Chapter 16: Pathfinder

Time for the first big test of the Whittaker Fund. Karl Hoffstatter had been given three sample batches of supposedly-stolen ammunition. Which, circuitously, wound its way to three different Nazi compounds.

Roger ‘Hoppy’ Cransdale had been the trusted courier each time.

Free samples ... that stage of the operation was over. The 5.56 NATO rounds had pleased the Aryan, had pleased the white nationalists. Now it was time for Hoffstatter to start paying. For a significant-sized shipment — a minimum of 250,000 cartridges.

And to keep the Meriwether connection secret, he was to pay in untraceable diamonds. Worth a minimum of $50,000. Regular price for that much ammo? Around $75,000, for a distributor. Not the deal of the century, but significant enough to attract the businessman in Karl Hoffstatter. Plus he was probably viewing this as the first step in eventually buying the entirety of the Whittaker Fund. Whose main asset would be the source of the ‘stolen’ ammo. Whoever that source was.

Ash had told Matt and me that the primary Meriwether representative, a suave gent named Percival Highbottom, was a glorified bagman. Among his other duties, he converted cash to diamonds. Money that had been washed, dried, fluffed, and ironed, on its electronic voyage around the world.

“Highbottom is smooth. And a total conman.” Ash shook his head at the waste, the foolish waste, “He didn’t need to turn out this way. Solid New Hampshire family, old family. Rhodes Scholar.”

Matt said, “But he likes being in the life.”

“Yeah.”

And the source of the diamonds that Hightower would eventually funnel to the Aryan? The ninth-generation jeweler, South-Carolina Connover. Who was working on spec for Constance. Indirectly. So indirectly that he had no idea of her involvement.

But Connover did have an oral commitment from Matt that he could keep the profits from the first White Patriots transaction.

And, that transaction was intended to be the last. Not only would the diamonds be fake, the primer in random cartridges was designed to malfunction. To, in fact, blow up any assault weapon that used this version of the Whittaker Fund ammo.

Connover’s precise role? Switch out the real diamonds for fakes. A conman conning a conman. Matt told, me, “A hustler can be easy to hustle. It’s in the mindset. A guy on the con, thinks everyone else is dumb. Or at least not as smart as he is.”

“Or she is.”

“Or she is.”

Highbottom would undoubtably bring an experienced jeweler to the transaction. So the switch would have to be out in the open — in front of Highbottom and his expert.

I said, “Matt, this is making me dizzy. It’s so complicated.”

“There are a lot of moving parts. But, follow the money. It all starts with the Meriwether billions. Take a tiny percentage of that fortune and swish it around the world’s largest laundry.”

“Okay.”

“Now Highbottom has a pile of sparkling-clean cash. He gives $50,000 to South-Carolina Connover.”

“In return for $50,000 worth of diamonds.”

“Actually closer to $65,000, but that’s retail.”

“Which nobody pays.”

“Which nobody pays. Even at $50,000 there’s a profit margin built in. So Connover shows the real ice to Highbottom, lets the expert inspect the rocks as closely as he wants.”

“Or she wants.”

Matt smiled, I could gaze at that happy face all day, “Or she wants. Once she gives the nod, Connover makes the switch.”

“How? How in the world?”

“No idea. But it’ll be videoed — we’re letting Highbottom select whichever one of the seventeen Connover Jewelry stores he wants. Each back room already has hidden cameras — that’s where the safes are.”

“Okay. Misdirection, magic, something. Somehow Highbottom walks away with the fake diamonds. Right?”

“Right. Now he’s the Meriwether bagman. The go-between to the Nazis. So, laundered money to diamonds to fake diamonds to the key delivery point.”

I was starting to see it. “Highbottom hands over the fakes to Hoffstatter.”

“Yeah, but the Aryan isn’t stupid. He’ll use his own cutout — maybe Hoppy Cransdale again.”

“Got it. So, armed with what he thinks is $50,000 worth of ice, Hoffstatter goes back to his ammo buddy, Agent X.”

“That’s right. Now Connie and Ash know there are a thousand points where this could go wrong. But it’s worth a shot.”

“Okay, what does Agent X do?”

“His own expert — not an undercover guy, a legitimate jeweler from Boise — spots the fakes right away.”

“Okay.”

“Agent X goes berserk. He was suspicious of everyone anyway. Starts beating on Hoffstatter, screaming like a maniac.”

“God.”

“Nothing too severe, but this guy is the real deal. Not a fake warrior running around in the woods. So he calms himself down, helps clean up the Aryan.”

“Who is confused as hell. Highbottom had certified the diamonds himself.”

“Yes. Now Agent X goes into his reluctant sales pitch. He’s willing to give Hoffstatter one more chance. But cash this time.”

I laughed, “Love it! The Meriwethers will end up losing $50,000 in diamonds and paying another $50,000 for exploding cartridges.”

“If everything goes right.”

“Well, yeah.”

It’s difficult for me to describe Vanessa without sounding swoony. Hell, without becoming swoony.

She’s tall, 5’ 10” in her bare feet. Model’s cheekbones, model’s posture, model’s long, slender legs. That striking Slavic face with cheekbones to die for. Dark, luminous eyes that have a golden cast to them during certain, passionate times. Thick, black hair framing that amazing face.

When she strides into a room, she commands it. Effortlessly.

Behind all that gorgeousness is ... toughness. Her mother, Marina, had turned tricks in Indiana. Vanessa’s grandmother, Sasha, had been sold to a Milwaukee businessman and brought to the United States from Kiev. And Sasha’s own mother, Veronika, had been gang-raped by drunken Russian soldiers. And left to die.

So, Vanessa’s strength, her fearlessness, was partly inherited, partly earned. She now owned a partnership in three restaurants — Euforia, BEAR’s on Broadway, and the Unicorn Club.

Those two qualities — beauty and nerve — would come into play throughout Vanessa’s career. Her life. It was no surprise when she called a family meeting. Since Gertie Oppenheimer was at the table, we all knew it involved money.

We gathered around our kitchen table — our usual discussion venue. Pilar was experimenting with frozen daiquiris this month — kiwi-flavored this Saturday afternoon.

Vanessa placed her hand, palm down, on a spreadsheet. “Euforia. Okay, I fucked up. The delivery service cut into our bottom line. We sold more meals but at a lower margin. And we lost some dine-in business in the process.”

Gertie said, “Euforia is still ahead of projections, Vanessa. Beating the industry average here in town by seven to nine points, month after month.”

Walker, bless his good manners, reached over and patted the back of Vanessa’s hand.

“I know Gertie. We’re in decent shape. But we can’t just jog in place. I want to try an outreach program.”

I knew what she intended, so I kept my yap shut. For a change.

Gertie said, “Outreach?”

“Yeah. Euforia has a strong base — we make our nut just from the regulars. But we need to ... keep refreshing our client list. Especially at dinner. We’ve had empty tables at both seatings. Not that many, but still.”

Pilar said, “How do you attract new customers? Advertising?”

Vanessa smiled at the earnest little girl, “We’re already pretty aggressive online. And traditional media — newspaper ads, TV commercials ... well, I don’t think they’d be that cost-effective.”

Walker said, “Word of mouth, that’s supposed to be the best. Right?”

“Yeah, a lot of the time it is. But our regulars have done as much touting as they’re likely to do. Time to extend our reach.”

Gertie was listening quietly, stirring her Tanqueray with her finger. She respected Vanessa enough to give her a full hearing.

Vanessa said, “A lot of our regulars live in Brookside, but we’ve pretty well saturated the neighborhood. I want to reach out to the Plaza, to a younger crowd.”

Gertie said, “Oh? Everyone markets to the Plaza. So many young, single, social kids.”

“That’s right, young. Open to new ideas, new experiences. They go to Westport to drink. To a couple of sports-bars in Brookside. And even more bars in Waldo.”

Gertie said, “So. They go out drinking at night? What draws them to a relatively expensive restaurant like Euforia?”

“Free wine.”

Gertie frowned. She didn’t have a problem with ‘free’ so long as she was on the receiving side of the equation. But she knew Vanessa was smart, was passionate about the bottom line. “Okay, I’ll bite. Sell me on your plan.”

“Start at the river and work your way south to Waldo. River Market has tons of apartments and condos. So does the Power & Light District. Our Crossroads has some multi-unit residential buildings, but not a lot.”

“Okay.”

“Now we come to Westport. Again, some apartment buildings, but more single-family homes.”

Gertie nodded.

“Skip the Plaza for a moment. Brookside just has one apartment building. And larger homes. Waldo doesn’t have any apartment buildings and the houses are smaller.”

Gertie was nodding, “The Plaza.”

“Surrounded on all four sides by apartments. Thousands of units.”

“Thousands of potential customers. But how do you lure them — slip a ‘free wine’ flyer under thousands of doors?”

“Impractical. And you couldn’t get past the lobby in the decent buildings. They don’t want the joint littered with Chinese menus.”

Walker and Pilar watched Gertie thinking things through. They didn’t know where Vanessa was heading either. Gertie puffed her cheeks out, then slowly let the air out, making a silent raspberry. “Go on.”

“Okay, let’s look at the Hemingway Plaza. I go to the building owner, or at least the manager. Give him an exclusive Hemingway deal he can offer to his condo owners — a complimentary glass of wine with lunch or dinner.”

Gertie shook her head slowly, not negatively, just thinking. “He won’t give you access to his condo owners, but you know that already.”

Vanessa nodded.

Pilar got there first. Smart girl. “But he can email them, Gertie. Give them a Euforia code or something. Vanessa never needs to know anything about the apartment owners.”

Gertie smiled, “Not bad, kid.”

Vanessa said, “I’d start with one building — probably not the Hemingway. Too ritzy. I want a younger crowd. One who would appreciate a free glass of wine more.”

I’d been quiet for too long, way too long, “And Gertie, some companies own five, six, buildings. Sometimes more. And even if you can’t get to the owners, a single management group can oversee several buildings.”

Gertie nodded, looked at Vanessa, “The ‘free wine’ come-on is just an example, isn’t it? Could be dessert, a salad, an appetizer.”

“Yep. I’d customize something for each building. No coupons, that would be tacky. All they have to do is tell our waiter, “Free dessert.”

Walker said, “But they could tell their friends. Who live ... anywhere, not even the Plaza.”

Pilar just gazed at him calmly, waiting for my son to catch up. “Oh, that would be a good thing, right? A new customer is a new customer.”

This time Vanessa patted his hand, “And if it works on the Plaza, we’ll hit River Market, downtown.”

Hobo looked on approvingly. The PV was still working on his power nap.

The Whittaker Fund scam went smoothly. Until it didn’t.

The coolest part was the diamond switch that South-Carolina Connover pulled off. Smooth as buttah.

Even watching the video, I almost missed it.

The Meriwether bagman, Percival Highbottom was a handsome fop. Dressed in a linen suit, navy, with a hand-tied bow tie. Yellow polka dots.

He had chosen Connover’s Charleston store for the diamond buy. It was the largest of the seventeen jewelry shops — located downtown on Market Street.

Highbottom showed up right on time — nine at night. Connover unlocked the door from the inside and shook hands warmly. Two conmen, each convinced he was smarter.

Well, this was a setup, so Connover had the upper hand. And he dressed the part of a small-town, but successful businessman. White Panama hat with a red and blue band. White suit, black and white spectator shoes. If he’d had a cane, he could have passed for a younger Tom Wolfe.

The two men chatted briefly in the front showroom, then moved out of sight. Matt had a watcher across the street. But the action — the switch — took place in Connover’s office. In back, in the alley side of the store.

We had expected Highbottom to bring a jeweler, an expert, with him. But he came alone. And, as we saw on the live video feed, he brought his own loupe. Matt muttered, “Must know his business.”

He and I were watching from his Georgetown crib; we’d postponed going out to dinner until this phase, the tricky phase, was over.

South-Carolina Connover blocked out the view of his free-standing safe as he dialed the combination. Highbottom politely looked the other way. Honor among thieves.

Holding a small leather case in one hand, Connover carefully closed the door to the safe. Then, smiling, placed the handsome black box, about six inches by four inches, on an ancient cotton broker’s rolltop desk.

Highbottom patted the desk reverently, “A real beaut. Consider selling it?”

Connover smiled broadly, “Never. Great-great-great grandfather.” Lying through his teeth. He’d bought it specifically for this night. And had a craftsman alter it to his specifications.

Before opening the hinged lid of the diamond box, Highbottom reached into his own case and ceremoniously handed over a sealed envelope, “Fifty thousand.”

Just as ceremoniously, Connover tucked it into an inside jacket pocket, neither opening the envelope nor counting the money. Implying a gentleman’s agreement.

Highbottom opened the top of the box with both hands and simply gazed at the five two-carat diamonds, each nestled into a snug niche in the black velvet cushion. An artful presentation.

I’d been studying diamonds and said, “Two-carat rocks can be worth anywhere from five to fifty thousand bucks. Even more, depending on the cut.”

“So these are worth about ten thousand each.”

“Probably a little more. Connover will want to give the impression that it’s a good deal. The first of many.”

Highbottom gently placed the loupe in his right eye. Lifted up the second diamond from the left and studied it briefly. Repeated the process with the diamond in the slot on the farthermost right. He didn’t bother with the other three, just smiled and held out his hand. “Deal.”

On the video, we could hear the chime when the front door opened. Highbottom didn’t tense, not exactly, but he became very still. Connover just smiled, “Must be my wife.” He quietly closed the lid of the diamond box.

A bosomy, red-headed Southern belle breezed into the office. “Hi darlin’, who’s this cutie?”

As she reached out to shake hands with Highbottom, Matt and I stared at the desk. A small wooden section under the leather box lifted and rotated to the rear and then disappeared. The replacement box was identical. The switch had taken about a second. Smooth and swift and silent.

I shook my head in wonderment.

Connover made the introductions; he’d used the redhead before. There was some polite chatter, an insincere invitation to dinner. Percival Highbottom turned down Connover’s offer of a fireproof travel container. He simply tucked the leather box into his own case.

The bet — and it turned out to be a good one — was that Highbottom wouldn’t inspect the diamonds again. It was a tiny transaction compared with most of the international laundry and delivery deals he conducted for the Meriwethers.

But it was worth Highbottom’s time — this was a pilot program. It could be the first of many similar deals.

Walker and Pilar had taken over the grocery shopping. Vanessa and I hadn’t asked them to; they hadn’t volunteered. It just evolved. It was an easy routine for them. After school, after snacks, they’d usually walk the ten or so blocks north from the Wrigley to downtown. The Power & Light District.

Which used to be a dead zone, especially after five. The turnaround had been remarkable. Abandoned office and civic buildings and banks were converted to apartments and condos. Bars and restaurants proliferated.

And in the middle of all of that, Consetino’s Market opened on Main Street. The first downtown grocery store any of us could remember. It did a strong breakfast — office workers grabbing bagels and coffee. Lunch was even better — a long salad bar, prepared meals, sandwiches, pizza slices.

But mainly it was a grocery store. Upscale, with olive tastings, cheese samplings, an aggressive wine selection.

Walker and Pilar would then catch the free streetcar back to the Wrigley. Under an hour, often closer to half that.

And they applied the same cheerful efficiency to the to-go orders from our favorite neighborhood restaurants. Good kids. Usually.

Matt and I watched the South-Carolina Connover diamond switch again. It was cool, like one of those Las Vegas heist moves in the movies. A casual buxom misdirection, a slick mechanical sequence. Like a mini-roller coaster seat going up, disappearing, being replaced by the next seat. Two identical black leather cases, one with fake ice.

Matt said, “For once we’re a little ahead of the bad guys. Or we will be — we’re not quite there yet, but one of these days we’ll be able to track individual diamonds.”

“How? How could that even work?”

“Blockchain. Like with Bitcoin. IBM is working on something called TrustChain. It begins with a close-up photograph of the gem. Molecularly close.”

“Okay.”

“Like a molecular fingerprint. Then they enter the data into the blockchain. One of these days they’ll be able to trace a diamond — any gemstone really — from the mine to the mall. IBM is already working with Helzberg Diamonds.”

“It sounds like with a piece of art, you know, the provenance.”

“Exactly. One day you’ll be able to know the history and the value. True value. And that it hasn’t been stolen.”

“Isn’t a blood diamond.”

“Isn’t a blood diamond.”

Walker used to lap up info about my sex life. He was hungry for details, an avid listener. Now? Not so much.

First, and probably foremost, he was getting pussy. The cure-all for many of the woes of the world. Second, I believed, wanted to believe anyway, was that he’d become more comfortable with my ongoing relationship with Mr. Matthew Striker.

Walker seemed to accept that it was necessary for me to spend this much time with Matt — not a single complaint. Whatever was required to get Wexler out of our lives.

And Vanessa reinforced the get-rid-of-Wexler philosophy. So Walker’s acceptance was part practicality and part his growing sense that Matt was not a threat to my marriage.

Speaking of the guy ... I was lying in Mr. No-Threat’s arms as he told me about the wrong turn the Whittaker Fund scam had taken.

“We knew from the jump that it could go off the rails at any of several points.”

‘We’. Matt, Constance, and Ash. And, sort of, me.

“What happened?”

“Well, you know that Highbottom switched the fake diamonds on Hoffstatter. Who used a cutout like we expected.”

“Hoppy Cranston?”

“No, not this time. Different biker, but he’s in the system now.”

“Okay.”

“Hoffstatter called Agent X, burner to burner.”

“The ammo guy. Undercover ammo guy.”

“Right. And he had his civilian jeweler there. Reputable guy from Boise.”

“Who spotted the fake diamonds.”

Matt nodded. “He gave Agent X the news in private, then left. Our guy fronted Hoffstatter, pretended to do a slow burn, then went postal on him.”

The Aryan. “Good.”

“A little too good. Agent X made his reluctant ‘second chance, all cash’ offer, but Hoffstatter was really spooked. Said he’s send someone else around with the fifty gees.”

“What did Agent X do?”

“In the field ... well, you have to make instantaneous decisions. Under pressure. He told Hoffstatter to fuck off. He wasn’t about to meet with another clown.”

Matt sighed, “And that’s where it stands. Hoffstatter scurried away with the fake rocks. We don’t know if he’s going to recontact Agent X or not.”

I thought about it. “Well, at least part of the plan worked — Highbottom will swear up and down that he gave real diamonds to the biker. And the Meriwethers trust Highbottom.”

Matt nodded, “And Hoffstatter will go to the grave believing that the Meriwethers fucked him over. Mutual distrust.”

“Too bad it can’t be mutually assured destruction. But they still need each other.”

“Yeah. And White Patriots Day is getting closer — two months away. So the diamond fiasco might even help to move things along.”

“Like pushing Wexler into making those videos?”

“Like that.”

The best laid plans...

Now the good guys — Constance, Ash, Matt, and, sort of, me were stuck with 250,000 cartridges ten percent of which were designed to malfunction. To explode when the firing pin hit the primer.

Matt was, as usual, stoic, “We’ll keep the ammo. Might come in handy one of these days.”

“Too bad, it was such a delicious idea. All those Nazi guns blowing up.”

Matt smiled, “Yeah, that would have been fun. But the main intent was to create even more mistrust between the Nazis and the Meriwethers. Oh well.”

Time for Phase Two:

The fake diamonds and exploding cartridges had been just one step in the process of disrupting the mass demonstrations planned for White Patriots Day. And, of primo interest to me, capturing Dixie Wexler. Also the Aryan, if we could nab him in some kind of felonious act.

The contrast between my original plan — snoop around the edges of the compounds and pick up Wexler intel — now seemed embarrassingly simplistic. Particularly in contrast to the professional approach which was now in play. With its clearly-stated Goal. And precisely-delineated Strategies and Tactics.

Sort of like a savvy marketing plan.

Every bureaucracy, every culture, tends to assign a name to a project. To a key operation. Our campaign was no different. The name — PUSHBACK — reflected our intent. Wreak havoc with the anti-government demonstrations. Fuck-up White Patriots Day. A worthy Goal, one devoutly to be wished, as someone said.

The physical operation of Phase Two had started five weeks earlier with the creation of a video production and distribution service named Stand-Up. The unwritten, but often-voiced, subhead — Stand-Up for White Supremacy.

One of the PUSHBACK Tactics: create compelling video, top-quality footage. And stream it to a vast anti-government audience. Stand-Up had steadily gained some positive attention among Nazis, the Klan, survivalists, secessionists, disparate white-power groups ... the disenchanted, the disenfranchised ... the haters.

Another Tactic: street creds. Stand-Up hired hardcore bikers, real ones, and Nazi leaders, Klan officers, virulent bloggers, from around the country. Visible, known-quantity, racists. The funds that Senator Harper Wainwright had secured weren’t unlimited. But in the world of guerrilla video, this budget was substantial. Generous even. Stand-Up was not operating on a paycheck-to-paycheck basis.

The Strategy? Well, the execution would play out over the next seven weeks. Or not.

But the Goal remained constant — fuck up White Patriots Day. And, thank you very much, take Wexler off the board.

Gloria Allen, Beryl Thatcher’s attorney was in town from Los Angeles. She still wanted me to be her local investigator. A pharmaceutical company was squarely in her crosshairs.

I was interested, if for no other reason than to work with one of the most famous lawyers in the country. And one of the most successful.

I said, “I’ve been doing some research on hillbilly heroin.”

Gloria held up her hand — stop signal, “We don’t care about pill shills. Pill mills either.”

“We don’t?”

“No. Now here’s what even Thatcher doesn’t know.”

I listened.

She looked keenly at me, “You in?”

“I’m in.”

Pillow talk.

Being an observant gal, a trained and licensed detective actually, I noticed that food tended to make Matt horny. As did wine. And talking, and showering, and ... well, me.

Dinner was on the horizon — Chinese takeout from Sichuan Pavilion. Our shower was in the rearview mirror, so to speak. As for me ... well here I was — naked, cuffed, spread-eagled, grinning.

I pretended to struggle, “Beast.”

Matt is one of the few men I’ve known who, in full tumescence, can hold back. Toy with me, heighten my ... anticipation. Bring me close to a fever pitch and keep me gasping. “Hurry! Now!”

He smiled down at me, throbbing, but quite willing to toy with me a while longer. A smile that parts the clouds. Add in wide shoulders, thick chest, and a tummy as flat as Walker’s. Whoa, Winter, concentrate!

I concentrated. On a vein-pulsed throbbing that looked almost painful. Someone was arching up, thrusting her hips, making a steady growling noise deep in her throat.

“You fucker!”

Another someone was brushing the tip against hungry lips. I lunged at him. “Come on!”

Then, slowly, slowly, slowly. Tiny increments. I squeezed my eyes closed to focus on the physical sensation of ... being taken. At his own pace, for his own pleasure. He was making me work for my own satisfaction.

I whispered, “Brute.”

He tensed for a millisecond, not long enough for me to prepare for his full-throttled plunge. I gasped. If only I could reach down and touch myself. I couldn’t, and he knew it.

Matt found his rhythm, his self-pleasing rhythm. And enjoyed himself. I was on the brink, just on that very edge ... please, please, please. My head was thrashing from side to side. I moaned, eyes still squeezed tightly.

In my ... need, in my anxiousness, I was aware that he was nowhere close to finishing. But he knew my body too. He reached down and his middle finger found me.

I exploded.

Matt recovered first. “I’ll shower, see to dinner. Take your time.”

“Monster.”

Kitchen aromas lured me into my own white terrycloth robe. A towel wrapped around my head, I scurried toward hot and sour seafood soup. Picked up the bowl with both hands and slurped. As I am sure well-mannered folk in Chengdu do. Chengdu do do do...

Matt smiled, “Girl with an appetite.”

“Don’t fish.”

I passed on the dried bean curd. It’s an acquired taste and I made an executive decision years ago not to acquire it. Pork Intestine in Hot Pot? Get outta my way!

“Save some for me.”

I snorted. Politely.

I did share the Marinated Duck and the Squid with Preserved Mustard Green. I’m all about sharing.

While Matt plated the reconstituted repast, I poured us a couple of pepper beers — Pipeworks Poivre du Sichuan. I ignored the other brand in his refrigerator — Oedipus Mannenliefde. Discretion is my middle name.

I said, “So, how is PUSHBACK coming along?”

“Gator is talking with WHITES.”

Gator Haskell, our guy in Stand-Up. Undercover FBI agent for three-plus years. The purposely-casual negotiations between Stand-Up and the Nazis were underway. The WHITES compound, outside of Sheridan, Wyoming had become the de facto headquarters for planning the White Patriots Day demonstrations.

Gator had volunteered to produce, and stream, a promotional video to build anticipation for the big day. To recruit demonstrators around the country.

Stand-Up had quietly built a reputation for pro-supremacist messaging. For the video quality. And, mostly, for the millions of haters it could access through regional and local streaming outlets. Stand-Up wasn’t Netflix, but it didn’t need to be.

Matt said, “It looks like Gator will land the contract.”

“For the White Patriots crap.”

“Yeah. The question is whether Dixie Wexler will be the spokesman.”

“Spokesperson.”

Matt looked at me. If I weren’t so cool, I might have blushed in embarrassment. No female executives need apply, not in NaziLand, thank you very much.

He said, “Gator suggested using Wexler because he’s such a terrific motivational speaker. But Gator can’t push it.”

“No, they would sniff it out. So we have to wait to see if Wexler bites.”

“Yeah. The WHITES have already agreed that the video needs to be shot in a professional studio. It doesn’t, but they don’t know that.”

I nodded. “I understand that Wexler doesn’t mean that much to Constance. The Meriwethers are her target. Even if Wexler doesn’t show up, she’ll still get the video she wants.”

We both chuckled. That was the magic of the PUSHBACK plan. The Nazis would be appalled when they saw the version that was actually streamed to all of their followers. After we had fucked around with it.