Chapter 13: Lips

I thought about Wexler. About Sheridan, Wyoming. I’d fled there, into the arms of the FBI, the morning Wexler shot out my rear window when I was on that River Crow Reservation in Montana.

Wyoming is just across the Montana state line. Wexler’s birthplace and previous residence. It may be his current address too. But in any case, Wyoming would be familiar territory. He’d been there, to the WHITES compound before. For the Meriwethers on his nationwide tour of supremacist groups.

His escape accomplice, Roger ‘Hoppy’ Cransdale was spotted on the road leading south from Highway 14. The road leading to the WHITES. No way to know for sure, short of a full-scale raid, whether he was still in the compound. But it was a decent enough assumption. Logical. He’d turn to like-minded scrotes and they’d offer a brother-sympathetic shelter.

Plus, Karl Hoffstatter had been spotted in Rapid City, under 300 miles from the WHITES. No guarantee he was heading there, but it felt to me like there may be a hater ... convergence in that remote Wyoming location. And I wanted to be there.

Well, things got complicated. Life.

Matt got a call from his doctor, a GP who saw him twice a year. Matt’s father had died young — 48 — from pancreatic cancer, so Matt was diligent about his checkups.

Matt said goodbye, turned to me, didn’t waste any time soft-peddling. “I go in day after tomorrow — colonoscopy.”

“Oh, Matt.”

He shrugged. Men. “Mainly it’s just a precaution. I had some minor rectal bleeding. She wants a specialist to do a full work-up colonoscopy, see whats going on - diverticulitis maybe - remove any polyps, do a biopsy. Just in case.”

“Oh, Matt.”

I sat in the waiting area of a large building in the George Washington University Hospital. Designated driver; Matt would be woozy from the procedure.

Three hours later — three hours reading without comprehending my emails and news feeds — we were on the way home. He looked fine, walked fine, but slurred his words a little. He said, “Next time, I’ll pass on the happy juice.”

“Next time? Matt.”

“Depends on the results. But I’ll be going back every once in a while no matter what.” Shrug, “Just part of the deal.”

Karl Hoffstatter was sighted passing through Sheridan, Wyoming. Positive confirmation. That meant that three of them — Hoffstatter, Wexler, and Cransdale — had been seen near the WHITES compound in the past two weeks. Home of the Christian Torch Riders. Racism in the name of religion.

I felt like time was speeding up, leaving me behind.

Matt said, “Thank you, doctor,” hung up.

I stared.

Shrug, smile, “Benign.”

I tightened my arms around him. Fought back tears.

I was back in Kansas City, back with Vanessa and Walker and Pilar. Hobo and the Proper Villain. Matt was physician-cleared. They’d monitor him regularly, but the follow-up correspondence was reassuring to me.

He let me read the now-voluminous paperwork that flowed among his personal doctor, the stomach doctor, the GW University Hospital, and the Kaiser insurance group.

The document sharing was a kindness on Matt’s part. Like when I take Walker to bed, hold him in my arms, and talk through whatever is bothering him. Although these days — Pilar days — he didn’t seem to need it quite so often. Which was good. I guess. My baby boy was growing up.

Fuck.

In Matt’s case, the insurance and hospital mumbo-jumbo was its usual indecipherable bumf. But I studied it like a bear. Looked stuff up when I had to. Called my own doctor twice for interpretations.

While the bill was more than $17,000, Matt’s portion came to under $800. But I didn’t pay much attention to the disaster that the American health care system is. I was just grateful that the Oasis Wellbeing Center chose Kansas City as its launch market.

What I focused on was the medical side — diagnosis, treatment, results, prognosis. The polyps had been barely discernible; the recommendations sensible. Aggressive checkup schedule, active monitoring.

I could live with that.

I guess it was a mixed scorecard — my agreeing not to go to Wyoming until Matt’s people and the FBI had more detailed intel. On the positive side of my staying home, Wexler was no longer at the WHITES site. He was spotted, maybe, up in Idaho, not that far from the Klaus Gunther compound that Hank Morristown and Matt had raided. Seemed like years ago, so much had happened since.

And Karl Hoffstatter wasn’t in Wyoming either. He showed up in Kansas City.

Sandra Fleming had updated me on Hoffstatter’s profile, “DC thinks he’s focused on weapons now. Almost totally.”

“DC being... ?”

“Ash, of course. Matt and his people. But also Interpol — Hoffstatter’s last trip to Germany was sales. Like a freaking route salesman.”

“Repeating-serial-number assault rifles.”

“That’s it. It’s a seller’s market and Hoffstatter is selling.”

“Will other manufacturers copy him?”

“Oh they will — which is why he’s so focused on marketing right now. But it’ll take some time for the legitimate manufacturers to set up a ... deniability factory. It’ll be some of the same arms dealers, just with a new product to pedal.”

“I see.”

“And for most of their customers, a serial number isn’t that big a concern. They just want volume; it’s not like local police departments are going to be running forensic tests.”

“So, in any case, Hoffstatter has a head start.”

“That’s what the current thinking is. But it’s a fluid situation, always is with the death merchants.”

“Anything else? On Hoffstatter?”

“Gossip, innuendo, rumors. Apparently he’s asexual — turns down whores — boys and girls — every time.”

I thought about how sad that would be, not to have sex in your life.

Sandra said, “He doesn’t seem particularly political either, no Aryan Nation crap.”

“Really? He looks like a Hitler poster boy. Poster man.”

“I know.” Sandra turned a little pink. “He would be my type. Physically, I mean. Not that I’d...”

“Of course not. What’s his background?”

“Born, grew up, in Cleveland. Average student, never excelled, but never got in much trouble either. Didn’t play sports, yet he wasn’t a loner either. But Red Maplethorpe knows a couple of guys in the Cleveland PD.”

“Cleveland’s not that far from Pittsburgh.” The field office where Red was based.

“That’s right. Anyway, this is just cop gossip, but Cleveland had suspected Hoffstatter of three savage beatings. Random ... or at least they couldn’t find any victim connections.”

“Savage?”

“One guy — the first one — died. The second victim, a girl, had dozens of broken bones. The last one, another girl, is in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.”

I shuddered, “Like the fucker was honing his skills. The first porridge was too hot. Then too cold. The third...”

“Just right.”

Gertie smiled at the kids, “New problem for the Republican Party.”

Pilar grinned. Walker said, “What?”

“Nazis. They’re openly running on the Republican ticket. Card-carrying Nazis, Holocaust deniers, white supremacists.”

Vanessa said “How can they do that?”

“Well, the party can’t stop them from registering. And the haters have gotten bolder and bolder. Think Charlottesville. The mixed message from the White House. Congressional paralysis. It’s a toxic stew.”

Pilar, “Good. I hope they win.” She frowned, “The Republican primary, I mean. Then we trounce them. That’ll send a message.”

Gertie, “What if they start registering as Democrats?”

“They wouldn’t!”

“Think not? Think the R party has a monopoly on ignorant bigots?”

The NY Times did a full-page article on My Kansas City. Well, they didn’t mention me by name, but they followed the new streetcar from Union Station, past the Wrigley and BaBoomz, through the Crossroads, through the Power & Light District, to the West Bottoms and the Farmers Market that’s been in operation since the 1850s.

The article talked about Midwest Friendly, the resurgence of this part of town, how the retailers and landlords along Main Street paid money so the streetcar ride would be free to all. A good investment — measured by sales tax. Up over 50%.

Made me proud.

The Times still could have interviewed me; I had plenty to contribute.

Mainly to stay in touch with her, I called Gloria Allen, Beryl Thatcher’s attorney. “I saw that Time magazine special edition — ‘The Opioid Diaries’. All those pictures of those poor addicts.”

“So?”

“So it just brought home how devastating those drugs — and the way companies deliver them — can be. Ruining lives, killing people.”

“I don’t care about that — too big a problem for us to solve.”

“Oh. Then why... ?”

“I’ll explain when you come on board.”

I took the Karl Hoffstatter file home with me.

Vanessa was in the kitchen. Despite all the hours she spent at Euforia and BEAR’s, she sometimes was in the mood to cook. Walker and Pilar and I were test-diners — dishes she was thinking about introducing to the general public.

Tonight featured a winner and a ... not winner.

The pork collar Turinese arrived with apricot mostarda. Delicious, but the meat was too chewy, not a good cut. Gristly. Vanessa shrugged, “The best that Mario had today.” Knowing her, I bet the apricot mostarda will migrate to another dish.

The winner that night — a unanimous hit — was fish chicharrón. Pilar told us Vanessa had worked hours getting it just right. I said, “I love this. What in the world is it? I’ve never had anything like it.”

“Sheathes of sea-bass skin.”

“Skin? That’s it?”

Vanessa smiled, “There’s a little bit more to it. First you deep fry it until it’s crackly. Then coat it in salt, pepper, dehydrated malt vinegar.”

“Oh sure, I do that all the time.”

She said, “The “New Yorker” described it as salt-and-vinegar potato chips plucked from the sea.”

Being a veteran restaurateur, I nodded judiciously, “Boy, I could see this at the Euforia bar. BEAR’s too.”

Vanessa teased me, “What a brilliant idea, Winter, I’ll try that very thing.”

Hobo cocked his head and looked at me. Ms. Obvious.

After the kids went to bed, I told Vanessa, “You go too, I have some reading to do.”

“Wexler?”

“Yeah, in a way.” I patted the FBI file, “It’s an update on the guy who was with him when...”

“When he intended to kill you.” Vanessa is a straight-ahead gal.

“Yeah. Karl Hoffstatter.”

“Can I read it with you?”

“Of course.” Against multiple regulations and probably some laws. But she deserved to know who I was up against. We were up against.

We settled in on our green leather sofa, feet up, facing those huge Main Street windows. The floor lamp to my right was lit, otherwise our loft was dark. But the lamp and the ambient light from the street gave our home a soft glow that I just love. It was the very prettiest time, when it’s dark outside.

Vanessa put on some soft, instrumental jazz for background. Brubeck, Ben Webster, Ellington ... classics. We can dance all night to techno, but this was just right.

The file — with sheets copied from Interpol, the FBI, police departments in towns and counties near the Nazi compounds — was just over 200 pages. The Cleveland report had its own separate section.

I’d had some years with police-speak, so I was able to read faster, even pausing to make notes. I’d hand each sheet to Vanessa; she carefully kept everything in order.

We’d started around 11:30 and finished a little before 3. I hadn’t been aware of the passage of time — I guess when you can personalize data like I was doing with Hoffstatter ... well, you got caught up.

As we undressed for bed, Vanessa said softly, “It sounds as if Wexler is a minor player. I mean compared to Hoffstatter.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But there’s that SM rumor — Silent Magellan. That Wexler was a professional hit man. No proof, but a lot of whispers.”

I smiled at my love, “Maybe I’ll don my microbat outfit and echolocate Wexler.”

“Good thinking.”

“Except when microbats are extinct ... there goes their umwelt. Forever disappeared.”

“I knew there was some reason I married you.”

Vanessa: “How many screws are there in a lesbian’s coffin?”

Walker & Pilar, “How many?”

“None, it’s tongue ‘n groove.”

I wouldn’t say I was hyperaware, but ever since Greta Gunther had forced her way into our Wrigley loft ... well, let’s say that I was diligent. By now, months later, it was second nature to me. Check the vista before leaving the Wrigley. My office, a restaurant.

Use the three mirrors in my F-150 regularly.

My Heckler & Koch was with me wherever I went. And my Mossberg 500 — one of them — was in my pickup. Another at home, a third in my office. Matt sent my E. F. Huntington custom rifle to Kansas City; I kept it at home. In my gun safe in the hidden compartment that Gene Austin carved out for me when he remodeled the Wrigley.

I didn’t even bother to check, not usually; my stun gun and pepper spray had taken up permanent residence in my shoulder bag. Bags.