”