Chapter 14: A Deceit of Lapwings

Is everything up to date in Kansas City? No, of course not. But progress is being made.

Although the voters recently took a sort-of step backwards. But this created the possibility of an ironic, and symbolic, positive statement.

The City Council voted, unanimously I think, to rename a historically significant boulevard — The Paseo. It’s around ten miles long, running north and south between two other major thoroughfares — Troost and Prospect.

The city’s decision to change ‘The Paseo’ to ‘Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard’ was an earnest attempt to celebrate the man and to reinforce the city’s commitment to diverse neighborhoods.

But.

The Council neglected to ask the residents what they wanted. The Paseo has a long and storied relationship with the black community. A community that didn’t want to see part of its heritage erased. So, in a hastily-called citywide referendum, KC voted overwhelmingly ‘no’. No, do not change the name of the street.

Of course the national media glommed on to the “Kansas City is racist’ meme, but that was mostly a one-day story. The city would find another street to honor Dr. King.

The positive, and amusing, follow-up was a proposal to rename the JC Nichols Parkway after Doctor King. See, good ole Jesse Clyde — a real estate developer who, back in 1922, created the County Club Plaza out of pig farms — was an avowed racist. The name change would be poignant. And belatedly appropriate.

The Paseo aside...

The new streetcar line — vehemently opposed by some — was a smashing success. Beating all ridership projections. And, you didn’t need a ticket to ride; it was free.

Then, the City Council voted unanimously to end all fares on the entire citywide bus line. Especially vital to residents of the Forgotten Northeast and other poorer neighborhoods. Would save many commuters three bucks a day. Overall it was an eight million dollar hit, one that the city believed was well worth it.

(In a fuck-you-to-Oregon, the free-bus vote came on the same day that Portland beefed up the number of transit employees devoted to catching fare jumpers from three agents to twelve.)

And, a few weeks earlier, the KC Public Library eliminated all fines and fees for returning books late. They believed their mission was to encourage people to read.

Probably most people hadn’t heard about it, but the Kansas City Chiefs (football) won the Big Kahuna Bowl. Back when I was purifying baseball for King and Country, I had been to their baseball cousins’ headquarters — Kauffman Stadium — a few times. And the K was in the same sports complex so I had seen Arrowpoint Stadium up close and personal.

Pilar actually streamed some of the game. She told us, “It’s not futbol, but winning was still pretty cool for the fans here.”

Arrowpoint? Arrowhead? One or the other, probably.

Some things were up to date in Kansas City.

The weather was turning colder; backyard gatherings at the Hardmore home might be coming to an end.

Which would mean that the one pipeline to the Kansas City contingent of The Restoration would be cut off. And, KC was the only one of the nine regional headquarters where the FBI believed they knew every single member of the local cell.

Taking the national organization from the top down, the FBI assumed Sarah Meriwether was the honcho. Percival Highbottom was a high-level floater — reporting to Sarah on The Restoration, but also charged with a variety of ambassadorial duties to the legitimate companies in the billionaires’ empire. For the regular businesses — which comprised the bulk of the Meriwether enterprises — he worked for Charles and David.

Martin Folsom was believed to be The Restoration’s national operations director. He was in charge of each of the nine groups represented by those regional managers who had attended that meeting in the Georgetown Four Seasons.

But as tightly as each of the nine sub-bosses was tailed, the FBI had been unable to identify who some of the underlings were in eight of the cities. Even though warrants for phone taps and office bugs had been easily obtained.

So, a few of the members of those eight teams remained a mystery.

One positive ... we at least knew all nine host cities.

The first six — Chicago, Minneapolis, Boise, Atlanta, Columbus and Kansas City — were also home to Vantage Security, LLC offices. Not that we were dance partners in the official FBI minuet.

Three more cities — Jackson, Mississippi and Birmingham, Alabama and Jacksonville, Florida — were in the South.

The two known assassinations had occurred in Houston and Albuquerque. No American Nazi cabals were in either town. And that was especially worrying. The open season on prominent black and brown leaders was ... apparently, the entire country.

Maybe not Hawaii and Alaska; they were so isolated. Small comfort.

Walker refreshed the Tanqueray. Pilar said, “Gertie, you’re retired; why do you keep working? All that consulting you do?”

She smiled at the ever-curious little girl, “I’m old, Pilar. But not ready to die, not yet. Have you read John McPhee?”

“No.” I knew that she would be checking him out as soon as Gertie left.

“Pulitzer Prize-winning author. Been at the “New Yorker” for over fifty years.”

“Okay.”

“He’s 88 and taking on new writing projects with some vigor. Following the footsteps of Mark Twain, Thornton Wilder, and many other people who stayed busy late in life. Like George H. W. Bush parachuting out of airplanes into his octo years.”

Pilar nodded, thinking about it.

Gertie stirred her drink with her index finger, “McPhee said old-people projects keep old people old. You’re no longer old when you’re dead.”

Old-people projects. Hmm.

Since Duke Chancellor had stepped up his pursuit, vis-à-vis Winter Jennings, I began texting him my out-of-town schedules. Just a courtesy, nothing more.

SABBATH LOUISE ARMSTRONG

One of the first things I did when I moved back to Kansas City was to hook up with José López again. I had stayed in touch with the former handyman at Holy Pentecostal until I had to flee to Columbia. He and Sister Mary Packer were the only two I had kept up with through all those years.

It was so good to see him again. He was older, of course, but still strong and healthy looking. We went out for pho every couple of weeks and caught up with each other’s life. I slipped him twenty or thirty or forty or fifty every time. Least I could do.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

For some reason I kept thinking back to that political discussion with Gertie. The one that had upset Pilar so much. Where she had looked for a moment like she might cry.

But I knew she wouldn’t. Not after all that she and her mother had been through in their arduous trek from Hondo, Colombia to this country.

Neither one talked about it much, but then late one night when the kids were asleep, Lina shared some details with Vanessa and me.

“La Bestia was our salvation and our nightmare. You can feel the energy of the train from so far away. The rails hum, the noise — all us migrants snuck to the places where it slows down for a curve. We spread out giving everyone enough room to run, to try to grab onto a car, to scramble up on the roof. And you have to keep watch for la migra, they know the gathering places.”

That soft accent, shared by Lina and Pilar. And Sabbath.

“Pilar was magnificent, didn’t show a hint of fear. You have to match your speed to the train, pick out something to grab hold of, a protrusion, a ladder, something. But the main thing we learned was you have to commit yourself one hundred percent. No hesitation, no changing your mind. We saw more than one poor soul slip, lose his grip, fall under the wheels.”

Lina shuddered. Vanessa and I could barely breathe.

“You have to watch for trees, limbs, and anything on the ground that might trip you. Pilar went first. Every time we boarded, she went first. La Bestia gets louder and louder. I can’t describe the noise, the up-close noise, the booming clatter and echo of those monster wheels.”

Vanessa reached for my hand.

“She ran along beside the train, reached up and grabbed the second rung with her left hand. And the train started pulling her along — she had to start skipping, to stretch out her steps and then finally commit. She swung up and caught the third rung with her right hand. I ran along and pushed her butt up. She pulled herself up, hand by hand, and then two migrants grabbed her wrists and yanked her up onto the roof.”

I said, “And you followed.”

Lina nodded, “The train almost got away once, I had a burst of panic and ran faster than I ever had in my life. The thought of losing Pilar ... well, I barely caught a rung, it felt like La Bestia was pulling my arm off.”

Vanessa shook her head.

“But even when you’re on the train, on the roof, the danger isn’t over. You have to strap yourself down, keep constant watch for tree branches, tunnels, the police, railroad police, narcos, other migrants.”

I said, “Other migrants?”

“Most of them were just like Pilar and me. No, most of them were poorer, had even less than we did. We all helped each other, prayed for each other. But there were a few, younger men, who would rob, rape...”

Then she smiled, “But my strongest memories, stronger even that the constant worry, was kindness. Kindness of other migrants who shared, looked out for me and Pilar. Taught us which train tracks to stand beside, which routes to avoid because of la migra and the cartels. And the regular people in towns all across Mexico. They hid us, fed us. And the church — those migrant centers where we could shower, sleep safely, eat their food, stock up on water.”

She shook her head and spoke softly, “Kindness.”

Then Lina got a faraway look and her voice trailed off, “El Norte meant everything to us. It was more than just safety. The United States was a beacon. Is a beacon. It represents everything hopeful and good in our lives. Our future lives.”

We were having a lazy Sunday morning brunch — Walker in charge.

Vanessa said, “I had an interesting experience yesterday. Retail experience.”

We all turned to her; as usual, Pilar was paying particularly close attention.

“I stopped by the Nike store on the Plaza, needed a pair of shoelaces.”

Walker carefully sliced a giant veggie omelet into four servings. Hobo monitored the operation carefully.

“It was interesting. The laces cost $2.65 and I handed the guy a five. He tried to ring it up twice, then moved from the cash register to a handheld device. Still couldn’t do it. He called a supervisor and she went back to the register, showed him how.”

Pilar, “What did that tell you?”

“That he couldn’t remember how to ring up cash sales. It’s all plastic or Apple Pay these days.”

Which led us into a robust discussion on how far Europe is ahead of us in the cashless movement. And what effect all-plastic and all-digital could have on the poor.

Joe-Harlan called me, “Still searching for your poster, Miss Winter.”

“It’s been so long. Think you’ll ever find it?”

“You can count on me.”

As sincere as a siding salesman.

I left Matt’s trig little condo around five in the morning. Monday morning, still dark. It was just a few brisk blocks to Martin Folsom’s house and I was on my way to slip under his Land Rover and re-magnet a tracker to the underside. It might be another fruitless quest, but I was growing impatient.

The Sister Mary Packer lawsuit was grinding along. Phillip Montgomery’s team was in the process of determining if filing a countersuit would be to their advantage. It seemed like eons ago when he first told me the shelter was being sued.

I was now completely off the art poster caper. Red Lonnigan had finally identified the thief, an apparently adept young African-American woman. And before that, he’d figured out who was selling the stolen art to the galleries was as well. But the final cease-and-desist part of the project was currently on hold because of the more pressing Homeland Security concerns.

The FBI was stymied on The Restoration. They were proceeding, understandably so, with caution. Not wanting to hurry, not wanting to jeopardize any potential court cases. My only involvement these days was the periodic delivery — to Clint — of each one of the new Hardmore tapes. Which were mostly unhelpful these days. Apparently after the successful Houston assassination they were taking a breather.

But I needed movement, needed action. Starting with Martin Folsom. The loner, the angry tennis player, the Four Seasons host of nine assassination team leaders. The point man, so far as I could determine, in charge of at least some of Sarah Meriwether’s clandestine activities. Including that shelter lawsuit — which allowed me to rationalize, if not totally justify, my ongoing scrutiny of him.

The Federal-style homes on his block didn’t have garages. During my previous three days of tailing him, I’d learned that he had to circle his neighborhood at night, looking for, hoping for, a parking spot near his house. And since he usually worked late, that circle often grew larger and larger.

At least I knew where his ride was this time. I’d gotten into town around six the previous evening. And waited until after eleven to walk the area. He’d lucked out — the black Land Rover was in sight of, in the same block actually, as his handsome residence.

A small part of me resented that he had such a stylish abode. Shouldn’t there be some sort of cosmic stipulation that baddies had to dwell in Ugly?

I put aside my mental grumbling and looked around. Still dark. Intermittent swoosh of traffic over on Wisconsin. I did a slow 360 and didn’t see any foot traffic. A few house lights were blinking on; Folsom’s car was under a streetlight, but the scene looked clear to me.

I bent down, then lay on my back, scooted headfirst under the rear of the Land Rover. In retrospect, my subconscious mind must have registered a light slap-slap-slap of sneakers — of Folsom returning from an early morning run — but the message hadn’t been telegraphed insistently enough.

Suddenly Folsom was on me, grabbing my ankles, jerking me back to toward him. Ouch! My elbow clanged against something, then my forehead. I wasn’t knocked out, but my mind was spinning in a confused panic. Things were moving too fast.

Folsom, tall, athletic, rangy, strong, cut my breath off with his left arm crushing my neck. He dragged me, kicking and writhing, twenty or so yards to his house. Fumbled with his keys, pulled me in the front door.

I was clawing at his arm with both hands and stomping down on his instep. He threw me against the entrance-hall wall, slamming the back of my head. I screamed weakly, mostly out of breath.

He slammed his large fist into my solar plexus. The pain was so intense that I almost fainted, gasping for air. My body was almost convulsing; every passageway was blocked.

My vision was bleary, but I saw him raise his fist again and I couldn’t move my head away in time.

I woke up, came to really, naked, wrists and ankles duct-taped to the iron rails of a narrow bed. My vision was still blurry, my upper body throbbed where he’d slugged me. My headache was off the charts. My left elbow throbbed, was something broken? A ball gag was stuffed inside my mouth.

My head was the worst, the most worrisome. His fist had crashed into my skull just above my left ear. A little lower and my jaw would have been shattered. But I was almost certainly concussed.

The body blow, just below my chest, was still causing me excruciating pain. I knew from my self-defense classes that Folsom had struck me in the epigastric region, a ganglion, a cluster of nerve cells that radiated out instant and intense pain.

Then my elbow reminded me of what another layer of hurt felt like.

Fuck that.

A bare bulb hung over the bed, casting a sickly pale-yellow light. I looked around. I was obviously in his basement. Blackout curtains, no sounds coming from upstairs. I could see his workout equipment — an elliptical, a rowing machine, a Bowflex Max Trainer.

I did a quick sit rep of my predicament. I had texted Duke that I would be in DC. That meant nothing though. Daddy and Vanessa also knew I had come to DC; that might eventually mean something. I had also told Clint I was heading here, so he knew that I would be checking Folsom out. And that did mean something, but what? And when?