Chapter 3: Top Down

Clint called, “Any New York plans yet?”

“Remember Vanessa? Tall, good looking. Married.”

“I’ll throw in a set of steak knives.” Click.

Hey! I’m the one supposed to be hanging up.

We invited Cathal Conway and family for Sunday brunch. Riles went with Walker and Pilar back to their room. She may be only 10, but the kids treat her as an equal.

Jorge and Javier immediately started roughhousing with Hobo. The Proper Villain jumped up on Juanita’s lap. Cathal accepted his glass of Jamison — one cube only — and smiled.

Javier, the younger boy, 8, looked up at Vanessa, “Can we go play Stick?”

She smiled, ruffled his hair, “Go back and ask Pilar.”

Juanita said, “Knock first.”

“I know.”

Cathal decided to join them for the one-block stroll to Washington Park. No one commented on the erect elevator operator. Business as usual.

I poured Juanita another glass of Prosecco; she stretched and grinned, “Well, you guys saw me in action the other night.”

BaBoomz. Getting finger-fucked, getting off. Taking another gentleman into one of the back rooms.

Vanessa grinned, “Looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

“I usually do.” Shrug. “Almost always.”

I was curious, “Juanita, I know the boys know you work at BaBoomz. But do they...”

She laughed, “God, no!” Then blushed. “Well...”

I said, “Well...”

Juanita sighed, “Javier. I just can’t resist him. He worms everything out of me.”

Vanessa laughed, “Good for him. I like a kid with wiles.”

Juanita leaned forward, whispered, “I feel so much naughtier. Knowing that I’ll be telling him ... you know.”

I laughed, “We know.”

Juanita looked at me slyly, “Pilar showed me that picture of your son.”

Walker, sucking his own cock.

Vanessa grinned, “Talented boy.”

I tried for modest, “Only one percent can do it.”

Vanessa stood, took Juanita’s hand, mine. Led us back to the bedroom. To the infamous photo. We usually kept it in the secret little room Gene Austin made for me when he remodeled the Wrigley. Brought it out only for select company.

It was like a girlfriend day. Maybe the three of us will get manicures, jump rope, and talk about boys. Well, certainly the boys part.

“Say lady, will you buy a serviceman a drink?”

“No, but I will pray for you.” Click. Teach him to hang up on me.

Gertie stopped by our loft for a drink. Vanessa topped up our drinks.

Gertie stirred her Tanqueray with her index finger, smiled at Pilar, “The WHO added Gaming Disorder to its International Classification of Diseases.”

Pilar smiled back, “Good, I can use that.” Overwatch.

Ah, Walker. Doesn’t stand a chance.

Pilar said, “Gertie, what do you think about fracking?”

“I’m agin it, why?”

“Mr. Moberly brought his wife into class this morning. She’s a professor at UMKC.”

“What’s she teach?”

“Economics. She said fracking is costing us billions and billions. Poisoning the water supply. Air too. And all those earthquakes like in Oklahoma.”

Walker refreshed Gertie’s drink. She said, “Oklahoma! Oklahoma deserves what it gets. But fracking worries me more than just the environmental costs.”

“Why?”

“We’re moving, the US is, toward renewable energy. We’re going in fits and starts in the right direction. But the progress is way, way too slow. It’s expensive too, but it will come. Eventually.”

Vanessa said, “So fracking is ... what? A necessary evil?”

“No. It’s a stupid, shortsighted foreign policy.”

Scrambling to contribute, I said, “Huh?”

Gertie took a sip, “Look at our energy policy in a non-emotional way.”

Pilar muttered something about ‘fucking fracking’.

Gertie, “Like it or not, hydrocarbons are an essential part of our current energy needs. And will be for some time.” She looked at Pilar, “So should we still be importing foreign oil?”

“No.” With the wisdom of one classroom lecture from a visiting professor, Pilar said, “But maybe. Yeah, there’s all that environmental damage, you know, earthquakes and everything, but we wouldn’t have to depend on the Middle East. At least not as much.”

Walker said, “And Venezuela. We have all of our own natural gas — here at home. And the price of gasoline dropped way down.”

Gertie nodded, patient with the kids. “Lots of factors contribute to the price at the pump. But let’s talk hydraulic fracking. You’re right, gas prices dropped. These days it costs less to drive more miles and release more pollutants. We’re even exporting natural gas. Hooray for fracking.”

Gertie had a way of owning the room. She said, “So what’s the downside? A few earthquakes in Oklahoma? North Dakota? Permian basin? Small price to pay — inconveniencing the local yokels who will gladly rape their own land for some extra money.” She frowned, “But natural gas has allowed us to lower carbon dioxide emissions levels.”

Vanessa, “But you said you were against fracking.”

“I am. But for national security reasons.”

I said, “Huh?”

“Look, we don’t know when, or even if, we’ll be able to eliminate our dependence on oil. So why use up our own energy supply? We’d be better off —- long run — to import more today. And save our domestic reserve for that potential rainy day.”

I said, “Interesting.”

“Yeah. Of course if Middle East money continues buying up our own infrastructure ... well, someday we may end up paying them for our own oil.”

We thought about that. Hobo seemed to nod. The Proper Villain closed his eyes to consider the matter.

Four years ago, when Walker was 11, he was at a very impressionable age. Same with 12, 13, 14, 15 ... maybe into infinity. Probably not infinity.

A buddy, a classmate, had gone on a cruise to Alaska with his family. And those videos, photos, stories, had imprinted themselves on my son’s brain. If it’s possible for an 11-year old to have a Bucket List ... well, hello, Alaska.

Because I’m such a pushover, I tried to accommodate the lad. Booked a Seattle-to-Juneau passage. Work intruded. Then again. Then I married Vanessa and we all went to Ukraine. Kiev.

This is the year. Vanessa used Euforia as her excuse to duck out. Pilar wanted to spend the week with Poppy, her new baby sister. With Poppy’s best buddy, Ennio. Kindness on their part, Vanessa and Pilar. They wanted Walker to have the trip of his dreams.

“Winter, I’m thinking about coming to Kansas City for another visit.”

“Clint, you are why mail order brides were invented.”

Walker: “A horse walks into a bar.”

Pilar: “Why the long face?”

Walker and Pilar — Papi and Chica — speak Spanish when Vanessa and I aren’t around. The slow ones. It’s Pilar’s native tongue and Walker seems to have picked it up. Pretty easily from what my untrained ear can tell.

Lately, Vanessa and I have been trying to improve our own Spanish skills. Partly in self-defense, but in Vanessa’s case, it’s also an asset in the Euforia kitchen.

We traded in the English-speaking Siri ladies for Español. Could help.

I may have to speed it up though. I overheard Walker asking Pilar how to say ‘motherfucker’ in Spanish.

Daddy wasn’t working full time at the FBI, but he was usually there two or three days a week. My mother didn’t complain. For, I think, a couple of reasons. He was double-dipping — retirement income and freelance moola from the Feds.

Plus, and this is just speculation — educated speculation on my part — I think she was learning that having him underfoot all day, every day, wasn’t quite what she had expected.

Now I hadn’t been to the Summit Street offices for two or three months. Our arrangement was that Sandra Fleming would call when she wanted me to work on this project or that one. Well, her assistant would call — he was a nice guy, cheerfully trying to get into my panties. When Daddy wasn’t around.

“Hi, Mark, getting any?”

That perked him up, works every time.

“Dinner?”

“Vanessa.”

I was there to collect Daddy — lunch at the Unicorn Club. Sandra spotted me and pointed toward her office. We caught up and then she said, “Ash asked me to pass along some Nazi intel.”

I stifled my groan. Them again. “What’s up now?”

Sandra smiled, “They’re still trying to recover from the White Patriots Day fiasco.”

Where Matt Striker and I had been minor participants as the FBI and Senator Harper Wainwright’s office had fucked the supremacists over. Doctored videos to make them look foolish. And then they streamed everything to local compounds around the country.

That had been fun, although it hadn’t ended well for Matt and me.

I smiled brightly, “Another national rally?”

“Ash said they have a new strategy. Regional gatherings, staggered over several months. Keep the spotlight on the cause over a longer time.”

“If you don’t succeed at first, keep sucking.”

A look of uncertainty flashed across Sandra’s face. I’m used to it.

She said, “Ash said to alert you — Kansas City is the kickoff rally. Next month.”

Huh. I wondered how many haters from around here would participate. Like all across America, they’re becoming more open, more confident.

Sandra said, “Four states. Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri. They’re going to hold private rallies, elect ‘Unite the Right’ officers, party hearty.”

So, it could be in the hundreds. Maybe more depending on how well organized they were. Communications skills. Funding. Fucking Kansas.

I said, “Downtown Kansas City?”

“Maybe. They applied for a permit there. Independence and Kansas City, Kansas too. Ash’s people think they’ll end up in just one venue. Maximum impact.”

“Where will they stay? Overnight?”

“Grayhock Farm.”

Ah, good old Aaron Grayhock. Following in his father’s footsteps. Grandfather’s. Third generation hater. His father had been a prominent Bircher. One of the first in the country to turn his barn into an easel for signs composed by The Messenger. The same sign would appear in multiple locations across the country.

They’re Coming For Our Guns!

States Rights!

Federal Reserve = Jews!

No one in law enforcement knew who The Messenger was. There was speculation that it was a committee. Keeping the true believers on ... um, message. Making sure the signs were spelled right, that each current topic was broadcast across the country at more or less the same time.

Aaron’s ascendancy coincided with the first election of Barack Hussein Obama. Which really fired up the base.

Kenyan!

Marxist!

Although, even with a black President, there wasn’t the overt racism that was burbling to the surface these days. A resurgent Klan. Open supremacist rallies like Charlottesville.

I said, “Grayhock Farm.”

“Yes. He already had barracks for three or four hundred. Tents started going up last week. Port-a-potties. Food delivery. They doubled the size of their shooting range. Stacked bales of hay for the targets.”

“And to stop the bullets.”

Sandra nodded. Looked sharply at me. “What?”

I can do pious-face better than my son, “Oh, probably nothing. An idea just popped into my head. Small idea. Let me think about it.”

She looked a little skeptical, but said, “Okay.”

I kept my smile, like my idea, to myself.

Walker was quivering with Alaska excitement. And, no doubt, the prospect of shacking up with a busty blonde. Hottie.

As usual, he was obsessively doing online research. Booking shore excursions. Whale watching, dog sledding, glacier gardens, zip-lining. He prepaid the gratuities — just under two hundred bucks. Probably believing, incorrectly, that this would ensure I wouldn’t back out again.

And, I wouldn’t. Not unless something extraordinary came up in my job. Or, as I told him, if I got a better offer.

Clint, “Winter, sorry I haven’t called. Work.”

“I just figured you’d turned Amish. Couldn’t make any calls until Rumspringa.”

Rebecca Montgomery called me from New York. “It’s been too long, Winter.”



”You’re right.”

“I’ll be in KC next week. Lunch?”


“Any time. How’s Mindy?”

“That’s what I want to talk with you about.”

Walker and I flew into Seattle on a Friday. First time for both of us. Pioneer Square was cool. The Pike Place Market was so full of tourists, you couldn’t move — we had to watch the flying fish from a distance. Space Needle wait was hours. But I didn’t care that much — we were about to embark on Walker’s beloved Alaskan cruise.

Not that I ignored our one night in town. Vanessa used her industry grapevine and got us into Junebaby, a James Beard restaurant specializing in Southern fare.

In the cab, I tease-rubbed Walker into a blushing, quivering, bundle of edgy nerves. As we were being seated, I whispered, “It’s okay to cum in your pants, honey. And I ain’t whistlin’ Dixie.”

He tried to give me stern, couldn’t hold his frown. Quiver.

I smiled at our waiter, “We’ll start with boiled peanuts, pimento cheese, deviled eggs, and fried pig ears.”

Walker muttered, “Eat much?”

I pretended to adjust his napkin. He squirmed. Quiver.

As usual, Walker had done detailed due diligence on Alaska. “We’ll board tomorrow, overnight to Juneau. That’s the capital. It’s on the mainland. Our other ports are on islands.”

“Could I have a more boring son?”

“Brother.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Altogether, we’ll sail about 2,200 miles.”

“Nautical?”

“Yes. That would be about 2,500 statute miles.”

“Yawn.”

“Around 4,000 kilometers.”

I let my chin fall to my chest, gave him some ZZZZs.

The waitperson interrupted my siesta. Junebaby lived up to its accolades. Momma Jordan’s Oxtails. Chicken Fried Steak. Fried Catfish with Geechie Boy grits. Magnanimously, I shared some with my sibling.

“Hello.”

Clint, “Hi, Winter.”

“Jennings residence. Please leave your message at the beep. Beep-Beep.”

I had been studying ‘Winning in Voir Dire’. And I was doing better in school than I had anticipated. Not the tests, the papers, the grades, but simply being back in the classroom.

I didn’t have that trapped, cooped-up feeling from my younger days. For one thing, I was back at it voluntarily. No one had been urging me to chase a law degree. And Vanessa and Walker and Pilar were certainly encouraging. Very supportive, especially Walker.

But, also, I felt more ... adult. I had ten or so years on most of the students and it showed. In classroom discussions, in demeanor, in attitude. I’d been out in the world and most of them hadn’t.

It was a minor thing, but I liked the fact that I was able to pay my final year’s tuition from the funds that Matt had left me. Vanessa said, “He’d have loved seeing you hang out your shingle.”

Although this particular afternoon, law book face down on my chest, my body had decided to take a power nap. I was lying on our green leather sofa next to our Main Street windows.

I guess the elevator nudged me toward consciousness. I heard Walker and Pilar, fresh from the bus, walking back to their room.

“Papi, has Winter ever been with a black guy?”

Long pause, “Does rape count?”

Pilar gasped.

Walker said, “It’s okay, she was acquitted.”

Hmm ... the lad may be a little sharper than I had realized.

Pilar slapped the back of his head, “You.”

So, the haters in a four-state area will be converging on Kansas City. A regional White Patriots Day. The Whisper River has it that women and children will be marching too. Family pride. And, a boost to the numbers.

They’d meet, speechify, train, celebrate, bond, at Grayhock Farm. Missouri, Nebraska, Iowa, and Kansas. Fucking Kansas.

I had a glimmer of an idea to fuck them up. Then, because I am, practically, a genius, I had a second idea.

For either to work, or even to be considered, I’d need permission from Constance Grayson and Ash Collins. In effect, from Senator Wainwright and the FBI.

But I couldn’t — wouldn’t — go behind Sandra Fleming’s back. She ran the FBI office here. The haters would be in her front yard. So back to 1300 Summit. With an amused Daddy in tow.

Sandra laughed out loud, “Love it! Good luck. Say hi to Ash for me. Constance too.”

Family sit-down. I’m not about to dive back into the Neo-Nazi web without talking it over with Vanessa and the kids. Papi and Chica.

Walker’s reaction was cautious and positive. “Doesn’t sound like you’d be on the front lines.”

“Nope. They shouldn’t even know who I am. Where I live. That I was even involved. I’d be strictly off stage. This would be Ash Collins and Constance Grayson. I’d just give them the idea.”


Vanessa said, “Ideas.”

“Ideas. If they like either one, or both, they’d do the implementation.”

I looked at Pilar, “You’re awfully quiet.”

She glanced at Walker. Vanessa. Back to me, “You ... sort of ... get involved with things. Generally.”

True.

I said, “You’re right, I’m hands-on. But not for this one. If you guys like, we can be out of town for the rally. Mini vacay.”

Pilar wasn’t totally convinced. Which had Walker fretting.

Vanessa had my back. Again. She smiled, “Go to DC. Stay in Matt’s apartment. See your people. Let’s at least find out what they think.”

A compromise. Sort of. But not really; if Constance and Ash liked either idea, they’d implement it. Oh well, cross that fork when it’s dinnertime. Or whatever that saying is.

“Hi, Winter.”

“Clint, you should know I don’t put out unless I get dinner first.”

“I know, I saw that on your bumper sticker.” Click.

Hmm, quicker than I had realized. First Walker, now Clint.

Walker, solemn, said, “Chica has an idea. Good one.”

Vanessa smiled, “Let’s hear it, Chica.”

Pilar focused on Gertie, “The children of every politician who sends troops into combat are drafted. Grandchildren too.”

Gertie finger-stirred her Tanqueray, “Federal politicians only? What about when a governor calls up the National Guard to quell a riot?”

“That’s different.”

“Are these kids who get drafted, sent into combat?”

“Yes. No. I’m not sure.”

“You realize Congress would have to pass the law.”

“Fuck.”

“You’re heart’s in the right place, honey.”

Hobo gave her a head nudge on the thigh.

To demonstrate how utterly innocent I was, I took Vanessa and the kids with me to check out Grayhock Farm. “Let’s make it a picnic day.”

Walker said, “Not on that farm. Not in sight of it.”

“Of course not, we’ll just drive by. Maybe snap a couple of pics. Video.”

“Winter.”

“Motorists shoot that big sign all the time. It’s like ... Mr. Rushmore in some circles.”

So, Saturday morning. Sunny. We all piled into Matt’s Audi, large picnic basket and blanket in the trunk. My Heckler & Koch was in Matt’s nifty hiding spot between the gear shift and the armrest. But not because of Grayhock. It was my boon companion everywhere I drove.