Chapter 9: Wake-up Call

Pilar waited until Hobo was two to start breeding him. She told Vanessa and me, “He’s in demand; we may as well cash in while we can.”

And part of this surprised me. I was neutral on Hobo becoming a father. I assume dogs like pussy just like most boys do. What I hadn’t realized was how valuable some of the puppies might be.

Even though we don’t know who Hobo’s ancestors are, there’s already so much talk in the sheepdog world. He’s winning more ribbons at a higher level. Hobo and Pilar are. And Hobo is fairly large for the breed - 48 pounds.

So, with an aristocratic (in Border Collie World) mother, some of those puppies could be worth $5,000 and more. Eventually. After the first litter of puppies has grown, performed, been evaluated.

One problem of course is that puppies, all breeds, can be so adorable. Will Pilar and Walker be able to part with them? Well, Vanessa and I will find out. Once Hobo turns two, and if he still isn’t suffering from hip dysplasia, Pilar will put him out to stud.

She said, “I may stand Walker at stud too.”

No blush, a good sign.

In Hobo’s world, the potential mother’s trainer is eager for Lady Brave to have Hobo’s babies. It will be Lady’s third, and final, litter. Vanessa stroked Hobo’s well-brushed coat and refrained from making any stud jokes.

I was maybe less restrained.

In what could be considered a brilliant decision on my part, I went back to the Kansas City fucking Kansas track where James T. G. Woolsey had raced his Dodge. Okay, it was more frustration than brilliance that led me there. I was nowhere on the Edwin Caruthers Foundation case.

It was a Friday morning, not a race day. But there were crews working on stock cars, drivers doing practice laps, people watching. Car people I guess.

The sun was out, my tan looked good, looked healthy. I’d left my bra at home, figuring car people are guys and guys are boob people. It’s one of the Tricks of the Trade. Page 256, you can look it up - use your boobs to get their attention.

Blue Bermuda shorts that came pretty close to matching my eyes. Sleeveless top, bare midriff, white. Hey, if you got ‘em, flaunt ‘em. Plus, for some reason I was feeling pretty frisky this morning.

My cover story - I thought I’d seen an old family friend out here racing a while back. Had to leave before the race ended. Anyone know Jim Woolsey?

It took four tries, then a teenager bent over a Chevy engine, doing something with a wrench, kicked a guy in the boot. “Dad, someone to talk with you.”

Papa rolled himself out from under the Chevy on what I learned was called a Creeper. Detecting is educational. Lying there, stained coveralls, stained rag, stained hands. Squinted up at me, “Help you?”

I moved to the other side so he wouldn’t be looking into the sun. And so he could check my mileage out. “Just asking about a friend of my Dad’s, Jim Woolsey?”

He sat up, then stood up, groaning, arching his back. About 50, short dark hair, “I need a break, let’s get a drink.”

We walked over to the parking lot, to another Chevy, this one without numbers on the doors. He opened a cooler and brought out two Cokes. I don’t drink soda, but made an exception. Hot summer day, plus sharing a drink could encourage conversation.

And it did. “Too bad about Jimmy, nice guy. But he’s never been the same.”

“Oh?”

He looked at me shrewdly, “Didn’t hear about it, did you?”

“No sir.”

He took a long drink, “No secret. It’s been ... what, four or five years ago. Only fatality we’ve ever had here. Drivers look out for each other. Want to win, but not at any cost. Wasn’t really anybody’s fault. Jimmy’s car skidded on a rainy track.”

A clue. Pretty sure. First one.

We learned later on that the Meriwether PAC, RightWorld, was behind the FBI smear campaign. Specifically the PR firm they’d bought, SING. But all that came out later.

The story, featuring a blurry photo of Ash Collins striding into his KC office had the headline, “FBI Coverup?”

It broke simultaneously on rightwing websites, radio, television, podcasts.

Like a lot of besmirching jobs, it contained half-truths, innuendo, speculation. Someone at Spencer / Rathbone must have leaked. Gossiped about the FBI visit. And that was enough to send SING into orbit.

First thing, Ash Collins pulled me aside, “I know it wasn’t you, Winter. So don’t worry about that.” I knew it wasn’t Ash, he’s so close-mouthed about everyday things, let alone confidential material.

And, both of us were pretty sure the leak hadn’t come from DC. Ash told me, “All I said to Sifton was that we were 100% sure the shooter was Gunner Gunther. No details.”

The only thing SING had, really, was a rumor linking a Kansas City FBI investigator to a Hollywood film lab. But that was enough to fan some flames, to keep the story alive for several days.

> Quantico Can’t Cut It? > Evidence Being Manufactured? > Were the Meriwethers Railroaded? > Why Won’t Collins Speak? > Communist Connections in Tinseltown?

Ash didn’t seem to sweat it. Not visibly anyway. And since no one had learned of my West Coast involvement, I wasn’t even remotely in the spotlight.

Ash told me that in the old days, J. Edgar days, the FBI would have smashed SING, found enough dirt on RightWorld to close them down. I’m glad the feds don’t, or can’t, do that. But sometimes...

It’s distressing to see Pilar, usually so determined, so fierce, so certain, sidelined with the flu. It’s a rough go. She looks so small, so frail. Her cinnamon skin is pale, her eyes glassy; she seems shrunken.

No one is panicking. It’ll pass. But still.

Walker has taken command of their bedroom. He’s attentive, concerned, caring, loving. Pilar seems barely aware of his ministrations, but maybe it’s sinking in subconsciously.

Vanessa has put herself in charge of chicken soup. That is, nourishment.

I brought Dr. Marla in, but that was more to relieve Walker’s concerns. She told us, “Time. It’s a nasty version, Winter. Mind her temperature, not too hot, not too cold.”

Some smartass said, “Just like Goldilocks.” Might have been me.

Vanessa paid extra attention to Walker. Our household was off balance with Pilar on full bedrest. Two or three times a day, Vanessa would look at Walker, smile, squeeze his elbow, and point to the bathroom, “Now.”

Being told, often in front of his mother, to go masturbate, didn’t pink him up. No embarrassment, not any that showed. He tends to do as he’s told; living with three strong-willed females can do that to a boy. An impressionable one, anyway.

Vanessa also told him, “You’re sleeping with us. For the duration.”

Walker looked to his girlfriend. Pilar nodded weakly, “Yes.”

I have to admit it feels good. Vanessa spooned in from behind me. Walker snuggled in, his back to my front. Her arms around me; mine around my little guy. They were both nude, so in the spirit of ... um, being spirited, I stripped off my tee. The one I usually wear when Walker graces my bed.

That first night Vanessa reached across me with her right arm and gave our boy a friendly squeeze. Friendly and sexy. Unbelievably sexy to a hormone-charged teenager.

Then she guided my hand to the promised land. Walker gave that little boy sigh of pleasure, suppressed excitement, anticipation. He can just melt me.

Squeeze, release; squeeze release.

It didn’t take long. Being in bed with two hotties. Two naked hotties. He gave another little moan, arched his back. And surrendered.

Vanessa had been twirling my nipples the whole time. Fortunately I can multitask so my body was tinglingly aware. Vanessa slid her hand in a southerly direction and it was my turn to sigh.

Vanessa whispered, “Walker.”

“Yes.”

“Winter is so ... moist. You got her Walker-wet, my love. So excited.”

Walker caught his breath. New conversational territory. My heart was racing too.

Vanessa continued pushing. She twirled her middle finger around in me. Like she does. I knew that Walker could feel the back of her hand against his butt as she pleasured me. I didn’t try to hide my excitement, my enjoyment. It didn’t occur to me.

I climaxed. Hard. Loud.

Then Vanessa pulled out, moved her hand up to Walker’s mouth. Whispered, “Taste her, baby. Taste Winter.”

My own heart was thundering; I could only imagine Walker’s. The moonlight was bathing us from the Main Street side. I watched Walker grab Vanessa’s wrist and lunge toward her fingers.

I smiled to myself. So Walker. So very Walker.

I slid my hand down past his flat tummy. Hmm, fully engaged again. Well, I’ve known how to handle this situation since before I got my boobs. I squeezed; Walker licked.

There was a Gunner Gunther whisper. No, not even that much. A wisp, a faint hint. One of Bulldog Bannerman’s army of lookers and listeners had heard a rumor. A maybe.

Someone in Independence, east of KC, had seen a guy who maybe looked like Gunner. In a dark pickup. Make unknown, model unknown, year unknown.

Ash Collins sent seven of us to the town of a little over 100,000. Harry Truman had lived there. Joseph Smith on his way to Mormanize a young America. A sports guy named Pujols.

But Gunner would steal the headlines if he were in fact there.

We fanned out, six real agents and the temp. I considered a disguise since he knew what I looked like. But settled for a bureau car.

At Gertie’s suggestion, Harold hosted an open house for every new apartment building he bought. When the remodeling was finished. Gertie said, “It’s for your whores, Harold. Treat them like gold. Because that’s what they are.”