Chapter 5

My informal group -- the Winter Irregulars -- expanded. By one. Improbably, she’s now the youngest of my freelancers. Highly recommended by the former title holder, Buster Fagin. At 12 he’s four years older than his newest recruit, a chubby redhead named Betty Jane (“Call me BJ”) Kowalski.

Since I’m so concerned with Age of Consent laws, how about Child Labor laws?

I can explain, Officer. She doesn’t actually work for me; I’m just a one-woman outfit. Sure I slip them a few bucks from time to time ... fuck.

Deny, deny, deny.

Buster brought BJ into play last August. School was out for the summer and I’d tasked him and his bicycle with following a garbage truck. Yes, garbage truck. A Raytown attorney had called me in. I’d been recommended by Bulldog Bannerman’s driver / bodyguard, Emile Chanson.

So, the attorney was immediately suspect to me. Emile has a murky background and any friend of his...

But my crack research firm, Sullivan & Sullivan, hadn’t uncovered any exceptional dirt on Herman Pettibone, Esq. So, Winter Jennings, off to Raytown, off to work. Hi ho, hi ho.

In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I’ll refrain from describing Herman other than to say bad combover, jiggly potbelly. Nicotine stained teeth. And fingers. Dandruff.

He toils away in a three-attorney office with a receptionist and three other women. Secretaries? Paras? Pussy? Never came up.

He handed me a file. “QuickStop. Gas station, mini grocery, fast food. Their main competition is across the street. Dempsey’s. Same setup. Only one of them’s gonna make it.”

“Oh.”

“Dempsey’s ... it’s like they got a mole inside QS. Except they couldn’t. QS is all family -- mother, son, cousins. They swear there’s no leak. But Dempsey’s is getting inside info. Somehow. When QS plans a sale on ... something, anything, Dempsey’s beats them to it. A day or two earlier. Sales prices just a little lower.”

“Odd.” I’m working on being less garrulous, less chatty. I might seem more intelligent. Or could maybe pass for it. Plus, I listen better when my yap is shut.

I paid a visit to Dempsey’s first. The place is not related to the Dempsey’s burger joint in Westport. Just one of those many unimportant coincidences that crop up in every case. In life too, I guess.

Like QuickStop Dempsey’s was just off 63rd, a main east-west drag. There were around 20 gas pumps, about a third of them currently dispensing fossil fuel to a handful of customers.

The store windows were plastered with signs, Bud Lite -- 24 cans $18.99. Hot Dogs -- two for $2.49.

Inside, three cash registers were servicing eight customers. It was a warm afternoon and soda and beer were selling like ... well, soda and beer. In the interest of research, I bought two hot dogs. I knew the drill -- pull out a plastic container from the drawer beneath the grill, open it, open the bun, use tongs to insert hot dog. Except I made a last second executive decision and went with country sausage instead. Good choice.

I used my rearview mirror to wipe mustard reminders from my lips and then drove across the street to QuickStop. A boy in his early 20s was standing on tiptoes, taping up the same Bud Lite sign.

QS had about the same number of cars, a similar number of customers. I’d wait until another day to do the country sausage comparison testing. But I already had an idea of what was going on in the Gas Station War.

Not bad for my first day on the job. If it turns out that I’m right, of course.

In mid-2017 Washington DC is as dysfunctional as it’s ever been. In my lifetime anyway. A cantankerous Congress -- House and Senate -- can’t seem to agree on anything.

I don’t know who’s right, but I do know who’s wrong -- both sides. All sides. Congress, America despises you. Well, moderate America does. No, scratch ‘moderate’. Sapient America.

It’s against this backdrop, including a national healthcare debate, that Oasis migrated from Helsinki to Kansas City.

The Oasis Challenge, the Oasis healthcare program in general, continued to dominate conversations all over the metro area.

On the one hand, outrage. Conservative radio, blogs, television, print ... all assailed the company, the plan, the concept of single-source coverage. It was an obviously coordinated attack, but disjointed at the same time.

It was awkward for the right to attack a private company that was inviting the free market to dictate the outcome.

Nevertheless, Missouri politicians attacked the ‘foreign intrusion into the American way of life.’ Republicans were unanimous in their opposition and were joined by several Independents and a handful of Democrats.

It was territory yet unmapped and the easiest, safest political road seemed to be open hostility to something new, something unproved. A sort of Jefferson City agnosia, a governmental inability to recognize, to interpret.

A stance that became increasingly dicey as the public ignored the warnings and flocked to Oasis to sign up. The costs, as well as the extensive coverage, were too good to ignore.

Established insurance companies were the loudest anti-Oasis voices. Internally they ran algorithm after algorithm and simply could not find a formula that made sense. That, in other words, delivered the profit margins they were used to. And that their stakeholders demanded.

Then Oasis, with DJ Winston front and center, announced that they had signed up their hundred thousandth client two and a half months earlier than their stated projections. Yes, 100,000.

Gertie Oppenheimer scoffed, “Typical marketing ploy. Lowball the public expectations. Over-deliver. Makes the demand seem higher, makes the program seem better.”

Ruse or not, DJ Winston announced a Celebration Rally in front of Union Station. Local bands, free burgers and hot dogs, live television coverage. He promised, “My trademark speech -- short and sweet.”

The Missouri House of Representatives formed a Healthcare Advisory Committee to look into Oasis.

Cathy Austin was home from Michigan for the summer and took over running the Wrigley from her father. Once he’d finished the major remodeling and had everything up and running, he returned, not quite full time, to his law practice.

I hope the hotel, the restaurant, the ‘hidden’ speakeasy, are profitable for him. But it never hurts to have another source of income. ‘Ms. Experience’ reporting for duty.

So Cathy was behind the check-in counter when the third permanent Wrigley resident arrived. She didn’t know that he would become permanent, that sort of thing seems to sort of evolve over time.

The first permanents were the imperial Duchess, shy little Mr. Maypole. They hadn’t been staying here. Then they were. Then they never left.

Mr. Reginald Rowbottom, in his mid-30s, after he decided he liked it here, asked about long term rates. The rent for the Wrigley Hotel rooms varies depending on size, suites were more expensive of course. Location -- floor and view. And mainly on Cathy’s mood.

She liked the dapper Mr. Rowbottom who usually sported a three-piece suit with a jaunty regimental tie. Cathy smiled, “$500 a week, $1500 a month.”

“Delighted.”

Mr. Rowbottom differed from the other two permanents in a couple of ways. He paid the rack rate, always on time. And he stopped wearing clothes.

Cathy dubbed him Nature Boy and that stuck.

Vanessa and I took Walker and Pilar to a drive-in movie. “Dunkirk”. But more than the film, it was a mini adventure, a fun family outing. We packed our own dinner, although the snack bar hot dogs -- Nathan’s -- are pretty decent.

Vanessa made deli sandwiches -- country ham and extra sharp cheddar on rye with spicy mustard. Some of Walker’s homemade chips. Plenty of frosty bottles of Pilsner Urquell on ice in our cooler. I’d drink only one, maybe two. Designated driver.

The kids sat in back of my red F-150, Vanessa rode shotgun of course. It’s hot in late July and doesn’t get dark until almost 9. Walker and Pilar each wore long, white tees and flip-flops. I didn’t check, but I had the sense they were nude underneath.

Vanessa and I were just as casual -- each of us wore light sun dresses -- green for her, blue for me. I know she didn’t pull on any panties -- I watched. Because I’m such an independent thinker, I snuggled into a white thong. Giggling, she reached under my dress and tugged it down; I didn’t fight her.

We devoured the ham and cheese before the movie even started. About an hour into “Dunkirk” the kids made a bathroom run then resettled into the back compartment. I caught movement in the rearview -- Pilar was helping my son out of his tee.

I moved the mirror so Vanessa could see. She smiled and adjusted it to give the kids privacy. Then Pilar casually tossed both tees into my lap -- so much for discretion. Walker whispered something and Pilar giggled. I double checked that the doors were locked.

My attention turned back to the screen. Or I tried to make it do so. But with the slight, moist sounds coming from Pilar ... well the back seat was a distraction. Vanessa had that same small smile on her face. She was far more comfortable with Pilar’s sexuality than I was.

After 10 minutes or so, Walker let out that soft moan / sigh / happy sound that just melts me. Vanessa winked at me and put her hand on my thigh. A few seconds later after, presumably, swallowing Pilar whispered, “Good boy.”

Then the two kids shifted around and it was Pilar’s turn to sigh. I resisted the temptation to turn around. Not sure why, I knew, absolutely knew, my son’s head was between her thighs. Which had nothing to do with the slight moistness I felt between mine.

I was looking at the screen, but no longer hearing the dialogue as Vanessa’s palm slid in a northerly direction. She leaned in and kissed me. Deeply. I wasn’t the least bit worried about Walker and Pilar -- they’d seen Vanessa and me necking several times. Not, admittedly, with Vanessa’s finger on my clit.

I closed my eyes, the movie forgotten. There are two people who can work some very special magic with my pussy. My ex, Richie, and my current, Vanessa. She had my sundress up around my waist; I may have raised my butt in a collaborative manner. She soon had me thrusting up to meet her hand. Familiar territory for each of us. Familiar and treasured.

My subconscious picked up on Pilar’s ... engagement. Her breath caught and then she let out a series of rolling moans. Then I heard myself gasp as Vanessa did what Vanessa does so admirably.

Later, sipping front seat beers, Vanessa and I heard Pilar whisper, “Your turn again, big guy.”

I do like the way that little girl takes care of my little boy.

Jessie Sullivan of Sullivan & Sullivan Research called me. “Better come by, Winter.” She paused. “It’s tricky.”

Jessie and her twin brother Jesse, live in a small two-bedroom bungalow in Waldo. A pleasant neighborhood with a lot of small bungalows. The main drag, Wornal, is full of bars and is quite lively at night. But the residential areas east and west of Wornal are, for the most part, quiet.

Since one of the Sullivan’s two bedrooms is an office, there is considerable speculation about the after-dark nature of the siblings’ life style. I’m not one of the speculators, it’s the Sullivan’s business, not mine. Besides, Walker.

Barry Hopkins had given them his password codes to the Oasis site. His section of it anyway. The IT department had been diligent in compartmentalizing their individual healthcare providers. Or, compartmentalizing their individual sections of the Oasis website.

The blackmailer, Mr. Laser, who had hacked Barry’s site wouldn’t necessarily be able to migrate to other places in the Oasis system. Maybe.

Jessie led me back to the office. Jesse, polite as usual, stood. Smiled, checked out my boobs, offered his hand. The diminutive redheads were more solemn than usual, not an optimistic sign.

Jessie said, “Barry’s department is completely compromised.” No surprise, we’d assumed that.

She said, “They gained access through the web cam in the receptionist’s station. Then they could analyze the hard drive and install a Remote Access Trojan.”

“What the fuck is that?”

Jesse took up the narrative, admiration in his voice despite the invasion of our client. My friend. “The Trojan takes over the entire system. It uses AI to modify the payload.”

I looked blank.

Jessie said, “They have stealth access to desktops, laptops, security feeds. Even a baby monitor if Barry had one.”

Jesse said, “If it were linked to Wi-Fi.”

Jessie nodded, “This is premium grade spyware, Winter.”

On the drive back to my office I was feeling ... what? Non compos mentis. Which, in the scholarly environs of the medical community, is known as batshit crazy. Although, come to think of it, why do we malign bats? And their guano? Don’t bats devour gnats, mosquitos, et alia?

Barry is in a predicament -- he didn’t notify the Oasis Security Department about the digital breach. He was definitely not in HIPAA compliance. But Barry’s difficulty, his potential legal jeopardy, pales compared with what Oasis is facing.