Chapter 1: Business as Usual

Psycho Killer
Qu’est-ce que c’est
Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far
better Run run run run run run
run away oh oh

I was up to my elbows - yellow latex gloves - in sudsy dishwater. Walker came into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me from behind. His slender forearms crossed over my tummy and his hands cuddled my waist. He bent down to nuzzle my neck. How the fuck did he grow seven inches taller than I am?

“Mama-san.”

“Yes, my darling.”

“I am your sensei.” A pause for teenage drama, “In the blood-sport of life.”

“Ah.”

This morning, a Saturday, Vanessa, Walker, and Pilar are sitting at our kitchen table watching me disassemble my new handgun. It’s a beaut - Heckler & Koch P7M10. Nickel plated with a four-inch barrel. It holds ten .40 caliber shells.

My Bastex cleaning kit is open, the tools neatly arranged. The not-unpleasant smell of Hoppe’s bore cleaner permeates the air. There’s something oddly satisfying in taking proper care of a vital instrument.

But it’s also a grim task in a way. German killing-precision in a sunny Kansas City loft.

Weeks earlier, a Winter Irregular - a freelancer of mine, Birdy Cummings - had been working on the nightmare Oasis case for me. In the course of the investigation Birdy had her head blown off by a close-up shotgun.

I up-armored the next week.

Walker pours me another grapefruit juice over ice. Pilar feeds Hobo another piece of sausage. Vanessa kisses the back of my neck and begins clearing dishes.

I double-check the Heckler action before reassembling it.

“Butch up, Winter.” Gertie Oppenheimer, our financial advisor. “Sign the fucking contract.”

Vanessa shoots me a rueful smile and holds out a pen.

I butch up. And sign the fucking contract.

Vanessa, Gertie, and I now own a titty bar.

BaBoomz is in the nabe. Fact is, in our Wrigley loft, I can look out the Main Street windows, peer across the street, shift my gaze one block north, and there it is. Neon lights blinking, BaBoomz.

A titty bar. I can explain.

Pretty sure.

Walker, aka Hormone Boy, is trying to casual it, trying to act as if BaBoomz is no biggie. Well, he’s 15. Not an easy age for someone of the male persuasion.

Pilar of course is merciless. “So sorry, Walker. I’ll try to grow my boobs faster.” And, “Please don’t dump me for Miss Dixie Delight.” Pronounced DEElight.

Vanessa, genuinely puzzled, asked me, “What would normal people do about three bullet holes in their floor?”

Normal people. I said, “We must know some, let’s ask them.”

I’m in therapy. No, not because of BaBoomz. There I question my judgement, not my mental well-being. I’m seeing Dr. Lindsay Conners because I’m still burdened by my last major case. Where Greta Gunther tried to kill my family. And came dangerously close to succeeding.

I’m Winter Jennings, private investigator.

The jeopardized family:

Walker, my 15-year old son. Vanessa, my love. Pilar, my son’s ... something. Girlfriend. Lover. Friend. And a lot more.

Oh, let’s not forget Pilar’s border collie, Hobo. A player in the Gunther imbroglio.

Guilt led me into Dr. Conner’s office. And is the reason I’m a steady caller there. My family was threatened because of what I do -- detect. And the objects of my inquiries are not always solid citizens.

Being in psychoanalysis is hardly a career-burnisher in a tough-guy field. But, head held medium high, I persevere. As Daddy says, “It’s just another fucking tool. Use it.”

I compartmentalize my life; maybe everyone does.

There is family and there is work. The twin tentpoles that my life revolves around. But there’s also a frisson of uneasiness that’s been lingering in the back of my mind. Ever since the Oasis case.

But, life marches on. I’ll half-skip a beat to get back in step, back in cadence.

Family means people. And Hobo of course. When I think about my loved ones, I usually picture us at home. In our loft in the Wrigley Hotel. It’s not a suburban life, thank god. It’s idiosyncratic, often offbeat, sometimes bizarre.

Take the Wrigley Hotel for example.

It has been garnering a little regional recognition lately. Partly for the conscientious and tasteful restoration of a building more than a century old. Partly because of the marvelous Wrigley Restaurant and the wink-wink Wrigley Speakeasy. But lately, also for its casual eccentricity.

The hotel recently acquired its fourth permanent resident. Gerald Nuttinger. He had been a scout. Cub, Boy, Eagle. And apparently never journeyed much beyond his idyllic days of golden youth-hood.

The two original permanents - Wally Maypole and the imperious Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna - are allowed resident status because of the owner’s generosity. Gene Austin accepts their intermittent rent, pennies on the dollar, without demur.

Wally is seldom seen, he scuttles back to his room from whatever mysterious errand he’s been on. Quiet, shy, unassuming.

The Duchess? Quite the opposite. She looks down on Wrigley World with a skeptical eye. Who are these underlings? Head held regally high, she regards her fiefdom through pince-nez glasses.

The hotel staff was surprised how well the rightful heir to the throne of Imperial Russia hit it off with Reggie Rowbottom. The third permanent resident. Who often doesn’t wear any clothes at all, earning him the sobriquet, Nature Boy.

Nature Boy voluntarily took command of the freight elevator. The only elevator. New hotel guests are naturally startled at the naked attendant. But he is unfailingly polite, shyly friendly. Deemed harmless. Interesting, but innocuous. If anyone had thought it through ... well, it simply seemed to fit into the Wrigley zeitgeist.

The Duchess and Nature Boy can often be seen strolling the hotel corridors, arm-in-arm, engaged in quiet, serious conversations. Pilar often lets Hobo loose to promenade with the two permanents. The Grand Duchess in the middle between Nature Boy and the people-friendly border collie. Whenever a hotel guest passes by, the two permanents instantly stop talking. Topic obviously on a need-to-know basis.

Where Mr. Gerald Nuttinger will fit into the unlikely Wrigley ménage is YTBD.

But one thing is certain -- he will be wearing his full Eagle Scout uniform. With the square-knotted badge above his left shirt pocket. A sash from his left shoulder to right hip displaying all of the merit badges he’s earned over the years.

He also sports, every single day, an Eagle cap, polished belt buckle, neckerchief, and ring.

The speculation is that he owns several complete sets of uniforms because he shows up in the Wrigley lobby every morning in a spotless, tautly creased outfit.

He doesn’t comment on his attire as he collects his mail. Never has mentioned it. And no one addresses the uniform choice with him.

Live and let live.

BaBoomz, a block north of the Wrigley, is housed in a two-story white brick building. Or a brick building painted white.

The first thing we did was close it down. Tip-to-toe cleaning, serious cleaning.

Well even before then, Gertie contracted with Madge Roper. Gertie said, “She’s a pit bull.” Said it fondly.

We have two immediate challenges with BaBoomz.

One is to convince the city to allow the new owners, that’s us, to run the joint. The other is more onerous - obtaining a liquor license. Not easy for a titty bar. In fact, it’s against the law.

Enter Madge Roper. She’s sort of a narrow-focus version of Bulldog Bannerman. And her métier is red tape. The obliterating of it. Municipal and county and state. A specialized fixer.

Vanessa, Gertie, and I met with Madge at BEAR’s on Broadway. May as well have some booze in our system while discussing tedium. Bureaucracy. With a capital “B”. And that rhymes with “P” and that stands for pussy. We hope. Sort of hope. I still have mixed feelings about the entire venture.

Tanqueray-rocks for Gertie. Vanessa and I split a bottle of Old Winery Red from Argentina. Bonarda grapes, it says so right on the label.

Madge had iced tea. With about thirty packets of sugar. She doesn’t look like a pit bull. More like someone’s dotty aunt. Around 50, dressed in a green summer frock with a wide white ribbon for a belt. Generous Saratoga-racetrack hat. Red high-top sneakers with untied green laces.

Louis-Louis brought us a basket of the house-made chips. Crisp, delicious, salty. Gertie crunched, nodded in approval, “BaBoomz.” We’ll serve lots of salt at our bar. Thirst-quenchers are profitable. As are tits. If we can find the right formula to skirt the law. Laws.

Madge said, “You don’t want to know the details,” then proceeded to give us the details. In detail. I gazed longingly out the window. A few people walking by. Steady car traffic on Broadway. I had that same ache I often felt in school - watching adults who were free to come and go. School felt so confining, so stifling. I did a forced refocus on Madge and her plans for BaBoomz.

Form an LLC. We’d already done that.

> Pay the city $500 for an Adult Entertainment permit.

> Notify all property owners within 1,000 feet that we’re the new proprietors.

> Background checks for Vanessa, Gertie, and me. Felony checks to be precise.

Madge rambled on. Gertie, on her third drink now, was still paying attention. Vanessa nodded at Louie-Louie. Another bottle of red, please. Hurry. He also delivered bacon-wrapped shrimp. Jalapeños were quite properly involved in the deep-frying process.

I don’t text as adroitly as the kids, but I was keeping up with Madge on my iPad. Yawn. Okay, I’m a note-taker. Left over from middle school days. Do my random scribblings ever come in handy on a case? You damn skippy.

The liquor license process is even more involved than the Adult Entertainment paperwork.

Photos, drawings, background checks, licenses, permits, bureaucracy. I was determined not to hat-in-hand my way to Bulldog’s office. Even though one of his Dragon Ladies could probably speed the procedure, grease the wheels, ease the way.

My balance at the Favor Bank is in arrears. So, Madge Roper. Municipal pit bull.

I forced myself to keep from yearning after the outside world. I felt Vanessa’s hand on my thigh. She understood. I just kept tapping away. Dutifully. It may have something to do with being an adult. Or maturity, something like that.

My life, post-Oasis, is mostly back to its normal rhythm. Not back to normal-normal, not exactly, but I’m now in a familiar pattern. Breakfast in our Wrigley loft. Walker and Pilar usually fix it, Vanessa and I clean up. Then the kids are off to school on the Main Street bus - Walker to Pembroke near the Country Club Plaza. Pilar a little further south to Brookside.

Vanessa will go into Euforia, her Brookside restaurant, later in the morning.

Hobo will guard the home front.

As for me, I usually thread my way north through the Power & Light District, over those fucking freeways that raped downtown, and into the stockyards. To my office in the refurbished Livestock Exchange Building. An office now equipped with new Medeco locks and a steel-reinforced door.