Chapter 4: Bear

The second odd murder in Kansas City was discovered by an early morning jogger. Sunday. Loose Park, just south of the Plaza. The dead woman was placed between the pond on the west and Wornal Road on the east. She was wearing a clean red dress and had been carefully posed.

Young, in her early 20s, she looked almost serene, lying on her back. Her ankles were crossed and her hands folded neatly over her tummy. The dress looked carefully ironed. Everything was eerily tidy. Except there were shallow, almost tentative cuts around her eyes. Like hesitation marks on a suicide’s wrist. Puzzling.

The jogger, who fortunately had her Irish setter on a leash, tied him to a bench and dialed 911. She was shaken, but had the presence of mind to keep two other dogs away.

The crime scene was roped off, the techs on the scene within 10 minutes. Of course I’d heard of the police photographer — Cathal Conway — but hadn’t yet met him. That would come.

Pilar had a calming influence on Bianca Martinez. Probably Hobo did too. Speaking from the back seat, arm around her border collie, Pilar said, in Spanish, “Bianca, you’re not in trouble. Don’t be afraid.”

My idea.

Then, speaking softly, Pilar worried the tawdry story out of an understandingly reluctant Bianca. My initial assumption had been right. For once.

The despicable — on so many levels — Troy Ventura had been the mastermind in this sorry little caper. How sorry? He hadn’t even known Tom Lynch had been the mayor until after he coerced his girlfriend into seducing Amelia. Amy.

Worse, he had made Bianca drug the little girl with a tiny dose of Rohypnol. At least Ventura had been smart enough to use only a fraction of the roofie. Amy hadn’t been knocked out, just dazed.

This morning, in my ride, Bianca believed that Troy Ventura was probably at home; he was between jobs. Of course.

I drove her to a large house in Sunset Hill, just south of the Plaza. A Whisk-Away yellow van was in the circular driveway. Following my instructions, Pilar checked Bianca’s bag for a cell phone. Nope.

For some reason, I gave Bianca five Jacksons. Probably because I had scared her earlier in that sorry office. And, I felt sorry for her. In a way, she was almost as much a victim as Amy. Almost.

I nodded at Pilar who climbed into the front seat and spoke to Bianca through the window, “Troy won’t be home tonight. You won’t see him again.” Hobo looked on solemnly.

I dropped Pilar off at her school in Brookside. Good timing, the playground was filled with kids running, laughing, shrieking. I miss recess.

Hobo hopped in front, claiming shotgun. He watched Pilar carefully until we turned a corner. I took Wornal north to the Plaza and cut over to Broadway. Bear was outside his eponymous restaurant waiting for me. Bulldog had told me to make the Mayor Lynch problem go away and Bear was the fastest way I could think of. Especially since I couldn’t involve the police, anyone in the authority racket.

Hobo lapped Bear’s face enthusiastically; it’s probably a guy thing. Bear sat him on his lap, a commodious lap, and said, “Instructions?”

“His name is Troy Ventura and he’s leaving town today. For good. After we have every trace of that video.”

“For good?”

I smiled at my friend, “Killing him isn’t on the agenda. Sorry. Bulldog will talk to him after we...”

“Soften him up.”

That’s my plan.

I piloted my way north and east, taking surface streets like I do. There were faster ways to reach the Northeast, but old habits...

The Martinez / Ventura residence is a block south of Independence Avenue. Close to the bus line. In a neighborhood with a lot of Spanish-speaking people. The soon-to-be Martinez-only home was on the left side of a shabby duplex. I rang the bell, no sound, then knocked. Bear stood off to the side.

Ventura, the pride of Texarkana, had been asleep. Probably exhausted from a rigorous résumé rehab. He was yawning, an unlit cigarette between thin lips. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and hadn’t bathed for longer than that.

Wife-beater, saggy boxer shorts. Barefoot, grimy toenails. Be still my beating heart.

He grinned when he saw me; frowned when Bear registered. Understandable, my best friend is quite a sight. Six feet, eight inches. Carries around 315 pounds, give or take. And then there’s that bright platinum, shoulder-length hair, Bear’s fuck-you to the straight world.

Ventura said, “What the...”

I hit the center of his chest with the heels of both hands, driving him three steps back inside. Establishing the contours of the conversation. I could almost hear Bear smile.

“Hey! Fuck! Lady, what the...”

I slapped him. Hard. Easy to be Ms. Braveheart when Man Mountain is standing beside me. But I was pissed enough to take this scrote on by myself. Bear is with me mostly as visual insurance.

This weasel fucker had roofied an innocent young girl. Made his own girlfriend do a sex video. And had the ignorant balls to think he could get away with it, could blackmail the mayor.

I showed him my copy of the video. Explained the facts of life to him. He was listening, sort of. Kept glancing at Bear. But I could practically sense the dim workings of his brain. Formulating a plan to agree to everything. Say anything to get us the fuck out of his house. And he would retain a secret copy of poor Amy.

I captured his full attention by uppercutting him in the balls with my wrist. Not the panic kick I’d done in DC. But certainly hard enough to make him gasp, howl in anguish, and bend over, cupping himself.

Bear hadn’t said a word, I was carrying the conversational ball.

The only electronic device in the one-bedroom house would turn out to be a Samsung cell phone. A few years old, but still serviceable enough to shoot a Crestwood video with a young girl.

I nodded to Bear and he tore the place apart, looking for a laptop, tablet, another cell. Tapes, flash drives, anything. Nothing. I said, “Check his car.” Not the least bit nervous about being alone with Ventura. Well, my .40 and the container of BlingSting didn’t hurt.

Bear returned and placed a meaty paw on Ventura’s shoulder. Squeezed, just a little bit, but enough to make the fucker’s knees buckle. I said, “Who else has seen this? Who knows about it?”

He claimed nobody. And eventually, as Bear squeezed a little harder, I believed him. Not because of legal concerns — Ventura and his crowd wouldn’t care about the blackmail part. But because Ventura was just clever enough to want to keep the big score to himself.

I told him to get dressed and pack a suitcase. And not to even think about returning to Kansas City. He opened his mouth, looked at Bear, closed it. Bear went into the kitchen, washed his hands. I took my turn, carefully cleaning my hands up to the elbows. I didn’t dry them on the one dirty towel. Just waved them through the air.

Bear drove Ventura’s battered white Pontiac; he put the criminal mastermind in the back seat. They followed me to the Unicorn Club parking lot. I called Bulldog, “We’re here.”

Bear and I leaned against my ride as Emile Chanson pulled up in that long, long black Cadillac. Opened the door for Bulldog. Let Ventura see the pistol he always carried.

I handed the Samsung to Bulldog. He said, “Only copy?”

I nodded, “Ninety nine and nine-tenths sure.”

Emile cleared his throat. An offer to eliminate any fractional uncertainty.

Bulldog Bannerman looked Troy Ventura up and down. Bulldog is in his 70s. Slender. But Ventura wasn’t a big enough fool not to read the menace beneath the surface. He seemed to shrink in on himself. I hid a smile. Imagine if it were Emile eyeballing him.

I started to ask Bulldog if the mayor wanted to talk with the creep. But didn’t. Bulldog wouldn’t have allowed it, wouldn’t have let his mayor anywhere near this cretin.

Odd.

I’d been hyper alert to my surroundings during a brief period when a certain Gunner Gunther was believed to be in KC. Planning to kill me. I’d retained much of that peripheral awareness ever since. And I’d spotted a silhouette of a guy in a cowboy hat. Three different times. Three different locations in the city, although he was two or three car lengths behind me each time.

This evening I was driving home from the stockyards, it was around 9:30. Well, 9:37. I’m not certain I like the anal precision of the digital world we live in.

Naturally I jumped to the conclusion, zero evidence, that it was Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler. His rodeo background for one thing. A tingle for another. Even if it were someone else ... three times in two weeks is probably not a coincidence. Someone has eyes on me.

I called Bear, explained the situation. He didn’t tease me about women’s intuition; he knows my instincts are sound. Well, not when certain substances are involved.

I said, “It’s a Chevy, pretty sure. Late model, some dark color.”

“Drive by.”

I started to remind him of the cowboy hat, then didn’t bother. Bear may be huge, but he’s smart. Killer smart.

I zagged over to Broadway and slowed as I neared BEAR’s. I hadn’t looked in my rearview for six blocks, didn’t want to alert my fan club. I glanced to my right, Louie-Louie was in a shadowed slot outside the restaurant. I didn’t see the camera, but I smiled, remembering a photo he took of Vanessa back when she worked there.

A minute later Bear called, “Got him.”

“Forward it to the Sullivans please.”

Now, what to do?

Wexler, or whoever it was, must know where I live. Since he’d been following me for some time. Still, knowing he was on me now, I didn’t want to lead him to the Wrigley. To my family. Fuck.

I called Bear again, “Help.”

Bear and two large looking waiters were out back in his restaurant parking lot waiting for me. Although standing beside Bear, they didn’t look that big. But they would be competent if anything developed.

I couldn’t see Bear’s firearm, but I knew he’d have it with him. He’d switched recently to a Colt .357 Magnum Python. I’d fired it a few times at the armory; needed both hands, it’s heavy. Looks like a toy in Bear’s paw.

I glanced in my side mirror as I pulled into the lot. The Chevy glided silently on by.

In the Unicorn parking lot, Emile Chanson spoke to his boss. His associate, Bulldog. Nodded at Troy Ventura, “I could erase the problem. Permanently.”

Bulldog seemed to mull it over. But Bear and I knew it was just a show. Intended to scare Ventura away for good. Bulldog shook his head, “He gets one chance. Shows up back here ... take care of it.”

Emile Chanson walked to the Caddy, chatting briefly with Bear. Two guys nobody wanted to cross. They shook hands and Emile followed Ventura out of town. Across State Line Road into Kansas. Through Johnson County into the countryside. Fucking Kansas.

In deference to Bulldog, Bear got in the backseat of my F-150, along with Hobo. As I drove the civic fixer back to his office in City Hall, I said, “Dr. Lindsey Conners. Psychiatrist. She was good with Mindy Montgomery.” After I rescued her from a sad little cult.

Bulldog nodded, “I like Lindsey.”

Of course he would know her.

I said, “She helped me too.” After Greta Gunther had almost succeeded in killing my family.

Bulldog nodded again. He knew about that too. He said, “Amelia is already seeing someone.”

Didn’t tell me who. Might be Dr. Conners. Might be someone else. Might be none of my business; I’m just glad she’s getting some help.

I said, “One possible blessing — roofies often cause...”

“Short term memory loss.”

Difficult to get ahead of Bulldog.

Pilar said, “Trump is an oinker, right Gertie?”

Gertie smiled at the solemn little girl. “Pilar, look around this room.”

Pilar, Vanessa, and I craned our necks and checked out the Saturday afternoon crowd at the Unicorn Club. It was Pilar’s birthday and she’d chosen the Unicorn for lunch. It was where she and her mother had celebrated their US citizenship.

Walker had joined us for lunch, stayed for the cupcakes, then kissed his sweetie-pie adieu. His ‘Overwatch’ team had a league match. Video games over pussy. Sometimes I don’t recognize my own son.

Pilar turned back to Gertie, “So?”

“If you’re calling Trump a pig, then you’re calling about a third of the people in the Unicorn a pig.”

We looked around again. Vanessa and I knew a lot of these afternoon diners and drinkers. Some of them pretty well.

Pilar, “I still hate the cocksucker.”