Chapter 2: New Business

In order to come up with the down to buy BaBoomz, (hey, up with the down!) Vanessa and I have to divest ourselves of our shares in four American solar panel distributors. In sub-Saharan Africa. But it had become time to sell anyway.

Gertie explained the evolving situation to us over drinks at BEAR’s on Broadway, “The fucking Chinese are everywhere. They finally started manufacturing their panels in Africa. So it was just a natural extension for them to move into distribution.”

Louie-Louie brought us another round of drinks. Bear stopped by to gossip. The bartender brought us a fresh basket of salty house-made chips. Vanessa seems to get good service wherever she goes. But especially in the joint she used to manage.

Gertie took another sip, Tanqueray on the rocks, “I blew it, ladies. Didn’t see them coming. Not this fast anyway. Fucking Chinese.”

Vanessa touched the back of her hand, “We made out okay, right?”

Gertie shrugged. We’ll net, net, net a little north of $46,000. Damned fine for eight months. But more than that, we’ll have our original investment back. Altogether, we’ll have almost $400,000 in what Harold calls liquid cash.

We won’t pour it all into BaBoomz, but a significant percentage - over 40% - will float down Main Street. Into a titty bar.

But BaBoomz is an intriguing enough opportunity that Gertie Oppenheimer herself is partnering with us. Although even with her involvement, it isn’t a simple process.

For us to take ownership as an LLC we have to somersault through multiple Regulated Industries hoops. City investigators will do a lot of the legwork, but someone has to monitor the process. Gertie’s ‘pit bull of a gal.’ Madge Roper. A ‘real battle-ax.’ High praise in certain circles.

Then Gertie meandered off on one of her soliloquies. “This fucking country. It’s easier to buy machine guns than it is to show the rubes some pussy.”

Ah, gun control. I signaled Louie-Louie with the universal finger-circle for another round.

I was in my office, noodling around on a yellow, legal-size tablet. Scribbling, muttering, crossing out. Occasional curse word.

The mission: redesign my little company’s public face. Web site. Business cards. Letterhead. Envelopes, the entire deck. Right now I was struggling with a tag line. A motto, a credo, something pithy.

“Winter Jennings, World’s Greatest Detective.”

Except.

Except Elvis Cole in LA already has that one corralled. Hmm... “Winter Jennings, World’s Greatest Detective. In Kansas City.” Fuck. Not even true. Daddy for one.

“Winter Jennings, World’s Greatest Detective. In Kansas City. In the Livestock Exchange Building.” There.

Wait. Do I need to check the building directory? Double fuck.

“Winter Jennings, World’s Greatest Detective. In Kansas City. In the Livestock Exchange Building. Named Winter.”

Okay, I need to work on it some more. Or maybe not. What does World’s Greatest mean anyway? Out in the real world? Sort of like Rachael Brothers, a classmate who was the best nose-picker in 5th grade. A distinction, but not one she would necessarily want to carry forward in life.

Hank Morristown gave Daddy and me a courtesy update on my last major case: Oasis. OUR last major case; Daddy and the FBI had been very much involved.

“The three Gunther boys - Klaus and his sons. Niclas and Jannik.” Hank smiled, “They’re vacationing at Club SuperMax.”

Daddy said, “Florence.”

The US Penitentiary in Florence, Colorado. The toughest one to break out of. Or into, should a rescue party be foolish enough to try. By comparison, Leavenworth and Marion are designated medium-secure.

Hank nodded, “The usual suspects are there. Or have passed through. McVeigh and Nichols. Kaczynski.” Hank smiled again, “It’s so secure the inmates don’t even know what part of the prison they’re in. Four inch wide windows.”

I said, “How big are their cells?”

“Seven feet by twelve feet.”

The American Nazi code of omertà lasted about a week after the raid on the Gunther compound. Multiple eyewitnesses joined the choir of singing rats. Testified in court too. The three Gunther boys had personally executed suspected infiltrators. Taped the killings for the edification of new members.

Daddy and I were waiting in Hank’s office for dessert. Greta Gunther. The woman who tried to kill my family and me.

“As you know, she’s in Ft. Worth. FMC Carswell.” Federal Medical Center. The most secure women’s prison in the country.

“It’s on a former Air Force base and she’ll never leave the property. Alive.”

Gunther had taken a plea - life without. Hank told us that very few Carswell women were in for the duration, less than 3%. And under 1% were on Death Row. Greta hadn’t wanted to add to that last stat. Bad enough to be a lifer.

Hank said, “I looked it up. Greta’s a rare bird. Fewer than four in a hundred women in federal custody have committed murder. Or been caught for it anyway.”

Daddy said, “Drugs and weapons.”

“Yep, that’s most of them. Carswell has about 1,200 prisoners and Greta’s the most famous.”

Understandably so. The sniper who had killed the CEO of the Oasis Wellbeing Center, Donald Jefferson Winston. The HEADSHOT! assassin.

Hank said, “In the nine weeks she’s been our guest, she’s had one visitor. Her new attorney, a nobody named Robert Randolph. Bob Randolph. Three visits, each under an hour.”

Daddy frowned. New news. “What’s Randolph’s story?”

“Second tier. And that was in Dayton Ohio. Shopping center office.”

Daddy said, “What you get. When the Meriwether money dries up.”

“Yeah, Dave. Except that Randolph moved down to Ft. Worth. Full time. Gunther’s his only client.”

“Expensive. Who the fuck’s footing the bill? I thought the Gunthers were wiped out after the raid.”

Hank sighed. He didn’t like not knowing either.

My turn to frown. Since the Meriwethers severed ties with the Gunthers, those particular white supremacists were supposed to be broke. On their own.

I muttered, “Oh snap.” Ms. Obvious. Or Ms. Oblivious.

I’d never been mudding, never even thought about taking a mud bath. Then I married Vanessa and ... well a lot of things changed. For the better. I learned there are a surprising number of spas in town which offer mud baths. More pointedly, I learned that I love the experience.

First, shower fresh, Vanessa and I lower ourselves - slowly - into the mud. It’s heated to over 100 degrees and we ease into it. Then ... nothing. Just close your eyes and relax. Cucumber slices over our eyes. Float. It’s easy to fall asleep.

It’s my imagination of course, but I can almost feel my skin being rejuvenated. Mud is a great all-over moisturizer - my skin feels tighter and healthier.

Then it’s time for more spoiling. In our case, at Wendy’s spa. Two Korean girls for Vanessa, a brace of them for me as well. An intense, intimate shower, natch. Gotta be thoroughly clean. Then a massage, also as intimate as we like.

We took Pilar with us last month and she went ape. Could not stop raving. Which led, inevitably, to Walker. He may not care much about skin cell stimulation and the ‘glow’. But he cheerfully puts up with mud immersion because he loves the follow-up.

The first time he lowered himself in, felt the heat, the tight embrace, his face lit up, “Boom Shakalaka!” High praise in TeenLand.

And the spa girls adore Walker. He’s shy, proud, embarrassed, bold ... typical boy. But he’s always smiling, always courteous. Remembers their names, flirts. And tips generously when it’s just Pilar and him.

Mudding, it’s a family thing.

Harold, whose last name I recently learned is Hudson, has changed. Oh, he’s still in the pimp game. Still peddling too-young, barely legal ass. But, post-Gertie he’s beginning to look at a larger picture. Life beyond the Forgotten Northeast.

Harold is, for his profession, pretty fair. His bodyguard / enforcer, Columbo, doesn’t beat the young kids that often. Once is usually enough.

And those desolate, desperate kids come to him. Young girls. Younger girls. And, for the past year or so, boys too.

Harold is on my mind because he’s standing in front of Gertie and me. In his spotless living room as four young whores, dust, polish, mop. Two boys, two girls. Naked as always. With their trademark pink hair.

Since Gertie had him purchase the Buena Vista apartment building, most of Harold’s whores live and work there. A couple of blocks from here. He keeps a rotating set of four whores at home for, as he told Gertie and me, “Pussy and cleaning.”

Harold sports an entirely new wardrobe these days. Suits, blazers, sport coats, ties. Always a tie. I assume he still sleeps in the buff. How sad is it that I know a pimp’s nocturnal raiment? Or lack there of.

In any case, having a financial advisor has impacted Harold. He doesn’t affect a British accent, doesn’t have leather patches on a corduroy jacket, doesn’t smoke a pipe.

Well, maybe he smokes. Probably.

These days I never see him without a tie. But that’s just optics. Gertie has changed his world perspective, his outlook on life. Perhaps for the better.