Chapter 2: Riles

For some reason, crime in America follows railroad tracks. And Kansas City has plenty of both.

My first, and I hope last, shootout took place near my office in the Stockyards. Besides gunplay, it involved ramming my bright red F-150 into a larger Dodge Ram. The Ford Motorcar Company told me, and I verified it through an independent mechanic, that the frame had been wrenched out of shape. It could be straightened, but wouldn’t drive the same, not really.

I sat down with Vanessa and Gertie Oppenheimer, our financial guru, and went over the numbers. Neither of them knows any more about cars than I do. So I asked one of my freelancers, a Winter Irregular, Joey Viagra, to sit in.

After he had shared his most recent erection experience, which he assured us was magnificent, we turned to automobiles.

Gertie had already set up a pre-approved car loan for me at Commerce. “Keep it under $35,000, Winter.”

“I hope for a lot less than that.”

Joey shook his head, “Buy new, Winter. Don’t pay for someone else’s problems.”

I bought new. Another red F-150. To save a few bucks, I selected the midsize cargo box — six and a half feet. More than I need, but that model looks good. I mean ... well, it just looks proportional to me. Not too long, not too short. Goldilocks right.

This time around I added a smart matching red metal cover for the cargo area. It may be called a Tonneau cover. Maybe not. I negotiated the price down, but probably still overpaid for it. Oh well.

The cover is silly in a way. I don’t have tools to hide, bundles of dope to protect, nothing like that. But I like the aesthetic. Vanessa agrees. So there.

Any haggled savings on the extras were more than wiped out because I chose the crew cab version. Which turned the truck into a four-door model. But, I have family considerations. Kids and Hobo. Vanessa. Crew cab.

Leftover Beef Bourguignon packed away, dinner dishes washed, Vanessa smiled at Pilar, “Where’d our boy go? Up to something naughty?”

Autofelatio springs to mind. Well, I do know my own son.

Walker had been doing his evening disappearing act for several days. I looked at Pilar, curious myself.

She ruffled Hobo’s coat, neck to tail, “No Papi’s playing ‘Overwatch’. I hold him to two hours a day.” She smiled, “Pussy power.”

Vanessa and I looked at each other — she was as clueless as I was. She said, “What’s ‘Overwatch’? A video game?”

“Yeah, Walker started playing when it was still in beta.” She shook her head, “He’d love to turn pro.”

I laughed, “Right. A professional gamer. Sure.”

Pilar regarded me calmly, “It’s a thing, Winter. ‘Overwatch’ is new. Compared to some of the classics. ‘League of Legends’. ‘Warcraft’. ‘Diablo’. But ‘Overwatch’ already has a pro league.”

Vanessa said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. It’s mostly teenage boys, but they pay everybody like $50,000 a year. Each team lives together. Housing, food, expenses. Even health insurance.”

I said, “Fuck me.”

Vanessa said, “Walker?”

“Oh, he’s not nearly good enough to turn pro. Even if he practiced eight, ten hours a day. But his little team is now second in their league.”

I said, “Team? He’s on a team? What, classmates?”

Pilar remained serene at the naivety at the table, “No, Winter. It’s international — Germany, Latvia, Korea. Dozens of countries. Six players per side.”

Another generational chasm. At 33, Vanessa and I are just too old. Later we quizzed Walker about it. This eSport stuff is a real deal. ‘Overwatch’ and other games are actually broadcast on a streaming platform called “Twitch”. Which Amazon bought for almost a billion dollars.

A billion? WTF!

Turns out “Twitch” has around 300 million viewers — kids watching kids play video games online. It’s now a spectator sport. A huge spectator sport.

So, ‘Overwatch’. Teams. In an organized league. Teenage boys, go figure. Well, the owners of the New England Patriots and the New York Mets, for example, did go figure. And bought ‘Overwatch’ teams in the new pro league. God, the things I don’t know.

Pilar said, “It’s another area where girls are excluded.”

Vanessa said, “Why, honey?”

“Online hating. They pick on the girls — it’s not worth it.”

I said, “I can’t imagine you putting up with that.”

“I wouldn’t. Fuck no. But I’m just not that talented. Walker’s a lot better.”

Later, as I was about ready to prepare for bedtime with Vanessa, the subject was still annoying me. I said, “Who the fuck would want to watch boys playing games?”

Walker smiled at his clueless mother, “That’s what people said when ESPN was launched.”

I called Bulldog Bannerman and one of his Dragon Ladies put me right through. It’s a status thing.

“Senator Wainwright said to say hello.” Naturally Bulldog would know senators.

“Good man.”

I got run off the road on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. On East 2nd street between Walnut and Oak, to be precise. I was driving, solo, to the Unicorn Club. To meet Bear for a late lunch. My new red F-150. Some dickwad passed me on the left. No oncoming traffic at the moment, but he was going way too fast.

He jerked his white Jeep to the right, purposely trying to hit me. My reflexes were fast that afternoon — I slammed on the brakes and pulled right with all my might. I did avoid the collision, but ended up in a shallow grass ditch. I jumped out, engine still running and snapped a photo of the fucker, now two blocks away.

I called Bear who came running. Not because I was shook up. Well, maybe a little because I was. Okay, I was crying. He hugged me, calmed me down. Then inspected the front of my truck. “Right headlight. A little body work. Don’t take it to Ford. Go to Mortie.”

“I will. Feed me. I want a drink. Ten drinks.”

One morning in our office elevator, I thought to ask Gertie Oppenheimer about the gaming industry. I’d had no idea it was so huge. Gertie had, of course.

She said, “Chase has been into it for years. I jumped in when I retired. It’s still looked on as a growth industry.”

“Why didn’t I know anything about it?”

“It’s understandable. Cultural. Gaming isn’t usually the first thing women investors think about.”

“Growth?”

“Yeah. The industry is evolving from selling discs at retailers to downloading games. Gross margins shoot up to around 80%.”

“Fuck.”

“Another aspect is becoming more significant — in-game purchases. That’s growing into a consistent revenue stream. Not so much reliance on coming out with new hits.”

“Pilar mentioned something about that. That Walker buys new weapons, new somethings, every once in a while.”

Gertie nodded, “A couple more factors I like. Now that everyone has a smartphone, mobile gaming could be the fastest-growing segment of the market.”

I knew nothing about this. Not an unusual occurrence for me. “What else?”

“China. International distribution is starting to open up.”

“Fuck.”

My newest client, Riley Conway, is also my youngest. Riles is 10; she lives in Raytown, just east of Kansas City. Her father works for the KCPD and that’s why I’m on board. Cathal Conway is a widowed crime scene photographer. With, I would learn, a romantic streak.

Another reason I took Riles on — pro bono, of course — is because Buster Fagin and BJ Kowalski asked me to. They’re Winter Irregulars, freelancers who help me out from time to time. Buster is cheeky, irreverent, 12-years old. BJ, 8, seems to be his best buddy.

They introduced their friend, Riley Conway, to me at Moe’s, their favorite Raytown boîte. Four bacon double-cheeseburgers. When in Rome...

Cheeks bulging, Buster said, “Riles’s daddy needs him some help.”

Sitting beside him, cheeks bulging, BJ elbowed her buddy in the side, “Needs some pussy, don’t go wussy.”

I glanced at Riley sitting beside me in the red leather booth cracked from decades of butts,. She nodded, not upset by the frank evaluation of her paterfamilias. She is slender like Buster. Red, red hair, thick. Alabaster skin with freckles all over.

The story came out in bits and pieces, each of the three taking turns. Riley’s father, Cathal Conway, had immigrated from Belfast, Northern Ireland, thirteen years ago. Had married a second-generation Irish woman, Colleen O’Shea. Who died shortly after giving birth to Riley.

Colleen had suffered some tearing near her vagina during childbirth and the hospital ignored signs of infection. Colleen was discharged, then hastily readmitted three days later. In excruciating pain — an agony almost beyond the human capacity to endure. The postmortem revealed necrotizing fasciitis, commonly known as flesh-eating bacteria.

Riley had never known her mother; doted on, worried about, her father.

Cathal had been a well-respected photographic portraitist back in Ireland. It’s more of a British tradition than American and he struggled to make a living here. When his citizenship papers came through, he applied for several civic jobs — DPW, bus driver, police, fire.

In one case of the bureaucracy getting it right, someone spotted his photography background, his talent, and slotted him as a crime scene photographer. After Cathal had been through the Academy, passed all the tests.

Buster, working on a stack of catsup-laden tater tots said, “You should see his pictures, Winter. Belong in a museum.”

BJ helped herself to the potatoes, nodded, “For reals, Beales.”

Riley dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin, “Papa is in trouble at work. They put him on notice.”

“What for, honey?”

She solemnly unfolded a sheet of paper, smoothed it out, handed it to me.

From the Kansas City PD. Says so, right on the letterhead. Specifically from a Mrs. Ethyl Goodman in HR. This woman I know. I hadn’t been a rising star during my three years on the cops. And Mrs. Goodman let me know about it. Called me in three times — once a year — to discuss attitude adjustment. Mine.

The salient paragraph in her complaint to Cathal Conway read, “While your crime scene work is acceptable, there are concerns about your overall departmental attitude. Your annual reviews indicate you have almost no social interaction with coworkers. I’ve spoken with you twice on the importance of office camaraderie.”

Well. This is one problem I can actually fix. Mrs. Ethyl fucking Goodman isn’t a popular figure around headquarters. I could talk with Daddy; he’d know how to handle it. Or my friend, Sergeant Louise Finch; it would take her one phone call.

I wouldn’t bother Bulldog Bannerman — that would be like taking a bazooka to ... an arm wrestling match. There’s probably a better analogy out there than that.

Riley was eyeing me solemnly as I read the letter. Yes, it was serious. Yes, her father had been officially put on notice by the fucking HR department. But it was a crapola charge. Wouldn’t stand up for a minute once Cathal’s union rep learned of it.

But I was pretty sure that wasn’t the only thing in the Conway household that wanted attention. The impression I was beginning to sense is that Cathal Conway is one morose guy. And his daughter is growing more concerned.

Walker and Pilar, with Hobo beside them, were sitting at our kitchen table. Doing something with two sharp knives and onions, garlic, ginger. Hobo was monitoring the mise en scène carefully.

I said, “Did you guys remember to register and vote?”

Pilar nodded, a small smile on her face, “Sure did, Winter.”

Walker had his own smile, “Yep.”

There’s a fiction-writing site I contribute to once in a while — StoriesOnLine. SOL. Mysteries. Someone entered me in an authors’ contest — Clitorides. I looked at the kids again. Nope, they aren’t going to tell me who they voted for.

And I’m sure as fuck too proud to ask them. I walked back to shower, head held high. Little fuckers.

Mayor Tom Lynch was certainly aware that I was looking into his daughter’s sex video fiasco. At the same time I knew that discretion was the keyword. Amy wasn’t to know. In fact, no one else was. Which made the dance a little awkward for me. Especially since the clock was a major factor.