Chapter 5: NATO

I eyeballed Sandy Seaver two different ways. From the stands in The K and by tailing him.

My first time in a baseball stadium. It was a revelation. An expensive revelation if I’d been paying for everything. Parking, tickets, food, beer. The little magazine that tells you ... um, baseball stuff.

And, if I’d had little kids ... all those treats and souvenirs and whatever else they needed. I bet a family of four couldn’t get out of the park for under a couple of hundred bucks.

But the scene was magnificent in a way. Almost breathtaking. When Walker and I walked from the gloomy concrete passageway into the seating area ... I was blown away. So colorful. The grass was intensely green. The tall lights so bright. The scoreboard thing, flashing, beeping. Ads everywhere. Excited murmurings from the fans added to the atmosphere.

Walker had studied my stack of tickets, researched the seating charts, got us situated so I was fairly close to the bullpen. Where Sandy Seaver hung out. Sometimes.

But eventually, The K began to annoy me. As the evening progressed, it was like being inside a video game. Brief videos and photos of fans were projected onto the big screen every time there was a lull in the action. Kissing Cam, Hairdo, dancing in the aisles. Cute girls in Royals tops tossed out freebies between innings.

There was no respite. Between innings and when play stopped for a minute, that huge screen was beeping, blinking, flashing, videoing. Walker pointed to it, “The Crown Vision video board.”

“Fuck it.”

But I persevered. Used my Canon binocs and watched Seaver warm up. Then, in the seventh inning, I watched as he took the real mound, the one that counted. Walker summed up the performance. “Six batters, three strikeouts, two popups, one fly to right field.”

“Um.”

“That’s terrific, Winter. Sandy did his job. And Mariana fucked the White Sox, one, two, three.”

“Watch your mouth, boy.”

As we were leaving, Chip O’Grady surprised me by suddenly showing up in the aisle. Shook hands with me. I introduced him to Walker. Pleasant undercurrent coming from the GM.

I said, “Hey, how’d you know we were here?”

“Emile.”

“Oh.”

“I can get you better seats, you know.” Walker was torn between awe at being in the presence of a baseball luminary and knowing what my mission was.

“This was my first game. It was something.”

“Something good?”

“Sometimes.”

From Chip’s mien, his attitude, it didn’t seem to bother him that I was married. With children.

Walker waited until we were in the car, Matt’s Audi, “That Chip guy...”

“Yes?”

“He’s panting for your panties.”

“That doesn’t even rhyme.”

“He longs for your thongs.”

I laughed, “How long you been saving that one up?”

I like it when the guy stays awake to talk. After. I was lying against Clint’s chest, drawing lazy circles. Huge hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

He said, “I saw you at Matt’s funeral.”

“What!”

I sat up, staring. He had never mentioned Matt. Let alone that he knew him.

“Yeah. Good guy. We worked together. Twice. Once up here. Then down in DC. Ash put him in touch with me.”

I was stunned. Had had no idea. Tried to sort out my feelings.

Clint said, “I wasn’t going to hide it from you. I don’t do that.” Mr. Suddenly Straight-Shooter.

“I ... it ... you just surprised me. Ash didn’t mention anything when he told me to call you.”

He shrugged those massive shoulders. “Probably figured it was between you and me.”

“I guess.”

I’d slept with boys who knew each other before. Quite a few of them, back in the day. Middle school, high school. But this ... this felt different.

Clint said, “I felt guilty.”

“For telling me? For not telling me?”

“For thinking impure thoughts at the Cathedral.”

Men. I had to grin.

I punched his shoulder. Ouch. “I was practically a widow. God, what a hound.”

“You looked sexy in widow’s weeds.”

“Women in burkas look sexy to certain types of guys.”

“What types?”

“Breathing.”

Walker: “Woman walks into a bar with a pot pie on her head. Bartender says, ‘Why are you wearing a pot pie on your head?’”

Pilar: “It’s a family tradition. We always wear pot pies on our heads on Tuesday.”

Walker: “But it’s Wednesday.”

Pilar: “Fuck, I must look like a real fool.”

Vanessa played hooky from Euforia. On a Saturday night too. But she and I deserved a night on the town. Wanted one. We both worked, we both studied, we ... we just wanted a fun evening.

Lyft to the Unicorn Club. It was a little after ten, the golden lads and lassies were in full voice. Lucy Cuthbert watched the bar from her front-of-the-house vantage point. Twenty or so people were still enjoying Gullah delicacies in the dining room.

In the bar, her daughter, Bess, was in her fast-stride mode. Serving drinks, handing out salty snacks, flirting, laughing, teasing. When Vanessa and I sauntered in, she gave out a mirthful “Woo-Woo! Let the games begin!”

Tom Cuthbert smiled at us from behind the bar. Vanessa asked Bess, “What’s he pushing tonight?”

She flashed by, ferrying a tray full of margaritas, “Frozen daiquiris. Kiwi.”

I held up two fingers. Bess was back with our drinks; she stage-whispered, “Bartender’s secret. He adds a digestivo — bitter and minty. Fernet.”

Vanessa winked at me; we already knew that one thanks to her own bartender, Amelia Baxter. The fernet adds an herbal dimension. Bracing and refreshing.

Three guys who had been crowding a two-top stood and made sweeping hand gestures, “Miladies.”

I’d slept with two of them. A long time ago. I Introduced Vanessa, shook hands with the third one.

The kaleidoscope night was laughter, cheek-kisses, hugs. Groups of guys, groups of girls, couples, singletons, stopped by to say hi, gossip, tell bawdy jokes. Typical weekend at the Unicorn. Music growing louder, excited chatter.

We Ubered home around one. Walker and Pilar were still up. She gave the kitchen clock a theatrical double take. Said, “You alley cats are cutting it awfully close.”

Walker folded his arms, frowned, “I don’t want to have to ground you.”

I put my arm around Vanessa’s waist, “Want some pussy?”

That shut them up. Last-Word Winter.

Sandy Seaver and his wife — the former Caitlin Moss, the current Caitlin Seaver — lived in Overland Park. Johnson fucking County. A ranch style house that could have been in Enid fucking Oklahoma. Not that I’d been there, but...

Fucking Kansas.

Seven days of surveillance suggested they lived a quiet life. Of course it was midseason, so maybe the orgies and heroin would kick in later. Although, the players were randomly tested for drugs, so maybe not.

One interesting tidbit — the Seavers, sometimes together, sometimes independently, spoke to Kansas City students. In grade schools, middle schools, high schools. And — according to the Royals, thank you, Walker — most of the kids were from low-income families.

Part of a corporate outreach program that the Royals instituted? Or simply a from-the-heart campaign by Sandy and Caitlin? Well, I’d probably find out.

Sandy was whippet-thin except for his arms and shoulders. Sloping shoulders, sinewy arms. Ms. Canon did some closeups and informed me that the Oklahoma Kid had thick, thick wrists.

He mowed his lawn on Tuesday. Chatted with a neighbor, waved to a passing car that honked. The previous day, Monday, the Royals had an off day. He and Caitlin drove over to Leawood — still in fucking Kansas — and joined about 8 or 10 other couples for a backyard barbecue.

I showed the photos to Walker who identified the host and three other guys as Royals. I had snapped the license plates just in case I needed to trace the other folks.

Caitlin Seaver was slender like her husband. Dark brown hair framed a lovely face. She was fond of clingy summer-weight turtlenecks. Which were flattering to her figure. And to her long, graceful neck.

Even though a game might last only three hours or so, Seaver left for The K more than two hours before kickoff. Okay, pitch-off. Caitlin went to two of the five games that week. Rode with wife of the barbecue host.

A big nada. But that’s okay, nobody was expecting miracles. Maybe I’d have more luck next week. The Royals and I were going on the road.

Emile had told me, “Look this season is shot. No way they make the playoffs. So take your time, get it right. Depending on what it is — if there is anything to find out — we have the whole offseason to figure it out.”

I told Vanessa, “Clint has never even mentioned his penis. Not once. No bragging, no apologizing. Only time he even alluded to it was our first night.”

“What’d he say?”

“I’ll go slow.”

“He seems comfortable in his own skin.”

“Yeah, maybe too comfortable.”

Vanessa laughed, “Well, you know how to remedy that.”

Pilar sought me out. Vanessa was at Euforia, our boy in video-game heaven.

“Winter, how big is Clint? Really?”

I made a circle with both hands. “Huge. Biggest I’ve ever seen by far.”

“By far?”

“By far. Why? Is Walker fretting?”

She considered her words. “Maybe a little. It’s probably more curiosity than anything. But he does worry about you.”

I laughed, “Well, I’m still adjusting. But you can tell him it’s not doing any damage.”

“Maybe you could tell him.”

Ah.

“Sure. Send him in to sleep with me.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“I’m cool. Frank at the Sands cool.”

She looked at me strangely. “I’ll let Vanessa know.”

I slept late, found I had the loft to myself. Well, Hobo and the Proper Villain.

GJ over ice. Two toasted onion bagels with bristling sardines in olive oil. Espresso. Satisfactory.

I said my goodbyes and aimed Matt’s Audi toward the Forgotten Northeast. I was overdue for a visit to Sister Mary Packer’s shelter for young girls.

Gloria VanLandingham, still massive, still black, hugged me, “Hello, stranger.”

Another hug — Sheree Nelson, Honey and BB’s mom. Working full time now for Gloria. She looked rested, younger. No boyfriend slapping her and her sons around.

Sheree grinned, “I couldn’t believe Columbo gave up my boys. Still can’t believe it.”

“Gertie had quite an influence on him. On Harold too.”

Gloria poured coffee, “Is Harold really out of the whore business? Hard to believe.”

“Well, he’s in real estate — Gertie says they’re the biggest whores in town.”

Gloria beamed, “We’ve had so many of his pink-haired girls come through here.”

Sheree said, “We got some of them back with their moms. Not all, but some.”

“Some is a success. Big success.”

Gloria said, “Wanna see the books? Old times’ sake?”

“Sure.” I used to go over the numbers once a month. Phillip Montgomery had set up the Sister Mary Foundation and he still monitored it from New York. But now we had a real bookkeeper ... um, keeping the books.

The numbers looked good. Spending was well under control. I slipped them an envelope, “Having a good year.” $5,000. Tax-deductible, as Gertie had reminded me two or three times.

“Receipt please.”

Walker, suddenly shy, said “Are you sure it’s okay if I sleep with you tonight?”

“Tonight? God. Pilar, have you seen my cyanide capsule?”

Pilar said, “Winter.”

Two serious kids. Penis issues. I stopped kidding, gave Walker sincere, “I’m looking forward to it, honey.”

“For sure?”

“Positive. Cross my boobs and hope to cum.”

Grins. They love it when I work blue.

I left a message for Constance Grayson to call me. “Nothing urgent, just catching up.”

A couple of days later she reached me in my office. We exchanged pleasantries, didn’t mention Matt. Neither of us did.

I said, “Constance, I met a guy. In New York. Clint Callahan.”

“I know, Ash told me. I approve, Winter. If that’s why you called. We both have to ... move on.”

Matt. He was here even when he wasn’t.

Walker and I showered early, went to bed early. Vanessa wasn’t back from Euforia. She’d sleep with Pilar tonight.

The kid and I snuggled around until it felt just right. I was backed into him, his ... business enveloped tightly between my thighs. We were on our left sides and I moved his right hand, the palm, to my right nipple. I said, “Hey! What the fuck you doing?”

“But ... you...”

Then he caught up, muttered, “Fuck you.”

“In your dreams.”

He went suddenly still. Aha. But I didn’t press my advantage, didn’t tease him unmercifully. We had some size issues to address.

I waited for Walker to bring it up. So to speak.

“Winter?”

“Walk.”

He shifted behind me. Not restless, probably just trying to formulate his thoughts. The words.

“Er ... Clint. I like him.”

“Good, so do I.”

I moved his hand to my other nipple. Felt a minor tingle. He was throbbing between my thighs. Major tingle behind me.

“Is he ... are you ... what I mean is...”

Change of strategy. I sat up, turned on the light. Sat cross-legged on the bed, facing my red-faced son.

“Honey, he has the fattest cock I’ve ever seen.” I grinned a merry grin, “And I’ve...”

Walker grinned back, “Seen plenty of cocks.”

“Watch your mouth, buddy boy.”

“Why? Did you?”

Got me there.

I pulled the sheet off him. Still throbbing. Youth. Ran a finger, base to tip. “Baby, you have the longest one I’ve ever seen.”

He became still, dead serious, “Really? Really, really true?”

Almost. I held up my palm, “Scout’s honor. But I’m not a size queen, most girls aren’t.”

He frowned.

“We don’t want a teeny-tiny, that wouldn’t be much fun. And we’d feel sorry for the guy. But anyone with even half your size would be fine with me. As long as I liked him. And he knew what he was doing.”

Walker nodded, full of 15-year old wisdom, “Clit.”

“Clit. But also ... and more importantly, tenderness, compassion, passion, awareness.”

So solemn, drinking everything in. I bent down kissed his forehead, “Clint’s size is ... not a problem exactly. A consideration. I have to be in the mood, maybe a little more than usual.”

Walker’s eyes were drifting south. Good.

“Does it ... hurt?”

“Hurt isn’t the operative word. There’s a ... fullness. But I’m getting used to it. He is very, very cautious. Takes his time, makes sure I’m ... available.”

“But some girls would love that. The size.”

I nodded, “A few. But unless a girl is focused on the guy himself, who he is, how much she cares about him as a person ... well, she’s just a shallow pleasure-seeker. Selfish.”

Been there, done...

I said, “Honey, look at it from Clint’s perspective. Think of what he must have gone through. Locker room teasing. Girls he was dating ... I can just imagine reaching down and ... gasping. He probably lost out on a lot of pussy over the years.”

Walker was ... thoughtful. “Really?”

“I would think so. And I’m sure the girls gossiped among themselves. Had giggle sessions. At Clint’s expense.”

I let Walker mull that one over. I switched off the light, re-snuggled. “Sorry, Walker, all this talk, your being so worried, I guess we better just go to sleep.”

Hmm ... what’s that flexing between my thighs? Whose fingers are caressing whose nipples?

Dinner at our kitchen table. Butterflied hot dogs from Anton’s Butchery. Spatula-pressed into our cast-iron pan. Cheap labor: Walker.

Vanessa smiled at me, “When is Clint coming back to KC?”

Pilar nudged Walker, “Biggie Biggs.”

Vanessa, “Pilar!”

I laughed, “It’s okay. Biggie Biggs. I like it.”

Pilar said, “BB for short.”

Walker pretended to be engrossed in mustarding his sandwich. Extra-fiery Russian.

Vanessa shook her head in mock-displeasure, “Biggie Biggs. May as well be back at BEAR’s.”

Pilar and Walker looked up. Pilar, “Why?”

Vanessa grinned, held her hands about eight or ten inches apart.

Pilar, “Bear? Our Bear?”

Walker was studiously pouring Heineken Dark for everyone.

Pilar mused, “I’ve noticed the Bear bulge.” Shrugged, “Who hasn’t?”