Chapter 8: Iowa

Matt Striker invited me to meet him for drinks at Chaz. We’d done that once before. And I like the idea that it’s in the Rafael, that there are hotel rooms just upstairs.

Instead though, I invited him to the Wrigley for a home-cooked meal. He travels so much, he’ll appreciate the gesture. Although the home-cooked part entailed my heating up pork soup and veal osso buco from Wrigley, the downstairs restaurant.

Mainly though I wanted him to meet Vanessa, Walker, and Pilar. He knows I’m divorced, remarried, have a son. But he may not know, despite being an investigator, that I married a woman. And that the son bunks in with an 14 year old girl.

Well, laundry-airing time.

Okay, the second reason for inviting him home is because Chaz has hotel rooms upstairs. I don’t want Matt to think I’m easy. It’s a lady thing; I don’t expect you to understand.

Plus, I haven’t seen him for months. Maybe I’ve changed my mind about him. Maybe. Except ... those sad, expressive eyes.

I talked with Daddy every day about the Gunther case. I was thrilled to have even a Temporary FBI badge and was hungry to make a contribution. But I was even more excited to be working directly with Homicide Detective, Dave Jennings. Retired.

In between FBI things - Gunner Gunther things - I worked my other cases. The Edwin Caruthers Foundation for Children is vexing. I’d spent several days following two of the candidates to replace Barney Farnsworth as president.

William (Billy) O’Conner works as a senior VP at Flanagan’s Paint Shops. A local chain of 14 stores scattered over the metro area. At least he leaves the small corporate office in Kansas City fucking Kansas to visit the shops. Gives me something to do. Drive around, listen to my playlists, contemplate my lack of progress.

Catherine (not Cathy) Hartman is equally boring. Or maybe more so. She has only four family-owned funeral parlors to oversee. But she visits each of them every day, seven days a week. While she personally doesn’t preside over any of the proceedings, she does look in on the major wakes. The ones with large numbers of attendees.

But my snooping didn’t turn up any more with O’Conner and Hartman than it had with James T. G. Woolsey. Back to the basics, back to the Sullivans.

I did check in with my client, Kate Mulligan. An attorney with Rankin, Usher, Moses, and Pinkerton. Mainly to let her know I was alive, hadn’t forgotten about her. But I also asked, “Who knew you were interviewing candidates?”

“Oh, just about everyone at the Foundation. Farnsworth talked about his retirement quite often.”

“Anyone else?”

“Let’s see, the Caruthers Board. Hmm ... my partners. We discuss all our cases. My paralegal. Secretary.”

I could almost hear her shrug over the phone, “Anyone could have heard.”

“Who knew you had narrowed it down to three candidates? And who those candidates are?”

Long pause. “Officially just one person. She’s on the Board, Millie Hargrove. Millie heads up the search ... well, I head it up I guess. She’s my contact. I’ve kept her in the loop. She’s approved all three of them.”

Sounded pretty SOP to me. I’d have Sullivan & Sullivan Research check out Hargrove. They’d already run cursory checks on the Foundation Board, but I’d look into this one more closely. Might even be a lead. Not sure I’d recognize one though. Been a while.

I drove to Mary Packer’s shelter to have an after-work beer with Gloria VanLandingham. And was pleasantly surprised to see one of Harold’s whores, Laquita, washing dinner dishes along with three other little girls.

“Hi, Winter!”

“Laquita, I’m happy to see you here.”

She beamed, “Miz VanLandingham let me stay here every other week.”

Which meant she was whoring for Harold every other week. Well, it’s a start. She must have seen the thought flit across my face. “I already got $735 in my bank, Winter. Gonna get a crib for Mama and me.”

Can’t argue with that.

This shelter had been my friend’s vision from the start. When the Catholic Church closed its doors, Mary Packer took her nun-discipline down the street and opened a no-questions-asked haven for six girls at a time.

I made an occasional financial contribution, but it was Phillip Montgomery who had seen not only what was here, but what could be here. He and a circle of friends started the Sister Mary Packer Foundation that Gloria now runs. I check the books for Phillip every once in a while, and the shelter operation continues to be self-sustaining.

A bright beacon in the dreary Northeast.

Pantone signed the rental contract on neutral ground. I’d just have soon it hadn’t been in my Livestock Exchange Building. At least it was in Gertie Oppenheimer’s office.

Unlike Harold, Pantone read the paperwork carefully. The diminutive pimp didn’t even move his lips. I wondered about his background. Probably should have had the Sullivans research him. Maybe later.

He looked up at Gertie, “Don’t say nothing, you hep me buy no building.”

“This is a rental agreement, Pantone. That’s a separate contract. You’ll have to take my word. It’s good. After one year, you’ll be buying your own apartment building. With money you can explain.” Gertie took a long drag on her unfiltered.

He frowned. Trust isn’t the lingua franca of the Northeast. Not in Northeast Pimpdom anyway. He turned his frown to Harold, “You fuck me, I fuck you up.”

Harold, in a three-piece suit, smiled benignly behind his round, rimless spectacles, “Dude.”

As agreed in the prelims I had negotiated, no bodyguards were present. Pantone and Harold, Gertie and me. Pantone no doubt had a knife. I had Bling Sting and my .40 in the top of my shoulder bag. Real estate transactions can be tricky.

Pantone, still frowning to let us know he was a serious cat, signed.

Harold signed.

Gertie kept the original, gave each pimp a copy to double-check. Then took the copies back, “I’ll keep them here in my safe. Nobody else’s business.”

Pantone didn’t argue, Harold wouldn’t.

Pantone had agreed to rent all 12 apartments in the Gondolier Apartment building. That Harold had bought four months ago. And had remodeled by the same Hispanic contractor, Hector Martinez, who had redone his Buena Vista building. And the next two he bought. Small buildings - eight, ten, twelve, two-bedroom units per.

This time around, Gertie herself negotiated the contracting terms for the Gondolier. She told Martinez, “Unlimited pussy, seven days a week.”

“Seven?”

“I want the Gondolier finished in three months.”

“Three?”

“Quit sounding like a parrot. That’s 24 whores available all day, every day.”

People have a way of agreeing with Gertie.

She told Harold, “Have your new whores at the Gondolier during the day. For Martinez and crew. After a week put them in the regular rotation.”

“I was going to do it that way, Gertrude.”

“Good. Martinez will try to slip some friends in. Tell Cassandra not to let it get out of hand. We don’t mind giving away a little goodwill pussy, but I don’t want to see a line around the block.”

Harold nodded, “Word of mouth.”

Phillip Montgomery had seen what the Sister Mary Packer Shelter could become. Gertie had seen what Harold’s whore business could become.

In addition to renting the apartments for twelve months, Pantone had agreed to pay for on-site management. In this case, Gertie moved Cassandra from the Buena Vista to the Gondolier. The BV was running smoothly now and Cassandra’s sister, Appolina, would take over there.

Each of Harold’s buildings has a female manager. They are large, tough. And carry a 12-gauge with them. Maybe 5% of their job is keeping the whores in line. More importantly, the customers.

Gertie had set up a screening process to weed out law enforcement johns. Of course no system is perfect. Cassandra and Appolina and the other managers have the attorney’s number to call. Someone at Herman J. Pettibone’s office would answer 24/7. In fact, the majority of the office’s business comes in after dark.

Gertie had addressed the medical and legal aspects of the pimp business head on. Dr. Madeline Larson. Herman J. Pettibone, Esquire.

She made one more change. She told Harold, “Spread the word, free pussy to all cops. Day and night.”

Harold started to object, then didn’t. He was enjoying the evolution from pimp to businessman.

Gertie said, “Most cops are too straight. But a few will jump in. Have your managers keep track of those cops. Might come in handy some day.”

Gunner Gunther sightings had gone from frequent too seldom. Of course none of them had panned out. But at least the Tip Line had been giving us something to chase.

In Border Collie world, well it’s probably true with all breeds, lineage is crucial. Especially when it comes to shows like Westminster. Or national sheepdog contests. Breeders and owners and trainers follow the bloodlines like, well, bloodhounds.

Hobo is a rescue dog. Rescue puppy. No known royalty in his family tree. So, in some circles, a second-class citizen.