Chapter 4: Lumber

Pilar: “A gorilla walks into a bar and says, ‘A scotch on the rocks, please.’ He hands the bartender a twenty.”

Walker: “The bartender thinks to himself, ‘This gorilla doesn’t know the price of drinks,’ and gives him fifteen cents change.”

Pilar frowns.

Walker: “You know, we don’t get too many gorillas in here.”

Pilar: “Well, at nineteen eighty-five a fucking drink, I ain’t coming back, either.”

The boarding process was surprisingly smooth. I guess when your ship loads up three thousand or so passengers several times a month, you learn the drill.

I’d bought Walker and me matching Tumi passport holders. Dark blue with RFID blockage. Very smart-looking. The interesting thing was that we were asked for our passports only when boarding the ship in Seattle. Not when we visited Victoria. I guess Canadian customs officers ... well, I don’t know about Canadian customs officers. But it would be relatively easy for someone to board in Seattle and disembark in Canada under another name.

While this was our first cruise, Walker and I weren’t exactly noobs. Not after our stint on that luxury condo-yacht, ‘The Globe’. Still, it should be fun. Bars, restaurants, a casino, other passengers. And stuff to see ... like, I don’t know ... mountains and glaciers. If there were any left, glaciers. Whales and birds and ... stuff. Although I’m of the Fran Leibowitz school, “Nature is something you go through between your apartment and a cab.”

Oh well, it’s Walker’s Voyage.

Our suite was pretty spiffy. My bro visibly relaxed when he saw the king-size bed. Vanessa and I had accidentally let him overhear our conversation ... she said, “You did reserve two beds?”

“Yeah, he’ll be disappointed, but it’s ... healthier. He’s gotten too old to sleep with me.”

“Absolutely.”

It was day three of the Education of Winter Jennings. Pat Hodges at the lectern. Two or three hours a day, not counting a walking break every half hour. Hodges sipped steadily at her Henrietta bourbon — Our Own — but didn’t get tipsy, didn’t slur, didn’t lose focus.

Time to move from the general to the specific. “Pat, how can you cheat? Betting on sports, I mean.”

“Not easy. Not in Vegas, not in any casino, not online. Online is a little easier, but ... well, for serious money, they’ll run you down.”

“But there are scams. Have to be.”

She nodded, pinky-cleared the corner of her mouth. “Usually involves an insider. You heard of the Black Sox scandal?” Cigar teeter-tottering as she spoke.

“No.”

She gave me a sideways glance. Was I dissembling or really as sports-ignorant as I seemed?

“Over a hundred years ago. Some key members of the Chicago White Sox were accused of intentionally losing the World Series. Banned for life.”

“Were they guilty?”

“Who knows?”

“Anything more recent?” Like this season. In Kansas City.

She brought up an iPad from the bench she was sitting on. “Hoops. Basketball. Point shaving. But it’s college not pro. Okay?”

“Okay. Point shaving?”

“Let’s say Team A is a 12-point favorite over Team B. The better team usually wins; not always, but usually.”

“Okay.”

“Now, let’s say a bookie has Team A’s leading scorer in his pocket. One guy, two easily, can keep the score closer than it normally would be. Team A would still win, but they wouldn’t cover the spread.”

“Twelve points.”

“Right. But in basketball, it’s easier with an accomplice. And you know what they say when more than one person knows a secret.”

“It’s not a secret.”

“Yep. In this case, two players plus whoever was pulling their strings.”

Hodges scrolled through her device and patted the seat beside her. “I’ll show you how these two players gamed the system. Got away with it for a while.”

I moved over and settled in to watch a basketball game. My first that wasn’t played in a driveway.

“Okay, this was three years ago. The talk of the NCAA. Whisper, not talk. No charges were ever brought — the powers-that-be preferred to ostrich it.”

“Got it.”

She adjusted her iPad so it was easier for me to see. Took a sip, “This is three and a half minutes that I copied from sixteen games. All the action is in the fourth quarter.” She looked at me, “The last quarter.”

“Okay.”

“The Taft Titans; Taft is in Boston.”

I shifted around for a better angle, less glare.

Another sip, “Their star player was a sophomore named Krylo Krylenko. Kry-Kry. Ever hear of him? Kry-Kry?”

“No.”

“Ukraine, outside of Odessa. Monster player — 6’ 11” and 320 pounds. Smooth mover though, like a ... gazelle. He looked like a bruiser, moved like a ballerina — whatever the male term is.”

“Ballerino. Danseur.” I may not know sports...

Pat gave me a hooded glance, “Whatever. Kry-Kry played strong forward — good defender, top scorer. Leading scorer. Massive hands, monster on the boards.”

I nodded knowingly.

“Most college teams would have played him at center. But he was smart enough, or someone running him was, to insist that whatever school he went to would put him at strong forward.”

“Why? Why not center?”

“Because the pros would play him at strong forward. So Kry-Kry would have two, maybe three years at the right position. Maybe even four if he stayed in school.”

I nodded again.

She pushed Start and I leaned forward.

“Doesn’t matter who Taft is playing, just concentrate on Kry-Kry and the point guard, Dutch Hollingsworth, number 32.”

“Got it.”

Stop, start, stop, start.

“Okay, now don’t watch the ball. It’s hard not to, but concentrate here — look at the weak side help. And here — no one doubles down in the middle. And here — Kry-Kry doesn’t fill the lane on the break. Huskies score.”

Pat waited while I made notes.

“Okay, no-look pass back to Dutch who takes it to the hoop. Goes up in the air.” Stop. “Nowhere to go, he gets stuffed. No way he penetrates and goes against that Bruins center without knowing what he’s gonna do.”

“Here it’s Dutch again. Watch him slow down — see that stutter-step. Should have been a three-on-two. So, no shot for Kry-Kry.”

“Got it.” I sort of did.

“Okay, Kry-Kry again. See, he’s supposed to set the pick. He’s a beat late and the Taft guard has to yell out another play. Shot clock is ticking; this time, Dutch lets his opponent just slip by. Turnover. They don’t beat the clock.”

“Got it.”

“Okay, watch this — a give-and-go, simplest play in hoops. The small forward is open in the corner, Kry-Kry just holds the ball. He never looked for the cutter. They had to run another play.”

I nodded; this was oddly mesmerizing.

Pat was patient. I made a lot of notes on stuff I didn’t really understand. But I got the gist — Taft didn’t lose a game they should have won easily. But they didn’t make the spread on each of those 16 games.

Pat said, “The beauty part — Kry-Kry didn’t throw bricks at the hoop. His shooting percentage was about the same for every game he and Dutch shaved points. Mainly, they slowed down the game, held down the scoring. Nothing obvious — you had to be looking at a specific player to spot the scam. The pattern.”

“And you were looking?”

“Yes. Three rumors. Two too many. And the betting started spiking for certain Taft games.”

“And somebody bet on the bay. Oh do-dah day.” Pat gave me a blank look like the kids do. Oh well.

I said, “What happened to them? The players?”

Pat gazed at me steadily, flicked away a cigar speck, “Someone sent the head coach an anonymous clip. With a play-by-play transcript.”

“And?”

“He benched Kry-Kry and Dutch. Taft revoked their scholarships. Kry-Kry is with Merrill in Boston. Lost track of Dutch.”

Clint Callahan was a quiet man. For a New Yorker. He let the conversation come to him. Unless he was in full pussy-pursuit. Basically, he didn’t bite people on the ankle to get their attention. Neither did I. Not usually...

“Winter, I’m listening to the Stanley Brothers. ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’.”

“I don’t think I know them.”

“Saturday Night is secular bluegrass. Sunday is gospel. Mournful mountain music; Weltschmerz almost.”

“Want to de-Mensa that for me?”

Pilar said, “Vanessa, Ennio asked me why days go on for so long.”

Vanessa smiled, “What’d you tell him?”

“Because he was young. That time would move faster when he was my age. But I wonder...”

“You were right.”

Walker said, “Why?”

“Okay, Ennio is six now. That means he’s lived ... let’s see ... he’s lived about 2,000 days. You’re 14, Pilar...”

“Over 5,000 days.”

“Right. So think how 24 hours is such a larger percentage of Ennio’s life.” Vanessa smiled again, that stunning heartbreaker smile, “And what a tiny percentage of the life of an old hag like me.”

Our favorite corner booth at BEAR’s. Rebecca Montgomery raised a wine glass, “Cheers.”

“Cheers. How’s Mindy?”

Another smile, “She’s a teenager.”

“Uh oh.”

“No, it’s nothing serious. Well, it’s serious to her.”


The first time I’d met Rebecca and Phillip Montgomery I’d rescued their daughter from a wannabe cult. Even though Mindy was a couple of years older than Walker, they became friends. Then more than friends.

But two years, when you’re teenagers and the girl is the elder ... well, it couldn’t last. She moved to Palo Alto, to Stanford. Enjoyed an assortment of college boyfriends. Fortunately for Walker, Pilar came into his life.

I smiled back at Rebecca, “Boyfriend troubles?”

“No. Probably just the opposite. I think Mindy is the tormentor. In most cases.”

“Good. Good for her.”

Herr Hesse marched over, back ramrod stiff. I introduced Rebecca and he bent from the waist, air-kissed the back of her hand, “Frau.”

I said, “What are we having today, Maestro?”

He looked us over, two trim ladies. Nodded to himself, about-faced and marched off to place our orders.

Bear came by, hugged Rebecca. Who hugged him back warmly. Bear had taken a bullet to his chest in Massachusetts. Working with me on a blackmail case involving Phillip. Rebecca said, “Sit with us, this is about Mindy.”

She looked at me. “I don’t know if I’m asking for a favor or doing you one.”

“The answer is yes or thank you.”

“Mindy has changed her major. And is transferring down to UCLA. Film school.”

“Tough field.”

“I know. But Phillip and I don’t want to discourage her dream. She’s still so young.”

Bear said, “It’s good to fuck up once in a while.”

“I guess.”

I said, “How can I help?”

“Mindy has permission from an assistant dean at UCLA to create a documentary for her first-year project. Sort of a video dissertation I guess.”

“What fun.” Especially with parents who can afford to finance a dream. More than one dream.

Bear said, “What’s the documentary about?”

“The Wrigley Hotel. The building, history, the people.”

I laughed, “And Mindy wants to stay with us.”

“Yes. If Pilar wouldn’t mind.”


“I’ll ask her of course. But I’m sure she wouldn’t. Of course Gene Austin would have to sign off on the documentary.” The owner.

“Mindy already called him. He thinks it’s a fantastic idea.”

Bear said, “The Wrigley.”

“Yeah, she’s going to write it herself. Film it on an iPhone. She tells me they do that these days.”

Louie-Louie brought over vegetarian lasagna with a side of kale salad. Herr Hesse was going to keep Rebecca and me in fighting trim.

Aaron Grayhock liked the spotlight, reveled in the media attention. He was a large man, six two or three, close to three hundred pounds. Always wore bib overalls with a plaid shirt underneath. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his massive forearms.

He had thick gray hair and a Biblical beard. Old Testament, wrath of God, Biblical.

And Grayhock played to the camera, his country-boy aphorisms spilling out in an apparently stream-of-consciousness manner. I suspected that he practiced before a mirror.

“There’s a reason God gave white people the brains. To run things. You can look it up.”

“Nine-eleven will be a more revered American holiday that the Fourth. You can look it up.”

“Not all darkies are criminal.” Head-turn to spit out tobacco juice, “But there’s a reason why so many are behind bars. You can look it up.”

“Hitler did a lot more than make the trains run on time. You can look it up.”

Grayhock worked the phrase, catchphrase really, ‘you can look it up’ into every television interview. With his huge billboard-sign behind him, framing the shot.

Walker said, “Why does he have ‘14’ tattooed on his arms?”

I said, “It’s the supremacist’s slogan — 14 words long. ‘We are ignorant white trash who blame our failures on everyone but ourselves.’”

Pilar, stickler, “That’s only 13 words.”

Vanessa giggled, “They can’t even count.”

But she knew I’d just made it up. The real hater’s slogan was coined by a guy in jail for violating the civil rights of a Jew. The punk’s wife put out the message:

“We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”

As White Patriots Day approached, demand for Aaron Grayhock intensified as cable and broadcast television channels competed to see who could elicit the most outrageous quote out of the telegenic supremacist. Then liberal weenies would cluck-cluck on various discussion panels.

I watched all of this with particular interest. There may be a surprise or two for White Patriots Day.

I bumped into Pilar in the Wrigley lobby and we rode up together. Nature Boy said, “Floor please.”

Pilar patted his butt and said, drawing on her 14 years of wisdom, “Mr. Boy is a grower, not a shower.”

I smiled, “And Walker?”

“Both.”

I had tasked the Sullivans to do a pro forma backgrounder on Sandy Seaver. The twins didn’t follow sports any more than I did, so the Royals connection didn’t particularly titillate them.

We were having a two o’clock lunch at BEAR’S. My favorite corner booth, my favorite waiter, Louie-Louie.

The little cherubs were in a merry mood, even more upbeat than usual. Bear walked by; one large, graceful man. Huge, graceful man. He smiled at Jessie, then Jesse, “Thanks. Good job.”

Hmm. I hadn’t known the Sullivans had done any work directly for Bear. Of course she’d been with him when he’d gotten shot in the chest. It seemed so long ago. Massachusetts. I blinked the memory away.

Jesse passed me a file folder. The twins knew I liked old-timey paper copies in addition to the thumb drive they’d provide. He said, “Sandy Seaver. Not much there. Of course we didn’t know what we were looking for.”

Jessie patted the back of her brother’s hand, “But we found what there was to find.”

Louie-Louie brought us a second round of Lindemans framboise, sharp and tangy and bubbly. Raspberries.

I opened the folder. Scanned the cover sheet.

Jesse said, “Seaver leads a quiet life. For someone like him.”

“Someone like him?”


Jessie said, “You know ... sports, travel, spotlight.”

Herr Horst marched over to our booth. Teutonic, rigid posture, militaristic. No menus under his arm. I smiled up, “What are we having?”

Parade rest. “Ethiopian — tibs.”

Jesse said, “Tibs?”

“Sautéed filet mignon served over injera bread.”

I said, “Thank you, Maestro, sounds delicious.”

About-face.

Jessie said, “Seaver is 29. From Enid in Northwestern Oklahoma. Around 50,000, mostly white, mostly Christian. Average high school student, no college. Kind of keeps to himself.”

Jesse said, “Drafted right out of high school — the Royals sent him to Idaho Falls then moved him up to Omaha. The Storm Chasers.”

Jessie said, “Funny name for a baseball team, but it’s Triple-A.”

“I know.” Walker.

Jesse said, “So far as we can tell Seaver has cut ties with Enid. Didn’t go back for his tenth reunion. Might be estranged from his parents. We didn’t dig too deep.”