Chapter 5: A Parliament of Owls

Clint Callahan’s parents turned out to be a surprise. Well, his mother did.

On Metro North from Grand Central to Greenwich, I asked him, “Do they know about Vanessa?”

“Of course.”

“What do they expect ... about, you know, you and me?”

Translation: What I was really asking him was: what the fuck do you expect, Clint? You, yourself. Who are we anyway? I’m married, you’re widowed, we live half a country apart. Yet there was a steadily growing bond between us.

“I’m not sure, Winter. I told them that I met you. Liked you, maybe even was starting to love you.” He smiled, “Early innings, don’t be worried.”

To change the subject, I glanced at the watch on his thick wrist, “Many complications?”

“A few.” He smiled, “Quite a few, actually. I didn’t know you were into watches.”

“It depends on the tourbillons.”

He gave me a sideways glance, knowing I was faking it. But he didn’t call me out. Guys let you get away with a lot when they’re scoring pussy. Or hoping to. Or fantasizing about it.

We got in a cab at the Greenwich station, a Mercedes, naturally. Clint gave her the address and we motored off. The cabbie didn’t ask directions as we headed west into estate territory.

I didn’t stare because I’m so worldly. A rube might have been gawking as we took gently curving roads that led us deeper into a woodsy neighborhood where many of the houses were so secluded you couldn’t see them. Mansions in some cases.

For some irrational reason, I was relieved that the Callahan residence didn’t have columns. It was a low profile, one-story, U-shaped house that blended into the sylvan tract. It didn’t shout, “Look at me!” If anything it whispered, “This is our home. Welcome.”

Okay, anthropomorphic, I know.

But Claire and Charles Callahan did greet me warmly. No hugs like I was a sudden daughter-in-law to be. Just two normal people who seemed genuinely pleased to meet their only son’s new girlfriend.

“The Wrigley” was 72 minutes long and those minutes just flew by.

The theater itself was spectacular. Gold leaf, over half a million square feet of it. Five giant, hand-cut crystal chandeliers, artwork, wood and plaster, and old-fashioned charm everywhere. The lobby, the main floor, the stage, the loge, the balconies.

Mindy’s professor, Doctor Jeffery Eisenstein, kept his introductory remarks brief. He didn’t build anticipation, didn’t laud the effort. He said, “This documentary is a first-time effort from a first-year film student. Mindy Montgomery shows promise and I think you’ll enjoy her project.”

The elfin gent sat down to polite applause and Mindy dimmed the house lights. The audience hushed; there was something about a world premiere.

No opening credits — just a closeup of one of the hotel’s permanent guests: “I am Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna, rightful heir to the throne of Romanov.” The camera panned back to show the Grande Dame in full regalia — pince-nez glasses, floor-length gown, ebony walking stick, with the front facade of the Wrigley as her backdrop.

That set the tone and Mindy wove in history, architecture, neighborhood, city; but people, always people. Our naked elevator operator, Nature Boy, and his sister Edwina Rowbottom. Two other full-time residents — Gerald (Scout) Nuttinger and shy little Wally Maypole.

Interviews with Gene Austin, who gave a tour of the Wrigley Restaurant and the Speakeasy off the alley. His daughter Cathy was featured hosting the biweekly poker game. I was asked to describe the robbery, since I’d been in attendance that night.

Hobo, with the Proper Villain riding calmly on his back as they rode up and down with Nature Boy, exploring the lobby, the basement, the guest floors.

Nature Boy was erect in one of the freight elevator scenes; the audience tittered, there were a couple of wolf whistles.

Vanessa looked smashing; the camera always loved her. Pilar and Walker were cute and charming. I wasn’t dog’s dinner myself. Our loft had its own star turn; I was proud of the work we’d done to make it look so smashing.

Former Mayor Tom Lynch served as the closer. Speaking to the Wrigley’s Kansas City presence over the decades. And ending with tying the Wrigley, the Crossroads, to the city, to an even more prosperous future. He didn’t mention his gubernatorial plans, but the cameo would add to his exposure.

Mindy ended her documentary the way she had opened it. With the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna gazing off regally as the Wrigley faded from view. At the very end, the Duchess turned toward us and peered directly into the camera with a look of soft longing. Not so much breaking the fourth wall, as tapping gently on it.

Standing ovation — no surprise, Mindy knew almost everyone there. She brought the permanent hotel guests up on the stage to take a bow — the Grand Duchess had stolen the show. Nature Boy was dressed. Edwina and Wally held hands; Scout was in his sharply pressed Eagle Scout uniform.

To me, though, Walker had been the breakout star. All those school dramas and comedies. In the documentary, he underplayed it and stole the scenes he was in. A film critic once said something like, “Don’t stand next to Denholm Elliott or a fucking child star.” Or maybe Denholm or a cute dog. In any case, Walker drew the eye, and not just mine. Vanessa said the same thing.

I didn’t ask Joe-Harlan Pewtie about the thefts; so far as he knew I was just one more potential customer. In fact, I would be a customer if he could find the piece I’d been after; a quest that had lasted more than four years.

“Can you reach out to your associates and find a poster I’ve been looking for?”

“Almost certainly What is it?”

“San Tropez Été.”

“Alan Walsh. Sure, I can get you a canvas wrap by next week. It’s 16 x 20 inches. Have to check the price, around $700 if I remember.”

Or, $160 on Amazon.

“Thanks, but I’m looking for a framed print.”

“His signed prints are expensive. He only does five or six.”

“Years ago, I saw one on MyHabit for a couple of hundred bucks. Should have snapped it up.”

“Didn’t Amazon take them over?”

“Yeah, and then closed them down.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask around.”

“Thank you.”

“You sure about that canvas wrap? It’s good-looking.”

“I’m sure. And also, I don’t want the version with lips. Just sunglasses and a glass and a straw.”

“You’re a gal who knows what she wants.”

You better believe it, bubba.

Around fifty of us stayed late at the Midland. The bartenders in the Chandelier Bar were kept busy popping corks and pouring into thrust-out flutes. Mindy and her proud parents. My own parents, my mother loving the party and pageantry; Daddy being good natured about it.

Gregory Williams, with his parents — George, the stockbroker, and Allison, the attorney. Even she seemed impressed with the gala. If she had any reservations about all the nights her son was spending in our loft, she didn’t voice them.

Mindy had a quiet glow about her. She was understandably proud. She wasn’t Ken Burns, but who was? Phillip was talking with Doctor Eisenstein, who hadn’t seemed that impressed with Mindy, with the documentary, with Kansas City. Well, fuck him.

I had invited my Irregulars to the afterparty. I liked to treat them every once in a while. Creaky old Cyrus Vandenberg was chatting amiably with Sergeant Louise Finch. The Raytown kids, Buster and BJ, were scarfing down appetizers.

Joey Viagra had Cathal Conway’s wife, Juanita, cornered for erection updates. I didn’t worry about her; she was a part-time stripper at BaBoomz and pretty unflappable.

Handsome Tony Gonzales cruised the room, chatting up each and every female except for my mother. He was already doing her. I was pretty sure Daddy knew. Maybe he knew without knowing. Then the Sullivan twins caught Tony’s eye. He made a beeline for them and seemed to be as intrigued with Jesse as Jessie. Hmm.

Emile Chanson hadn’t attended the screening, but showed up for a glass and to congratulate Mindy. I saw Cathal talking earnestly with Emile; I’d have loved to be a fly on that wall. Cathal with a mysterious Northern Ireland background; Emile had been in the French Foreign Legion.

Tom, politician to the bone, worked the room, moving easily, remembering names, smiling a lot. Good guy, actually.

Gertie Oppenheimer entered into a lengthy discussion with Phillip and Doctor Eisenstein. I had no doubt that documentary monetization was on her mind. I hoped something came of it.

Mindy surprised us, going home with Rebecca and Phillip. Well, they were her parents. But I heard her tell Walker, Pilar, and Gregory, “See you guys tomorrow night.”

Joe-Harlan called me, “No luck on that poster. Still looking though. Stop by when you have a chance, I put aside three others for you to look at. Framed and ready to hang.”

Short of following him for the rest of his life, I couldn’t think of a way to tie him to the stolen pieces. I had interviewed the other three poster owners and, yes, Pewtie had personally done the installation.

Then, with my AAA credentials, I talked with each of the remaining seven art lovers. They hadn’t bought from the Discretionary Contemporary, but four of them had shopped at Pewtie’s gallery.

So, a direct or indirect tie between eight of the victims and Pewtie.

I had the Sullivans on lookout duty, scanning the Internet for limited edition posters with Certificates of Authenticity. I also tasked them with digging deeper into Pewtie’s life. Crime-buster Tip # 17 — when in doubt, pick up a shovel.

I assumed that Claire and Charles Callahan had money. Just judging from their home, and its Greenwich zip code, it seemed a safe bet. I hadn’t considered asking the Sullivans to background them. That would have been the poorest of poor taste. Plus, Clint might have tumbled to it.

They were both born and bred New Yorkers, but retired to Connecticut when Clint and his sister went out on their own. Like the Montgomerys had done with their Mission Hills home, they had retained their Village townhouse when they moved. Must be nice.

Clint was a big, thick man. Strong looking and just flat strong. He took after his mother. She was a gorgeous woman, a head-turner even in her fifties, but definitely not one of those social X-rays from New York. She was taller than I was and about twice as wide. And not the least bothered by her size.

Charles wasn’t the opposite; he wasn’t some whippy model type. He too was square-shouldered and solid. But it was Claire who had the charisma, the magnetism. She just drew my attention, and I’m sure other people felt the same way.

I was like most folks, I had vast oceans of ignorance and little surprise islands of knowledge. After Clint got me unpacked — in his bedroom — we joined his parents for cocktails. Although it was champagne and canapés this time.

Because I was in love with Vanessa, I was passionate about her passions — like food and wine. Charles poured Dom Pérignon and I said, “I’m impressed.”

He smiled, “We like it.”

“I’ve never had a P2 before.”

Charles glanced at his wife; he was uncertain. What was I talking about? P2? Maybe country mouse wasn’t so country after all.

I was pretty sure Clint pretended not to know to make me look smart. He said, “P2?”

Mentally thanking Vanessa and her mixologist, Amelia Baxter, I said, “Dom Pérignon calls it Pléntitude 2. It’s a second stage release. What is it Charles, aged another eight years?”

He laughed because he didn’t know and gestured to Claire, “That’s right Winter, they don’t make wine every year. And even when they approve of a vintage they wait eight years to release it. Then once in a while, they hold on to some of it for another eight. Pléntitude 2.”

Clint and I spent two nights in Greenwich. I learned that Charles had retired from running copper mines in Utah and Panama. Some commute. Like Clint, he had had a stint in the Navy. I got the sense that Claire came from family money. Although it was never discussed; I just had a vague feeling. On the train back to New York, I didn’t ask Clint about it. Even a goober from Kansas City understood that would have been déclassé. That’s Kansas City, Missouri; not fucking Kansas, that plumber’s crack of a state.

I liked his parents and was pretty sure they approved of me. No one discussed Marcella, Clint’s deceased wife. Nor my living one, Vanessa. That could have been an awkward conversation. Two awkward conversations.

Vanessa and I attended another First Friday at the Discretionary Contemporary. I wanted a peek at Pewtie’s upstairs apartment. This visit I rated two cheek kisses from the dirt farmer. He shook hands with my paramour and said, “Hello, Vanessa,” remembering her name like a good salesman.

She and I waited until Pewtie was near the gallery entrance, near that “Fuck you very much!” parrot. A door near the rear of the exhibit space was marked ‘Private’ and opened to an inside stairway. Vanessa stood sentry while I eased inside and climbed quickly and silently, using the less squeaky side of the steps nearest the wall.

I turned the knob, no luck. No surprise either. It took me under thirty seconds to pick the simple lock. I probably could have slid a credit card in, but I liked to practice my skill sets. I hadn’t bothered to bring my electronic pick gun, went old school all the way.

The apartment was one large open room and I simply walked the perimeter, taking a quick video of everything there.

I didn’t open a drawer, nor check out his Dell laptop; I just quick-marched around the room with my cell on ‘video’ and headed back downstairs apace. Pewtie’s lock had engaged automatically. I tapped my palm lightly against the door to the gallery, but Vanessa didn’t respond. Pewtie must be nearby.

I had my ‘looking for a bathroom’ excuse on tap, but didn’t need it. Vanessa eased the door open a couple of minutes later and I slipped out. We made our goodbyes.

“Fuck you very much.”

CAROL SUE PARKER

I’d calmed down and gotten used to the idea of returning to Kansas City to testify. I’d decided to do it in-person even if the judge would allow teleconferencing. I’d had to miss Sister Mary Packer’s funeral and it felt important for me to pay some sort of homage to her by directly refuting those offensive charges.

Winter told me it should be safe for the two of us to communicate digitally, so we kept in touch through texting and email.

I kept to my regular Denver schedule — working at the library, a little weed at night, church on Sunday. Then I added Wednesday night services as well.

But even with two church visits a week, an old, familiar feeling of loneliness began creeping back. I asked my neighbor about her part-time boyfriend, part-time dealer. Maybe something with a bit more pep than grass.