Chapter 2: Lust

Vanessa and I studied Lina — she was composed, serene even. And, maybe it was my imagination, but she seemed to have a certain glow about her.

She smiled at Vanessa, at me, “I don’t know who I was trying to fool — oral only. I didn’t last half an hour.” She winked at me, “Someone taught him well — that ‘do unto others’ stuff.”

Vanessa laughed, “Did he do unto you?”

Lina hugged herself and swiveled back and forth, “Three times. Each one better than the last.”

Walker had the grace not to smirk, not to even look too pleased with himself. But I was proud enough for both of us, “So you’ll be back tonight?”

“Just try and keep me away.”

Vanessa said, “How do you feel, Lina? You know ... about Matt?”

She blinked like he was the last person she was thinking about. Then shrugged, “I wouldn’t mind if he has some more business trips planned.”

I liked learning new things — particularly stuff that’s career-related. And one of the best ways of acquiring new knowledge is through new acquaintances. Ash Collins had long-distance introduced me to a former NYPD cop, Flynn Gallagher.

As we worked together, got to know each other, Flynn began to open up about himself. We hadn’t actually met, but FaceTime made it sort of feel that way.

He told me, “I’m no Stan Lee superhero, no Avenger.”

However, he seemed to have the time, resources, and, usually, the skills to remedy certain outrages that he came across. Or, at least try to remedy them.

After twenty-two years in the family business — the New York City Police Department — he pulled the pin. Which was several years earlier than the retirement timetable for his father, two uncles, one aunt, and numerous cousins.

Was he burned out? Oh, maybe a little. The Job did grind you down. But he loved it — with a few exceptions. Like rolling out on domestics. That was usually a heartbreaking, no-win assignment. The wife, or girlfriend, or mother, far too often, turned on the officers who had responded to her 911 call. And, all the warnings, the restraining orders, the arrests, rarely were enough to stop the beatings for very long.

I knew that from personal experience. I did pro bono work for battered women — wives and girlfriends. A formal, legal restraining order might work for a while, but it rarely was effective in the long run.

And for Flynn, there were the never-ending drug wars. In NYC, and around the country, the narcotics had grown more potent, easier to obtain. He believed that we should simply legalize them, quit trying to enforce unenforceable laws. Not a popular philosophy among many of his colleagues.

But, as I eventually learned, what actually triggered his departure from the cop shop was money. A not-unexpected inheritance from his maternal grandmother, the ‘sainted’ Maeve Riona Danaher. He told me that he was always Ree’s favorite, and she showed it when she passed on January 6, 2021, at the age of 87. Her husband, Declan, had prospered during Prohibition, and they’d lived quietly, invested conservatively. Flynn’s legacy? She bequeathed him a trust fund that paid $7,500 on the first of every month.

In addition, she left him half an acre of land in one of the wealthier zip codes in the country — New Canaan, Connecticut. After his wife Shannon and he went through a mostly amicable divorce, he began building a small, two-bedroom cottage on the lot. It was a family project — his uncle Pádraig was the general contractor and two cousins did the electrical and plumbing.

Was this a midlife crisis? Retiring? Divorcing? Moving from Bay Ridge in Brooklyn to the boonies? Perhaps, but he told me he didn’t dwell on it, didn’t look back that much.

Nevertheless, with his Sergeant’s pension from the City of New York Police Department, he was comfortable. In fact, he was living on his inheritance and saving the monthly pension payments.

But police work was still in his blood.

As we, sort of, got to know each other, he told me, “I care about people. So I take on cases, not causes.”

I realized that I was the same way; had just never articulated my philosophy. Had never thought of it that clearly. But it helped to explain why we were both working pro bono on the Bianca Uribe case. Flynn knew the family; and Ash had asked me to get involved.

Now, I am a professional detective, licensed, and I detected from FaceTime that Flynn Gallagher was a handsome devil. If you liked the black Irish look. Which, I decided, I did. He had pale skin and jet-black hair. Whether he was descended from the Spanish Armada sailors and soldiers ... well, I didn’t know Flynn well enough to ask.

I did remember from History classes that back in the 1500s, the Armada was under the command of some Duke who was aiming to overthrow Queen Elizabeth I. Unfortunately for Spain, the English ships out of Plymouth were faster and more maneuverable, and they harried the Spanish galleons up the east coast of England.

As the Armada attempted to return to Spain on the other side of Britain, the Atlantic weather soured on them and several ships crashed into the shores of Scotland and Ireland.

Where was I? Oh, black Irish.

When I met him in person, Flynn Gallagher turned out to be a couple of inches over six feet tall. Slender, but strong looking. Graceful hands with long fingers. I’ve always liked graceful hands with long fingers.

Uh-oh.

Ô bruit doux de la pluie Par terre et sur les toits! Pour un cœur qui s’ennuie Ô le bruit de la pluie!

Ever have an earworm? You know, a song lyric that overstays its welcome? My own most frequent visitor was that stanza from a Paul Verlaine poem.

The rough translation was

Ah, the soft sound of rain On the ground and roofs! For a listless heart, Ah, the sound of the rain!

Okay, it sounded better in French. But it makes me smile whenever that verse pops into my mind. I journey back to my first serious crush at age 14. Mrs. Dubois was our French teacher and she was a pip! She was part of an experimental exchange program where three teachers from Kansas City traded jobs for a school year with three from Marseilles.

Mrs. Dubois was everything that I wasn’t. Sophisticated, aloof, bemused, married, sexy as fuck. French.

Okay, I was pretty sexy my own damn self, but not like she was. She had a smokey, whiskey voice, that come-hither accent ... and clothes that you couldn’t find in the Midwest. A black pixie haircut, pale, heart-shaped face, nipped-in waist, and trim legs that went on and on.

The boys in the classroom were ga-ga, and so were some of us girls. As were many of the fathers whose attendance at parent-teacher meetings shot up.

Rumors raced around — Mrs. Dubois had a casual attitude about spreading her favors around. Hubby back in France, living alone for a year, an exotic bird free of its tether. Oh, and she smoked cigars.

I can’t speak to how many men got lucky, but — hand on Bible — I can attest that Winter Jennings had her dreams answered.

Mrs. Dubois lived in my neighborhood — Brookside. She rented a small carriage house in back of one of the larger homes in the neighborhood. The landlady, a widow named Mrs. Carson, didn’t really need the extra income, but she liked having the company.

I plotted and schemed and fantasized about Mrs. Dubois for weeks and weeks. One Saturday morning in late October, I worked up my nerve and knocked on that carriage house door. I was clutching my French vocabulary book and a handful of homework assignments.

And, I had put some considerable thought into the what-to-wear question. Mentally, I cycled through short-shorts, skintight leggings, skinny jeans, and several other crucial wardrobe options. In the end, I went for weekend-casual — a pink long-sleeved tee, no bra, and a white tennis skirt. White thong.

“Bonjour, Winter.”

“Bonjour, Madame Dubois.”

She was wearing a thin silk robe, black with colorful dragons. Smoking a cigar, and sipping coffee.

Heart thudding, I went through the needing-help charade. Mrs. Dubois had a lopsided smile as she squinted at me through the smoke.

Of course she had no way of knowing that I’d been with another girl — Peggy Rawlings — early and often. But she tilted her head at me, smiled, and said, “Devoirs, vraiment?”

Homework, really?

Then she winked at me.

It didn’t surprise me that Bianca Uribe’s identity theft might have originated here in KC. The town had also been the center of the Payday Loan scam a while back. Not so much in making the actual loans, but in providing the sucker lists. The nationwide databases that lured poor people into financial ruin.

I knew from law school at UMKC that ‘pro bono publico’ meant ‘for the public good’. It also meant no money coming in, that my expenses wouldn’t be covered, and that I’d be out of pocket for who knew how much?

But I hadn’t hesitated. Ash Collins was a mentor, then a friend, and now a Vanguard partner.

I started with my in-house hackers ... um, make that researchers, Jessie and Jesse Sullivan. The little redheaded munchkins, twins, traversed the digital world much more adroitly than I did.

We met at BEAR’s for a mid-afternoon snack. Herr Hesse, rigid posture, quick-marched us to the corner booth on permanent reserve for yrs. truly.

“We’re in your hands, Maestro.”

Louis-Louis opened two bottles of red — Ermita de San Lorenzo. Louis-Louis said, “Melia.”

Which meant Amelia Baxter, the inked and pierced young woman who was redoing Bear’s and Vanessa’s wine cellars. For afternoon sipping, I would bet that the wine retailed for only twenty or thirty bucks, but with Melia’s imprimatur it would be a good value.

A lesser waiter delivered salty house-made chips to get us started.

Bear, all 6’ 8” of him, pulled up a chair, turned it backwards, and joined us. As I explained the Uribe gig, Louie-Louie served us marinated olives, soft German pretzels, spicy apricot wings, and a variety of other tempting morsels. Hey, Winter Jennings was in the house.

I looked from Jessie to Jesse. Matching white skin-tight Bermuda shorts. Blue tees.

Bear had gone from shoulder-length platinum hair to flaming red, then back to platinum. His fuck-you look to the straight world.

I nodded to the twins, “It’s pro bono on my part, but I’ll pay you guys your standard fees.”

Jesse nodded to himself and tried to sound tough, “Damn straight.”

Jessie poked her brother with her elbow.

It seemed straightforward enough. The Sullivans would do their Darknet searches on little cat feet. Flynn Gallagher would talk with Bianca Uribe and learn whatever he could from that end. Flynn and I would keep in touch through phone calls and texts. Pretty straightforward.

By the time Louie-Louie started pouring the second bottle of red, Jessie was resting her palm on her brother’s upper thigh. Not in his lap, not exactly, but not all that far from home base either.

Vanessa was scrolling through her phone; she winked at me, “In Texas it’s illegal to own six or more dildos.”

“What about guns?”

“No worries.”

Then Walker returned from his Saturday morning errands. Vanessa smiled that radiant smile and handed him a small package. He eagerly ripped it open and laughed aloud. Then, holding it at shoulder height, he turned to face me.

It was a blazingly white tee with a pink script: My Sister Swallows.

I had to laugh myself — it was perfect. When it was just Walk and me on one of our rare road trips, he delighted in telling strangers that I was his sister. Whom, false modesty begone, I could easily pass for.

The two of us were tall, blonde, blue-eyed with a strong facial resemblance. Slender, not counting boobs.

Vanessa grinned, “Will you let him wear it next time?”

“Absofuckinglutely.”

And, I would. But first, I’d have to think of one I could wear. Whatever would I want to say about my brother?

It was partly an excuse to see Clint Callahan. It was partly frustration because the Sullivan & Sullivan Research team hadn’t been able to find any traces of the Bianca Uribe ID theft.

I would fly back east, meet with the young girl to see if I could learn anything that would help the cause. I would also meet Flynn Gallagher for the first time.

As I was packing for two or three days, Walker asked me, oh so casually, “Going to see Cliff?”

The lad had always been interested in my love life — well, the sex part of it, anyway. I guess ‘interested’ was too tame a word. Fascinated, hungry for details, excited.

I shrugged, “Oh, probably.”

Walk nodded meaningfully to himself. I knew exactly what he was thinking — Clint had the fattest cock I’d ever seen. Not that long, maybe 6 inches or so. But thick? Ay yi yi!

It had taken me a while, but I’d gradually grown comfortable in accommodating all that girth. And had shared my journey with a certain blonde, blue-eyed boy.

Vanessa drove me to the airport and kissed me for a long time, She whispered, “Enjoy Clint, baby.”

Sex — mystery and mastery.

It was my first year in New York, my first year at John Jay, and I was full of teenage wisdom. Full of it.

I was dating serially — being too sophisticated for hanging with most of my fellow students — and enjoying that freshman freedom so common to those who had just flown the nest.

I was seeing one hedge-funder who had moved from Goldman, to open his own shop, a wannabe actor who was waiting tables at Katz’s, and a coder who was spending most of her free time working on a doomsday game.

Looking back, I now suppose they could have been categorized as cliches ... although I later learned that the waiter was a trust fund baby who enjoyed living on ‘the wild side’.

But the most interesting guy I went out with that first year was a baritone sax player named Harry. An older guy, almost 30. I met him at a gallery opening in Chelsea — for the life of me I can’t remember the featured artist that evening.

Crowd dressed in downtown black, chilled Sauvignon Blanc, Bach in the background ... the usual. Of course it wasn’t Kansas City-usual, but hey, I was a cool girl. Back then.

Harry and I were looking at an aggressively abstract oil — a good eight or ten feet across — and his nonchalance caught my attention. Usually guys, and some girls, flirted harmlessly with me. Oh, some were more serious, but it was mostly light banter. Like a first date that wasn’t a date.

Harry was polite enough, but scarcely eager. Not standoffish, just ... not all that interested in yrs. truly. Well, we’d see about that.

He wasn’t that tall, but was sort of willowy. Kind of sexy in a not-trying sort of way. I held out my hand, “Hi, I’m Winter.”

“Harry.”

Pleasant enough, but hardly straining at the leash. Fucker.

We chatted, well mostly I did. Finally I said, “Wanna split for a drink?”

He shrugged, “Okay.”

A pleasant enough evening — we caught an early set in the Village. But no sparks were flying. Which surprised me. Puzzled me. And in a mild way, annoyed me.

Fucker was polite enough, but I never spotted a gleam in his deep brown eyes. Back in the gallery, he had noticed that I was braless, but it didn’t seem to perk him up. My gaydar wasn’t blipping; he wasn’t casting longing looks at other guys.

Well. A challenge.

He agreed, politely enough, to meet for breakfast the following Saturday. A popular diner on 10th Avenue. Not sure what it says about me, but I remember having biscuits and country gravy, but not what we talked about.

As we left, once again, I pressed the issue. He wasn’t rude, but certainly wasn’t eager to see me again, just ... meh.

We met for cocktails a week later at a dark downtown cave that was all the rage because of its Soviet theme. Noir. And because of the coed bathrooms which had transparent doors. Completely see-through until you turned the lock. Then they became something between translucent and opaque.