Chapter 7: Whore Games

Pilar said, ““That’s good about Weinstein, right? The pig.”

Vanessa glanced at me, then said, “Yeah, it’s a good thing so many women spoke out. Finally. But it’s not that simple.”

Pilar frowned, “Why not?”

Gertie said, “Ask Winter.”

Walker looked from one of us to the other. Pilar’s hand rested on Hobo’s head. We were Saturday-lounging in our favorite corner booth. BEAR on Broadway. Fortunately we have an in with the owner who reserves the best table in the house for us when he knows we’re heading there.

Louie-Louie brought Hobo a fresh bowl of water. And a cheeseburger, minus the bun. On a white plate.

Three women in the booth across from us were staring. Openly. One of them called out to Louie-Louie, “Does the Health Department know about this?”

He glanced at her, “I’ll fetch the owner.” The kids hid their smiles at the word ‘fetch’.

I smiled at Pilar, “It’s progress. And coming all at once. Weinstein, Cosby, Roger Ailes. Let’s see, Bill O’Reilly, Kevin Spacey. New ones almost every day.”

Gertie said, “But.”

We paused to see what Bear would say to the disapproving ladies. We’d seen him toss people out for less than complaining about Hobo. He must have been in a good mood this afternoon, “Hobo’s a care dog. See the blonde woman over there? She has ... psychotic episodes.”

Walker grinned at me, enjoying this.

Bear motioned to Louie-Louie, nodded at the three women, “Next round’s on me.”

I mouthed a silent ‘fuck you’ to my son and turned to Pilar, “Yeah, outing sexual predators is good. But look who’s doing most of the outing. White women. Women in comfortable positions. No longer worrying about losing their jobs.”

Vanessa said, “Latinas, black women, Asians, poor women in general ... they’re not so fortunate.”

Gertie said, “Men, white men, older white men, are still in power. Weinstein grabs the headlines while DC is gutting our reproductive rights. And they just rolled back sexual assault investigations at schools. Giving the fucking rapists more rights.”

Vanessa said, “Blaming the victims.”

Louie-Louie brought us more drinks. Just in time. Tanqueray for Gertie, another bottle of red for the rest of us. The Creste, a lovely Sangiovese from Puglia.

I spoke to Pilar, “Right now women have momentum, energy, moral weight, added visibility. But what don’t we have? Political power. Pay equality, executive level presence.”

Vanessa said, “Being heard is good. Having a seat at the table is better.”

Walker and Hobo wisely stayed out of the way. Let us girls get it off our chests.

Pilar had the final word, “I’m still glad those cocksuckers are suffering.”

I was driving Gertie to Harold’s. Again. She doesn’t drive, doesn’t own a car. Never has. A lot of people in New York are that away.

I didn’t mind, but I teased her anyway, “We’re spending a lot of time in whore-land.”

“I know. It’s labor intensive at first. But it’ll pay off. I wish you and Vanessa would invest with me.”

“No thanks.” I didn’t have to ask Vanessa. Neither of us wanted to profit off the kids. Nor go to prison.

We entered the front door, no need for besties to knock. How has my life led me to this point? Four, seven, nine naked pink-haired kids rushed Gertie, all decorum forgotten in their hurry to hug her. She smiled and hugged back.

Gertie had turned Harold’s traditional whore business on its head. She set up a savings account through a banker friend for each little kid. Harold had previously kept 100% of the revenue. He fed and housed them, that was enough.

He had started to argue about paying the kids 10% of their earnings, then closed his mouth. Street shrewdness. He nodded at Gertie, “Advertising. Word of mouth.”

She was pleased that he’d followed the logic, “You’ll have recruits lining up, Harold. We’ll need to buy more apartment buildings.”

But today’s business forum involved Pantone, another Northeast pimp. A skeptical Northeast pimp. I’d told Gertie about his knife rep, but she didn’t seem daunted. New York.

Pantone had two bodyguards standing in the kitchen. Columbo represented the home team. Silly or not, I had both BlingSting and my .40 handy. A page out of Mr. Nuttinger’s scout manual.

Gertie and I sat facing Harold and Pantone. Pantone had his arms crossed.

Gertie didn’t waste time, “Pantone, if you rent twelve apartments from Harold for a year, I’ll show you how to buy your own building.”

“Why the fuck I do that, honky?”

“Fine.”

Gertie stood up, so I did too. My hand was casually resting in my open bag.

Pantone was shocked. He’s used to controlling the tempo. Occasionally with a knife if the rumors are to be believed. “Wait! What’s your hurry?”

Gertie gave him New York, “Money moves at the speed of light. I don’t waste time with stupid people.”

Pantone’s bodyguards stood straighter. Harold mouthed, ‘speed of light.’

I knew Columbo would take the nearest bodyguard if the balloon went up. I casual-focused on the other one. Pantone was eight feet away, a table between us.

Pantone said, “Look. Whitey been telling me what to do all my life. Fuck that.”

Gertie looked at him impassively. I know it was my imagination, but the pimp seemed to shrink a little.

“Why I want to pay Harold rent? I kin buy my own building.”

Gertie sat back down. I remained standing. She said, “Can you? Really? I’m sure you have enough money. But how do you explain where that money came from? To the FDIC? The SEC? IRS?”

I knew enough to understand she was dropping alphabet references to make the dirty-money argument seem more official. Maybe none of those specific organizations would be involved. But someone probably would at some point.

Harold nodded sagely. A financial veteran who had been there, done that.

Pantone looked at his fellow pimp. “This true?”

“True as death on a stick, homes.”

Death on a stick?

I took a fuck-it Tuesday off. I needed a break from 14-hour research stints. Walker’s school was closed for teacher training. Pilar’s school was open and she had reported for duty. Vanessa was working - Euforia. Planning to open for lunch, sort of a big deal in our world.

So I took Walker out to eat.

We stopped by Euforia to see if Vanessa and Lina needed any help. Shooed out, we zipped across 63rd Street to the Michael Forbes Grill. It’s a good place and a worthy, but friendly, competitor to Euforia.

Vanessa’s joint has a later crowd - drinkers after the dinner service closes. And that’s by design. Just as Bear does, Vanessa makes the nut from food, but the net, net, net is drinks.

I looked up from the menu and smiled across the booth at Walker, “Chicken fried chicken?”

“Yep.”

“With onion strings on the side?”

“Yep.”

“You have no secrets from me, babe.”

“Oh?” Giving me smug. Moms are so dense.

Walker’s eyes drifted south. Understandably so. He’s male, my unfettered boobs had perked up. Silky, sun-yellow tee, tucked tightly into black bicycle shorts. Tight, black bicycle shorts.

I glanced around, tweaked my nipples, smiled, “You never get tired of these, do you?”

He smiled back, pointed to his own tee - ‘My Sister is Hot.’

He’s been doing that lately, going through a brother / sister phase when we’re out and about. I need to speak to him one of these days, straighten him out. Maybe when I can no longer pass.

I ordered fish tacos and we had a rare, leisurely, weekday lunch. Both of us feeling like we were getting away with something. No booze, just a teasing, goofy lunch.

Afterward, strolling across 63rd to my F-150, Walker put his left hand on my butt. Another thing I’ll need to speak with him about. Somehow, my right boob was poking into his arm. We were long-stepping it stride-for-stride when “Yo Winter!” rang out.

Buster Fagin and BJ Kowalski pushing their bikes toward us. It’s odd seeing someone so out of context. Although 63rd is the main drag east to Raytown. Still, they must have biked several miles to arrive in Brookside.

“Why aren’t you hooligans in school?”

“Mental health day, Faye.”

Buster was concentrating on my nipples. One of which was visible, not blocked by the arm of a certain teenager.

We chatted for a few moments. Well three of us did. Buster was lost in reverie.

BJ tapped Walker’s Sister tee, “Candy is dandy, but incest be best.”

I didn’t need to check out my son’s ears. Pink. Definitely. Maybe even red.

SING was waging a RightWorld fight - in public and behind the scenes - on behalf of David and Charles Meriwether. To resurrect their reputations, and, of course, to free them from durance vile.

At the same time, the FBI wasn’t focusing all of its Kansas City resources on law enforcement. Not direct law enforcement anyway. They launched a public relations campaign of their own built around Ash (No Comment) Collins that was worthy of a top New York City media operation.