Chapter 9: Mindy

Dragon Lady # 2 called me, “Cyrus wants dinner.”

Cyrus Vandenberg. One of my Irregulars, the oldest one. In his mid-80s, creaky, cranky, but his mental acuity seems just fine. He’ll have some rumor to pass on, some gossip, some hearsay.

“When and where?”

“What am I, your bitch?” Click.

Good point. When you’re part of the Bulldog Bannerman infrastructure, a measly private detective is several rungs lower on the accomplishment ladder.

I called Cyrus, “Hi, it’s Winter.”

“No guarantees.”

“What have you heard?”

A long silence, a tit-for-tat quietude. I said, “How about dinner? Tonight?”

“Mabel is with me. I’m with her.”

I’d forgotten a female had entered Monsieur Vandenberg’s life. “Fine Cyrus. How about ... Plaza III?”

“Great! Seven?” I’d known he’d leap at the chance to dine at that venerable steakhouse. Good chow, prestigious restaurant, solicitous service. Just right for showing off to Mabel.

“Want me to send a car?”

“Of course.” A little irritated that I’d had to ask.

Well, fine. Cyrus has come through in the past. A tip about Gunner Gunther. And before that, a kidnapping rumor involving those sorry little girls at the Sister Mary shelter. Dinner for three will run an easy $300, probably more, but it might lead somewhere interesting.

We were all in our bedroom — Vanessa and me, Walker and Pilar, Hobo and the Proper Villain. Standing in front of that Cathal Conway photograph of my son. Nude and ... doing his thing.

I nudged Vanessa, “I bet Mindy would enjoy a copy.”

Pilar smiled, “She does.”

I looked at the little girl. Who said, “Don’t worry, I sent it from your account.”

Of course. Why do I even bother with passwords?

I arrived at the Plaza III fifteen minutes early. I knew Cyrus would expect me to be there when he and Mabel arrived. Fair enough, I am the host. Hostess. With the mostest. I studied the menu, amused. I’m not sure when a $50 filet mignon became the standard at upscale steakhouses in Kansas City, but it has.

Of course, fifty bucks takes you only so far. Sides, appetizers, soups, salads ... all à la carte. Dessert too. Wine. Drinks. The restaurant does include plates and silverware with the entrée, so that’s something.

I’d heard a rumor, one that turned out to be true. The Plaza III is closing. To me it’s more a parents / grandparents spot, but I like the dark wood paneling, the white tablecloths, the soft hush of a civilized room. Live, tinkly jazz. I won’t mention its passing to my guests.

Mabel Forsythe is a good two decades younger than Cyrus. Maybe three. Her hair, like his, was cropped and white. But a hairdresser had been involved with Mabel’s do. She was short, not much over five feet tall. Chesty, very much so. A prominent bosom followed the maître d’hôtel as he threaded his way through the dining room to my table. Cyrus hitch-stepped to keep up. He made the intros, smiling, proud of her.

Once our waiter — she was wearing the formal black and whites of the 50-year old steakhouse — had taken drink orders, I asked Mabel, “How did you and Cyrus meet?”

Off to the races. Cyrus smiled through the narration. “I told my cousin —Annabelle? — that I wanted to meet an illegible gentleman.”

I nodded; didn’t mention the malaprop.

Mabel catalogued-through her three pre-Cyrus losers. Reached over and patted Cyrus’s liver-spotted hand. “Then I met this pineapple of politeness.”

Now Mabel may get tongue-tangled from time to time, but she taught me one valuable culinary lesson that night. She surprised me, and delighted Cyrus, by telling our waiter, “Bring us a bottle of vodka. Zyr if you have it.”

They do. Mabel winked at me, “I went online, I knew they carried it. It wasn’t a pigment of my imagination. Russian, the best.”

Cocktail glasses? Ice? No and no. “Three shot glasses, please.”

Whoa! Will this turn into frat party? I checked our table, glad that the appetizers — little lamb chops and pan-fried crab cakes had arrived. Foundation, that’s what’s needed if we’re going to be doing vodka slammers.

Mabel held her shot glass to her mouth, “Okay, Winter, listen to me. First, before anything, exhale. Then down the vodka. Don’t breathe in, just put a bite of lamb in your mouth. Then inhale.”

I’m the host so I played along. Gamely.

What! The flavor of that lamb was extraordinary. Familiar and exotic at the same time. The breathing / vodka exercise had unleashed something in my palate, something wild. And wonderful.

I looked at Mabel in amazement. Cyrus beamed.

He and Mabel went with the Filet; I chose my usual Ribeye. Large version, I’d ferry some home to the family. Which in this case probably meant Hobo. Well, the meal is tax detectable.

Mable leaned in to whisper, “Cyrus and I had an instant bondage. Ever happen with you?”

“Absolutely.”

She leaned in closer, “He’s a VM, you know.”

“Um.”

“Viagra Miracle.”

While we waited for our entrées, I looked at Cyrus. An invitation to get to it. Operation Organs.

He repeated what he’d said on the phone, “No guarantees.”

“I understand.” I forced myself to focus; still blown away by the vodka experience.

“I hear this from Danny Demo.” Shrug. “Sometimes he gets it right.” Frown. “Not always.”

I nodded, such is the way of the world.

“There’s a guy. Independence. Spends quiet, but spends large.”

“Okay.”

“Flunked out of KU. Med school.”

Bingo! Maybe.

I smiled, remembering that morning when I had overheard Gertie’s side of a telephone conversation. With a vice cop we had helped with a personnel problem. Lieutenant Ross “Hoss’ Nagurski.

“Of course a Polak can tear a herring, Hoss. You guys invented bagels.”

I discussed the Cyrus Vandenberg rumor with Vanessa when I got home. It had been her idea in the first place — the “Wallander” episode about killing poor people for body parts. Daddy and Sandra Fleming had bought into the possibility enough to bring in the KCPD. Operations Organs was fully launched.

Vanessa was a little skeptical, “Danny Demo? And a med school dropout?”

I understood. Agreed, in principal. “It’s a long-shot, babe. But it’s like any other lead, it needs to be checked out.”

“Turn it over to Louise?”

“No. Not now anyway. It’s thin gruel at this point. Plus, Independence has its own police force.”

Vanessa smiled at me fondly, “You want to solve it yourself, don’t you?”

I smiled back, she knows me so well. “This one I see as a joint operation — you and me, babe.”

She beamed, “Ms. and Ms. North. Or Nora and Nora. Hobo can be Asta. Where do we start?”

“Sullivan & Sullivan Research. Come ride with me.”

My red F-150 gleamed from a recent visit to Mac’s Garage. His team gives me a courtesy wash and wax every once in a while. In return, I forego the pleasure of the Ford dealership for everything but warranty work.

I drove us south past magnificent Union Station. But it’s forever tinged by the memory of the assassination. Donald Jefferson Winston, CEO of the Oasis Wellbeing Center. HEADSHOT!

I maneuvered through a sketchy stretch of Main Street in midtown. An area perpetually in need of ... something. Gentrification maybe. Rehabilitation, something. Anything. Then Westport. The glorious Country Club Plaza is followed by Brookside. Hello, Daddy!

Waldo, the southernmost neighborhood in My Kansas City. Westport, the Plaza, Brookside, and Waldo all have pedestrians — a species rare in the burbs. I’m looking at you, Kansas, you bowel-movement of a state.

With Vanessa along, Jessie and Jesse seemed even more diminutive. Their bungalow even smaller. Vanessa has a way of filling up a room. A delicious way.

Jessie was wearing a blue top to a sweatsuit; Jesse the pants. Is this a new Sullivan trend? I’d seen a similar look in their green pajamas. I liked it, actually. Sweet. And, for some reason, sexy.

As FBI tech consultants, the twins were more than aware of Mr. Television, of Operation Organs. They’re quick studies anyway and immediately grasped the possibility in Independence.

Jessie said, “We’ll get started on KU dropouts right away. Other med schools too.”

Jesse nodded, “We’ll start with Independence residents and work outward from there.”

On the drive home, I told Vanessa, “Sometimes I feel guilty relying on the Sullivans so much.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Like it’s ... a shortcut. Cheating. Like I should be out there doing old-fashioned detective work.”

Vanessa gave me a look. She knows me so well. Knows that I don’t feel the least bit guilty. She said, “What would retired Homicide Detective Dave Jennings say?”

I laughed, “The Sullivans are just another tool. Use whatever it takes.”

I won’t say I’ve made a lifetime study of boys, but I do pay attention.

Ever see a guy with his fly unzipped? Of course you have. Often, there’s a simple, and innocent, explanation. And I’m here to elucidate.

Guys, look at what you’re wearing. Pants-wise. Chances are there are three fastenings to negotiate. The zipper itself. Then a button that secures the left and right side of the waistline. Finally — if you’re wearing a belt — there’s a buckle to ... um, buckle.

One, Two, Three — good to go.

But some slacks, often the more upscale brands, also have a button-flap to deal with. Since the original button, the one at the top of the zipper is already engaged, this second one is more decorative than functional.

But that extra function screws up the usual One, Two, Three sequence. And, sometimes, number Four is the forgotten zipper.

Class dismissed — smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.

Thanks to the Sullivans, Vanessa and I were eyeballing an Independence med school dropout the very next day. The one Cyrus said, “Spends quiet, but spends large.”

Douglas Mulvaney, age 31. Bachelor, living with his brother. And his brother’s wife. That arrangement could work out with some people, not a lot of them though. He’s balding, showing the hint of a pot. Slumped posture.

Dougie is a taxidermist. Owns his own shop. Reports income of around $30,000 a year. Not ready for the soup kitchen, but his income hardly qualifies him for dropping significant shekels.

His shop is off Independence Square, a semi-bustling neighborhood. Mulvaney’s one-man business has foot traffic. Quite a bit for a taxidermist. Not that I’d ever contracted with one. But how many bears can one town shoot?

It took me only two afternoons to puzzle out the scam. Mulvaney’s Custom Taxidermy is next door to Phister’s Pharmacy. Alliteration. Mulvaney left through his back door three times in three hours. Entered the back door of Phister’s. Returned a couple of minutes later. Carrying a white paper bag.

Drugs. Mulvaney was partners with a pharmacist. That explained all the taxidermy foot traffic. Mulvaney was retailing ... who knows what? But I was convinced that was the source of his extracurricular income. Drugs.

Back in my John Jay days, a few of us patronized a watch seller on Fifth Avenue. In front of Tiffany’s. He was Senegalese, around 30. Sold the most amazing watch knockoffs — Movado, Omega, Rolex, of course. Breitling, Audemars Piguet, like that.

He was a charming, smiling, happy man. With that familiar street vendor greeting, “Check it out, check it out, check it out.”

What distinguished this gentleman was his no-questions-asked guarantee. Now, he wouldn’t return your money — my Patek Philippe cost $25 — but he would exchange it for any watch of a similar value. Which was cool — we wore them as fashion accessories, not timepieces.