Chapter 1

I was admiring my toes. Well, actually, my ... everything. I enjoyed the horizontal vista as I gazed past my barely-bikinied boobs, flat tummy, tanned legs. That’s when I reached my Technicolor toes. Toenails.

Vanessa and I were lazing on the roof deck of the Wrigley Hotel watching a world-class athlete at the top of his game. Walker and Pilar, about 40 feet apart, were tossing a Frisbee back and forth to the delight of Hobo.

The young Border Collie crouched beside Pilar, breathing steadily, ready to propel himself the second she wrist-flicked it toward Walker. Hobo was focused intently forward, but watched that orange disc out of the corner of his eye.

Pilar faked a toss and Hobo lunged an inch, then held himself in check. The kids can no longer fool him with that trick.

Then Pilar sailed the Frisbee in a high looping arc and Hobo easily caught up, slowed down, tracked it unerringly. Head held high, a confident stride. Magnificent sight. As the disc gently descended, Hobo flexed his heavily muscled back legs and soared into flight. A stray gust of wind pushed the Frisbee laterally toward the Main Street side of the building and Hobo made an instinctive midair correction. He turned his body, mostly his head, to the right and nabbed the target.

He landed gracefully and, tail wagging, pranced over to Walker and laid the Frisbee at his feet. Hobo looked up, grinning that unmistakable dog grin and gave a short bark. Let’s go.

American politics, today: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.

“Do you like your life?”

Oh my.

Vanessa and I were gazing at one of the most intensely handsome men I’d ever seen.

We were sitting, along with 1800 others, in the Muriel Kauffman Theater. It’s located in, arguably, Kansas City’s most celebrated architectural achievement -- the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts. Reminds some people of the iconic Sydney Opera House.

Goethe described architecture as ‘frozen music’ and, boy does that apply to the exterior of the Kauffman Center. But inside...

Vanessa and I, along with everyone else, were listening raptly to Donald Jefferson (DJ) Winston, CEO of the Oasis Wellbeing Center. New to KC and, literally, the talk of the town.

DJ looked like a CEO from central casting. Tall, whippet thin, wide shoulders. Handsome and blonde. His black blazer was so artfully draped that I knew it hadn’t come from any store that we mere mortals shop in.

Standing solo on the stage, DJ smiled that movie star smile, a megawatt one for sure. And that closeup image was projected on the two jumbo screens that flanked him on the stage. The camera loved him. Whoever said life is fair?

He didn’t look flawless; he was beautiful with ... character. Deep smile lines around a mouth that smiled a lot. Happy crinkles around his eyes. A face that exuded good will. And, I chose to believe, fun.

“Do you like your life? This is not a rhetorical question. At Oasis our mission is to help you live longer, be more vital, stay healthier.” He winked, “And we plan to make money doing it.”

DJ is the face of the Oasis Wellbeing Center. Based in Helsinki, it is the quasi-government healthcare provider / insurance carrier / kindly grandparent to Finland’s population.

Wildly successful, wildly popular. Everything the American right wing despises because of direct, and aggressive, government participation. And everything the left desires because of the single-supplier system designed to cover the most people possible.

The Finnish Invasion, as Fox labeled it, chose Kansas City, Missouri as its test market. Just as Google Fiber had launched here in 2012. The greater metro area is around 2,000,000 and Kansas City is fairly average, fairly representative. In a number of ways -- income, education, employment, health insurance.

So. Oasis and Kansas City.

And DJ Winston.

There are four of us:

> Vanessa Henderson. My love.

> Walker Jennings. My son.

> Pilar Paloma. Walker’s little girlfriend.

> Winter Jennings. That’s me.

We live in the gloriously restored Wrigley Hotel in Kansas City’s artsy Crossroads district. Our fifth floor loft -- the entire fifth floor -- isn’t part of the hotel operation. Just a private residence for the four of us. Five, I shouldn’t forget Hobo.

There are other players, of course.

Daddy, retired homicide detective Dave Jennings.

Lina Paloma, Pilar’s mother.

Skip Taylor -- Bear. Vanessa’s best friend, my best friend.

Barry Hopkins -- Bear had followed him from Eastern Kentucky to Kansas City. True love.

Bulldog Bannerman, city fixer.

But Vanessa, Walker, Pilar and I are the core, the central unit. The family. And Hobo.

DJ Winston spoke calmly, openly, to the audience. Not trying to convince us of anything. He wasn’t speaking like an Oasis pitchman; he was just laying out the facts as he saw them. Inviting us to evaluate Oasis. Its healthcare program. Himself.

“In Scandinavia, in Europe, in almost all developed nations, healthcare and education are essential rights. They believe universal access is one of the keys to happiness.”

Some audience mumblings, not a lot.

“Here in the United States the healthcare system is broken. Fractured. Almost everyone agrees on that. We spend more than enough money to have the best care in the world. But our country is too polarized, too partisan.”

No argument from anyone in the Muriel Kauffman Theater.

“At Oasis, here in Kansas City, we think we can work with Republicans, Democrats, Independents, non-voters, on healthcare. Our track record is good -- excellent -- in Finland.”

He smiled that matinée idol smile, “Of course Finland’s a small country, not even six million people. But the bedrock principles that made the Oasis system work there, apply here as well.”

Then with the charm that is his trademark, DJ smiled even more widely, “Oasis will bring our healthcare system to America AND make a profit as we transform the landscape in Kansas City.”

That -- earning a profit -- was one of their marketing planks. Oasis would do good. But make money while doing good. Nothing that’s Ivory Tower, no fairy-dust ... just basic, old-fashioned American business principles.

Everyone in the audience, almost 2,000 of us, had been given a business card with the Oasis contact information.

DJ said, “If you’re a Missouri resident, take the Oasis Challenge. Go to our website and fill in the insurance form. It’s simple, only two questions: your gender -- male, female, other. And your birthdate. That’s it.”

There were gasps from the audience. Stirring. Muted whispering. That’s it? Age and gender?

“We don’t need to know about the state of your health. Preexisting conditions. With enough people signed up, we’ll generate more than enough revenue to cover everyone.”

DJ flashed that marvelous smile again, “And it’s anonymous, we don’t record any information. We’ll process your gender and age data and give you a personalized snapshot of what your Oasis coverage would be.

“The costs, of course.

“What’s covered. Which you’ll find is just about everything -- medical, dental, vision, hearing. Plus consultations with dietitians, psychologists, yoga instructors, physical therapists, smoking-cessation specialists, naturopathic practitioners -- anyone and everyone connected with your physical and mental well-being.”

He’d been speaking for under 10 minutes and was already wrapping up. “Then compare the Oasis plan with your own insurance coverage. You’ll be impressed.”

He stepped away from the podium, “Thank you for coming. I’ll be here to answer any questions you have.”

There was applause, then a swell of people swarming toward the stage. Where DJ Winston sat, legs dangling over the edge, like Willie Nelson on a break.

After seeing DJ Winston in person, it was obvious to me that some scholarly research was appropriate. Fortunately, Google Images covered the gentleman-executive extensively.

Unfortunately, he was married. A former Miss Finland. Two kids.

Fuck.

DJ was born in New York City. Also a citizen of Finland. Yep, someone like Mr. Winston would have dual citizenship. Naturally.

I may look into that myself. I hear Finland is friendly.

Don’t mistake Pilar Paloma’s quietude for solemnity. She’s a merry little girl despite everything she’s been through. She was sitting at our kitchen table with Vanessa and me. Walker squirmed in his chair. Just a little, but Pilar put her hand on his knee, gentling him down.

She looked at Vanessa, then me. “Mama would like to see Walker suck himself off.” Pausing to be precise, “Of course only if you and Vanessa approve.”

Ah, yes. Autofellatio. Walker’s previous girlfriend, his first ever, Mindy Montgomery, had become fascinated with the subject. And quite proud of Walker, “Only 1% of guys can do it.” Wikipedia.

Vanessa and I looked at Walker. Ears pink, but not red like when he’s acutely embarrassed. Good.

Vanessa winked at me. My call. As it should be.

I asked Pilar, “Does Matt know about this?” Matt Whitney, her new stepfather.

Pilar was aghast, “God no. This is family, not ... not Matt.”

I smiled at the little girl who was now patting Walker’s knee. Silently reminding him to stay calm. I would say yes. Such a silly little request. Plus my son has had a minor crush on Lina Paloma for months. He’s sharp enough to realize it will remain an unrequited longing, but it should give him a little thrill-bump to be in such an intimate situation with the 30-year old woman.

He would be not only nude, but sexual. Pilar, and Mindy before her, had confirmed that, yes, Walker does cum in his own mouth. Vanessa must have been thinking along similar lines, “Don’t get too excited, lamb. Take your time with Lina; there’s no business like show business.”

Pilar grinned at him, “See.”

He looked at me, “It’s okay then?”

“Yes. On one condition.”

“What?”

“That you want to. Really want to.”

Pilar started to answer for him, then didn’t.

Walker knows me well enough to understand I expected him to say the words. He turned a little pinker, and his response was mostly whispered but he got it out, “I do want to. I want Lina to see me do it.” I continued looking steadily at him. He gathered himself, “I want her to watch me suck myself off.”

There.

Vanessa smiled and patted his other knee, “Which position, honey?”

Pilar answered, “Both. Bending down first. Then rolling back on his shoulders.”

Vanessa’s grin broadened, “So he can get more into his mouth.”

Pilar nodded, as much pride in her voice as there had been in Mindy’s, “Over three inches, almost four.” She beamed, “I haven’t told Mama. That’ll be a surprise.”

It wouldn’t have been that long ago when Walker would have been absolutely mortified with three people, three female people, sitting around talking about his sucking his own cock. Not wanting my own contributions to lag, I asked Pilar, “What about when he cums?”

No hesitation, she’d thought this through as she usually does, “He won’t swallow. Not until he shows Mama.”

Vanessa nodded, “Good.”

Pilar said, “And it’ll be his first cum of the day.”

Vanessa and I smiled approvingly. I said, “Volume.” Walker looked at me, looked away, looked back. Smiled. Some pride there too.

The Oasis interest in the United States healthcare market was, depending on your politics, “A foreign intrusion into the very heart of democracy.” Or, “Finally, a fiscally sensible approach to providing quality coverage for everyone.”

In Finland, Oasis was a strange amalgam -- a private company subsidized by the Finnish government to deliver the best possible healthcare to its five and a half million citizens.

Sort of like if DC authorized, and subsidized, Blue Cross to run Medicare and Medicaid. And part of Social Security.

Oasis, in Finland, was given an unfair advantage -- that government contribution -- over every other company in its field. And five and a half million people seem just fine with that. In contrast, not many US residents are pleased with the status quo here.

Of course there are a number of factors in play. Such as it’s far easier to care for a few million folks than more than 300 million. Especially with the Finnish population being so homogeneous.

Nevertheless, DJ Winston. The face of Oasis. The voice of Oasis. The CEO and number one champion. And good at his job.

In the Muriel Kauffman Theater Vanessa and I listened as DJ Winston patiently answered question after question from the remaining audience members. What kept it from being tedious was DJ had retained his lapel mic and repeated each question before answering it. So everyone could follow the give and take.

As we edged closer to the arrestingly handsome gentleman, Vanessa murmured, “I’d do him.”

Well, no. Not only is she a lesbian, but a gold star lesbian. Never been with a man. But I understood what she was saying ... looks, charisma, intelligence, charm. Quite a package.

I’d do him.

Well, yes.

Pilar: “If you’re not at the table...”

Walker: “You’re probably on the menu.”

For some reason, who knows why, Walker and Pilar started dropping aphorisms into their conversations. Sometimes they morph into cornball jokes. Mostly though, pithy observations. I learned later that Walker had been studying Oscar Wilde in one of his classes.

Last Tuesday Vanessa and I were in my Genessee Street office, meeting with our financial advisor, more of a money dictator really, Gertie Oppenheimer. Retired from Chase, retired from New York.

Gertie was fidgeting, time for her to take a smoke break. She left for her office, down a couple of floors in the refurbished Livestock Exchange Building. She has an imperious personality, but even she wouldn’t try to smoke in my office. That the building was smoke-free ... of course that didn’t bother her, not downstairs.

Vanessa and I reviewed the financial summaries Gertie had given us. Well, Vanessa reviewed them, I reviewed Vanessa.

Her sheer beauty astonishes me still. Those strong Slavic features, generous mouth. Her eyes grow more golden when we’re in each other’s arms. At 5’ 10” she strides with the grace of a panther.

Vanessa said, “We’re doing okay.”

And we were. My income is down, the $1500 a day gig in Silicon Valley is over, but the cash flow I still generate is fairly steady. Mostly insurance cases these days. And I’m starting to field calls from lawyers who occasionally find themselves in need of a private investigator.

Later, lunch at the Unicorn Club, Tanqueray on the rocks for Gertie. She spoke to the heart of why she’d called the meeting. “You girls are going to Africa. Sub-Saharan. Well, your money is.”

Vanessa and I exchanged a glance. Euforia, her micro-regional Italian restaurant in Brookside is now profitable, but we still have a ton of startup expenses to make up. The restaurant is currently in what optimists call an investment posture.

On the other hand, Gertie has steered us in the right direction in the past. We bought the loft upstairs from BEAR on Broadway and the rental income covers the nut. And, one day, it’ll appreciate. That’s the bet anyway.

Our investment in the Unicorn Club has turned the corner.

And, before I married Vanessa, Gertie made me some significant bank in -- and this sounds sort of, well, terrible -- housing and care for dementia patients.

So. Africa. Sub-Saharan version.

As she rolled an unlit Camel between her fingers, Gertie’s face clouded over. Uh oh. She can go on tirades. “Houston. Fucking senators. Sanctimonious cocksucking hypocrites.”

Vanessa winked at me; we both knew where this was going. Gertie’s a retired New Yorker, but she rejected part of the transplant operation. Her heart is still back there.

‘Houston’ was shorthand for Hurricane Harvey. Devastation. Years of recovery ahead.

‘Fucking senators’ translated into the two Texans who had voted against federal aid to New York and New Jersey when Sandy ravaged the East Coast.

‘Sanctimonious cocksucking hypocrites’ referred to the expectation of those same two senators for billions of dollars for Harvey relief.

Gertie was just getting warmed up, “One douchebag claimed the majority of Sandy money was pork.”

A misstatement that has been proven incorrect by countless independent sources. But falsehoods like that are commonplace in today’s toxic political world. So many lies are coming out of DC that it’s like facts and truth don’t matter to a good many Americans. Who vote.

Of course both sides are slanted. MSNBC can be just as nutso as Fox. Wrong, prejudiced, unfair, goofy.

Vanessa and I remained quiet. We certainly aren’t mugwumps, but we didn’t want our financial advisor going off on one of her lengthy tirades.

Gertie visibly gathered herself and ordered another drink. She traced her red fingernail over Uni, the unicorn logo for our private dining and drinking establishment. Specifically over his engorged cock. Which matches the horn on his forehead.

Vanessa said, “Winter designed Uni.”

Gertie grinned at me, “Well done.”

Sub-fucking-Saharan?

Back when Walker was 8, almost 9, he came across a scrapbook. It was an informal record of my modeling career. Which lasted until I was 10 and my boobs said hello. My modeling agent, Nan Wilkerson told me, “Those tits really fucked us.” It wasn’t until later that I caught the ‘us’.

But Nan came back for me. I resumed the runway strut again at 15 when I didn’t look so jailbaity.

In any case, the visuals surprised my son. Hmm, this ho-hum woman he lived with was more than just his mother.

Back then, my best friend was Peggy Rawlings. Who had seduced a quite willing Winter. Rather than the babysitter fucking the father, she selected me.

And it was Peggy’s idea that Walker should try for a modeling gig. I didn’t mind. No, more than that, I was proud, still am, of Walker’s good looks. So I called Nan Wilkerson. I hadn’t mentioned anything to Walker, so Nan was just another of his mother’s friends. Sipping wine and sharing a blunt.

Walker wasn’t a big baby at birth, thank goodness. A little under 7 1/2 pounds. But he grew quickly. Tallest in his class, taller than the next class too. My thick blonde hair, my bright baby blues. Strong chin. Cheekbones.

The growth spurts have stopped, for now anyway, and Walker has settled into his frame. Lost some adolescent awkwardness.

Nan has been in the game for three decades. She knows the local scene, has the contacts. Ad agencies, retail outlets, broadcast and cable stations, local magazines -- print and online. At 55, she has a professional eye, knows who could work on both sides of the camera. And, more importantly, who couldn’t. She doesn’t waste people’s time.

She stayed for dinner that night, pork soup from the downstairs restaurant. And more wine.

She and I passed on dessert. Watched Walker polish off his house-made egg cream fashioned from our KitchenAid ... thing that carbonates. Then Nan and I had an egg cream. Why not?

She looked at my son, “Swim trunks?”

I said, “Of course.”

We took Walker back to his bedroom and I helped him undress. He hadn’t yet been inoculated with the Privacy Demand and cheerfully tried on the three pairs that he had.

Nan nodded at my naked son, “I can work with this.”

Lies, Damned Lies and Statistics:*

The United States spends more than $9,000 per capita on health care. Far more than any other country in the world. About double what single-payer systems in some parts of the world cost.

*Mark Twain mistakenly credited Benjamin Disraeli with the phrase. Subsequently, many credited Twain.

Walker: “What’s the best part of sex with 28-year olds?”

Pilar: “There are twenty of them.”

Blackmail is a simple crime, no?

I mean the victim has to pay money to the baddie. Or do something he doesn’t want to do. The villain has something -- say a tape of the mark in flagrante delicto. Or, say, the bad guy planted some fake evidence. It could be a threat, “Pay up or your daughter will get zits.” Well, probably something worse than that.

Blackmail is old as the hills, assuming that we’re not talking about recent hummocks, made, perhaps for a new golf course.

It’s a crude, but often effective, crime. Less intrusive, usually, than kidnapping. But there’s something insidious about blackmail. One has to trust the criminal. Trust him not to reveal the secret, not to come back for another bite of the banana, not to ... act like the pernicious thug he is. Or she is.