Chapter 8

The Oasis success in Kansas City was garnering considerable national attention. And not all of it positive. In fact, much of it rabidly negative. Oasis was a foreign company. Government-affiliated, at least in Finland. It was a single-payer system in the sense that one company covered everything.

And, its pricing was demolishing established insurance companies’ rate structures.

Professional organizations took a wait-and-see approach. AARP. The AMA. Cancer, heart, dementia organizations. The present system, or lack of a coherent system, was flawed. Maybe the Oasis approach would be better.

Private companies were a mixed bag. Medical supply shops were concerned with taxes. Hospitals, with fee structures. Most of the private corporations seemed frozen in place, caught by surprise.

But rightwing money was now flowing in. PACs, bundlers, lobbyists. All vehemently anti-Oasis.

At the same time, Kansas City was drawing media teams from all over. Leftwing, right, independents ... there was an animating curiosity about this fresh approach to healthcare.

Walker slid into my F-150, kissed me on the cheek, “Thanks.” For last night.

“Any time. Well, any time that Pilar gives you the nod.”

“What’s the drill this morning?”

I explained, in outline form. Showed him Anniston’s driver’s license photo. Didn’t warn him not to stare at her, he knew this was business, he wouldn’t give away my game.

I love City Diner. Especially their breakfasts. Hearty, greasy, old school. Delish.

I went with Italian sausage, eggs over easy, cubed potatoes, biscuits. Walker, who had eaten breakfast at home matched my order, substituting chicken-fried steak for sausage.

I hadn’t recognized Anniston from her picture, but I now realized I had seen her in here before. The full-sleeve tats, which looked good on her, nudged my memory.

Walker and I sat at the counter, the stools closest to the kitchen door. I figured if she brought a device to work, and it was almost inconceivable that she wouldn’t have at least a cell, she would keep it somewhere in back.

Anniston is in her early 20s, slender with black hair. She wore tight black shorts and looked good in them. I noticed Walker noticing the same thing. She flirted easily with him. A little with me too. Subtler, but it was there.

Of course she flirted with everyone she waited on, that’s sort of the City culture.

I got lucky and unlucky.

We were late for the breakfast crowd, it was almost 11. And early for lunch.

Anniston had rung up everyone but me so she came back with her phone between her shoulder and the side of her head.

Talking to someone.

I took out my own cell and placed the tracker near my plate. Jessie had told me, “It shouldn’t make anyone suspicious, it looks like a mobile hot spot.”

I called Jessie, “It’s on.”

She was monitoring it on one of their screens, “Nothing here. How close are you?”

“Close, about three feet, maybe four.”

“Move closer, if you can.”

Still talking on my cell, I picked up the tracker with my left hand, stood and stretched. Walked away from Anniston, then back. Just pacing as I chatted. Walker, bless him, was concentrating on his chicken-fried steak.

I strode within a couple of feet of my target and smiled vaguely at Anniston. Just a girl talking on her phone. She smiled back, not so vaguely. Hmm.

Jessie gave me a running report which consisted of “Nothing here.”

Fuck.

Jessie said, “Sorry, Winter. Plan B?”

“I’ll try.”

There’s a lovely Irish saying, “He fell to drink.”

My grandfather said it about a friend of his. Back when I was around 7 or 8. Funny the things we remember.

A few weeks ago Vanessa and I were having dinner at the Unicorn Club and the roiling noise from the crowded bar felt like a cash register to me. The more drinks pushed across the bar, the better our bottom line. The restaurant, both lunch and dinner, was profitable, but the bar made the nut.

Our customers, mostly in their 20s, 30s and 40s ... well I wouldn’t describe any one of them as someone who fell to drink.

No, these were frat boy, sorority girl, types. Drinking was part of their culture. Had been their families’ culture when growing up. Probably not the three martini lunch, that had been ages ago. But cocktail parties, wine tastings, backyard cookouts with beer ... yep.

And, thanks to Bear and Vanessa, the Unicorn Club was tap, tap, tapping into that prewired propensity for booze-aided enjoyment.

I’ll lift a glass to that.

Walker: “The softer a man speaks...”

Pilar: “The closer a woman listens.”

Anniston was still on her cell. I low-voiced instructions to Walker, “Hug me goodbye and go wander around.”

He didn’t hesitate. Picked up the bottom half of his biscuit, spread orange marmalade on it, and gave me a cheek peck. Strolled out the door to explore the Farmers Market, in full Saturday swing.

Anniston brought over the check, smiled, “Your brother desert you?”

I didn’t correct her, I am working undercover. Okay, I like being mistaken for his sister. So sue me.

I smiled back, “Yeah, I’ll catch up later. Terrific breakfast, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, we don’t get many complaints.”

We were flirting without flirting. Well, without words anyway. But we both knew something was in the air. I did know, thank you Sullivan & Sullivan, that she wasn’t married. Despite the ink, she wasn’t the least bit butch. Of course neither was Vanessa and she was pure lesbian.

For my purposes, for Plan B, I didn’t care if Anniston were gay or bi. Either one could work to my advantage. If she were interested. And that appeared to be so.

Plan B was in my jacket pocket. A doctored thumb drive. Jesse told me, “Jump her air gap.”

“Huh?”

Jessie, “Insert it into her laptop. Just for a minute, maybe two. There’s an exploit -- it’ll give us access to the computer and the network’s proprietary telecommunications infrastructure.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?”

Jessie and Jesse grinned.

I’d purposely refrained from thinking about Donald Jefferson (DJ) Winston. About the one time I had met him. That flawless black blazer. Those perfect teeth. Citrusy aftershave. Fuck.

The wireless packet tracker hadn’t performed its digital magic at City Diner. For Plan B to work I needed physical, not moral, proximity to Anniston’s laptop. It might be immoral proximity, but I’ll worry about that some other time. Like never. Never work for you, god?

But getting close to Anniston had to feel right. Not rushed. We were at the earliest stage of a courtship dance. Not that that had stopped me from hopping into a bed or two in the past. But that was then.

And Anniston is my only link, however tentative, to Mr. Laser. If I couldn’t ... what was it ... jump her air gap, then I’d turn everything over to Hank Morristown.

My sense, completely without the slightest wisp of empirical attestation, was that Anniston was not part of whatever conspiracy this was. I believed her to be a freelancer, a lone wolf, a laptop for hire.

Not that I’d bet anything on my feelings.

I smiled at the young woman, traced my index finger over her forearm, “Like your ink.”

She grinned. Cha cha cha. “You have any? Hidden anywhere?”

Softball. So many easy responses. I said, “No. But I could be fibbing for all you know.”

She said, “I’m Corrie.”

“Jennifer.” Unconsciously connecting to Corrine’s last name. Oops. While the movie star spelled it Aniston instead of Anniston, it was a slip I shouldn’t have made.

Anniston said, “I get off at 2.”

Slow the music. “I’m tied up today. Family stuff. Dinner? Next week?”

Anniston tore off a blank ticket and wrote out her number. Signed it Corrie.

I winked and walked out. Past my truck without glancing at it. Turned toward the market. And my brother.

I ran into Gertie in the Exchange Building elevator. She smiled, “Coffee?”

“My place.” Better brew. Not bragging, true is true. Hey, brew and true.

We settled in, comfortable in each other’s company.

She said, “I signed Harold on. My first pimp.” She grinned, “My friends are giddy.” New York.

“Apartment building?”

Gertie nodded, “It makes sense. He wants to ... upmarket his inventory.” Kiddy whores.

She knew how young they were. I’d told her that before I mentioned that Harold wanted to take a meeting. Well, I lived with the age thing, why not Gertie?

“He wants me to come by, inspect the ... merchandise.”

“I’ll drive you. If you want.”

“Thanks. I should see what I’m getting into.”

“I’ll call him, make the arrangements. Now tell me, why are Vanessa and I in Africa?”

“It’s potential. So much potential. But what caught my eye, Winter, isn’t so much the solar panel business, it’s who’s behind marketing the panels. Americans. Entrepreneurs. An out of proportion percentage of them are Ivy League. Young. Some of them do-gooders. But most are bottom-liners.”

“Ivy. That’s interesting. I’d have thought they’d go to Wall Street. Or Silicon Valley.”

“A lot of them will. But there’s a tech side to solar energy. The panels, particularly Chinese ones, are getting more and more efficient. And while it’s not hedge fund money, there’s profit in rural Africa.”

“And these Ivy Leaguers spotted it.”

“Yeah. They spotted what most utility companies overlooked. Off-the-grid customers. In 18 months these little companies brought electricity to hundreds of thousands of people.”

“So our investment has a positive side.”

“Very much so. Solar won’t spread as fast as cell phones, but there’s a robust upside.” She paused, remembering. “One of the cheapest kits costs eight dollars a month for three years. Then the family owns it. A panel. A phone charger, radio, LED bulbs, a battery.”

God, how easy most of us in America have it.

Gertie said, “Think of it, hospitals were delivering babies by flashlight. Flashlight! This is transformative.”

“Is it labor intensive? Reaching all those remote places?”

“Very. Think of a primitive ... say, cable TV service in the States. It was slow to get off the ground. So many wires, cables, poles. With solar, a lot of that is eliminated but they still have sales. And installation. And service. The first solar panels were shoddy, a lot of them. So bad experiences, rumors.”

“Lousy news travels fast.”

“It surely does. Today, if your family buys a solar kit and anything goes wrong, there’s a guaranteed fix. Route repairmen guided by GPS.”

Vanessa and I are ... I don’t know, doing something almost sort of noble. Babies by flashlight! And, we hope, doing something sort of profitable.

I had a talk with Vanessa. Explained about Corrine Anniston. The flirtation, the upcoming dinner date. As I knew she had no hesitation at all. Not with Bear’s Barry in, literally in, the crosshairs.

Once Barry’s assistant had been killed, Vanessa was more than eager to do whatever was called for. And if that meant I took Anniston to bed ... so be it.

I talked also with Daddy. This was real life, not some City Diner flirtation. We didn’t talk ‘should I or shouldn’t I’. That wasn’t on the table.