Chapter 10: Bait

Daddy brought Ash Collins to our loft. First visit. Vanessa had picked up the kids; my family was home.

Ash gave Hobo the back of his fist to investigate. He’d read the file. Hero Dog. Hobo’s reconnaissance consisted of a thorough sniff-around followed by a single, approving lick.

It was now 9 in the morning, still Tuesday, still sunny. I hadn’t peed myself.

Ash nodded at Walker and Pilar, “Lose them.”

My voice sounded off, “Of course.” Walker opened his mouth, then closed it.

Ash looked around. Went back to the elevator, Hobo followed him. Ash said, “Greta Gunther.”

Pilar said, “Yes. She came up in the elevator with us. Had a card key for Six.”

Ash nodded. He knew this. He said, “All right, Winter. Vanessa. I’ll post a lobby guard. 24-7. No one is getting on this elevator without permission.”

He walked to our Main Street windows. “I’ll have blackout curtains installed.”

“Of course.”

Same for our west-facing windows.

Ash Collins didn’t say it. And Daddy certainly didn’t. But the FBI wanted me in Kansas City. Wanted me protected, but still somewhat visible. Vanessa understood this. Walker and Pilar ... maybe. Probably.

I met with the FBI task force the next morning. Ash shook his head, “No luck. Security cameras didn’t pick him up. All pickups within six blocks checked out.”

My hands weren’t shaky, but my mouth was dry. The bait swallowed before speaking. I said, just to show some semblance of functionality, “I know you had all the vehicles checked. Not just pickups.”

“Yes.”

Around 1 that afternoon, Ash stood outside my little cubicle. Looked me up and down. Later I realized he was checking out what I was wearing. Which, in honor of my temporary FBI status, was a pants suit. Peach colored. Summer-weight black turtleneck.

I passed muster and Ash said, “Let’s grab some lunch.”

As we headed west through downtown, I realized Ash was driving Hank’s former plain-wrap. There was a sharp groove right above the glovebox. I had been curious how it got there, but never asked.

He wheeled into the valet space in front of the Corinthian Club on Baltimore. I was startled. Did Ash have family money? Corinthians didn’t rely on FBI-level salaries. For Kansas City, these members were monied royalty. Perhaps he belonged to a private club in DC with reciprocity. Perhaps it wasn’t any of my beeswax.

The valet, doorman, maître d’hôtel, and waiter greeted “Mr. Collins.” Each of them except for the parking guy wore black dinner jackets. The valet did sport a black bowtie, but a red vest. Dress code discrimination.

I’d been to the Corinthian as a child. Some of my girlfriends were on a higher social stratum than the Jennings. Much higher. My mother had been impressed. Thrilled. Daddy just asked how the chow was.

The chow is disappointing. The chicken in my chicken sandwich was sliced from a once-frozen breast. White as white can be. The lettuce wasn’t wilted, but somehow the club had leached the flavor out of it. The Wonder Bread sandwich had been quartered and the crusts neatly trimmed. A solitary dab of Miracle Whip was carefully dabbed onto each segment. Just enough to make the bread soggy, but not so much that a droplet would foul the white tablecloth.

Ash had ordered chili, probably a safer bet. But if chili can be conservative, the Corinthian managed it. White bean and chicken. Three Ritz crackers rode shotgun. Incongruously, I was given a small, cellophane-wrapped package of oyster crackers with my sandwich.

But we weren’t there for the food. Looking around at the 20-foot ceilings, the plump white columns, the stuffy oil portraits dating back to the 1890s, I guessed we were in the hushed club for a this-is-your-life chat.

I spotted Bulldog Bannerman a few tables away. He was in an earnest discussion with three men I didn’t recognize. He glanced at me, looked back to his lunch companions. No acknowledgement, but I understood. He was being discreet because of who he was with or because he recognized Ash Collins. Or both. Or neither.

Ash waited until dessert - a single scoop of vanilla ice cream with a singe Oreo cookie. He said, “You’re smart, Winter. You know why I haven’t sent you away.”

I said, “Bait.”

“You work for me. At our mutual discretion. But you have a separate career. I’d like you to do what you can with us. But tend to your other cases as well. Don’t fall into a pattern, vary your schedule every day.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have an intermittent tail on you. You shouldn’t spot them, they haven’t been to our office. Two two-man teams from Chicago. Two-person teams. No suits, strictly blue collar all the way. They’re good.”

“Good.” I thought some. “But they won’t be on me full time. Couldn’t be, that wouldn’t work.”

“No, the coverage will be intermittent. You’ll be naked a lot of the time.”

“Fair enough.”

We were on familiar ground. Ash had told me right after I was attacked, “Okay, Winter. We can safe-house you and Vanessa for as long as it takes.”

“No thank you.”

“Thought not, but I have to offer.”

In the Corinthian Ash said, “I need you need to sign off on this. DC does. You’re voluntarily operational.”

“Okay.”

We went out to his car. Hank’s car. Ash’s now. Even a country mouse like me understood that paperwork wasn’t brought out in a private club. Business cards weren’t exchanged let alone contracts signed.

And, there were several sheets requiring my JoAnna Hancock on my personal Declaration of ... what? Not Independence. Maybe Codependence.

I merely glanced through the paperwork; Gertie would not be pleased. But I wanted to be in this, be in as far as I could be. The Gunthers had tried to kill my family, tried to kill me.

Ash said, “We can’t guarantee your safety, you understand that.”

“I do.”

“You’ll be safe at home. But on the move ... we’ll have those random tails. But we can’t cover you 100%.”

I nodded, this I knew.

“You’re more likely to draw Gunther’s attention when you’re away from our office. You have your other cases. A social life. Be vigilant. We’ll do what we can, but it won’t be everything.”

“I know.”

The night before they would leave for New York, Pilar sent Walker in to sleep with me. It felt right for some reason. When I go on a trip ... well, it seems like it’s in the natural order of things. But when my son is the one leaving ... I’m not sure why it’s different, but it is. It just is.

He found me in the kitchen, closing the dishwasher door. He punched the Start button, then held me from behind. Turned me toward my bedroom and, still holding me tightly, lock-stepped me into the bathroom. He’s always loved walking this way, pressed into my back. Even when he was shorter than I was, before he understood erections.

Well, now he’s seven fucking inches taller than I am and is every bit as conversant with his aroused manhood as I am with ... well, never mind.

We brushed our teeth side by side, just like we’d done for years back when Richie left me. I had been determined to be all of the parent that Walker needed. Did I succeed? Of course not, no one parent can.

But I did my best. And Richie was great about staying in touch, about letting Walker know he was loved. That’s one thing we both did right.

Toothbrushes plugged back in, mouths wiped clean, Walker and I grinned at each other in the mirror. I knew he was excited about New York, about being, sort of, on his own. Oh, Pilar and Rebecca would keep a close eye on him, but he’d be out of parental sight. Pretty heady, now that I look at it from his perspective.

I gave him a bawdy mirror-wink and peeled off my tee. He followed suit. Still fully erect. Youth.

He held up the sheet for me to slide in. Like a doorman waving a VIP into the club. As he reached for my bedside lamp, I smiled to myself. Throbbing, pointing up at about 45 degrees. Youth.

He slid back into my arms. Sighed like he does, like he’d just come home from a long journey. I had my left arm under his neck, my right over his waist. We both squiggled around until the fit was just right. I may have sighed this time.

“Winter.”

I whispered back, “Walk.”

“I wish you were going with us.”

“Fibber. You can’t wait to get out from under.”

I could almost hear his smile in the dark.

My right hand traced small patterns on his smooth chest. Patted his tummy, continued south. Hmm ... what’s this? I lowered the bar to his thighs, let go. Thump. Youth.

It was after one; I’d take care of Walker business and he’d go right to sleep. Would sleep deeply. Rise and shine for his NYC escapade.

Didn’t mean I had to rush things.

Vanessa and I put Walker and Pilar on a Delta flight to LaGuardia. New names. The federal team made certain we weren’t followed. Rebecca Montgomery and Phillip’s driver would meet them at the airport. An FBI team would be there too. Just in case.

It would be an adventure for the kids. And, presumably, a safe adventure.

But earlier that morning, before we went into the kitchen for breakfast with Vanessa and Pilar, I had taken Walker back into my bed. Gave the traveler a little something special to think about on the plane ride. I am his mother, after all.

I’d been aware, naturally, that I was a Gunther target. Especially since Hank Morristown had been murdered. But an intellectual consciousness is different from being fucking shot at.

Before I’d been alert. Aware of my surroundings. Careful in my movements.

The problem now is ... how the fuck to be hypersensitive and not lose my edge. Full, focused concentration can be maintained for only so long.

Ash Collins had decided against a media blackout. He kept me anonymous though. The storyline was a deranged man in the Crossroads had fired a single shot at a stranger. No mention of the weapon. The Buckshot Video was still too raw in the public memory.

A DC psychologist had contributed to the purposely-leaked coverage. Had distorted it. The gunman displayed ‘repressed homosexual behavior’. The gun was masturbatory, phallic. His sneaky attack symbolic of a coward afraid to admit who he was.

Ash told his staff, “Probably won’t do any good. But even if it tips Gunther just a little...”

Straw-grasping. We all knew it.

Life rolls on. Even with a bullseye on my back.

Gertie asked me to sit in on a Harold-meeting at his house. “It’s a-come-to-jesus meeting, Winter. You might learn something.”

“Sure.” Plus she needed a ride.

After the Sullivans backgrounded Pantone, I tasked them with Harold Hudson. His history was mostly what I had expected. Hardscrabble. No father, not active in his life anyway. Petty crimes, mother a deadbeat meth-head, the usual.

But he was a striver. Not educated, not like Pantone, but savvy. And a saver. No Cadillacs, trips to Vegas. He hadn’t known why he saved his pimp money. Nor what he would use if for.

Then Gertie came along.

As usual, Harold was overdressed. Too formal for the neighborhood, but I had to admit he was looking pretty natty these days. And enjoying his enhanced street creds in the Northeast.

Everyone knew that his pink-haired whores now had their own savings accounts. And unlike other pimps, he didn’t beat his kids that much. Once in a while Columbo had to administer some street justice, but it was a rare, one-time event.

The whores were understandably ecstatic over their first-ever savings accounts. The deposit books had become sacred possessions. They were proud and should be. Might even be the first savings account in the history of their sorry families. Probably was for most of them.

And, as Gertie had predicted, the number of volunteer whores who showed up on Harold’s porch grew exponentially. More whores meant more apartments which meant more apartment buildings.

Gertie was turning Harold into a landlord of some minor significance. Which, and I realized the irony because of the money source -pussy - the refurbished buildings were actually contributing to the gentrification of his Northeast neighborhood. And that would eventually lead to an increase in the value of his properties.

Gertie knows what she’s doing. Of course this is skinny spuds compared to her New York deals. But financial growth is part of her DNA, whether it’s hedge funds or whores.

She addresses challenges in two ways: head-on and immediately.

And one challenge was youth. Not the age of Harold’s current whores. Asked and answered. It was the age of the wanna-be whores. The kids whose home life is so atrocious that they come knocking on his front door. As word of the savings accounts spread, Harold’s stature, real and imagined, grew.

Kids talked with kids. With younger and younger kids.

Realizing they were too young, even for Harold, Gertie nevertheless didn’t want to turn away potential assets.

So she set up a safety net. Of sorts. And put Cassandra in charge.

Cassandra reminds me in a way of Gloria VanLandingham. Both women are been-there, done-that gals. Both have been whores. Both weigh over 200 pounds. Both are revered by the kids they oversee.

I drove Gertie to Harold’s house for the infrastructure meeting. Human infrastructure. As usual, the naked little whores swarmed Gertie, hugging her tightly. I was happy for them. Both the kids and Gertie.

They greeted me courteously. I was, unfortunately for me, a known quantity in WhoreLand.

We sat at Harold’s kitchen table - Gertie, Harold, Cassandra, and I. Columbo loomed against a counter, arms folded. In case one of the kids went on a kamikaze mission, I guess.

As usual, everyone waited for Gertie to speak.