Chapter 5: Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna

Vanessa and I had our doubts, but if anyone could pull off a BaBoomz publicity stunt like this, it was Gertie Oppenheimer. We tamped down our misgivings and the game was on. Afoot, that’s what the game was.

The caper wasn’t complicated, but the timing had to be ... well, we needed a bit of luck.

Gertie is like Bulldog in that she knows people in all walks of life. Phillip Montgomery at the high end of the social strata. Harold Hudson, the pimp she’s been grooming. And a cop, Lieutenant Ross (Hoss) Nagurski. In Vice.

I’d seen Gertie and Hoss together only one time. At the Unicorn Club. When she introduced me, I wondered, fleetingly, if they were an item. Hoss Nagurski is a few years younger than Daddy so he was about Gertie’s age. And looked like he should with a name like Hoss — big and rough and, probably, tough.

Hoss had a departmental problem. Well, more like an annoyance. One of the two sergeants who reported to him was a dilettante. Warren Peabody is the son of a City Council member. Which means Warren is kind of anointed, kind of full of himself. Kind of a dick.

He’s one of those guys who glides through school, the Academy, is fast-tracked on the Job. Is confident beyond his skills. He’s not a fuckup, not exactly. But he takes shortcuts, leaves a lot of the drudge-work to others. There are people like that in most organizations, most offices of any size.

But Warren had just screwed up a major drug bust — a large shipment of fentanyl patches, each strong enough for a two-day high. The raid itself went down fine. But Warren had been overly casual with the official warrant request. The judge signed off on everything Peabody requested. This was unfortunate because there was one careless mistake — the wrong apartment number was listed in the official paperwork. This allowed everyone to walk.

The perps had lost their product, but were right back on the street.

Hoss told Gertie, “And it wasn’t Peabody’s first fuckup.”

Hoss’s immediate goal wasn’t to cost Peabody his job; Hoss merely wanted him transferred to another department. Any other department.

Gertie explained the BaBoomz involvement to Vanessa and me, “Juanita’s divorce came through. She’s moving back to St. Louis, has family there. Parents, a couple of sisters.” Juanita Garcia, 33-years old. Two boys, 10 and 8. A stripper at BaBoomz.

So the local publicity from our planned stunt wouldn’t bother her. Not too much. Probably. And the $5,000 bonus would help cover moving expenses. We’d pay any civic fines as well.

I enlisted one of my Irregulars, Sara Cummings, to make the official complaint to the police. And I decided on a second phone call as well. From Corky Dawson, a Johnson County bartender that I like. The dancers at BaBoomz were showing too much skin. Far beyond the legal limit.

Hoss Nagurski made sure the BaBoomz paperwork wended its way to Warren Peabody’s desk. He told Gertie, “Just the kind of assignment he likes — drink booze and look at naked broads.” He grinned, “I wouldn’t mind some of that myself.”

The timing had to be right. Besides the two undercover cops — Peabody and a newbie to the department — there would be a reporter from the Kansas City Star. Lance Reynolds. Lance. Well, he didn’t pick his name. A news photographer would attend too.

Fortunately, every Vice cop has to sign out — where he’s going, when. I was tasked with calling Mr. Reynolds on the appropriate night. Lance.

The other time-sensitive element was to have Juanita at work and on the stage when Peabody was there. On stage, showing forbidden flesh. Vanessa, Gertie, and I decided that would be after his third drink was placed on his table.

Peabody took the bait.

The below-the-fold headline read, “Wardrobe Malfunction = Jail Time.”

The phrase, ‘booze-drinking cop’, was in the first paragraph. Along with a photograph (that didn’t show his face) of Peabody getting behind the wheel while his partner put Juanita in the back.

The second paragraph delivered the human interest aspect — single mother of two boys working five nights a week to make ends meet. No arrests up until Peabody struck. She’d never been on welfare; her two sons were healthy and happy.

It worked. Peabody was transferred to Traffic and his father couldn’t argue. Not with the Star coverage. And BaBoomz enjoyed almost a 30% increase in foot traffic. It wouldn’t hold, not all of it. But we gained over 20 new customers who became regulars. Or semi-regulars.

Later I asked Gertie about another human interest angle, “What do Juanita’s sons think about their mother getting busted for flashing her bod?”

Gertie shrugged, “Younger one’s proud of her.”

Daddy as he always does, listened carefully as Vanessa and I filled him in on the two television programs — “Borderland” and “Hinterland”. We were at his kitchen table in the Brookside house. A table where I’d eaten thousands of meals.

No appetite this Monday morning. Although I did manage three cups of joe.

Daddy bent forward and peered at the clips on Vanessa’s iPad. Shook his head. “Too small a sample to tell anything for sure. But...”

But he doesn’t like coincidences. No one in our line of work does.

Buster called me, “The fuck, Winter? You ain’t fixed Riles’s pappy up?”

BJ must have grabbed the cell, “Man needs some quim, Slim.”

Buster, “You or Vanessa be fine.”

“I’m working on it. Go to school.”

I talked with Vanessa about Cathal Conway. The crime scene photographer with a streak of the romantic in him. She instantly agreed to my idea — contract with the sad-looking man to photograph the BaBoomz dancers — boys as well as girls.

Vanessa said, “Black and white. Soft light. Does he do nudes?”

“I would imagine so. Anyone shooting dead bodies ... well, I imagine so.”

I asked Louise for an introduction. So Cathal wouldn’t think I was some looney bird off the street. As it turned out, I could have just talked with Daddy. Cathal is in awe of him.

Cathal Conway, like Matt Striker, isn’t conventionally handsome. He has one of those lean, haunted, Ulster faces. Like in old photographs from the Troubles. Thousand-yard stare sort of thing. Until he smiles. Then his eyes brighten, the deep creases around his mouth look less severe. He needs a woman to make him smile. Pretty sure.

Cathal seemed amused at the prospect of shooting 30 or so nudes, but agreed to my suggested price — $150 per portrait. Vanessa and Gertie and I would have the added expense of matting, framing, lighting, hanging. It could all be worth it though if the quality came anywhere close to what I’d seen in his Raytown home.

My real goal, of course, was to hook Cathal up with one of the girls. Specifically with Ms. Cindy Rankin. Divorced, no kids, 28. And pretty smart too. Sexy.

Bear came by our loft to meet with Vanessa, Walker, and Pilar. Vanessa and I agreed we had to tell the kids about Dixie Wexler. Memories of Greta and Gunner Gunther were still strong. And the three bullet holes we’d left in our hardwood floor served as an ongoing reminder ... there are bad guys out there.

Walker and Pilar took it well. Seemed reasonably calm. We were sitting around our kitchen table — seven in the morning. A sunny Sunday in October. The air had turned crisp.

We were munching on Pilar’s breakfast empanadas and downing a pot of coffee. Some exotic blend from Colombia, but I wasn’t really tasting it.

I said, “Okay, here’s what we know. Wexler is 32, been in and out of trouble most of his life. Since he was 10 or so. He’s a thug, a tough one. Gets off on hurting people.”

Pilar said, “Fucker.”

“Here’s a photo of him. Mugshot. Usually wears a cowboy hat, a white one, but we can’t rely on that. Just ... try to stay aware.”

We passed the photo around. Mugshot from a Billings bar brawl where Wexler had broken his pool partner’s humerus. I patted my arm between the shoulder and elbow. “Cue stick. Swung it like a baseball bat.”

Wexler looks like a lowlife. Country lowlife. Small eyes, set close together, large curved nose, chin that slopes away. Thinning mouse-brown hair worn long, down to his shoulders. Dark skin like he might be part Mexican. Or Native American.

I showed them six more shots of Wexler. Courtesy of the Yellowstone County Sherif’s department.

I said, “He’s 5’ 8”. About my height. Weighs 150. Small guy, but he’s strong. Look at those wrists.”

Bear nodded; he hadn’t been in bar fights — no one had been drunk enough to take on someone his size. But he’d seen a few. “He will be strong — you can tell from the wrists and the way his shoulders slope.”

We all looked at the photos. Wexler has shoulders. And the huge, cracked hands of a stonemason.

I said, “He’s no coward. Just over two years on the Montana Pro Rodeo Circuit. Bull riding.”

The kids were staring at me.

“But he decided there’s more loot in dealing. His cover is Butler Brothers Security. In Billings. They contract with RightWorld.”

Walker said, “The Meriwethers.”

“Fraid so. I can’t seem to shake them.”

Walker and Pilar thought about that. About Greta Gunther. Gunner Gunther.

I said, “Louise Finch has developed a contact in Billings. A deputy — Cathy Riggins. She’s a sergeant in the Yellowstone County Sheriff’s Department. Wexler is home now and Riggins is keeping a loose eye on him. But he could slip away at any time.”

Pilar, determined, said, “What are we going to do?”

Vanessa answered, “Stay alert. For Wexler or anyone else snooping around.” She paused, “But we have to live our lives. Winter will take care of this ... cocksucker.”

I nodded, “I’m not sitting around waiting to ... react. You guys were marvelous with Greta. Hobo too. And I got lucky with Gunner. But both fights could have gone the other way.”

Bear nodded.

I said, “Fuck that. I’m going hunting. For Dixie Fucking Wexler.”

Pilar: “Who would you do? Anyone in the world. Well, not Winter. Not Vanessa.”

Walker: “Sophia Loren. Catherine Deneuve.”

Pilar nodded.

“Oh! And Jane Fonda.”

“Hmm. All mature women. Note to self: grow old faster.”

I got home from the office around 8:30 on a drizzly Monday night. Pilar nodded toward our green leather sofa, “There’s a package for you, Winter. Matt Striker.”

“Oh? Well, let me shower first. What’s for dinner?”

Vanessa said, “Cheese.”

Walker said, “Wine.”

“Good.”

Refreshed after a long day of accomplishing nothing, well not very much, I put on one of Richie’s dress shirts. I usually don one only when it’s just Walker and me. But a little unexpected torment keeps the lad from turning into a dull boy. Right? Or is that Jack?

Pilar hid a smile as Walker tried not to stare. Actually, I was comparatively demure — I’d buttoned five buttons this evening. Oh, there might be a nipple glance if I leaned forward a certain way.

Which I did, couldn’t help it, as I slit sticky tape, tore open brown wrapping paper, wrestled with protective packaging. What! I was stunned. A nude photo of me, smartly matted and nicely framed. I was wearing Matt’s tan leather tool belt, the one with all that ironworker’s gear. And his yellow hardhat was perched on my blonde head at a jaunty angle.

Walker crowded in, staring from the photo to me. Back and forth.

Pilar said, “You’re sleeping with Winter tonight, Papi.”

Vanessa winked at me. Walker continued to gawk. I did look good, credit due. I was trying to hold the yo-yo, called, I think, the impact wrench, straight out. The strain of its 30-pound weight tautened the muscles of my right arm. Tummy too.

I viewed the picture as I knew Walker was doing — up-tilted pink nipples. A merry grin. Bald little pussy framed by the belt and hanging tools.

I hadn’t even known that Matt had taken the photo. That’s why he pulled on his jeans. Now I get it. And I’m the fucking detective. Last to figure things out.

I kissed my son on the cheek. He’d been gobsmacked by the photo. When it comes to sex, he’s about as mysterious as a baked potato.

Pilar sketched out a meticulously precise dinner invitation for each of the four Wrigley permanents. She and Hobo and the Proper Villain hand-delivered them. Cocktails at 8, Dinner at 9.

She said, “I’ll rotate seating after each course.” Hobo simply follows his own seating pattern. But not this night. Pilar gave him special instructions.

I wondered if Nature Boy would dress for the occasion. Reginald Rowbottom, our nude elevator operator.

Pilar said, “Of course he will.”

Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna could be tricky. She can be ... prickly. As befits her station.