Chapter 2

The Oasis Wellbeing Center is a vast complex in the area around East 63rd and Troost. The neighborhood was solidly middle class in the 60s, then went downhill for a while. It has been teetering back and forth, but Oasis will definitely upscale the purlieu, the nabe.

The cornerstone of the healthcare development was the newest hospital in the area -- the Oasis Community Hospital. State of the art; however they all say that, don’t they? But if the press releases were to be believed, there was nothing like it in the state of Missouri. Kansas? Fuck Kansas, that political cesspit.

The Center itself is all new construction. Medical office buildings and dedicated facilities organized by discipline -- suites for dentists, mental health professionals, cardiologists, weight loss, exercise, smoking cessation, vision, etc. Since it was all built from scratch, not added to piecemeal, Oasis has a planned community feel to it. Signage is good, parking is easy and adequate, personnel are friendly.

Wait times are rumored to be short.

Efficient, that’s it. The Oasis Wellbeing Center is designed with customer comfort in mind. And unlike the newish Ikea in Merriam fucking Kansas, Oasis didn’t demand a street be named after it.

In a way, the Center follows many of the New Urbanism principles. Low-rise, pedestrian friendly, parking out of sight. A community for the community.

A sign of the times. Two signs.

The Kansas City Star sold not only its historic brick headquarters building but its printing plant across the street -- the Press Pavilion. Opened in 2006, mostly obsolete eleven years later.

Print is in trouble in the digital age, that’s been obvious for some time. The Star will continue publishing and move its pared-back staff into the Pavilion, which they’ll rent space from the new owner.

On top of this, the Star’s alternative paper, Ink, has gone from weekly to monthly. As has the town’s other alternative, The Pitch.

This is not sitting well with my son. Kansas City, like a lot of places, has Burger Week. Restaurants around the metro area offer $5 burgers, a considerable savings in some cases. But since converting to a monthly, the sponsoring paper, Pitch, had fewer issues to promote the annual event. Walker was fortunate not to miss the notice altogether.

But all’s well. He and Pilar plan to hit all 16 participating joints in a 7-day binge. Now how they plan to get to places like Overland Park fucking Kansas and, even further, Olathe fucking Kansas ... well Vanessa and I figure they’re resourceful enough to figure it out.

I did tell the kids, “Do the right thing. Order sides and drinks. Tip. Show your appreciation.”

They glanced at each other without comment. A look that said, ‘be nice to Winter, she’s getting up there.’ Ms. Obvious.

Walker: “The wheel is still spinning...

Pilar: “But the hamster is dead.”

Party of the year. Well, the season. Okay, the weekend. Fuck.

It’s September and the Montgomerys -- Phillip, Rebecca, and Mindy -- are returning to Kansas City for a week. Prior to Mindy’s departure for Palo Alto and her sophomore year at Stanford.

They’re throwing a backyard bash for their many friends and a few of their Mission Hills neighbors. And probably a bunch of Phillip’s business connections. Probably a tax write-off. Probably none of my business.

Phillip and Rebecca now reside in Sutton Place most of the time. He runs his New York-based hedge fund, Envoy Assets, a few blocks west of their co-op. Mindy is majoring, apparently, in boyfriends. According to her mother, who doesn’t seem stressed at the idea. Mindy’s a good gal though. She was my son’s first love, Walker will never forget her.

Even the weather seems to cooperate with people like the Montgomerys. It was a soft night, a gentle breeze sending the Chinese lanterns swaying back and forth, back and forth. Silent misters ringed the perimeter, somehow keeping the party cool. Turning down nature’s thermostat.

Caterers -- teenage girls in white blouses and black shorts -- circulated continuously. I watched Vanessa checking out the vittles. Subtly. Rebecca winked at me. She knew Vanessa was a pro.

A live combo tinkled in the background. Barely audible background music -- Cole Porter, a Duke named Ellington, Brubeck, Garner ... light, easy, refreshing.

Daddy and my mother. He had, mostly, recovered from his shooting wound. Slimmer now than ever. And determined to keep it that way. Bulldog Bannerman made an appearance. As did Mayor Tom Lynch and his two bodyguards. Never could tell when a radical might want to discuss tax abatements.

I could have been surprised to see Tony Gonzales, an upscale street hustler, but I wasn’t. Phillip Montgomery is talented enough to play in the big leagues. Financially. And street smart enough to know all kinds of characters.

Tony, moving gracefully like some fat men do, came over to hit on Vanessa and me. The fact that she’s a lesbian, that we’re married, that I rarely take a guy to bed ... none of that mattered in the least to Monsieur Gonzales.

I wasn’t the only one checking the handsome gent out. Rebecca, with amused interest. Mindy, with some calculation. Pilar ... just curious. Although I haven’t yet learned to read that little girl. Even my mother glanced at Tony from time to time.

Vanessa and I helped ourselves, for the third time, to salty country ham on soft, heated, buttermilk biscuits. She drifted over to a huge galvanized tub and brought us back two frosty bottles of Beck’s Dark. I enjoyed a couple of swallows and Tony slipped my bottle into his fist and finished it in one long swallow. Vanessa grinned at me and fetched two more.

It was a lovely setting, the lights soft, filtered by different colored diaphanous paper shades. Fireflies reminded us we were, indeed, outside. No mosquitoes though, they would be unacceptable to people like the Montgomerys. Purposely left off the guest list.

Mindy whispered something in Pilar’s ear. The little girl looked around and moved a few steps away from a threesome who were laughing at something. Pilar held her palms three or four inches apart. Both girls giggled.

Vanessa winked at me. Tony said, “What?”

I said, “Inside joke. Girls only, sorry.”

I’m not sure what it says about me that I knew exactly what Mindy had whispered to Pilar. How much of his cock can my son get in his mouth when he sucks himself off? The fact that I felt a small frisson of pleasure at the answer may well disqualify me from the PTA Distinguished Service Award. Oh well, there’s always next year. Maybe Honorable Mention. Sure.

When Pilar lowered her hands, Mindy grinned and gave her a low five. Two girls, openly pleased with Walker’s prowess. Well, 1%.

Vanessa and I separated, working the room. The lawn. She’s better at it than I am, but I’m learning. Introduced myself to Mission Hills neighbors that I hadn’t met. Asked about their lives, made small talk. Drank wine. Smiled when another white-bloused girl approached with another tray. Boiled shrimp. Veggie kebobs. Spicy crab cakes. Wine.

Walker, tall, handsome, a little more confidence this year, leaned back against a thick tree. Of course the Montgomerys would have thick, healthy trees. He was wearing a black linen jacket, fashionably wrinkled, white Bermuda shorts, black, scuffed loafers, no socks.

I am so fucking proud of him.

Vanessa had her right arm hooked through his left, her boob pressed, not accidentally, against him. Pilar and Mindy joined Vanessa in looking up into his unlined, smiling face.

Mindy, the imp in her fully on display, must have asked Pilar the same question again. The little girl didn’t glance around for privacy this time, just held her palms apart. Right in front of Walker’s zipper.

I wasn’t close enough to judge Walker’s blush-degree. Probably pink, not red.

Pilar’s mother, Lina Paloma, drifted over to them. Curious, I headed in that direction. Ignored a parting butt-pat from Handsome Tony. As I reached Walker’s tree, I heard Mindy ask Pilar, “You have him swallow?”

“Duh.”

Lina, smiling, a little tipsy, said, “I’d like to see that.”

Vanessa said, “Come by anytime. Winter green-lighted it.”

“I will, thank you.”

I took Walker’s other arm, left nipple activated. Vanessa and I had him boobed in. I smiled up at my son. Full red. Understandable. Five people, five female people, were casually, openly, discussing the fact that he could suck his own cock.

Mindy smiled at Lina, “Only 1% of guys can do it.”

“I’ve never seen it. Never even heard of it until Pilar...”

“It’s amazing, Lina. You should see how soft his eyes get when he ... you know.”

Emile Chanson, Bulldog’s driver, mysterious bodyguard of indeterminate background, gave me a look. I unhooked from Walker’s arm, leaving him at the tender mercies of Vanessa, Lina, Mindy and Pilar.

Emile nodded, he’s not the friendliest partygoer, and said, “Tomorrow, 10:15.”

That tomorrow is Sunday ... well, never mind. When Bulldog beckons, Winter shows up for duty. On time. With a smart salute.

Vanessa and I hustled back from Abilene fucking Kansas. How fucked up is the politics in Kansas? I know people who live just across the state line in Johnson County. They are Democrats who changed their party affiliation so they could vote in the 2016 Republican primary.

They voted for moderate, middle of the road, Republicans. Attempting to beat back candidates on the radical right. And, amazingly, it worked in a few cases. A fuck-you to Governor Sam Brownback.

But Vanessa and I weren’t discussing politics. She put the top back up; our return trip no longer felt convertible-worthy. Bear was enraged. Someone was attempting to blackmail the love of his life, Barry Hopkins.

Barry was terrified.

Their moods reflect their physical stature. Bear, at 6’ 8”, weighs in at 315 pounds. Barry is slender. Willowy. Quiet, watchful. His Eastern Kentucky twang unchanged by all these years in the Midwest.

Barry is a heavily-recruited audiologist. Oasis had lured him away from the KU Med Center three months earlier. More money, better benefits. But what sold Barry was the overall healthcare philosophy that Oasis had. Everyone should be covered. And coverage should include everything. Everything for everyone.

Barry enjoyed a smooth transition into his new job. Until this morning. While at home fixing a Sunday omelet, Barry received a hand-delivered manila envelope, 8 1/2 x 11. It contained a single sheet. Along with instructions.

The sheet detailed the private medical and financial details of one of his Oasis patients, Elizabeth Barrett. Her Oasis health summary. Her income, SSN, contact info, even her PIN.

The instructions told Barry to sit on a specific east-facing bench in Loose Park at 10 that night. To bring $5,000 in $20 bills. To tell no one. To bring his cell phone. The instructions included the serial number of said cell.

Someone was in Barry’s life. Deeply.

“Luck is the residue of ... um, good luck?” I’m not sure I nailed the quote, but you get the idea, right? Right?

I’m ruminating on the philosophy of fortune because I’d just been sharing an early Walker story with Vanessa and Pilar. Both enjoy hearing about his childhood days. And I enjoy bragging so there you go.

This particular memory came up because Pilar is starting to attract some local attention in the small world of Kansas City fashion models. My former modeling agent, and Walker’s current one, Nan Wilkerson joined us for tacos. And, later, some herb.

She drew me aside to ask whether I’d allow her to put together a portfolio for Pilar. “Sure, but I’ll have to check with her mother.” Off we went. Turns out the little girl has a face that is camera-friendly. That’s not true of all pretty girls.

Pilar doesn’t earn that much, this is Kansas City, but she’s in some demand for companies targeting the growing Latino community. Latina.

At dinner Nan helped herself to her fifth and sixth tacos. I’d already had the three that I allow myself. Discipline in all things. She took a long swig from a bottle of Negra Modela and asked me if I’d ever told Walker about his hidden admirer.

Mark Jacobs. Assistant Creative Director at a marketing agency that occasionally used Walker to model different outfits. Nan had suspected, and we later confirmed, that he had hidden video cameras in the boys’ dressing room.

This is what good people do. Nan let me brag. She knew how satisfactory my busting Mark had been to me. So, the taco-table paying attention, I began my little tale. In the excitement, someone slipped a couple more tacos on my plate. Probably Hobo.

I don’t think I’m particularly lucky or unlucky. Almost everyone has some of both and it seems to even out for me. Over the long run. Not that my run has run its course.

I knew that Jacobs was shooting that day’s commercial on the 12th Street Viaduct. A large concrete bridge that links downtown KC to the stockyards. It was a sunny summer day, but the bridge was covered with fake snow. Winter wardrobes.

Walker gave me a brief fist bump before he hopped out of my pickup. No maternal displays of affection allowed in public, thank you very much. I waved at Jacobs then kept driving to my office parking lot.