Chapter 9: Fantastique

Pilar: “Guy walks into a bar and is shocked to see a horse behind the bar.”

Walker: “Horse says, ‘What’s the matter? You can’t believe that a horse can tend bar?’”

Pilar: “No. I just can’t believe the ferret sold the place.”

Alicia Collins called me from New York. “Bear told you.”

“Yes. Have to admit it shocked me. Vanessa too. And the kids.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. But I felt it was Bear’s news to share.”

“No, I understand. And he would have wanted to be the one to tell us.” Probably waited so long to be sure it was ... well, whatever the affair between them was. Something, obviously. A year is more than a weekend fling.

And Bear wouldn’t have taken being unfaithful to Barry lightly. That part shocked me almost as much as Bear’s being with a woman. Well, Vanessa and I will talk it over. Endlessly. And speculate. Ask each other the ‘why’ question.

Walker and I scored two stools at the 24-hour Town Topic on Broadway. Our regular TT, a couple of blocks east, a couple of blocks closer to the Wrigley, didn’t serve dinner.

After we ordered, I nudged him in the side, “Gregory.”

He blushed, but pink only.

“Walk, talk to me.”

“Pilar thinks ... well, me too. It might be fun.”

“And?”

“I’m a little ... not ... nervous. Just ... well, it’s new. Different.”

“And?”

He gave me a shrug that was meant to be casual. I waited. Nothing like a Mom Pause.

He leaned in, whispered, “I might like it. I mean, I like, you know, hummers.”

“Most boys do.”

“And Gregory is nice. Seems nice. And he...”

“Has a majorly crush on you.”

“Yeah, but ... I mean he really wants to ... you know.”

“Has he ever?”

Walker shook his head, “No. First time. For both of us.”

I sighed. I knew I was going to say yes. Not sure why I was making such a big deal out of ... his experimenting. Lord knows I did plenty of it when I was a lot younger than Walker. Still.

“Will Pilar be there? With you guys?”

He looked startled. “Of course. I mean, not undressed but ... yeah.”

“Want me there too? Not in your room. Just ... there.”

He thought about that. If he said yes ... well, I’m not sure what that would mean. A ‘no’ answer would indicate that he was somewhat confident in going through with it. Maybe.

He waffled, “Up to you, Winter. If you want to be there, fine.”

“No, Vanessa and I’ll leave it up to you and Pilar.”

“And Gregory.”

“And Gregory.”

I left Doc’s and Dot’s — no purchases, sorry — and headed for the Happy Days Motel. It was on the other side of Stevenson from North Jackson High School where Arlington would be meeting with the baseball coach. Who was also the track and basketball coach. And — thank you Sullivan & Sullivan Research — he taught shop and typing. Many hats. Or caps.

It was one-bar cell reception, but “Blues Stay Away From Me” still rang loud and clear. “Hi baby.” It was Walker.

“Winter, Poppy is real sick. 102 fever. It’s that flu.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Vanessa said you don’t have to. Pilar and your mother...”

“I’ll be there.”

First flight was out of Chattanooga and I was on it. Lina Paloma’s baby girl was family. And what about Ennio and Luzon López? They had moved into that small Brookside apartment, but spent most of their free time with Lina and her husband, Matt Whitney. Poppy adored Ennio. Had he come down with the flu too?

Vanessa was waiting for me at the airport. Tight hug, a deep kiss. “You didn’t have to come back, I told Walker...”

“How is she?”

Vanessa sighed, “It’s serious. Dr. Patricia moved her into St. Luke’s. We’re heading straight there.”

Vanessa drove like she did most things — smoothly, efficiently, effortlessly. She eased her XKE south through I-29 traffic, changing lanes easily. Never jamming on the brakes, never cutting off another driver. But steadily moving at a faster pace than the rest of the traffic.

We pulled up to the Broadway entrance and Vanessa said, “Go, I’ll park. Room 353. Pediatrics.”

I detest funeral homes more than hospitals, but not by a lot. St. Luke’s had the usual hush, the usual smells, the usual worried visitors. Nurses and doctors looking imperturbable.

I took the stairs and half-walked, half-trotted to 353. I looked into her room through the barely-open door.

Poppy was asleep, she looked so tiny. Shrunken. Tubes. Lina and Matt stood on opposite sides of her bed.

In the adjacent room, my mother was asleep in a padded leather chair. I knew she’d been there all night. Pilar hugged me, whispered, “We’re waiting for Dr. Grimes. Tests.” Walker was pacing.

Vanessa and a harried looking bearded man arrived at the same time. Dr. Grimes didn’t appear imperturbable at all. We watched from the hallway as he looked from Lina to Matt, “More tests. Sorry. The vomiting and diarrhea have taken too much out of her. Severe fatigue. She aches all over. I’m going to keep her sedated for now.”

Lina said, “For how long?”

“As long as it takes to determine the ... this particular strain.”

I said, “Strain of what? Influenza?”

He looked out at me sharply. Not pleased with my intrusion. My mother woke up, “Winter? What’s happening?”

“Dr. Grimes was just about to tell us.”

Everyone was staring at him.

“Poppy has a viral infection that’s attacking her respiratory system. We’ve injected a new antibody — we’ll give it time. Six or seven hours. It’s been effective with children under five.”

He hesitated, “Poppy’s immune system is ... compromised.”

Lina gasped.

“Our main concern at this stage is pneumonia. We’ll monitor her closely over the next several hours.” He looked from Lina to Matt, “It’s not easy, but you’ll just have to wait. Try to rest. Get something to eat.”

Lina and my mother were crying silently.

A nurse and two orderlies came in and started prepping the bed to roll it out. Dr. Grimes said, “We’ll do another chest X-ray. Another CBC isn’t necessary at this time. I’m authorizing a pulse oximetry and a septum test.”

More information than we wanted. Than we could digest.

I said, “When will Poppy be back?”

“Two to three hours.”

We watched the little child in her white bed. The orderlies maneuvered it adroitly, carefully, out of the room. Down the hall, into an elevator.

Poppy’s fever broke Wednesday evening, October 24. Lina and Matt Whitney brought her home, home to Brookside, Friday morning. She was weak still. But had some color back. And some spirit.

Ennio had been told only that she had a bad cold and couldn’t play.

It was Friday night, around midnight, before I thought about checking on Duke Arlington.

I blamed Clint Callahan. My arms ached. Shoulders, back. I loaded the third 50-pound bag of Zeno Peak Daily-Dog Venison Cuisine Grain-Free Air-Dried Dog Food into the trunk of Matt’s Audi.

Arte Swenson, owner of AS Pet Emporium, watched me. Along with his 22-year old son. Thanks, guys, for taking my money. No, don’t bother, I’ll load 200 pounds all by myself. My pleasure.

I closed the trunk lid carefully. Arte and son waved to me. Friendly.

It was that knife conversation with Lieutenant Sanchez that, eventually, led to 200 pounds of dog food. That Anaheim discussion, my relaying it to Clint, and a memory of Dixie Wexler ... converged into my taking what seemed like overzealous precautions.

But I relented when Clint put both of his huge hands on my shoulders, “Winter, I lost Marcella. I couldn’t...” Tears glistened in his eyes. He was telling me, without words, that he loved me. Or cared for me a lot. Pretty sure.

The Alabama knife purchase was the clincher.

I said, “Okay.”

“Good. I’ll make the arrangements. René will be there Friday.” So Clint had been so sure of himself ... well, never mind. I said I’d do it and I would.

The difficult part — emotionally difficult — was telling Walker. Not that another dog was coming to live with us for the duration. But that I needed the protection. Might need it. The possibility was enough that Clint insisted on it.

Walker put on his best game face. “Good. Anything that helps.” Vanessa patted his hand.

René Renard was a tub. Massive tub — well over 300 pounds. Maybe five-eight. Nothing fox-like about him, not at all. But graceful, like Jackie Gleason. Like Handsome Tony Gonzales.

Renard’s English was heavily accented, but certainly understandable.

He rolled a thick-barred dog cage off the elevator as Nature Boy raised the wooden-slatted door. Hobo and the Proper Villain were on instant alert. Raised hairs on the back of Hobo’s coat. Pilar stroked him, steadied him.

Renard placed his meaty hands on his ample hips, looked around the loft approvingly. Nodded, “Fantastique.”

I nudged Walker with my elbow. Faux-whispered, “Means fantastic.”

“Winter.”

Renard, apple-cheeked with lush lips, spoke in proclamations.

“Italians.” Shook his head, “They presume to be experts in everything. Even with the Cane Corso.” He tried for a judicious tone, “Now they aren’t hopeless, Italians. But their reputation...”

I reached out my hand, “Hello, I’m Winter Jennings.”

The gray Cane Corso moved his mighty head a fraction of an inch in my direction. Gray eyes and sharply cropped ears.

Renard shook hands formally with me, with Vanessa, with Pilar, with Walker. The caged dog watched closely. Hobo stared at him, never taking his eyes off the mastiff. Who would be our guest for ... a while.

Reynard resumed his lecture, “Adam is a war dog. You are in danger, no?”

I glanced at the kids, “Maybe. Possibly.”

“If Adam accepts you, the danger is lessened.”

“If?”

“If he bonds with you. He likes jeunes filles. Generally.”

Vanessa spoke up, “Will Walker and Pilar be safe?”

Renard reared back, as much as his ample girth would allow, “Adam is a war dog, descended from the Molossers.” Shook his head, “Extinct now. Italians.”

“Will they be safe?”

“Of course. Unless they threaten...” He nodded to me.

I said, “What’s the next step? To bond.”

“First we imprint.” He looked around the loft again, “Adam will fit.”

Vanessa and the kids watched, fascinated, as the portly man from Hyères on the Mediterranean, put Adam through his paces.

First Renard sat me beside him on the floor in front of the cage. Put his arm around my shoulders, patted my left knee, then my right. Demonstrating, I guess, that I was one of the good guys.

He looked directly at the dog and spoke to him in French. I caught ‘bon ami’ and ‘jolie femme’.

He turned to me, “Adam will try to come between us. That can not happen.” Gulp.

He opened the cage slowly. Adam, huge paws, stepped gracefully out. Almost delicately. He had a dark triangular blaze on his chest. Stubby tail wagging at his new freedom.

Pride in his voice, Reynard said, “Adam is a classic. Ears cropped equilaterally. They stand erect, always. Tail docked at the fourth vertebrae.”

Adam had soulful wrinkles on his forehead — vertical and horizontal. Striking eyebrows. Gave him a thoughtful look. His pale gray eyes regarded me calmly. Evaluating.

Adam was incredibly powerful. Reynard, surprisingly so. After two unsuccessful attempts to wedge us apart from behind, and with doggy treats as bribes, Adam grudgingly lay down on Reynard’s other side. Another treat.

“Now, go sit beside Adam.”

As I did, Adam scrunched even closer to Reynard. But when he tried to move away from me, to Reynard’s other side, the owner said, “Asseoir,” in a firm, but gentle voice. Sit.

Reynard said, “Good. It’s working. If Adam had tried séparer us four times...” Shrug.

Next, with Adam walking between us, Reynard and I made a slow circle of the loft. Adam sniffing carefully, Hobo tracking. Both bedrooms, both private baths. Both guest bathrooms. Adam seemed especially intrigued with the two Murphy beds.

Reynard perked up at the hidden room Gene Austin had constructed for me. Adam was also very interested in the smells coming from the shotgun and pistols.

An hour later, as he prepared to leave, René Reynard became a little emotional. “The Cane Corse has the biggest heart of all dogs. Forty-seven kilos of courage. You will earn Adam’s affection and loyalty. And must repay them.” So solemn.

He wasn’t finished with my instructions, “Give Adam your respect. He mérite it. Affection. Attention. And food. Feed him at huit heures and huit heures.” Eight and eight.

“Plus treats. He will come to understand a lot of what you tell him. Even in English. French would be meilleur of course. Pilar whispered, “Mejor. Better.”

“Affection and food. Le plus important.”

Renard handed me a sheet of paper, “His commands. In French of course. Learn them. Practice them.”

I pushed the button for the elevator. Reynard spoke quietly, “How much danger?”

“There’s a man. With a knife.”

“In the cage. Adam’s body armor. It will protéger against the knife.”

“Does Adam ... will he let me...”

Tight smile, “He loves wearing it. It tells him he is going to do the battle.”

Reynard had tears in his eyes as he bent down to hug Adam. The Cane Corso tried to follow him into the elevator. Nature Boy was not erect. Reynard said, “Asseoir!”

Slowly, reluctantly, Adam sat.

“Adam, s’allonger.”

Even more slowly, Adam lay down. And stared intently as the elevator descended out of sight.

The two canines and the feline didn’t become best buddies. Adam stood rigidly still and allowed Hobo to sniff him all over. Memorizing him. The Proper Villain didn’t seem afraid, but he stuck by his pal.

But that first day in our loft, Adam joined Hobo and the Proper Villain on elevator duty. We now had three watchmen standing at attention every time the car stopped on our floor.

Hobo because of Greta Gunther. The Proper Villain because of Hobo. Adam because ... I came to believe it was because he sensed it was part of his commitment to me. His responsibility.

He accompanied me everywhere. Slept on the floor by my side of the bed. Waited at the bathroom door. Rode with me in Matt’s Audi to my office. I clipped a leash to his collar, but it was more symbolic than controlling. I couldn’t have held him back with all my strength.

Adam was slowly, slowly, transferring some of his affection to me. I fed him, talked to him, went through the commands in French several times a day. Frequent doggy treats. He ran with me, loping along easily. Daintily sidestepping puddles.

Hobo was attentive to Pilar. He worshipped her. But Adam was in another league. He was hyper-watchful. Constantly scanning the perimeter, always checking everyone out — men, women, children. Other dogs.

René Reynard had told me, “Adam will donner his loyalty to you. His affection, his love.”

“Okay.”

“Then when you give him back to me, he will be in mourning. Will not understand why you abandoned him. This will be his number quatre job. His heart has been broken trois times.”

“That seems ... almost cruel.”

Gallic shrug, “I am his first love. His one true love. He recovers.”

I decided not to put Adam’s body armor on just for practice. I didn’t want to deceive him, have him thinking there was action just ahead. But I studied the vest, made sure I knew where the velcro straps went. Heavy fucker.

When I was in town, I tried to take at least one self-defense class a week. And, I took Pilar and Hobo too. Our new instructor, an ex-Marine named Tom Grant, sometimes used Hobo as a demo attack dog. Hobo would be called to the head of the class when a newly enrolled student showed up.

Of course, Hobo loved it, loved the play, the training, the activity, the attention. Pilar was quietly proud of her buddy.

But now I had my own boon companion — Adam. He sat in the front of Matt’s Audi with me; no one, not even Vanessa, especially not Vanessa, questioned that. Pilar and Hobo were relegated to the back seat.

Adam sat up, head swiveling from me to the windshield, to the passenger window. Back and forth, back and forth. I’d love to know what went through his warrior brain.

It was a Tuesday morning, just after six, when Pilar and I, with our escorts, entered the dojo-style gym. Tom had been training our class in Krav Maga, a sort of street brawl that was a blend of several different disciplines — boxing, aikido, wrestling, judo. The primary emphasis was to avoid a confrontation if at all possible. If not...

The main Krav Maga premise, as I understood it, was to defend and attack at the same time. Never use both hands for defense. I’d been drilling on blocking a punch with my left forearm, while simultaneously throwing a straight right into the fucker’s nose and using my left hand to pull the back of his head into my knee.

Slow-motion start, then faster and faster and faster until it become more like one fluid movement. Instinctual. Of course all a strong man would have to do was get me in his grasp. I’d go down fighting, maybe hurting him some, but I’d go down.

Today, we’d move on to facing a pistol instead of a fist. First move — turn sideways — smaller target.

As we entered the workout room, Tom stopped short, stared at Adam. Shook his head, “Sorry, Winter, not here.”

“What?” I had planned, had wanted, to gradually integrate Adam into my practice routine.

“No. Out. Sorry.”

I looked at Pilar, “See you in an hour.”

“Okay, Winter.” She was as startled as I was.

On the drive back to the Wrigley, Pilar told me that Tom recognized the war dog. Not Adam specifically, but the type, the breed, the ... capabilities. He told her, “I don’t know, can’t know, how well-trained Adam is. And I won’t take the chance ... my liability insurance is sky high as it is.”

Well, that was the end of my self-defense classes. For as long as Adam was around. But I rationalized it — the war dog was more protection than a thousand classes. If Adam made the instructor, a combat Marine, edgy ... well, I was seeing the Cane Corso through newly appreciative eyes.

I slipped out of bed, out of Vanessa’s arms. She whispered, “What, babe?”

“Arlington. I lost track of him.” Poppy.

Vanessa got up, walked with me to the kitchen. “Hot chocolate?”

“Perfect.”

Two nude ladies and a mammoth Cane Corso padding silently along. He retracted his nails, no clicking on our hardwood floors. A silent escort. He stared at me as I tapped into my laptop.

“Fuck!”

Vanessa bent over, “Murder ... Ft. Payne ... knife.”

She rubbed my shoulders from behind. “When?”

I kept reading, “Let’s see ... Tuesday night. Maybe Wednesday morning. The 23rd or 24th.”

“When you flew back. For Poppy.”

“Yeah.” I kept tapping, “Ft. Payne is... 46 miles from Stevenson ... under an hour.”

Vanessa was kneading the tension in my shoulders more firmly. Adam was on semi-alert — he could sense the stress in our voices.

I read, “Parking lot behind a bar called Buddy’s.” I closed my eyes, “I have to fly down there.”

“Of course.”

The hardest thing for Adam — it went against his training, his instinct, his Cane Corso heredity — was leaving me alone. Like when I flew away on a trip. Or had to leave him in Matt’s Audi when I went somewhere that dogs weren’t welcome.

Vanessa told me that Adam was edgy, fidgety, when I wasn’t there. “He prowls a lot, keeps checking out the elevator.”

Waiting for me to come home.

I had — Yankee prejudice — been subconsciously expecting Bubba. A stereotypically fat sheriff. Chaw tobacco. Big pistol. Mean little pig eyes.

Deep South: 1. Midwest: 0.

Special Agent Sarah Richardson of the Alabama SBI smiled at me. Slim and trim and intelligent looking. “The State Bureau of Investigation doesn’t get many calls from the FBI.” Ash Collins.

“I won’t get in your way. Just a couple of questions.”

Another smile, “Oh no, we’re relieved you’re here. We appreciate it when someone swoops in and solves our crimes.” Said without malice, giving me a soft jab, friendly almost.

Richardson was in her mid-30s, brunette, pretty, wedding band.

I laughed, “Is there a reward?”

“Sorry. Vic was ... let’s see ... Gustav Hindenburg. Byway Bikers, a sort-of-rough black biker gang out of Spartanburg.”

“South Carolina.”

“Yeah, a Yankee.”

“For sure.”

“He was passing through, on his way home from a meet in Jacksonville.”

I refrained from saying ‘Florida’.

Richardson turned to the second page, “Minor rap sheet, possession with intent, charges dropped. Agg assault, time served. Bar fights, mutual charges dropped.”

“The paper said he was stabbed.”

She nodded, watching me.

“Find the knife?”

“That FBI call gets you something, but not everything.”

“Fair enough.” I gathered my thoughts. “I’m private, out of Kansas City. I’m looking into a guy who may have been involved in another knife-murder.”

“In Alabama?”

“No. West Coast.”


She frowned, never taking her eyes from me. “What brings you to Ft. Payne?”

“My guy, the guy I’m checking out, was in Alabama Tuesday night.”

She pulled out a pen, “Name?”

I shook my head, “Too early. But if I get anything that connects to Hindenburg, I’ll call you right away.”

We danced back and forth; Richardson wasn’t happy with me. Couldn’t blame her. But the call from Ash Collins meant something. Not that she knew him. But his rank, the J. Edgar Building...

I learned three things:

> Buddy’s Bar didn’t have security cameras.

> Gustav Hindenburg was stabbed first, it was believed, in the back. Then three more times in the chest and stomach. Different from the Anaheim murder. But still knife-work.

> No leads on the killer. No witnesses, no DNA, no ... clues. No knife.

BJ Day. Gregory Day. Gregory Williams Day.

I had made a last-minute decision that I would meet the boy before leaving him alone with Walker and Pilar. I didn’t expect a drooling maniac; I just wanted to eyeball him. Like an anxious father grilling his daughter’s first date.

No, not grilling. I just wanted to see him for myself.

I’d resisted the temptation to Sullivan & Sullivan the kid. Pilar had filled me in — good family, nice house in Brookside. My parents, at least my mother, probably knew them.

Gregory’s mother was an attorney downtown; his father a stockbroker with the Raymond James office on the Plaza. Gregory was their only child. I wondered if his mother knew about her son’s ... proclivities. Probably, moms sense stuff.