TV Game Show Winter JenningsChapter 3 Cathal
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The second odd murder in Kansas City was discovered by an early morning jogger. Sunday. Loose Park, just south of the Plaza. The dead woman was placed between the pond on the west and Wornal Road on the east. She was wearing a clean red dress and had been carefully posed.
Young, in her early 20s, she looked almost serene, lying on her back. Her ankles were crossed and her hands folded neatly over her tummy. The dress looked carefully ironed. Everything was eerily tidy. Except there were shallow, almost tentative cuts around her eyes. Like hesitation marks on a suicide’s wrist. Puzzling.
The jogger, who fortunately had her Irish setter on a leash, tied him to a bench and dialed 911. She was shaken, but had the presence of mind to keep two other dogs away.
The crime scene was roped off, the techs on the scene within 10 minutes. Of course I’d heard of the police photographer — Cathal Conway — but hadn’t yet met him. That would come.
Pilar had a calming influence on Bianca Martinez. Probably Hobo did too. Speaking from the back seat, arm around her border collie, Pilar said, in Spanish, “Bianca, you’re not in trouble. Don’t be afraid.”
My idea.
Then, speaking softly, Pilar worried the tawdry story out of an understandingly reluctant Bianca. My initial assumption had been right. For once.
The despicable — on so many levels — Troy Ventura had been the mastermind in this sorry little caper. How sorry? He hadn’t even known Tom Lynch had been the mayor until after he coerced his girlfriend into seducing Amelia. Amy.
Worse, he had made Bianca drug the little girl with a tiny dose of Rohypnol. At least Ventura had been smart enough to use only a fraction of the roofie. Amy hadn’t been knocked out, just dazed.
This morning, in my ride, Bianca believed that Troy Ventura was probably at home; he was between jobs. Of course.
I drove her to a large house in Sunset Hill, just south of the Plaza. A Whisk-Away yellow van was in the circular driveway. Following my instructions, Pilar checked Bianca’s bag for a cell phone. Nope.
For some reason, I gave Bianca five Jacksons. Probably because I had scared her earlier in that sorry office. And, I felt sorry for her. In a way, she was almost as much a victim as Amy. Almost.
I nodded at Pilar who climbed into the front seat and spoke to Bianca through the window, “Troy won’t be home tonight. You won’t see him again.” Hobo looked on solemnly.
I dropped Pilar off at her school in Brookside. Good timing, the playground was filled with kids running, laughing, shrieking. I miss recess.
Hobo hopped in front, claiming shotgun. He watched Pilar carefully until we turned a corner. I took Wornal north to the Plaza and cut over to Broadway. Bear was outside his eponymous restaurant waiting for me. Bulldog had told me to make the Mayor Lynch problem go away and Bear was the fastest way I could think of. Especially since I couldn’t involve the police, anyone in the authority racket.
Hobo lapped Bear’s face enthusiastically; it’s probably a guy thing. Bear sat him on his lap, a commodious lap, and said, “Instructions?”
“His name is Troy Ventura and he’s leaving town today. For good. After we have every trace of that video.”
“For good?”
I smiled at my friend, “Killing him isn’t on the agenda. Sorry. Bulldog will talk to him after we...”
“Soften him up.”
That’s my plan.
I piloted my way north and east, taking surface streets like I do. There were faster ways to reach the Northeast, but old habits...
The Martinez / Ventura residence is a block south of Independence Avenue. Close to the bus line. In a neighborhood with a lot of Spanish-speaking people. The soon-to-be Martinez-only home was on the left side of a shabby duplex. I rang the bell, no sound, then knocked. Bear stood off to the side.
Ventura, the pride of Texarkana, had been asleep. Probably exhausted from a rigorous résumé rehab. He was yawning, an unlit cigarette between thin lips. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and hadn’t bathed for longer than that.
Wife-beater, saggy boxer shorts. Barefoot, grimy toenails. Be still my beating heart.
He grinned when he saw me; frowned when Bear registered. Understandable, my best friend is quite a sight. Six feet, eight inches. Carries around 315 pounds, give or take. And then there’s that bright platinum, shoulder-length hair, Bear’s fuck-you to the straight world.
Ventura said, “What the...”
I hit the center of his chest with the heels of both hands, driving him three steps back inside. Establishing the contours of the conversation. I could almost hear Bear smile.
“Hey! Fuck! Lady, what the...”
I slapped him. Hard. Easy to be Ms. Braveheart when Man Mountain is standing beside me. But I was pissed enough to take this scrote on by myself. Bear is with me mostly as visual insurance.
This weasel fucker had roofied an innocent young girl. Made his own girlfriend do a sex video. And had the ignorant balls to think he could get away with it, could blackmail the mayor.
I showed him my copy of the video. Explained the facts of life to him. He was listening, sort of. Kept glancing at Bear. But I could practically sense the dim workings of his brain. Formulating a plan to agree to everything. Say anything to get us the fuck out of his house. And he would retain a secret copy of poor Amy.
I captured his full attention by uppercutting him in the balls with my wrist. Not the panic kick I’d done in DC. But certainly hard enough to make him gasp, howl in anguish, and bend over, cupping himself.
Bear hadn’t said a word, I was carrying the conversational ball.
The only electronic device in the one-bedroom house would turn out to be a Samsung cell phone. A few years old, but still serviceable enough to shoot a Crestwood video with a young girl.
I nodded to Bear and he tore the place apart, looking for a laptop, tablet, another cell. Tapes, flash drives, anything. Nothing. I said, “Check his car.” Not the least bit nervous about being alone with Ventura. Well, my .40 and the container of BlingSting didn’t hurt.
Bear returned and placed a meaty paw on Ventura’s shoulder. Squeezed, just a little bit, but enough to make the fucker’s knees buckle. I said, “Who else has seen this? Who knows about it?”
He claimed nobody. And eventually, as Bear squeezed a little harder, I believed him. Not because of legal concerns — Ventura and his crowd wouldn’t care about the blackmail part. But because Ventura was just clever enough to want to keep the big score to himself.
I told him to get dressed and pack a suitcase. And not to even think about returning to Kansas City. He opened his mouth, looked at Bear, closed it. Bear went into the kitchen, washed his hands. I took my turn, carefully cleaning my hands up to the elbows. I didn’t dry them on the one dirty towel. Just waved them through the air.
Bear drove Ventura’s battered white Pontiac; he put the criminal mastermind in the back seat. They followed me to the Unicorn Club parking lot. I called Bulldog, “We’re here.”
Bear and I leaned against my ride as Emile Chanson pulled up in that long, long black Cadillac. Opened the door for Bulldog. Let Ventura see the pistol he always carried.
I handed the Samsung to Bulldog. He said, “Only copy?”
I nodded, “Ninety nine and nine-tenths sure.”
Emile cleared his throat. An offer to eliminate any fractional uncertainty.
Bulldog Bannerman looked Troy Ventura up and down. Bulldog is in his 70s. Slender. But Ventura wasn’t a big enough fool not to read the menace beneath the surface. He seemed to shrink in on himself. I hid a smile. Imagine if it were Emile eyeballing him.
I started to ask Bulldog if the mayor wanted to talk with the creep. But didn’t. Bulldog wouldn’t have allowed it, wouldn’t have let his mayor anywhere near this cretin.
Odd.
I’d been hyper alert to my surroundings during a brief period when a certain Gunner Gunther was believed to be in KC. Planning to kill me. I’d retained much of that peripheral awareness ever since. And I’d spotted a silhouette of a guy in a cowboy hat. Three different times. Three different locations in the city, although he was two or three car lengths behind me each time.
This evening I was driving home from the stockyards, it was around 9:30. Well, 9:37. I’m not certain I like the anal precision of the digital world we live in.
Naturally I jumped to the conclusion, zero evidence, that it was Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler. His rodeo background for one thing. A tingle for another. Even if it were someone else ... three times in two weeks is probably not a coincidence. Someone has eyes on me.
I called Bear, explained the situation. He didn’t tease me about women’s intuition; he knows my instincts are sound. Well, not when certain substances are involved.
I said, “It’s a Chevy, pretty sure. Late model, some dark color.”
“Drive by.”
I started to remind him of the cowboy hat, then didn’t bother. Bear may be huge, but he’s smart. Killer smart.
I zagged over to Broadway and slowed as I neared BEAR’s. I hadn’t looked in my rearview for six blocks, didn’t want to alert my fan club. I glanced to my right, Louie-Louie was in a shadowed slot outside the restaurant. I didn’t see the camera, but I smiled, remembering a photo he took of Vanessa back when she worked there.
A minute later Bear called, “Got him.”
“Forward it to the Sullivans please.”
Now, what to do?
Wexler, or whoever it was, must know where I live. Since he’d been following me for some time. Still, knowing he was on me now, I didn’t want to lead him to the Wrigley. To my family. Fuck.
I called Bear again, “Help.”
Bear and two large looking waiters were out back in his restaurant parking lot waiting for me. Although standing beside Bear, they didn’t look that big. But they would be competent if anything developed.
I couldn’t see Bear’s firearm, but I knew he’d have it with him. He’d switched recently to a Colt .357 Magnum Python. I’d fired it a few times at the armory; needed both hands, it’s heavy. Looks like a toy in Bear’s paw.
I glanced in my side mirror as I pulled into the lot. The Chevy glided silently on by.
In the Unicorn parking lot, Emile Chanson spoke to his boss. His associate, Bulldog. Nodded at Troy Ventura, “I could erase the problem. Permanently.”
Bulldog seemed to mull it over. But Bear and I knew it was just a show. Intended to scare Ventura away for good. Bulldog shook his head, “He gets one chance. Shows up back here ... take care of it.”
Emile Chanson walked to the Caddy, chatting briefly with Bear. Two guys nobody wanted to cross. They shook hands and Emile followed Ventura out of town. Across State Line Road into Kansas. Through Johnson County into the countryside. Fucking Kansas.
In deference to Bulldog, Bear got in the backseat of my F-150, along with Hobo. As I drove the civic fixer back to his office in City Hall, I said, “Dr. Lindsey Conners. Psychiatrist. She was good with Mindy Montgomery.” After I rescued her from a sad little cult.
Bulldog nodded, “I like Lindsey.”
Of course he would know her.
I said, “She helped me too.” After Greta Gunther had almost succeeded in killing my family.
Bulldog nodded again. He knew about that too. He said, “Amelia is already seeing someone.”
Didn’t tell me who. Might be Dr. Conners. Might be someone else. Might be none of my business; I’m just glad she’s getting some help.
I said, “One possible blessing — roofies often cause...”
“Short term memory loss.”
Difficult to get ahead of Bulldog.
Pilar said, “Trump is an oinker, right Gertie?”
Gertie smiled at the solemn little girl. “Pilar, look around this room.”
Pilar, Vanessa, and I craned our necks and checked out the Saturday afternoon crowd at the Unicorn Club. It was Pilar’s birthday and she’d chosen the Unicorn for lunch. It was where she and her mother had celebrated their US citizenship.
Walker had joined us for lunch, stayed for the cupcakes, then kissed his sweetie-pie adieu. His ‘Overwatch’ team had a league match. Video games over pussy. Sometimes I don’t recognize my own son.
Pilar turned back to Gertie, “So?”
“If you’re calling Trump a pig, then you’re calling about a third of the people in the Unicorn a pig.”
We looked around again. Vanessa and I knew a lot of these afternoon diners and drinkers. Some of them pretty well.
Pilar, “I still hate the cocksucker.”
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Once Fowler started babbling, it became almost anticlimactic. Bear started the video recorder and even Fowler’s voice seemed to have lost its resonance. He confessed without emotion. He answered every question — no longer defiant, no longer any vitality in his voice, his posture. Mr. November was resigned, had given up. The last call he’d made, to Ryder and Mologna — “It’s her. Do it.” — turned out to be an order for them to go back to Richmond. To tear the Barbara Reynolds apartment to...
Please read! These disclaimers are to help you know if my story is for you or not. I don’t want to spring things on anyone. Back out now if any of this doesn't sound like your kind of thing! The POINT of my writing is to combine VIOLENCE, HORROR, and EXTREME TABOO themes, trying to creep myself out as I write. This whole story is told through the eyes of a VILLAIN. If you do not enjoy very dark themes, this is not for you! Please note, every chapter gets more extreme! 9-part story. This...
Just reuploading this old series with some edits. See the link in my profile to find all my stories and more chapters to this story DISCLAIMERS In this series, I write from the perspective of the VILLAIN. That means I don't agree with his choices, and you're not supposed to either. We're all acknowledging he is evil and wrong. Obviously nothing he does should ever be done in real life! Please be mature adults and separate fantasy from reality. This SHOULD evoke visceral, icky...
It was the day before our expedition to Pickering was due to set off. Kelly, Kirsty, Kat and I were going and we were taking Will Hinds, Harry Wilton and Emma. Jim Bolton was also coming with us. Although he was now quite frail he wanted to feel useful and his military experience would be good for Will and Harry. He still had sharp eyes and would stay with the train on lookout duty. Katie and her group were all travelling and we would use both engines, with the same make up of carriages as...
At noon on Thursday, Miss Thompson's presence was requested at the principal's office. She arrived to discover a parent seated opposite the principal, dressed conservatively but expensively, with conservative but expensive jewellery. The wedding rings on her hand were expensive, elegant but not ostentatious. The contrast between her and the two educators, both of whom were wearing runners, ankle socks and minor jewellery, could not have been more strong. The Principal herself had decided to...
Meredith Daulton was running around her house yelling. They’d been given the evacuation order a few minutes ago. The Ranch wildfire was coming and they had twenty minutes to get out.Paul Caruso was packing both the car with computers, legal papers, and some clothes.“My jewelry, “Meredith screamed as she threw a bag at him. “I need that, it’s valuable.”“Is it insured?”“Of course it is...”“Then you don’t need it. I said clothes now, get in the fucking car and let’s GO!”She snatched the bag from...
Love StoriesAs the bright, invasive afternoon sunlight came streaming through my stained (with dust and dirt) glass window, I found myself spooning (and possibly forking) with my new dream girl, Winter Summer, whom I had met earlier at the Public Market. Rubbing my aching jaw from our earlier sexcapades, fearing I might have lockjaw then grinning like an escaped lunatic as I recalled her hairy pussy, suddenly so afraid she might be a werewolf I had to rush out to buy silver bullets (the ammo, not that...
HumorThe day began like all others, climbing out of bed at the crack of noon, devouring a Toaster Strudel and mayonnaise sandwich before braving the crisp Canadian weather by going to Vancouver's Public Market for fresh seafood now that I'm eating healthy. Along the way I passed a group of American hipsters vaping cannabis oil on a street corner, celebrating Tommy Chong's birthday. Damn Americans! Since Trump's election, they have flocked here like a silverfish infestation. Silverfish, that...
HumorNina sat idly flicking through a few magazines while she was waiting for her appointment with the dentist. For the last three years, she and her mates had hit Southern California beaches, where they swam, surfed, danced and drank themselves silly for about three weeks solid.This year Nina wanted something different, a much more relaxing and hopefully a more romantic setting place to visit. She closed her eyes for a moment, maybe somewhere with a lake, mountains, spa, hiking trails, and clear...
Seduction>?> > The coach just returned from his winter retreat with his special > boys. All the boys on the team want to go on the winter retreat of course, > but the coach only selects the very best. The boys who have maintained > strict control and discipline over their exercises and development. No boy > who has shot a load in the last six months gets to go on the winter retreat. > No boy who has spoken to a girl gets to go on the retreat. Only boys who are > totally focused and dedicated to the...
It was the first week of October 2013, I was working in the garden of my cottage on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds near the coast. I hate gardening, always have done, but after last winter when potatoes reached £120 a pound on the black market, I decided that turning the garden, and a bit of the field behind the garden, with the agreement of the farmer who owned it, into a large vegetable patch was prudent. I was lifting the last of my potato crop and storing them for use during the winter....
I eyeballed Sandy Seaver two different ways. From the stands in The K and by tailing him. My first time in a baseball stadium. It was a revelation. An expensive revelation if I’d been paying for everything. Parking, tickets, food, beer. The little magazine that tells you ... um, baseball stuff. And, if I’d had little kids ... all those treats and souvenirs and whatever else they needed. I bet a family of four couldn’t get out of the park for under a couple of hundred bucks. But the scene...
The kids were hunched over the kitchen table moving black and white stones around a board. Gertie, sipping her Tanqueray, was watching with interest. I said, “What’s this?” Walker, shoehorning pity into a single word — a feat that only a teenager who had a slow mother could master — said, “Go.” I swatted the back of his head, “I know that, dumbbell, why are you playing Go?” Pilar, not looking up, said, “Gertie said that when AlphaGo beat Ke Jie, it was China’s Sputnik moment.” Walker,...
Two parallel investigations — sometimes intersecting, sometimes intertwined. The FBI, supervised by Ash Collins, was focused primarily on illegal weapons — manufacturing and sales. And chasing the gun money, possibly diamonds, around the world. Matt Striker, reporting to Constance Grayson, was all things Meriwether. Their PAC, their possible connections to Wexler and Hoffstatter. And, just maybe their connections to diamonds. I was, for now, relegated to the sidelines. Impatiently so. Ash...
American Snapshot: In Montana it is illegal to guide sheep onto a railroad track with the intent of damaging the train. Vanessa and I agreed to bring Walker and Pilar back home. We couldn’t hide them forever, although Rebecca Montgomery was enjoying their company enormously. But school. Friends. Life. An FBI agent was still posted in the Wrigley lobby. Gunther wouldn’t be able to board the elevator even if he were foolish enough, or desperate enough, to return for another try. Nor would...
The magic of Gaen seems closely bound to music and song while at the same time, Magic and Music each seem to be blooms from very different flowers. Beneath everything, they are very much of the same body. Mathematicians and musicians will both tell you this is true. Wizards will too, if you are in a position to ask them. Threes and fours, apart and in combination, especially in combination, have strong ties to the magic and history of Gaen. These numbers, especially in combination, seemed...
Sistine called me herself, bypassing Carmen. “Just heard back from G and G — they’re pretty exercised about something in those Rowley pages you sent to Carmen.” “Want me to go back in?” “Of course not — wouldn’t that be ... um, bending the law?” “Right, stupid thought.” Translation: okay, Winter, get your butt in gear and don your B & E threads. This time, photograph every work-related page you can uncover. Later for you, Nowak. I had a Dr. Samantha Rowley problem. The first time...
I, Asser, monk of St Davids in the land of Cymru, have preserved these writings. I collected many such stories in the service of my friend and master, Ælfred, whom men are now calling 'The Great.' Some stories I used in my scholarly work, The Life of King Ælfred. Perhaps you have read it? These tales you now find here were unsuitable for such a book but may hold sufficient interest for the reader to be worth recording. Great Ælfred now is dead these nine years and the land of...
EroticDragon Lady # 2 called me, “Cyrus wants dinner.” Cyrus Vandenberg. One of my Irregulars, the oldest one. In his mid-80s, creaky, cranky, but his mental acuity seems just fine. He’ll have some rumor to pass on, some gossip, some hearsay. “When and where?” “What am I, your bitch?” Click. Good point. When you’re part of the Bulldog Bannerman infrastructure, a measly private detective is several rungs lower on the accomplishment ladder. I called Cyrus, “Hi, it’s Winter.” “No...
Got a thing for (hairy) amateur naked women nudes? AbbyWinters here we come! Mainstream hardcore pornography is something akin to the professional wrestling of sex. Or, to possibly put it a little more accurately, hardcore porn is to sex what professional wrestling is to violence. In other words, fake. Okay, sure, porn does not reach quite the same level of fakeness, but it is fake, nonetheless. I mean, the actors in a porno are, after all, actually fucking at least, whereas in pro wrestling,...
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