Chapter 12: Dayton

I was driving my red F-150. Gertie in the middle, Harold, shotgun. We were braving suburban Raytown without Columbo, naked without Harold’s bodyguard. Gertie wasn’t complaining about the less-than-comfortable middle seat. She was strapped in and going over today’s lesson with Harold. Again.

“This isn’t a whore building, Harold. You’re playing it straight today.”

“I know, Gertrude. Market diversification.”

Harold, seat belt diagonally across his dark blue blazer, white shirt, Trumpian red tie, dropped the word ‘market’ into his conversation in record time this morning. Ever since Gertie had agreed to be his financial advisor, he’d taken to her business lessons like a 12-year old getting his first tit.

We were on our way to see another fixer-upper, our first outside Harold’s homeland - the Northeast. But the apartment building off 63rd was similar to his other eight buildings. This one was red brick, two stories, 12 two-bedroom units.

Buster and BJ should be in school, but I had my eyes open. Little fuckers are casual attenders.

In the interest of scientific inquiry (nosiness), I’d had Sullivan & Sullivan research BJ Kowalski. At 8-years old, she was so independent. Probably too independent.

Her mother split when she was two years old. Left home with an Avon salesman. Yes, there are some. BJ’s father is a holdout from another era. A hippie entrepreneur. He owns, fully or partly, seven tattoo parlors around town. Two head shops. Seems to be doing okay.

Although when he’s home, he’s usually high. Peacefully high. Genial. Has a laissez-faire attitude toward the parental role. BJ told me, “I cool with school, Fool.” Translation: so long as she doesn’t draw any District attention, her father lets her roll with Buster.

We met the Raytown realtor, a dandruffy guy in his 40s. Eager to please. Most of them are, even more so around Gertie. She’d already had her structural engineer check the building out. This was Harold’s first visit. A courtesy from Gertie - he’d buy the joint sight unseen if she told him to.

But she was doing a little handholding since this acquisition wouldn’t involve whores. Just regular renters with the usual annoying problems that tenants give landlords. I’m qualified to speak to this since Vanessa and I own two lofts that we rent out.

Harold took the tour, glancing at Gertie for clues on how he should be reacting. She left him on his own. Tossed him into the deep end.

Through Gertie’s financial wizardry, Harold now owns - sort of owns, it’s mostly debt at this stage - over $1,600,000 worth of real estate. Leveraged loans, monthly payments always on time, double mortgage payments for some months, a mysterious East Coast co-signer. But mostly a friendly local banker. Friendly to Gertie.

Harold inked the Raytown papers that morning, that first-visit morning.

His initial apartment building, the Buena Vista, is now his only direct link to whores. His own whores. He places his youngest looking boys and girls there.

The other seven buildings in the Northeast are rented out to two pimps, Pantone and Shades Johnson. In addition to collecting rent from them, he has sold them about a third of the whores in their stables. Plus placed a salaried manager in each building.

Gertie steered Pantone through the process of acquiring his own building. His first. Like Harold, Pantone takes inordinate pride in real estate ownership. Whores are plentiful; apartment buildings aren’t. Not for people in his profession.

After he’s rented from Harold for a year, Shades will be able to buy his own building too. Well, buy it legally. Without unnecessary public scrutiny.

What Harold, Pantone, and Shades don’t know ... well they don’t know a ton. But Gertie will be having Harold sell the other two pimps, and some of their associates, seven of his eight Northeast buildings. Harold will be one step closer to legitimacy. Of a sort. Gertie told me, “With the proceeds, Harold will move out of the Northeast. He’ll really be able to steal. Real estate is legalized larceny.”

She’s not cutting him out of whoredom entirely. He’ll keep the Buena Vista as a sort of staging area. A holding pen for the youngest kids who come knocking on his door. He’ll continue to turn them out; then sell them to other pimps when they’re ... broken in. It’s the world Harold knows; the one he’s most comfortable in. Plus, it would be leaving money on the table to let another pimp take the choicest kids.

And Gertie doesn’t like leaving money on the table.

Now Gertie is overt about taking her share out of every real estate transaction. Harold, Pantone, Shades, know this. What I don’t know is how she makes money from the sale of Harold’s whores. Because I have no doubt, none whatsoever, that she does. Just as she takes a share of the daily pussy money.

I passed along Joey Viagra’s lead, well, possible lead, to Daddy and Ash Collins. The stockyards guy didn’t have to be Gunther. The case in question didn’t have to be a shotgun case. But the fact that it was near my office drew their attention.

Ash took it as seriously as I had. “Okay, I’ll assign Chicago to it.” Two, two-person teams he’d brought in from Chicago. Strictly undercover; not even the KC staff knew about them.

Daddy just looked at me. Didn’t say anything, didn’t bother with a ‘be careful’ warning. His look was enough.

Vanessa didn’t get to her portion of my Anton’s ribeye until the next night. She fried some bacon then quickly seared the steak on both sides just to heat it up. I sat down with her at our kitchen table. It seemed emptier without the usual chatter from Walker and Pilar.

Vanessa drizzled on some melted garlic butter and took a bite, “Yum.”

I smiled, “Joey Viagra had the Porterhouse.”

Vanessa smiled back, “Anton’s spells it with two words.”

“I noticed that. Odd.”

“You think Joey was onto something? His informant? What’s his name?”

“Moosejaw the Jew. Used to be hell on wheels in the courtroom. But this rumor? Hard to tell. We’re taking is seriously because...”

“Your office.”

I nodded, changed the subject, “Joey was looking at the butcher shop case as we were leaving. Casually mentioned that those Kansas City Strip Steaks looked good.”

“You’re kidding!” Like me, Vanessa wasn’t upset. More amused at the human comedy.

“He told me they’re his mother’s favorite.”

“Aw, that’s kind of sweet. Greedy but sweet.”

“Yeah well. His mother’s in prison.”

Vanessa laughed, “What for?”

“Murphy Game.”

“Was she really a prostitute?”

“Off and on. She was never a street stroller, but she turned a trick now and then.”

“Poor Joey.”

Well, I’d treated him to two KC Strips to take home. Sort of like Buster and BJ and their to-go meals after they’ve stuffed themselves at Moe’s. It’s an indulgence, a kindness of sorts. I prefer to look at it as a good will investment. Plus, Gertie writes it off.

Knowing it was irrational, I flew into Dayton. To Bob Randolph’s home town. Former home town - he was living in Ft. Worth now, Greta Gunther his only client.

The FBI conclusion was that Randolph was a messenger boy, Greta’s contact, her only contact, with the outside world. Which, we suspected, included her cousin, Gunner.

Now what I hoped to learn looking at Randolph’s former office, talking with family and friends ... who knows? But it was doing something. Plus it felt good getting out of town, not feeling that itch between my shoulder blades.

His shopping center office had been between a semi-busy Cinnabon and a still-struggling dry cleaner. That former office is vacant. I used both hands to shield my eyes and peered inside the empty storefront. Unless dust bunnies qualify as clues...

The Cinnabon Assistant Manager remembered Randolph. She frowned, shrugged, “I flirted with him. A little. He wasn’t interested. You know?”

I nodded. I did know.

And that was the highlight of my one-day visit to Dayton Ohio.

Oh, I got some typical son-praise from his mother. My cover, dumb-simple enough to believe, was I was interested in renting his former office - how’d he like it? Any problems? Mostly I learned how wonderful Bobby is. She mentioned the word ‘attorney’ more than Harold does ‘marketing’.

Home again, home again...

Walker: What do tofu and a dildo have in common?

Pilar: They’re both meat substitutes.?

Harold was arrested at 10:12 on Tuesday morning. According to the police record, Columbo didn’t resist the surprise raid at Harold’s house. Even though they didn’t have a no-knock warrant. Columbo knew when to hold ‘em and when to ... the other.