Chapter 15: Red Maplethorpe

Wexler gripped my left elbow, stayed behind me, turned me around. Pushed me toward the office opposite mine. I half-remembered an elevator comment about a new tenant on our floor.

“Go in.”

The door was open and Wexler shoved me inside from behind. A moment later the ceiling light flashed on. I blinked. The small room was almost empty. Handsome hardwood floors just like my office.

A sturdy wooden chair with thick arms. A video camera on a tripod, facing the chair. An old TV table from the fifties. Howdy Doody smiling up from the tray. A wide leather kit, folded open, filled with neatly packed, shiny, stainless steel instruments. Gleaming at me, reflecting light from above. Each one in a custom-fitted slot.

The kit itself had a cord trailing from it. Plugged into a power strip on the floor.

“Sit down.”

I sat, looking up at Wexler. He backed up to the door, reached behind him and locked two locks. His pistol didn’t waver. A Glock 17L with that long barrel.

I could have screamed, but chances are no one was on the floor this time of night. Especially on a Friday. And I didn’t want him to panic-shoot me. Stay alive, that was my only plan at the moment.

Wexler was distressingly calm, had a slight smile, an almost disinterested one, on his rat-face. He reached into a jacket pocket and handed me a black ball-gag. I slashed my foot up, but he swiveled and took it on his thigh. Still calm, he casually backhanded me in the nose. Blood spurted all over my black turtleneck. I knew my nose was broken. My eyes watered and my vision blurred. My ears rang.

“The gag.”

I put it in my mouth, hands shaking, and he moved behind me. It took both his hands to buckle it, so there was a moment when he wasn’t holding the gun. But I was a little stunned from the blow, partly in shock from being taken. So fast, so effortlessly.

Wexler came back in front of me; he peeled a strip of precut duct tape from the chair. Secured my right wrist to the arm of the chair, then my left. Then my ankles. I could feel my phone vibrating in my jeans pocket. Probably Vanessa.

Wexler took off his black leather jacket, tossed it to the floor. Pulled a knife from his front pocket of his jeans and snicked it open with a quiet click. I was starting to reclaim my sense of ... my predicament. Starting to think a little more clearly.

Carefully, almost delicately, he cut my sweater open. Because I was taped to the chair, it took a few minutes to slice off my top. The bra was easier. Pistol tucked in his waist, he placed the knife on the tray. He turned his back to me, removed the ankle tape, lifted my right leg, straddled it, and used both hands to tug my boot off. No chance to kick him, Wexler made sure of that. He repeated the process with my other boot, then eased off my two calf-length white socks. Thick socks, given the temperature outside.

He left my ankles untaped for now, but never gave me another chance to kick up at him.

The jeans were giving him too much trouble.

He turned to his instruments and held up what looked like a long-bladed wire cutter. Looked at me evenly, snicked it open and closed twice. Then coolly, taking care not to cut me, sliced my jeans off.

Panties were gone in seconds. He re-taped my bare ankles.

Wexler scooted the scraps of my clothes together with his feet, and nudged them to a corner of the room. I was concentrating on my breathing. Lowering my heart rate. Focusing, focusing. I blinked several times, my vision was clearing.

Stripping a prisoner naked makes him weaker, psychologically. Like in Abu Ghrab. There’s an atavistic feeling of vulnerability. Not with me. I work hard at how I look. An odd thought comforted me — Wexler would have no chance to get a girl like me. Other than like tonight of course.

I was facing the video camera directly; it was at eye level and turned off for now. I was pretty sure what his intentions were. And it wasn’t that bad of a plan. If he’d tried to take me out of the building, tried to get me into a car, I’d have had a chance. To scream, kick, gouge, break away, something.

But he had me, probably for the weekend.

I’m convinced he was operating under Greta Gunther’s flag. The video would be the proof that Wexler had carried out her instructions. He’d probably show it to Gunther’s attorney, Bob Linkletter.

I was also confident that Sarah Meriwether wasn’t behind Wexler on this one. She believed that if I died, she would die. In fact, she probably would. Emile Chanson. He’d do Strom and Sam as well. And, someday, someone close to me, would track Wexler down. He’d die at the scene or spend his life behind bars.

Cold comfort.

Wexler took his time securing me to that thick wooden chair. He used some sort of stretchy cord with metal hooks that locked end-to-end. The tape had just been temporary. As he drew the cord around each wrist, I placed my hand palm down, slid my thumb under the palm. The would raise my wrist, create a tiny bit of space.

Then, carefully, like he didn’t want to hurt me, he peeled off the duct tape. Tossed the scraps on top of my clothes. No hurry, no gloating, just a serious guy with serious work to do.

But that tiny gap between my wrist and the wooden chair arm buoyed me, just a little. It had been a small misstep on Wexler’s part. Not enough to allow me to get a hand free, probably not. But it was a chink in his efficient methodology. And it added a reassuring bass note to my mantra, Stay Alive, Stay Alive, Stay Alive.

My mind was racing, my ears straining for any hallway sounds. I’d already figured I could wrench my body enough to tip the chair over. That would be loud on these hardwood floors.

I believed his plan would be to work on me, torture me tonight and maybe part of tomorrow. Then kill me. He’s wily, so he’d probably just leave my body here, lock up the office. And drive away for good.

Over a hundred years ago the Livestock Exchange building had been built to be solid, to be substantial. Back when they knew solid. The recent refurbishing had also been top quality, so each office was pretty well sealed. I might go undiscovered for days. Possibly longer.

But unless he killed me tonight, sooner or later he’d need to sleep. So what? So I’d still be alive.

Wexler lifted up and examined the instruments in that leather kit, one by one. It wasn’t to torment me — I didn’t have that impression at all. In fact, he was so focused, so businesslike, that it terrified me more than if he’d been slapping me around, frothing at the mouth.

Vanessa had been right — foreplay. Wexler had been toying with me. Been ahead of me all along. Running me off the road. My three useless trips to Billings. Shooting at me and missing. That cat-and-mouse game with Grady Matthews.

I couldn’t stop staring at the tools he was evaluating. A couple — a drill and pick — were from a dental office. One — plugged-in, charging — looked like a stainless steel curling iron. He wouldn’t be using it on my hair.

There were no crude tools, nothing like a hammer and chisel. These were precision instruments. As professional as Wexler. This guy was no drunk, no bar brawler. That was local cover; he’d created a reputation that masked his true nature. His calling.

And, now he had me. Sarah Meriwether had been right — Wexler is dogged. I should have listened more carefully when she told me that his image of himself, his very sense of self, depended on delivering on his promise. He kept his word. His manhood depended on it. Or that was what he believed. Same thing.

Wexler picked up a new-looking Samsung. Punched a contact number. Said, “I have the Meat on ice.” He listened, nodding, agreeing with the instructions. His voice sounded different, but I couldn’t determine why. Accent maybe.

“Right. I’ll finish in the morning, drive down. Be there tomorrow night.”

He listened, nodded once more, “You’ll have proof. Enough to transfer the rest.” The rest of his payment. I believed, knew, he was talking to Greta Gunther’s attorney. Bob Linkletter. The proof would be the video.

I was straining to squeeze my left hand out from under the cord. Trying to do it without showing anything on my face. Like in a YouTube video I had watched, I did get my thumb free. That left the thickest part of my hand. I’d scrape the back of my hand to the bone if necessary. If I could manage it without Wexler noticing.

He had made one small tactical error. The TV table with the tools on it was within reach. The reach of my left hand. I studiously avoided looking in that direction once I realized those precision instruments were close enough to grab. I gamed it out in my mind. If I got my hand free, I wouldn’t fuck around. I’d jerk my hand out and lunge for closest tool all in one motion. It looked like an X-ACTO knife except it had a thicker handle and a longer blade, around four inches.

That long-shot gambit, along with Stay Alive, Stay Alive, Stay Alive, gave me two rare commodities — focus and a tiny bit of hope.

Wexler was in no hurry. At the same time he wasn’t putting it off. ‘It’ being torture. It’s not like he was squeamish or reluctant, not at all. Nor did it seem like he was quietly giddy; teasing himself, building anticipation.

No, it’s ... he was simply methodical. Going through the sequence in his head. What to do to me first. Then maybe a rest period? Second instrument?

I gritted my teeth to keep from showing any strain. My left wrist was scraped raw and the back of my hand was starting to bleed. The center of my face throbbed. My nose was running, my ears ringing. I had a massive headache. It was difficult to breathe — I had to force air in and out of my crooked nose. Then Wexler stood back from his tools, glanced at me impassively, and reached toward the video camera. Turned it on. Checked the focus, nodded to himself.

Delicately, as if he didn’t want to accidentally cop a feel, he attached a metal clamp to each of my nipples. The stainless steel was cold and hard. A thin white cord led from each clamp to a control mechanism, about three inches square. It had a black dial with white numbers ranging from one to ten on it. The little box itself was plugged into the power strip on the floor.

Wexler looked from the clamps to the dial to the power strip. A workman checking his tools. Calm, detached. Steady hands, he clicked the dial to the right and back.

My entire body spasmed and I screamed into the ball-gag. It was only a second, maybe two, of excruciating agony. The mental echo of my agonized screech didn’t sound like it came from me. Didn’t sound human.

Wexler observed me thoughtfully. My entire body was covered with a sudden sheen of perspiration. Flop sweat.

Wexler turned back to his instruments. He examined the one that resembled a curling iron; it was plugged directly into another control box which was also linked to the power strip on the floor. He then pulled on a pair of thin latex surgical gloves, light blue. Next he pushed down the top lever on a bottle of Isabel Fey water-based lubricant.

Wexler glanced at me briefly, looked down between my thighs, back into my eyes. As he slathered that stainless steel rod generously with the gel.

I now understood his methodology. He had zapped my nipples with a low-level dose, maybe two or three or four on that dial. For the briefest possible time. Now he would do my vagina. Then Wexler would go through that deadly tool kit, one instrument at a time. And gradually work up the intensity level for each one.

I took a deep breath and strained my left arm, quietly, desperately, trying to pull my left hand free. There was marginally more process with my hand coated with sweat.

Wexler delicately inserted the lubricated steel rod into my vagina. The white cord rested on my left thigh and continued to a toggle switch on the Howdy Doody table. No calibrations for this instrument — just on or off. Wexler eased the rod all the way in, taking as much care as possible not to touch me, even with his gloves on.

He reached for the switch, the one connected to my vagina, then hesitated. He looked up at my breasts, pausing to deliberate. There was a look of mild curiosity on his face. He moved his hand to the nipple control again and twisted the dial to his right and back.

The pain was excruciating, unbearable. I thought my spine would crack from the strain as my legs and arms fought the elastic restraints. My left hand ripped free just as I became aware of the acrid smell of burning flesh. I was still screaming into the ball gag as I lunged for the X-ACTO knife and plunged it into Wexler’s thigh.

A shotgun blast shattered the hallway door, blew out both locks. Cathal Conway crashed the door open, followed by Vanessa. Wexler raised his hands, slowly, carefully. Pouched his cheeks, blew air out. His Glock was on the TV table, beside the array of torture instruments.

Vanessa raced to me, carefully freed my nipples. Unplugged and then eased the steel rod out and threw it across the room in disgust.

She held my face in her hands, stared for a moment. Unbuckled the ball gag. I croaked out, “Thank you.”

“Shh.”

She struggled with the cord around my left wrist and said, “Cathal.”

He backed up, a Mossberg 500 pump pointed at Wexler’s chest. Wexler’s long-barreled Glock now in Cathal’s front left pocket. Carefully, slowly, he transferred the shotgun to Vanessa. “Safety’s still off.”

Vanessa nodded, staring at Wexler. The Mossberg unwavering in her steady hands.

Cathal picked up a long-handled knife with a short blade and began sawing at that same cord. I whispered, “Thank you.”

Cathal, straining from the effort, cut my left wrist free. Then my right. For some reason it seemed important to both of us to free my hands. And the very act of setting me loose took precedence over securing Wexler. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with that shotgun in his face. Both Vanessa and Cathal implicitly understood the importance of freeing me from those cords, this chair. They didn’t discuss it, didn’t need to.

It took almost three minutes for Cathal to carve his way through the four cords. I stared at the silent tableau in front of me. Vanessa and Wexler didn’t move. She kept the Mossberg anchored against her shoulder, pointing directly at his head, no tremble in her hands. Her right index finger was rock-steady on the trigger. He seemed as calm, as centered, as when he controlled the room. Three inches or so of that X-ACTO knife was still buried in his right thigh. Some blood was seeping through his khaki slacks.

I stood up, rubbing my wrists, especially my left one. I was a little shaky, nothing too bad. I reached over and turned off the video camera. Wexler watched me, an almost indifferent expression on his face.

Cathal, moving slowly, carefully, edged around Vanessa, used FlexiCuffs and secured Wexler’s arms behind his back. He still had on those blue surgical gloves. Vanessa shifted her right hand on the Mossberg, said, “Safety’s on.”

Cathal nodded, stepped back and aimed his own Glock at Wexler. Vanessa adjusted her grip on my Mossberg, her right hand held it below the trigger guard, left on the barrel. It was now pointing at the ceiling.

Wexler looked at me, “I never would have hurt your family. I told her no.”

Her. Greta Gunther.

Vanessa raised her arms and slammed the butt of the shotgun into Wexler’s face. No warning, not a sound. Wexler’s head bounced off the wall and he collapsed in slow-motion, out cold.

I gasped in surprise. Cathal didn’t blink, “Resisting arrest.”

Vanessa raised the shotgun again, Cathal placed a palm on her forearm, “Enough.”

As I stared at Wexler, an odd piece of middle school doggerel popped into my mind —

“Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order, when, A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.”

I think it’s called deflection. A coping mechanism. I had been steeling myself — trying desperately to fortify myself to withstand as much torture as I could. To just Stay Alive. Long enough to wretch my left hand free, then at least go down fighting. Then the sudden burst of agony, two doses.

When Cathal and Vanessa burst in ... well, it overloaded my circuits.

Vanessa led me across the hall to my office. We examined my nipples. Carefully, gently. There were even, round burn marks where the clamps had been. Indentations from those clamps. The burns would heal, the indentations would fade. The pain-memory? That would be around for a while.

She ran hot water in my bathroom sink, squeezed lemon-scented soap from a hand dispenser and washed my face, body, and legs carefully. Thoroughly. Turned me around, washed me from behind.

I smiled ruefully, “Whore’s bath.”

“Shh.”

She opened my office first aid kit and gently applied a salve to my nipples.

Vanessa patted me dry with a soft, fluffy towel and helped me dress from my office wardrobe. I keep several changes of clothes at work. No telling where a particular mission might lead me. Or an unanticipated dinner invite. I pulled on clean white socks. We went back to Cathal and Wexler. I pulled my boots on — for some reason that made me a little more comfortable.

Cathal said, “Sergeant Finch is on the way.”

Vanessa, ever practical, said, “Call Riles. Both of you are spending the night at the Wrigley. I need to call Walker.”

Vanessa was calm, measured. I was slowly coming around, the suddenly-new reality beginning to sink in. I felt slightly faint, reached over for the wooden arm, and sat back down on the torture chair. My entire face throbbed. Ached. My nipples throbbed painfully.

Vanessa smiled at Cathal, “Remember to call Juanita too.”

Cathal mock-saluted. “Yes ma’am.”

I looked at Wexler. Cathal had turned him on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood and saliva. His ugly face was now grotesque. Lips cracked open, splintered teeth, sideways nose. Cathal had removed the X-ACTO knife and tied a tourniquet above the wound. Using shreds from my jeans.

I dug my cell out of the pocket of those jeans. Called Daddy. Then Walker.

The police medic reset my nose with one painful, sharp crack. She then packed it. Said “Hairline fractures. It’ll hurt and you’ll look like hell for a few days. Technicolor bruises.”

“Thanks.” My voice sounded so nasally. I could live with that.

She carefully, slowly, cleaned my left hand and wrist. Applied a disinfectant that stung like hell. Applied three butterfly bandages and wrapped everything in soft gauze, then taped it neatly, precisely.

Vanessa and Louise Finch led me back to my own office. Wexler’s was crowded with crime scene technicians. And a photographer. I guess Cathal’s involvement precluded his official participation. Daddy joined us, gave me a quick hug.

Louise started to turn on the Wexler video and I said, “Daddy.”

He looked at me. Understood. He nodded at Louise, “Come get me.”

Louise, Vanessa, and I watched the nipple torture, the vaginal insertion, a second go at my breasts. Vanessa caught her breath as I jerked my hand free, stabbed Wexler. We all listened to the off-camera shotgun blast. Then Vanessa’s turn — taking off those nipple clamps, gently removing the stainless steel rod, that ball gag. Cathal’s slicing through those four cords. My hand reaching toward the camera. Then blackness.

Louise shook her head. Vanessa muttered something under her breath. I felt faint. Sat back, closed my eyes, focused on breathing as steadily as I could. Louise waited patiently even though it was time to interview me. While everything was still fresh.

I gave her a wan smile, “Okay.”

Daddy and Vanessa sat beside me, she held my hand as I answered every question Sergeant Finch asked. The interview was videoed. Before we began, Vanessa looked at the sergeant, “No media?”

“I’ll try to keep Winter out of it.”

Daddy patted my hand, “Bulldog.” Daddy would make the call in the morning.

I got up to use the bathroom twice during my 40-minute testimony. Nerves.

I watched Louise interview Cathal next. Then Vanessa. Everything on the video record.

My rescue, the planning anyway, had begun back in our Wrigley loft. I’d been expected home for dinner. Hadn’t answered Vanessa’s three calls. Couldn’t have. She pulled Cathal aside, “I’m worried about Winter. She knows you and Riles are here. This isn’t like her.”

Northern Ireland must have honed Cathal’s alertness, his sense of impending jeopardy. No hesitation; he said, “Let’s go.”

They drove to the Livestock Exchange building in Cathal’s black Monte Carlo. Saw my F-150 in its usual parking space. Noted that my office windows were dark. He took his Glock out of the glove compartment, swiftly fastened his shoulder holster. They rode up, but Cathal pushed the elevator button for the floor above mine. Seven. Just because the lights were out didn’t mean that no one was home.

They tiptoed down the stairs, Cathal had his pistol out, pointed down, beside his right leg. Vanessa spotted my keys on the floor, just outside my door. She nudged Cathal, whispered, “Someone has her.”

They took off their shoes and socks. To avoid noise and slipping. Cathal leaned his ear against my door, “Empty.”

Vanessa slid my Medeco key in and turned it softly. There was a slight click, but I keep my locks well oiled. Another lesson from Daddy. Cathal silently closed the hallway door and Vanessa unlocked her way into my office. Cathal, gun now pointing ahead, turned on a table lamp.

Their whispered conversation concluded that I’d been taken, most probably by Wexler. Cathal said, “Odds are, she’s still in the building. Tricky to try to move her.”

Vanessa moved into the bathroom, the room furthest away from the hall and dialed the Sullivans. One of them always answers, day and night. Vanessa said, “Jessie, Wexler grabbed Winter at her office. We think she’s still in the building.”

Vanessa listened as Jessie instructed her twin brother, “New tenants, Livestock Exchange Building. This past month, earlier if you have to.”

Moments later, Vanessa whispered to Cathal, “Across the hall, 605. Police?”

“I’m the police. I’m here. We’re here.”

Vanessa held up one finger. Padded barefoot to my concealed gun safe behind a cedar panel. Tapped in the security code and drew out my Mossberg. Handed it to Cathal. He gave her his Glock, “Safety’s off.”

He chambered a round in the shotgun, switched off the safety. Turned it back on, then off again. Just testing.

Still barefoot, still silent, they crept across the hall. He listened at Wexler’s door, gave Vanessa a ‘can’t tell’ shrug. Vanessa pointed at the locks.

The next morning, the morning after my rescue, Vanessa, Cathal, and I sat down with Walker and Pilar. With Riley. We hadn’t gotten home until almost daybreak, so the kids didn’t know any of the details. Just that I was fine. Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler was in jail. And will be for a long time.

We agreed that the kids deserved to know what had happened to me. Needed to know. We didn’t include the assortment of torture tools, nor the video camera. Nor my nudity. And certainly not the nipple torture.

But ... everything else.

I looked at Walker, “I was locking my office to come home. Wexler was hiding across the hall.”

“Where?”


“He’d rented the office opposite mine.”

“Oh.”

“He stuck a gun in the back of my neck, took me into that rented place, and tied me to a chair.”

“What was he going to do?”


I sighed. “Hurt me. Probably, almost certainly, kill me.”

“Greta Gunther.”

“Yeah. I’m working on her.”

Eventually I’ll tell Walker and Pilar the full Wexler story. Break the details to them gradually. Everything will come out during the trial; if there is a trial. In either case, I want them to know the truth — this is the life I’ve chosen and there are consequences.

Walker slept with Vanessa and me for three straight nights, I think we all needed it. They nestled me, comforted me, front and back. Pilar checked in every day, but was spending most of her time with her new baby sister, Poppy.

I think that Walker was more or less back on an even keel. I’d continue to recover. Physically ... it would take a while. My face still ached, and I hated the multi-hued bruising around my nose, my eyes. My nipples were still super-sensitive. But all of that will pass.

The inner stuff ... the terror I’d felt, the despair ... well, I was back with Dr. Lindsey Conners. The FBI was footing the bill.

I hadn’t had any Wexler nightmares, but I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. I was concerned that I might be repressing as much as I could. Maybe I needed to ... well, I didn’t know what I needed to do. Maybe therapy would draw that out.

Naturally Matt Striker wanted to see me; he must have felt helpless and frustrated and furious and ... probably a lot of other things. But he was wise in so many ways, Matt. He understood that it had to be, should be, family time for me.

He and I will hook up soon and, I hope, often. But for now...

None of the official crime scene photographs included me.

Sergeant Louise Finch had that Wexler video hidden in a private safe. It was off premises — her union rep’s office. No other cops would see the video; in fact, no one had seen it but Vanessa, Louise, and me. If it weren’t needed for the trial, Louise would destroy it. With Vanessa and me bearing witness.

I had been fully dressed by the time the crime scene technicians arrived. So naturally there are no nude photos of me. But there are detailed pics of the clothes that Wexler had sliced off me and they were entered into the crime log.

Then there was the decidedly odd, and personally annoying, fact that Wexler wasn’t denying anything. He wasn’t confessing either. Sergeant Finch told me plea bargain talks were growing more detailed from the law enforcement side; that would save the state time, trouble, and money. And save me unwanted public exposure.

But Wexler remained mute.

Eventually the case would be taken out of police hands. The charges against Wexler would be federal. He’d roamed across state lines and his money had traveled all over the globe.

But local or federal ... will he ever talk?

We’ll see.

Dragon Lady # 1 called me just as Walker was starting to fix a batch of tacos. Cathal and Riles were still here; Juanita had just arrived with Javier and Jorge. The Proper Villain and Hobo were pleased to see Juanita and the boys, their playmates.

I told Walker, “One more for lunch. Bulldog.” Back to me, doing taco things, he raised a wooden stir-spoon, nodded.

Bulldog shook Vanessa’s hand, then Cathal’s, “Good work.”

Cathal shrugged, “Right place...”

Juanita beamed, proud of her husband; she’d been given the same sanitized version as the kids.

As we sat down at our round kitchen table, Negra Modela for us big guys, I said, “Would Emile like to come up? There’s plenty.”

“No.”

Bulldog turned to Cathal, “What would you like?”

No hesitation, “SOS.” Special Operations Squad. More action, less mopping up.

Bulldog looked at Vanessa with the same question. She also spoke without hesitating, “Greta Gunther.” That fucking woman still had plenty of money. And plenty of hatred.

Six months after the sold-out “Altered Spaces / Haunted Places” exhibition of Cathal’s photography, Regina Roman hosted another opening for the sad-looking Irishman.

This gallery party was much more festive. Twenty-two black and white photos of sixteen naked women, six naked men. BaBoomz. With her giggling authorization, Juanita Garcia was one of the sixteen.

There was no question that this opening night, and the four weeks that followed, would be popular. Even without a savvy PR rollout, the story was too delicious. Cop artist. Naked people. Full frontal, most of them. Including the artist’s live-in girlfriend.

C. C. Colson, Cathal’s agent, told him, “Be sure to bring Juanita’s sons. That’s a delicious subplot.”

Cathal shrugged. Details.

Vanessa and I lobbied, successfully, for a BaBoomz credit in each photo’s descriptive paragraph. Regina said, “Sure, that’s part of the magic. Professional strippers that look like leading ladies from the 20s.”

The party was, as my grandmother never said, ‘a smasheroo.’ Eighteen of the twenty-two strippers showed up. Even one who had retired and two who had moved on to other clubs.

Which meant selfie-flashes were going off all night. The stripper, his or her photo, the selfie ... immortalized.

Javier and Jorge? In a word, proud of their mother. They were scrubbed and polished, had a glow about them. Stood tall. Exactly what Regina and C. C. would want.

Riley Conway just beamed. Her father’s life had turned around ever since Buster Fagin and BJ Kowalski had introduced her to me. Buster and BJ who were now taking full advantage of the caterer trays.