Chapter 16: Goodbye Party

American Snapshot:

In Montana it is illegal to guide sheep onto a railroad track with the intent of damaging the train.

Vanessa and I agreed to bring Walker and Pilar back home. We couldn’t hide them forever, although Rebecca Montgomery was enjoying their company enormously. But school. Friends. Life.

An FBI agent was still posted in the Wrigley lobby. Gunther wouldn’t be able to board the elevator even if he were foolish enough, or desperate enough, to return for another try. Nor would anyone else, say a Gunther ally, without Wrigley Hotel credentials. Especially anyone carrying a fucking shotgun.

The kids are good travelers, the best kind. Happy to leave on a trip; happy to come home.

Though I found myself having second thoughts about the homecoming part their first week back. I’d spent the day in my FBI cubicle, going over every report, every false Gunther lead, every ... everything. I left for home around 9 and was happy to detect Pilar’s version of chili con carne simmering in the kitchen.

She smiled, “It’s ready when you are.”

“Shower.”

As I toweled off, I wiped the full-length mirror free of steam and studied myself. My face looked a little tired, but other than that, I was satisfied with what my reflection ... um, reflected. Hell, more than satisfied; as usual I was quite pleased with what I saw.

I stood on my tiptoes, that made me almost five feet, eleven. Almost Vanessa’s height. And, it tautened my body even more. I pulled back my shoulders and my boobs did what they should — stood out even more. Magnificently, if I do say so myself. And I do, someone has to.

Tummy still flat, pussy still bald, thighs and calves still firm. I turned left, then right, approved both profiles. Back turned to the mirror, left-shoulder check, right-shoulder check.

I winked at myself, pleased to have passed another evening inspection. The next exam will be in the morning.

I wrapped a fresh towel around the inspection-rated areas and went in to dress for chili.

Tickle-Attack! Walker and Pilar pounced on me from behind, driving me face down on the bed. I was squealing and gasping and helpless. Four hands against two. No fair!

Plus, Walker knows my weak spots; he’s known for years.

I was windmilling my legs, screaming for mercy, cursing, gasping.

Finally, Pilar slapped my now-bare butt and said, “All right. That’s enough, Papi.”

Walker sighed, and rolled off my back, allowing me to sit up. I was partly winded, partly pissed, partly amused. Then Walker sighed, the sight of me, nude, sitting up in bed, brought out that little-boy sound that just melts me.

Head held high, I did what I’m sure was a dignified walk over to my robe. Slipped into it gracefully. Belted it tightly. Looked at Walker and giggled, couldn’t help it.

He and Pilar fist-bumped and headed out. She called over her shoulder, “Soup’s on.”

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a hearty breakfast. Since the City Diner was, more or less, on the way to North Kansas City, I heartied my way down to River Market. The waitress of my Greta Gunther dreams, a now-incarcerated Corrie Anniston, had been replaced by an even more-inked girl. Cute, but I’m not in the market.

However, breakfast is on my shopping list and I went with Italian steak and country fries. Eggs over easy and a biscuit to round out my plate. Morning joe to wash everything down.

I glanced at my wig in the mirror a few times. An almost unconscious habit — it just feels wrong. Or odd.

I sat at a window and watched the late-morning Farmers Market bustle. The Chinese Market, a huge building but a small grocery store, also had its share of traffic. The new, or newish, streetcar silently slid to a stop, then silently sped off.

I finished, paid, tipped, retouched, and aimed the Escalade west toward the Broadway Bridge. It’s been renamed for some ballplayer in some sport. Buck O’Neil. But everyone calls it the Broadway Bridge. 60 years will do that.

My personal Gunther-search would focus on chicken outlets — fried, rotisseried, there’s even a broasted chicken joint. Of course the cryptic note in Bob Randolph’s shopping list — NKC chicken — might or might not have anything to do with North Kansas City.

But it was what I had. No doubt I’d be duplicating the FBI efforts. But I am FBI. At least for now. And I was pretty sure Ash wouldn’t mind. I didn’t bother notating pickup license plates; not unless they were chicken-involved.

I hadn’t expected much, but it felt good to be doing something. Moving, looking, observing. After an hour it had become routine. Followed by boring. I stuck with it though. Buckshot can be motivational. I was determined not to become a chew toy.

Finally pulled the plug around 10 that night. Nada.

Day-to-day stuff always intrudes, doesn’t it? No matter how focused we are on, say, just staying fucking alive, we still have to remember to pick up ACANA grain-free dog food for our border collie.

Later, we would piece it together. Ash’s stage-two saturation of North Kansas City had worked — it freaked Gunner Gunther out. A quiet freak-out, a stealthy one. But all those cop cars. Plus those unmistakable undercover cars. Prowling day and night. Prowling.

After-incident research and interviews would reveal that Gunner had, indeed, been staying in North Kansas City. A furnished one-room apartment over the garage where he hid his pickup.

He did some cooking on an unauthorized single-coil hot plate, but had been eating a lot of takeout. Before the law enforcement onslaught.

The tantalizing ‘NKC chicken’ notation on Bob Randolph’s shopping list turned out to have referenced Mom’s Fried Chicken and Chitlins. One of the few establishments in the greater Kansas City metro area that still has a pay phone.

Sprint company records would tie incoming calls to Mom’s with a throwaway cell that Bob Randolph hadn’t yet thrown away. He was indeed the messenger between Greta and Gunner.

But all of that would come out later.

To prove, mostly to myself, that I could walk and chew tobacco at the same time, I pushed Gunther out of my mind and drove Gertie to another meeting with Harold.

Well, not tobacco.

I noticed that Gertie Oppenheimer talks to Harold the same way she addresses Vanessa and me. Straightforward. Direct, to the point. She makes complex financial transactions seem simple.

Since I’d known Gertie I’d invested in:

> Facilities for Alzheimer’s patients.

> Solar power in sub-Saharan Africa.

> The loft above Bear on Broadway.

> A luxury floor-through apartment on the Country Club Plaza.

> And, closest to my heart, Vanessa’s restaurant, Euforia.

This was mostly a recap meeting. Gertie wanted to go over the shifting landscape with Harold. Make sure he still understood and agreed with her plans for him.

These days Harold owns nine apartment buildings. Was still taking in little kids — both boys and girls — who came to his door, turning them out, and then selling them to other pimps when they grew too old for his particular base of clients.

Gertie changed the formula which had been more just a lazy practice than a carefully considered plan on Harold’s part.

She told him, “Save the virgins for special customers. Customers who pay a bonus for cherries.” Previously Harold and Columbo had simply fucked them before whoring them out.

Gertie said, “Virgin pussy is a niche market.”

Harold mouthed, ‘niche’.

She also instituted a quicker turnover rate. “Harold, keep the newest whores for two or three months. Make sure Cassandra has them in line. Then sell them. You don’t want to be in the flesh business; you’re a landlord. Not a slumlord, landlord.”

Harold nodded.

I don’t know if I’ve become more prostitution-cynical or I’ve just become inured to Gertie’s deep practicality. She now has Harold out of the whore business with three exceptions.

One, he rents his apartments to pimps like Pantone and Shades Johnson. Word was out — Harold’s buildings are safe. For whores and customers.

Two, Gertie knows that Harold has street creds among the Northeast kids. So she allowed him to keep taking in newcomers. Turning them into little prostitutes, but only with the understanding that he would sell them as quickly as Cassandra gave the nod.

Three, Gertie had Harold stock the Buena Vista, his first apartment building, with all new whores. Kids that had previously been put on an unofficial Harold payroll and told to come back when they were older.

Now the Buena Vista houses the city’s youngest whores. The customer list was strictly monitored although the cops could certainly raid the joint. But they’d never have an opportunity to buy pussy that young.

I know that Gertie made a pure business decision. She was leaving too much money on the table by limiting the younger set to an occasional blowjob.

The Buena Vista arrangement also allowed Harold to maintain one rock-steady income stream. Real estate will grow over time. But it has its ups and downs. The market for young pussy goes only in one direction — and it ain’t down.

Walker: What do you call an Italian hooker?


Pilar: A pasta-tute

One of the disciplines that Gertie instilled with Harold is that business school oldie — Management by Wandering Around. Every day, nights too, Harold and Columbo walk through each of his apartment buildings. Look into each individual apartment. Which now numbered over 90.

Harold and Columbo spend a minute or two with each of the little whores. Not checking up, just talking casually. Gertie had told him, “Take the temperature, Harold, no telling what you might pick up.” This applied to the youngest whores that he still owned as well as the ones he had sold to other pimps.

Gertie and I accompanied Harold and Columbo on one walkthrough. Typical of Gertie, she’s hands-on. Just like the head of any major operation.

We started at the Buena Vista, Harold’s first acquisition. But that was just a coincidence; Harold didn’t walk through his buildings in the same order; Gertie had him do random visits at random times.

It was 10 in the morning this particular Tuesday. And that’s another Gertie-change. Harold no longer sleeps in until 4 or 5 in the afternoon.

Mornings are free for the whores. Some of them have afternoon appointments, but most of the business is after dark. As when they lived in Harold’s house, the pink-haired kids stay naked. And keep the BV shining, polished, vacuumed.

There were three mothers visiting their kids that Tuesday morning. Another Gertie innovation. She told Harold, “If the mother straightens out, if home life becomes tolerable, let the whore go.”

He started to protest, but didn’t. That’s become an ingrained habit with Harold. Perhaps one I should cultivate. I could almost see his thought process. He nodded, smiled at Gertie, “Word of mouth.”

Gertie seems pleased with her unlikely student, “That’s right, Harold, bread upon the waters.”

I slipped away from the tour group and stepped into BB and Honey’s apartment. Two brothers, both sweeties. They were sitting on the bed, on each side of their visiting mother. I hadn’t met her, hadn’t heard anything specifically about her. But I was pre-inclined not to like her. I didn’t know the details, but for whatever reason her home was less attractive to the little boys than whoring for Harold.

Open-faced and smiling, the boys slipped off the bed to shake hands with me, “Hi, Miz Winter.” “Hi, Miz Winter.”

Honey was erect, BB wasn’t.

Honey, striving so hard for politeness, said, “Miz Winter, this is Mama. Mama, Miz Winter.”

She didn’t stand, but at least put down the two bankbooks and held out her hand, “Hi, I’m Sheree.” Attractive and slender like her sons. Dirty blonde hair, a look that I’ve always liked. Clean white tee and skinny jeans. Flip-flops. Crimson toenails.

She was evaluating her sons from behind objectively. Probably trying to see them as customers did, not as a mother. I’d done the same thing when a marketing professional, a perv, had taken nude shots of Walker when he was about the same age as BB and Honey.

So I felt a little sympathy for her. Or at least, understanding.

The boys slid back beside her; she put her arms around their slender shoulders. They sighed and snuggled into her side. Sheree glanced at the bankbooks, now closed, and kissed each boy on the top of his head. BB became erect.

Whatever domestic problem there was, it didn’t involve Sheree beating her kids. They were obviously enamored of her. Probably a man causing the trouble. Sheree actually seemed okay. Maybe even nice.

Maybe I’ll look into it.

Cassandra came to the bedroom doorway. She and Sheree nodded to each other. Pleasantly enough. No friction that I could see.

BB and Honey jumped to the floor, stood, hands by their sides, little penises poking up and out. Cassandra smiled at them, “Remember your one o’clock. The Daltons.”

Oh, lord help me. I’ve been spending so much time in the Northeast I know who the Daltons are. Three brothers who own the most family-friendly grocery store for miles around. Plenty of fresh fruit and veggies in what would otherwise be a food desert.

Gertie had told me the prices were a little high, but more than fair for the neighborhood. She would know.

Honey smiled at Cassandra, “Yes ma’am, we know. We’ll be ready.”

BB nodded; he was smiling too. The kids adore Cassandra.

When she left, the boys sidled back beside their mother. Sheree put her arms around them and whispered into Honey’s ear. He said, some pride there, “Ninety dollars.”

Which, lightening quick as always, I translated into $900. $300 per brother. Harold would keep $810. Well, that’s the whore business.

Back in Raytown, back at Moe’s Diner. Both Buster and BJ seemed quieter than usual. Didn’t slow down the bacon cheeseburger onslaught, but they seemed ... a bit subdued.

As Buster was checking out his to-go order, head almost buried in the white sack, he said, “We got a case for you, Winter.”

BJ nodded, “Big time, it be prime.”

Buster, sly grin, “Pro boner, we don’t got the loot. Pay Whitey prices.”

“Ain’t no jive, Clive.”

I sat back to listen.

It was none of my business, but I had Sullivan & Sullivan Research background Sheree Nelson. Honey and BB’s mother. Partly I’m curious. Okay, nosy. But also Honey and BB are so sweet. It’s just their nature. And Sheree hadn’t seemed to be an ogre. Actually seemed kind of nice.

A single, never-married mom. Up from Ardmore Oklahoma. Waitress work, retail work, maid work. Hustled, often two jobs at a time, just to keep afloat.

As I’d expected, as Kitty Wells lamented, “Most every heart that’s ever broken was because there always was a man to blame.”

In Sheree’s case it was a loser named Bixby. First or last name? The Sullivan’s couldn’t find out. Bixby.

Bixby liked the good life. Didn’t like working for it. The natural solution was sitting across the breakfast table from him every morning. Sheree. Why let perfectly good pussy go to waste?

Now Sheree wasn’t a blushing virgin. Not many of those left. Not in the Forgotten Northeast anyway. But she had her pride. Which Bixby wore down. With his fists.

He was smart enough not to mark up the merchandise. And not to beat her hard enough to require Emergency Room attention. No, this lanky, dark haired, skinny 20-year old from Tulsa hammered her tummy, her kidneys. Always stopping before any permanent damage was done.

Some men just have a feel for it.

Sheree fought back. One night she crept out of bed; came tip-toeing back with a 7-oz Stanley hammer. Black handle, yellow shaft. Thought about his skull; cracked his kneecap instead.

He howled and leaped for her. Sheree stood her ground, hammer raised.

Bixby, fully, suddenly, achingly, awake, blinked. Considered his options. Decided on discretion. Two weeks later, still limping a little, he spoke quietly to her, “Start peddling that sweet little ass of yours.”

Sheree, hammer in hand as it usually was, said, “Or what?”

Bixby, calmly, “Honey and BB.” He raised his fist in an unmistakable show & tell.

That night she could tell that he was just faking sleep. As her live-in boyfriend had done, Sheree considered her own options. Leave him. But go where? Beat him. So badly he’d never threaten her boys again. Even if she could do that, what about the police?

From an outsider’s perspective it seems simple. Leave. Get counseling. A restraining order. But I’d seen this particular movie too many times. No money, no close friends, no family. She and Honey and BB had slipped through society’s safety net.

Sheree researched shelters for her sons. The Sister Mary Packer shelter was the gold standard. But, girls only. The others were earnest, try-hard, establishments. None felt right.

Foster homes? Only as a last resort.

Then she came home from a double shift roller skating as a Sonic waitress. Both boys were standing in opposite corners of her trailer. Naked, still sniffling. Blistered red butts from Bixby’s belt.

Sheree’s mind went blank. Then she became outraged. Forced calmness. Bixby stood with his arms folded. An I-warned-you expression on his face. She gathered her sons, took them in her arms, comforted them.

Into the bathroom, balm on butts. Mind racing. Revenge vs. reality. She felt her world closing in.

It was a Dodge Ram. Black with that aggressive grill. Someone said that intuition is inarticulate knowledge. Well, this was beyond intuition — I knew it was Gunner Gunther tailing me.

No, I couldn’t see his face through the dark windshield. His profile wasn’t that distinctive anyway. There wasn’t a silhouette of a shotgun. But nevertheless I knew. I just knew.

I’d had that itchy feeling a few blocks back when I turned left off Broadway onto 12th Street. Heading west, heading to the stockyards, to my office in the Livestock Exchange Building. It was 9 in the morning.

The black pickup caught my eye because it turned left on 12th a few cars behind me just as the light changed from yellow to red. Two southbound cars on Broadway honked at him. Besides that, I am watchful these days. Especially vigilant.

I drove over the 12th Street Viaduct and Gunther made no effort to disguise his intentions. He was closing in on me. I hit 911, gave the dispatcher my location and, “Armed killer chasing FBI Agent Winter Jennings. He’s in a black Dodge pickup.”

That would set both the police and the FBI in motion. The cops would be closer. Unless one of the Chicago tail teams happened to be on me right then.

I turned left onto Gennesse but didn’t slow down as I approached my building. 1600 Gennesse. I know Kansas City, know the stockyards, know the streets.

My heart was racing, yet I felt calm. My hands weren’t shaking as I took the .40 Heckler & Koch from my left-side shoulder holster. I flashed on Pilar for a second, on how time had slowed down for her when Greta Gunther attacked. That’s how I felt; I could see clearly, think clearly. No panic, just a calm determination not to die.

No, more than that. I wanted this to end. Once and for all.

I whipped left on 16th. I’d dash one block east and turn left again on Wyoming. Head back to 12th, slam a right and rocket into downtown Kansas City. He wouldn’t shoot at me in a crowded area. Would he?

I reached down for my cell to update the dispatcher when the Ram slammed into the passenger side of my pickup. He bounced off a little and I twisted the wheel to my right as hard as I could. Fucker.

My F-150 isn’t as large, not as heavy as the Dodge, but the sideways lunge forced Gunther into a line of parked cars on his right side. I stomped on the brakes, still wrenching the wheel to the right with all my might. We ground to a screeching halt, the Ram sandwiched between my pickup and an Excella Laundry delivery truck.

I yanked the door open and jumped out, running as hard as I could past the Ram, back toward Gennesse. Toward my building, toward my office with the steel-reinforced door. My pistol in my right hand as my arms pumped. I could hear sirens in the distance.

Then I couldn’t. Gunther blew out his back window and the shotgun blast drowned out everything else. I turned the corner on Gennesse and skidded to a stop. I lay down and peeked back up 16th. I would not die running from the fight. Not from this fight.

Gunther was furiously using his shotgun barrel to swipe away shards of glass from the rear window. His truck doors were jammed shut by my pickup and the laundry truck.

I watched, trying to calm my breathing, as he crawled out into the bed of the Ram, cursing and looking frantically around for me. Gunther must have known he was finished, the sirens were almost on us. But he still wanted me, wanted me more than ever.