Chapter 6: Thermo-heat

Pilar: “E-flat walks into a bar.”

Walker: “Sorry, we don’t serve minors.”

I could get used to Clint. Am getting used to him. Even his ... um, equipment. And he’s getting used to me. Not just my body, but my ... temperament. What I like, the pace, the intensity. The follow-up cuddle and conversation.

Of course that was true with most couples. Wait. Were Clint and I a couple? Maybe. I needed to think about that.

There’s so much about him I didn’t know. Like our first time together in Manhattan. We were strolling his neighborhood, the East Village, arm in arm. He paused and squatted down next to a homeless man. Grizzled, 70 or so. Clint talked softly, gave him a twenty. As we left, Clint said, “Sin loy, buddy.”

Later I looked it up. Xin loi. Clint had never been to Vietnam. So far as I knew. Fuck.

Ash smiled at me, “You’ll talk with your mayor? Set up that end of it?”

“I’ll talk with Bulldog first.”

“Ah, yes. Bulldog Bannerman.”

Whose fame has spread, apparently, as far as the J. Edgar building. Not sure how Bulldog would feel about that.

I said, “I’m in arrears in the Bulldog Favor Bank.”

“Understood.”

I wouldn’t be seeking Bulldog’s approval, not exactly. But if he liked it, Mayor Lynch would like it. Plus, Bulldog and his ... associate, Emile Chanson, might well have some savvy refinements.

Ash said, “So, what’s the second part of your White Patriots plan?”

“Disinformation. I guess it’s also misdirection. Some of it may well be true.”

Ash glanced at the clock. I sped up; no time to fall in love with my own voice. I’d already done that anyway.

“Okay, the FBI has files on most of the top echelon haters. I was thinking about the ones converging on Kansas City next month. What about doing an ancestral portrait — a family tree sort of thing?”

Ash laughed; I’m definitely contacting Netflix.

He said, “They have Jews, blacks, homosexuals, in those trees, don’t they?”

“Without question. And we could invent a few for the ones who don’t.”

“Game it out for me.”

“Mayor Lynch already hates it that they’re coming to Kansas City. If he held a press conference — The Star, TV stations, alternative press.”

I made air quotes, “The Families Who Gave Us The Haters.”

Ash nodded, “Media coverage right before the big day. But aren’t you relying a lot on the mayor. Ammo and ancestors?”

“Yes, he’s a key, all right.” But really, I’d be relying more on Bulldog.

“And you’d like the FBI to be the public face of both the NATO cartridge theft and the family tree campaign.”

“It wouldn’t work, wouldn’t mean anything, coming from me.”

Ash stood, “Let me talk with a couple of people. I’ll call you this afternoon.” He was thinking, “We’ve done disinformation campaigns before. Not as much as the CIA, but ... we have people.”

He paused, thinking. “I am interested. Because of Grayhock. We have a snitch file on him. Full of the usual rants against blacks, browns, Jews. But he’s obsessed with the Twin Towers. Believes it was one of the finest moments of the war. Two skyscrapers full of Jews ... thousands killed.”

Ash shook his head, “These are ... challenging times in DC, though.”

I knew his concerns were practical. Would either plan even work? Was there a backlash possibility? Ash would know how to finesse the ammo theft — it would be someone else’s responsibility to store it until the mayoral issue was resolved. A third party, private party.

But a bigger question would be in the political arena. The FBI — all Federal law enforcement — was under scrutiny. Would the right-wing howls of outrage rise as high as Congress?

I knew that Ash would turn to Constance for lawmaker guidance. And she’d provide the straight skinny. Especially the downside.

Ash walked me to the door. I said, “One tiny thing. Unrelated.”

A momentary look of impatience crossed his face. Until I said, “Greta Gunther.”

He listened to my plan. Smiled, “I can make that happen.”

I rode the elevator down. Clint Time.

Clint and I Ubered to Ben’s Chili Bowl. Probably as popular with tourists as locals now. Of course, for me, there’s a Matt Striker echo. That was one more reason to go there; I wasn’t going to have Matt-free zones in my life. His Audi had been a first step. Then, with Clint, his apartment. That was the big one.

Clint and I sat in the back of the Maxima. Tight quarters. I patted him between the legs, “Everything okay?” Innocent tone.

He gave me faux-angry: “What do you think, Tease?”

“I think you’re gonna get lucky tonight.”

“Tonight?” As in ‘not until then’?

I laughed, “Maybe after lunch. Mr. Satyr.”

“Ah, music to my ears. Pericles addressing the Athenians.”

Mr. One-Up.

Well, I’ll get even after lunch. Give him enough to last five Biblical generations. Pussy.

It was decision time. Probably past time. The Royals. Even though they were in last place in their ... division, I think it’s called, I had the sense from Bulldog and Mayor Lynch that there was what MLK called the fierce urgency of now. If something were wrong, really wrong, with the team, they wanted to know. Last place, first place, didn’t matter. Yet Emile had told me to take my time; and to get it right.

Conflicting instructions? I didn’t think so. Identify the problem as soon as I can. The solution? Take enough time to get it right. So I decided to push things, but behind the scenes.

I was sitting across the table from the General Manager. Chip O’Grady was smiling his prep boy smile at me. Bess Cuthbert sashayed over, one Gin Rickey, one frozen daiquiri — mango — on her tray.

She flirted with Chip, “She’s a heartbreaker.”

Chip smiled at me, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

I said, “Bring us menus and no more of your sass.”

She nodded at Chip, “Flip you for him.”

“I’m telling Walker.”

Bess mock-shivered and butt-swayed away.

Chip said, “Walker?” Pretending he didn’t know.

“My son. Fifteen.”

“Oh? You’re married?” Still pretending.

“I am. Happily. You?”

“Not now. I learned more about ‘equitable distribution’ than I cared to.”

“Missouri isn’t a community property state?”

“Nope. Should have stayed in Palo Alto.”

We weren’t on a date. I had explained to Walker, “It’s a challenge for me. I need Chip’s help, but I can’t tell him what it’s about.”

Pilar said, “Is he cute?”

“As a bug’s ear.”

My dilemma was that I needed game tape. Tapes. A lot of them. Every game that Sandy Seaver pitched in. But I couldn’t tell Chip that. And certainly couldn’t ask for only those tapes.

So, the third time he invited me to dinner, I said yes.

I had debated asking Bulldog, or maybe Emile, if I should even try to get the tapes. But it was my case, my responsibility. I was determined to do more things on my own. The Royals were in my backyard.

Of course I’d have gone running for the nearest Deus Ex Machina if that’s what it took.

Sunday night, Juneau-bound. Walker had ordered a pitcher of spicy Bloodies with more hot sauce on the side and brought the fixings out to our little deck. “We crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and passed Moresby Island.”

He poured me a drink, “We’re staying about 15 nautical miles off the coast. Wind is Westerly Force 5.”

I put a hand on his butt and pulled out the front of his board shorts. That shut him up.

I said, “Hey, what happened to the lining?”

Blush, pink. “Um, Pilar.”

I gazed at my son. My brother.

“She, er, wanted me to ... you know, swing free.”

I reached inside, “Force 5, eh?”

Deck business concluded, I came out of the shower. Cabana Boy was waiting with a towel. Why not, it’s his vacation.

As he helped me into a green thong, I said, “I’m going to check up on AKA.”

“Where?”

“I’ll start with the casino, although he has so many dodges, he could be anywhere.”

Vanessa had coordinated my wardrobe. And Pilar had done some shopping for Walker. Nothing touristy, they just like us to look our best. So did I. Sleeveless white blouse, blue calf-length shorts. I’d need a jacket for the deck.

Small casino, tons of slots. Loud and bright with the usual false promises. Video poker. Several half tables for Blackjack. Roulette, craps. Shrieks of laughter, first visit for many passengers.

AKA was in a Texas Hold ‘Em game. Two half tables pushed together. I glided past; he didn’t look up from the table, but I knew he saw me. He sat up straight, clean hands, fingernails. Thick, white hair, navy blazer, open collar. His face as quietly merry as a young boy’s.

I pushed outside and did five laps around the ship. Two more miles. I’d be diligent on this cruise — so much food and an easy, indulgent atmosphere. But I’d do my five miles each day. Plus the elliptical in the gym.

Walker smiled as I entered our suite, “Wine?”

“Yes. Water first.”

“Did you find him? AKA?”

“Yeah, he’s playing poker.”

“Winning?”

“I didn’t stick around. But probably not yet. He’s salting the mine.”

“Meaning?”

I sat beside him on the sofa. Put my feet up on the coffee table. How the fuck did he get so tall?

Walker had a platter of fruit, cheese, and nuts on his lap. I sipped, helped myself. “It’s probably just one of the old scams, Two Brothers and a Stranger, something like that. These won’t be the most sophisticated marks. Not on a cruise ship.”

“Two brothers?”

“Yeah, he’ll have an accomplice. Probably that grandmotherly woman across from him.”

Walker put his arm around my shoulders, “How would they work it?”

“Small blinds, one and two bucks. But you can raise as much as you have in front of you.”

“How much would that be?”

“Oh, the average buy-in is probably around a hundred dollars. But AKA has someone specific in mind. AKA will lose, or break even until the sucker is hooked.”

“What’s the two Brothers angle?”

“Could be different things. If nothing else, he and his partner will bid the pot up, raising back and forth. Or they could signal what they’re holding, take turns winning the big pots.”

“They’d have to win a lot to cover the cost of this trip.”

I lifted the platter up and placed it on the table. Traced a fingernail on Walker’s bare chest. Around his nipples, down his tummy.

“AKA will make the nut in the casino. One way or another. But he’s a master con artist. He’ll have a crew, more than one scam going.” I cupped my palm on his bulge, “Hmm, what’s this?”

I lifted the waistband, slid my hand inside, “Land Ho!”

Dateline: Juneau.

Walker was at his Monday-morning most alert, watching me pull on a white, bare-midriff top over bare boobs. He tried for casual, “We picked up two local pilots around five this morning.” He traced a map, “We transited Frederick Sound, Stephens Passage and ... look how narrow the Gastineau Channel is.”

I held up two thongs, yellow and green. Raised an eyebrow.

“Pink. I mean yellow! No, green.”

I tilted my head, ‘You sure about that, honey? Yellow?”

“Yes. I dunno. What do you think?” Staring, but trying not to.

“I’m thinking commando. Temperature?”

He grabbed a sheet, “Um, 75. Balmy!”

I tossed him the thongs, “Well, you’re the Captain on this voyage. Put those away, Sir.”

Chip smiled that confident, old-money smile at me. Of course, that was surface; O’Grady wasn’t exactly a Mayflower name. He may or may not come from a wealthy family, but he certainly looked the part.

And, I should know. Having dated a few of them in my John Jay, NYC days.

I had asked Bess what her father was pushing that night. “Mingo’s special burgers.”

I said, “What’s special about them?” As if I didn’t know.

She cupped her lips to Chip’s ear and whispered. He looked at me and laughed. Good help is so hard to...

Mingo Cuthbert’s special burger was two thin sliders — White Castle style — with six-year old New Zealand cheddar, grilled onions and bacon from Daily’s. An idea stolen from Hogshead on the Plaza. I know, because I was the felon.

The Unicorn chips were every bit as tasty as BEAR’S on Broadway. We switched from cocktails to Red Stripe.

Chip swallowed, wiped his lips, smiled again, “Why’d you agree to go out with me? I mean, married and all.”

I batted my eyes innocently. A move I had practiced in elementary school. Girls start early. Boys don’t have a clue. “I thought this was a business dinner.”

“Oh.” His eyes raked my chest. Okay, some cleavage was involved. A bra wasn’t. Why had I shaved my legs? For fun. Flirty fun. I wasn’t going to cheat on Vanessa. Go behind Clint’s back.

Although Clint and I had never discussed it. I assumed he didn’t have another girlfriend. Fucker better not. He’d chased me pretty relentlessly and seemed more than happy to be with me.

Chip was good-natured about it, “Okay, business. Talk to me.”

I swallowed, patted, smiled, “I need these game tapes.” I handed him a list with the dates — home and away. They included all of Sandy Seaver’s appearances, but several games where he stayed in the dugout. Or bullpen, I guess. Or locker room. Fuck do I know about baseball?

Chip took his time reading the list. He was frowning in concentration; trying to see a pattern. There wasn’t one. He shrugged, “Sure. Come by, see Millie.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Fine.”

Chip seemed disappointingly ... well, chipper. For someone who’d had his pussy-dreams crushed. Was I losing it?

I knew I should have been a history major.

We took a tour of Juneau, saw the Capital, the Governor’s Mansion. A busy port, and not just cruise ships. But Walker was most in his element on board. He’s always loved being seen with me. Well, ever since he discovered boobs. And listened to his friends’ MILF comments. Which, I pretended not to hear, but didn’t mind hearing. Not in the least.

But mostly we strolled around the ship, arm-in-arm or holding hands. Walker, of course, worked ‘my sister, Winter Jennings’ into every conversation. Gym, poolside, restaurants, bars.

He was constantly snapping pictures, videos, usually with me in them. I took a few of him too. But mostly he’d hand his cell to a third party, “Mind shooting my sister and me?”

Some bartenders served him a drink, some didn’t. He’s not that big a drinker anyway — proper parenting — and took rejections in a cheerful, good-natured way.

We had an exclusive invitation — proffered only to every passenger on board — to attend a Fine Art Event. 9:30 in the morning, right before we disembarked in Juneau. It was quite a contrast to the measured, civilized auctions on ‘The Globe’. Here it was hucksterism, pure and simple. Cheap champagne in plastic glasses, rapid-fire artwork changes, a fast-talking Aussie auctioneer.

Walker nudged me, “AKA.”

Seated near the staging area, off a little to the right. Bottle of Dom in an ice bucket, tapered flute. He didn’t look around, he was focused on the catalog. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he knew I was there.

Peter Max drew some bids, even 50 or so years into his career. David Najar, one of the most popular in this country. Guy Harvey, Yaakov Agam, Martiros, Michael Cheval, Duaiv. The usual suspects for the usual range of upper-middle buyers.

Walker whispered, “He doesn’t buy anything.” AKA. “Bids, but gets outbid.”