Chapter 13: Ft. Worth

After a satisfying solo dinner at Ruth’s - I went with Ahi Tuna, rare, instead of a steak - I was back in my Hilton room. Opening a bottle of red, which I also wouldn’t put on my FBI expense sheet. I’m not 100% altruistic though; Gertie will find a way to write the evening off. I’d rather face the IRS than Ash Collins.

I was just chillin’. Looking out over city lights, one of my favorite sights. Hey, lights and sights. Phone call. Walker. Good, I’m just in the mood to talk with my little New York pal.

I know him so well. I could almost detect a mental chortle being held back. “Hey, Winter, Vanessa says you’re in Texas.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t go into the Chicken Stroll, just told him it was an FBI-sanctioned long-shot in the search for Gunner Gunther. Then, “You and Pilar enjoying the big city?”

“Oh yeah, a lot. Well we were. Took a little side trip with Phillip.”

“Oh? Where?”

He was giving me casual, “Naval Support Facility Thurmont.”

“Navy? Okay, wiseass spill it.”

He yawned into his cell, overplaying his hand. But, hey, he’s 15. “Oh, you may know it as Camp David. I guess that’s the civilian name.”

“What!” He got me, credit due.

Phillip Montgomery knows people at State. Has done some nebulous-to-me work with them. Turns out he also knows someone at Treasury. Which makes sense considering he’s in the money business.

Then Walker pushed it. Tried on a faux British accent for size, “Took Phillip’s jet down. Quite satisfactory, dontcha know.”

I may have spewed out a few select epitaphs. But, Camp David ... not bad.

Attorney Bob Randolph matched his photo spread. Which makes sense; why would the FBI curate pictures that didn’t look like that cunt’s lawyer?

He’s 42, portly but not fat. I was watching him through Canon binocs and I can report that he doesn’t waddle. He moves with the sort of Jackie Gleason grace that some hefty men do.

Black hair, thinning, but not anywhere near combover territory. A little taller than I am - he’s listed at 5’10”. Nearsighted, wears un-tinted contacts instead of glasses.

Even at a block away, I could tell his suit was new. It fit fine, but it hadn’t been around the block often enough to look comfortable. A wardrobe upgrade had probably been part of his Gunther-windfall splurge.

Although, I guess the Gunthers weren’t footing the bills. Jessie Sullivan had called Frazier-Adams-Wingfield a shell company. Maybe. It also could have been a shelf company. Gertie Oppenheimer is on it.

I didn’t have a time-calendar for Texas. I wanted to see Randolph in person. In situ. Follow him, get a sense of the man. Ash had let the Dallas office know about me so we wouldn’t be stumbling over each other. Actually, it was so I wouldn’t be stumbling and bumbling around in their sandbox.

Randolph had rented an apartment. Probably a wiser choice than buying. He had an offshore paymaster and only one client. While she won’t be disappearing, those hefty quarterly checks might.

He was renting a one-bedroom at The Kelton at Clearfork. Paying $1,615 a month. The Kelton is fairly new, fairly nice, fairly anonymous. It’s near the Trinity River with easy Tollway and highway access. It’s about 10 miles to Greta Gunther, currently living rent-free at FMC Carswell.

It’s further than that though, heading east, to the Chicken Stroll on the other side of Dallas. But that’s a nighttime drive, after traffic has died down.

I had arrived in Ft. Worth on a Monday, a little tired from the drive. I checked out The Kelton; it was Randolph’s sole address. I guess with only one client, you don’t need an independent office.

But that was enough detecting for one night. Dinner, wine in my room, a chat with Vanessa, then Walker, bed. Okay, I’d packed Le Wand, why not? It wasn’t like I had to take it through airport security.

I was back at it early Tuesday morning. Wig first. I shook it out, did a little touchup with the wig brush. Even though I didn’t need a wig liner, I tugged one on; made sure my thick blonde hair was even underneath. Then I slipped the wig on; used the Velcro straps to tighten it. The mirror told me which minor straightening adjustments to make. I shook my head to make sure nothing slipped.

Muster passed, out the door, into my Texas ride.

Randolph’s BMW was in its assigned parking space. Which won’t be that hard to stake out - there’s on-street parking for guests and a lot of toing and froing.

My first stop, though, was Chez Gunther. I wouldn’t go in to see her, not now anyway. But I wanted a look-see at the joint. Initial pang of mild disappointment. FMC Carswell didn’t loom there as grimly as I had hoped; it looked sort of like a large suburban post office. Probably more unpleasant from the inside looking out. I sincerely hope so.

Next I GPS’d myself to the area known among a certain in-crowd as the Chicken Stroll. East of Dallas. Sort of a dreary mashup of decaying urban, unsuccessful industrial / warehouse low-rises, and some faded rural dreams. I got out and blinked in the morning sun. June temp already in the 90s and heading north.

I walked, poking my head into a storage facility that smelled of sweat and surrender. Some daytime businesses were hanging on - a gas station, corner bodegas, payday loans. A television and vacuum repair shop with ancient, dusty consoles in the window.

My head felt itchy under the wig so naturally I bought an ice-cold Dos Equis at the next bodega. From a sad-looking middle-aged gent bent over with both elbows leaning on an old 50s cooler. Thick, droopy mustache. Maybe it was just the heat - Señor Mustache may be laughing on the inside.

In any case, there’s nothing like a 10 AM beer to combat wig-itch. Although I could have done without those hideous fluorescents that cast everyone in a hue of shame. Or am I projecting?

Another customer, short and stocky, ambled in. Checked me up and down, turned to the sad-looking guy, “Who’s the slit?”

“Whitetail.”

Wuh-oh. Maybe he isn’t laughing on the inside after all. I looked at the sad man more closely. I saw Boo Radley looking like he was one gloomy day from cutting off an ear. He shot me the finger. Gringa.

I finished my beer, straight from the bottle, forcing myself not to hurry. These were two skanky dudes. If I were a taxonomist, I’d classify them under a new subspecies. Asshola Triassic. Or something.

Señor Mustache nudged his buddy, lifted his skinny right thigh, and cut loose a noisy, smelly, hot droodler. Laughed loudly.

An odd thought popped into my mind, “If they hang you, I’ll pull on your legs.”

The lucky part of my Texas Two-Step came that Tuesday night. I’d spent the day driving around the Dallas / Ft. Worth area, familiarizing myself with the territory. Getting lost repeatedly. But that’s actually a good way to get to know the nabe. I was also periodically checking back on Randolph. The Kelton at Clearfork.

His BMW had been there the first three times. Then around 3 that afternoon, it wasn’t. Well, I’ve been on stakeouts before and I’m good at them. Good in the sense that I don’t get bored, don’t get too restless. I followed a guest, fast-pacing myself to fall in behind him, so I was able to slip into the fitness center.

Which provided a couple of amenities - a bathroom and an easy view of Randolph’s parking spot.

Since I hadn’t been blessed with a penis, I wasn’t keen on peeing into a water bottle. And since I didn’t want to keep my Escalade running, the fitness center thoughtfully provided free AC.

To pass the time, I did some light treadmill and then some heavier elliptical. Which was stupid; here I am all sweaty and no change of clothes. Back to the Hilton. Back to the Kelton. This time the BMW was home. I settled in, refreshed and ready to wait. I’d wisely picked up a brisket sandwich from a hole-in-the-wall place. Rationale? The BBQ odor caught me a block away.

Around 10, Randolph came out of his apartment, looked around, locked his front door. Again I noticed how he moved with the grace that some heavy men do. He took off in his ride, heading east. Heading, I hoped for the Chicken Stroll. Nope. He stopped at a seedy bar, the Bruised Rooster, in a seedy section, but it wasn’t the Stroll. That was more than ten miles further east.

I checked my wig in the rearview, then changed my mind. I’d stand out in that low-rent tavern no matter what color my hair was. So, more waiting. I talked with Vanessa, all quiet on the home front. She’d talked with Pilar; the kids were back in NYC, back in Sutton Place.

“Walker has a terrible British accent.”

I laughed.

Randolph came out a couple of hours later. A little tipsy - he was walking in the exaggerated, too-careful way some drunks do. Would probably drive home in a similar fashion.