Chapter 4

I read somewhere that morals are personal; ethics are societal. I had a vague sense of unease that both morals and ethics might be compromised by some of the principals in my Atwater investigation.

I’ve been saving for a surprise Christmas present for Vanessa. For our loft, our kitchen. I saw her looking at a French stove, La Cornue, that is gorgeous. And, I assume, does the job. We can’t afford it, but ... Vanessa. She didn’t ask for it, didn’t even hint at it, she wouldn’t.

But if she wants it, I want it more.

The fact that I bought a Janus et Cie lounge chair, Vino, that we didn’t need and I couldn’t afford has nothing to do with her Christmas present. No guilty conscience, not me.

Thinking about the God Pill.

Here’s what I’m gradually piecing together about the immortalists. Lifers, I call them.

They seem more intense, some of them, than the incrementalists, the healthspanners.

They’re frustrated, the rich ones, “We have all this money, but life is too short.”

They’re frustrated also because of the lack of urgency. Aging doesn’t have the gut appeal that breast cancer and HIV have. And, while aging affects us all, we’re not that good at addressing collective challenges. Like climate change. Aging ... well old people are fatalistic, the young don’t believe they’ll get old.

The Lifers look for moonshots -- say, growing new organs from DNA. And the ultimate one, making death optional.

This may sound sort of weird, but it isn’t. At least I don’t think it is. I like things neat and tidy. Like our double sink in the kitchen has a sprayer on the right side. Logical, most people are right handed. There’s a little rectangular space next to it where our KitchenAid dish brusher fits precisely. This isn’t by design, just a happy circumstance.

Now if I indulged in five & dime psychology, which I try to avoid unless it’s directed at others, I might speculate that my personal and professional lives are so chaotic that I seek solace in tiny, controllable things.

That’s wrong, pretty sure.

My mother, Flora Jennings, surprisingly accepted Pilar Paloma as Walker’s girlfriend. Mom was understandably a little hesitant at first. But she sees Pilar’s poise, remarkable for someone that young, and how she treats Walker. Some respect, some teasing, some courtesy.

Daddy had no hesitation about Pilar. He doesn’t hesitate about many things. Of course he’s not the one who’ll be going to court if the pitchfork crowd arrives. That would be moi, his favorite daughter. Well, one of his two favorites.

I overheard my mother ask Lina, “Are they doing it?”

“Not yet. But soon. She’s almost ready.”

Well good. I’m glad Pilar’s almost ready. But what about me????

Back in California, SFO again. Same Uber, same Felicity. No Walker.

After checking in -- Four Seasons again, ho hum -- Felicity takes me to Bunny Carville’s apartment in San Mateo. Bobsy is still at work so we make small talk until the man of the house comes home to the little woman. What are we, in the fucking 50s?

Hot dogs this night. Boiled. Wonder Bread buns. Heinz catsup. I didn’t say a word. Not even at the Lay’s potato chips.

To keep my petty mouth shut I thought back to last night. I had taken Walker out on the town, just the two of us. We ate at BEAR on Broadway, we need to go there more often. Even though Bear comps me, I get back at him by leaving massive tips. Everyone is happy.

My son looked good, as usual. Pilar had suggested a light blue dress shirt with white cuffs and collar. Black slacks.

We had our favorite corner booth, four is supposed to be the minimum there, but hey, I’m shagging the co-owner. I took off my black linen blazer and Walker gasped. Good.

First time I’ve worn this Thom Browne bustier. It’s intended for home use. Or over, say, a crisp white oxford shirt.

The thin white straps show off my tan while the push-up does what it’s paid to do as well. I said to Walker, “Uncross your legs.” My left hand went exploring. Good.

I had gone from fairly demure to fairly bawdy with a simple blazer removal.

Louie-Louie brought over a bottle of Chiado. Red. Portuguese. He smiled down at me, at my bosom, “Outstanding, Winter.”

Walker nodded unconsciously. Louie-Louie is gayer than springtime.

House chips from the bar, thin, crispy, salty.

I traced my index finger down until I reached the crown. Walker sighed out his breath. I used my thumb and finger, a gentle, steady pressure.

Bear came by, all six feet, eight inches of him. That long, platinum hair, his fuck-you to the straight world. He nodded at my hand, smiled, “Want me to get you a room?”

“Nah, it’s dim in here.”

Walker cleared his throat.

We ordered bacon cheeseburgers. BEAR on Broadway specializes in simple dishes prepared with care. Using the best available ingredients. Local whenever possible.

I could use my right hand to eat with.

I glanced at my conflicted boy. Pink ear tips. He was excited by my physical ministrations, I got that. Nervous at the same time. One, it was me. Two it was here. Not too bothered though. He reached down and made some sort of underwear adjustment.

I said, “Good.”

We were there, in our favorite corner booth for only 45 minutes or so. My hand never left its duty station. Let your fingers do the walking, now I understand that old slogan. I wonder if Yellow Pages ever had. A sort of Willie and the Hand Jive thing.

As we sipped our cognacs, another one-handed activity, I could tell Walker wasn’t quite there. Not a problem, I said, “C’mere.” He bent his head down and I swirled my tongue in his ear. Whispered, “Cum for me, babyboy, cum for me.”

He’s always been fairly obedient, I’ve been lucky that way.

On the way home, I patted his lap, “What will you tell Pilar?”

“The truth. That’s what she ... that’s what I do.”

“Good boy.”

Blink. Back to San Mateo. Thankfully, Bobsy wasn’t discussing naked mole-rats.

He said, “Nelson-Eamons is sealed up tighter than ever. The media can’t get any kind of response out of them.”

Bunny patted his hand. Concerned because he was concerned.

I said, “Hear anything from Anderson Mothwitz?”

“Nope. I can’t believe she called you.”

Bunny said, “What do you think it meant, that call?”

“I’m puzzled. It seems stupid. I mean, I’m nowhere close to learning anything. A call like that just makes me more curious. Makes me wonder if there really is something to hide.”

Bobsy said, “There might be. But I told you from the first, that it was a big maybe.”

“I know. But if Nelson-Eamons is involved. Your patent from Hayes-Harris. And now Anderson Mothwitz ... well that’s too many people to keep a secret.”

Bunny said, “It’s like the Kennedy assassination. If there’s a cover-up, there would have to be thousands of people keeping secrets all these years.”

I sighed, “Bobsy, how many names of Nelson employees can you get me?”

I was back, mentally, focused on the case. But those boiled hot dogs had triggered a memory so faint, I was surprised I could recall it. I must have been 6 or 7 when my mother took me to visit a cousin of hers.

Even that young, I understood the house was small, dreary, shabby. Her cousin had served us boiled hot dogs, the first time I’d ever had one. A slice of white bread wrapped around it. On the ride home, Mom turned to me, strapped in the back and said, “Claire gave us what she could afford. What she knew how to do.”

Daddy, behind the wheel, nodded.

Half Nelson: Lab mice who drink doxycycline live longer. Young boys?

I guess it’s because I’ve done so many revenge porn rescues that I take an inordinate amount of pride in never having been in a sex tape. Unlike a few of my girlfriends.

Oh, I was around the scene a few times. But always off-camera. I even pitched in as a fluffer once in a while. Yes, all of us little strumpets knew what a porn fluffer was. Big deal.

Hey, when your boobs start coming in, you think your brain is growing too. If you even think about it. Which I hadn’t.

Daddy, Homicide Captain Dave Jennings, bought a blood pressure monitor. He checks, and keeps a record for his doctor, every Sunday morning. “Just another tool, Winter, just another tool.”

Vanessa asked Walker, “Lamb, when you suck yourself off ... what position is it?”

I sat forward; there was a second curious girl at our kitchen table.

Walker, ears pink, not red, gathered himself. “I sit on the floor, you know, crosslegged.” Vanessa and I nodded. He shrugged, “Then I just bend down.”

“I see.”

I could see, on my son’s face, embarrassment wrestling with pride. “But sometimes Pilar ... well, I lie on my back and ... you know ... roll my knees back by my shoulders.”

Vanessa and I paused, forming mental pictures. She said, “Which do you prefer?”

Ears still pink, but pride was winning out, “Pilar ... well, when I lie back.”

Vanessa, a thoughtful look on her face, “Why is that baby ... oh wait, you can get more in your mouth?”

A genuine smile, “Over three inches.”

Vanessa held out her arms, gave him a loving hug. Then I did, feeling an irrational pride. Well, I am his mother.

Then, spontaneously, we formed into the Walker Sandwich. Vanessa in front this time, Walker in the middle, me from behind. Group hug.

“Desiring to lower her standard They watch every move that she makes They long to find fault with her teachings But really they find no mistake.”

I talked over the Bobsy case with Daddy, something I rarely did. My work was usually so trivial in comparison to his. Plus I like being my own independent girl.

But I was stymied. So little progress I felt more ignorant than when I’d begun.

Daddy listened carefully as he always does. He said, “Tough one. Especially for an outsider. But it always boils down to people. Sometimes you just have to follow the players, hope to spot an anomaly.”

He thought some more, “Hunters say to get as close as you can. Then get closer.”

Well, Bobsy had given me a few names. Names of people, over 90% males, who were rumored to work at Nelson-Eamons. Bobsy said, “It’s not definite, but I’m pretty sure most of them are there.”

Nelson doesn’t look like a secretive company. They have a website and the principals are listed. Even a public mission statement:

“Nelson-Eamons is a research and development company whose mission is to relieve human suffering, eliminate diseases relating to aging.”

This reads not only as innocent, but laudable.

But the public face is one thing. The rumors ... well, rumors are just rumors. Gossip flourishes everywhere.

A while back, Time Magazine did a cover story, “Google vs. Death.” Some heavy hitters are at their subsidiary, Calico, including the Board Chair at Apple.

So like Calico, Nelson-Eamons is visible, yet not so much.

They both have public partnerships with a couple of universities, with Big Pharma, a genealogical data company. Both are non-communicative on substance. On details. They merely refer people to their bare-bones websites.

Okay Apple is also notoriously tightlipped. But Apple isn’t working on the God Pill. Well maybe they are. They could be. Fuck. Calico could be too. Its sister company, also under the Alphabet banner, Verily, focuses on diseases. Calico, extending life. Perhaps forever.