Chapter 7: Guastavino

The kids were hunched over the kitchen table moving black and white stones around a board. Gertie, sipping her Tanqueray, was watching with interest.

I said, “What’s this?”

Walker, shoehorning pity into a single word — a feat that only a teenager who had a slow mother could master — said, “Go.”

I swatted the back of his head, “I know that, dumbbell, why are you playing Go?”

Pilar, not looking up, said, “Gertie said that when AlphaGo beat Ke Jie, it was China’s Sputnik moment.”

Walker, not looking up, but continuing to educate the dim said, “Back when Kennedy said we’d put a man on the moon.”

Hobo nudged Pilar’s thigh. Hey! I love Pilar to death and all that, but if she’s getting secret coaching and my son isn’t...

I looked around; the Proper Villain was power-napping. Rats!

Pilar looked up at me, “I’m going into AI.”

Walker said, “Artificial Intelligence.”

“Thank you, son.”

Gertie, “Remember, Pilar, there’s nothing artificial about AI. Deep learning is inspired by, created by, people.”

Pilar looked up at me, “The field is about 90 fucking percent men. Mostly white guys.”

Gertie, “And why does diversity matter?”

“Bias in, bias out.”

“And what’s the short-term future of AI?”

Pilar moved a white stone; Hobo gave her another head bump. She said, “Epistemically foraging. Karl Friston’s minimizing surprise.”

I nodded to myself. Sure.

Dateline: Ketchikan. Salmon Capitol of the World.

“We’re heading toward Revillagigedo Island.”

“Are you the single most boring passenger on board?”

“At least I’m not shagging the Second Officer.”

Muted dignity, sniff, “That was long ago and far away.”

There are two ways to spend money while on a cruise: shipboard and shore excursions.

Cash is virtually nonexistent onboard. They, the money manipulators, want you to E-sign for everything. Order a drink? Show your room keycard. Same with casino chips, clothing from the boutiques, aspirin. Everything. Even internet access.

Once you’ve escaped the physical ship-hug, monetary policy returns to normal. Cash, credit cards, debit cards, shoplifting. Well, not that.

One afternoon in Ketchikan, Walker and I attended a cornball musical based on the antics of a notorious Old West con artist named Soapy Smith. The acting was over-the-top and it worked. The dames belted out song after song and the audience lapped it up. Plenty of can-can, with a lot of garters and panties.

Even though we were five or six rows back, the main chanteuse picked Walker out. He blushed, grinned, and good-sported himself onstage, playing a hapless innocent.

Now, not just because he’s my brother ... but a couple of cast members and several gals in the audience were giving him an appreciative eyeball. I couldn’t help it, I was just so proud of the handsome lad. Maybe he’ll be in for a treat tonight. Possibly.

The culinary highlight of the trip involved a small boat and an hour or so putt-putting to another one of the thousands of islands that make up Southeast Alaska.

We saw a whale before we even left the little dock. Then a huge eagle’s nest, three little guys and an attentive mama. Tiny deer were, as we outdoorsmen say, rife.

We pulled up to a small dock attached to a restaurant, which had outdoor service ... um, outdoors. Lunch was a crab boil out on the deck. Magnifico!

Dungeness, Kielbasa, corn on the cob, potatoes, clams, mussels. Lemonade. Walker winked at me — the feed was just like a dinner we’d had in New Iberia, Louisiana. Crawfish instead of crab, Andouille, beer. But it was a virtual repeat. Even the garlic bread.

Back on board our ship, a crowd of around twenty folks had ringed the Texas Hold ‘Em table. I didn’t pause, just gave the three largest stacks of chips a quick double-o. AKA’s pile was comparatively modest. A florid gent in his 50s had a decent amount in front of him. The big winner was Granny — three times as many chips as their mark.

This was our next-to-last night on board, so AKA and Granny had made their move. That would give their target one more shot on Friday if he wanted to recoup. Good luck.

“The Tongass National Park is the largest in the country.”

“I didn’t know you were a size queen, baby.”

“Ha! You should talk.” Got me there.

“Actually, Tongass is the Earth’s largest temperate rainforest — over 17 million acres.”

“Yawn.”

“As we approach Victoria, we’ll make a large course alteration to port to embark our local pilot.”

“Large.”

“Look, we’re alongside our assigned berth. We’re sending our mooring lines ashore at Ogden Point.”

“Walker.”

“Winter.”

“Never mind.”

Victoria was my favorite port of call. We took a twilight bus tour of the beautiful city on Vancouver Island. Population around 80,000. The guide had an interesting factoid. According to Sotheby’s, the value of Victoria’s waterfront property increased more than any other city in the world this past year.

Not sure why I liked knowing that; probably should be sopping up sperm whale intel.

We hiked up to Craigarroch Castle — our guide took rather too much enjoyment from rolling his Rs — but I lost interest when the docent claimed there weren’t any secret rooms.

There was an impressive 12-foot snooker table, about the most colorful thing in any of the rooms. The black and white photographs, the murky oil portraits ... the overall sense was one of gloom. Not necessarily doom, but of lives lived in muted colors.

Nonsense of course. They fought and fucked and frolicked just as much as anyone, anytime. But the tour did leave me in need of a pick-me-up which Walker provided in the form of a large pitcher of room-service margaritas. Salt, limes, bucket of ice.

I undressed for my shower, “Food. Salty. Immediate.”

“Aye-aye!” Lucky he didn’t salute-stab himself as he stared at my departing heinie.

“Winter.”

“Walk.”

“Shouldn’t we ... you know, AKA ... uh, report him.”

“You want to rat out Also Known As?”

“I dunno, but...”

“No, you’re right, we should. If I were a better citizen. In a different line of work.”

I ponder the incongruities of my life every once in a while. I don’t obsess over my line-crossing decisions, but from time to time I do take them out and examine them in the harsh light of day.

I take too many shortcuts in my career. Creeping someone’s house when I should go through the legal process. Having a cadre of underbelly characters feeding me intel — my Winter Irregulars.

And, like on this cruise, being aware of the scams AKA and his crew were pulling off. Should I report him? Of course. Am I teaching Walker situational ethics? Of course.

That alone — Walker — would bother me more than anything. But I’ve taught him common sense, maybe even decency. How to live his life. He’s a good kid, my one accomplishment I’m more proud of than anything.

I’d make sure he had the AKA caper in perspective. I wasn’t the world’s policeman and I wasn’t about to blow this particular whistle. Bespoke morality on my part? So be it.

Yet, it does niggle...

Walker and I, towel-wrapped, sat out on our little deck as we watched Victoria fade away into the midnight ... um, midnight.

“Southerly, toward Port Angeles. We’ll pick up our Seattle pilot at 1:30.”

“Again? Didn’t this Captain learn anything?”

“Winter.”

“Honestly.”

“The pilot will do the last 65 nautical miles. We’ll dock at 06:00.”

I reached across, reached under his towel. “Oh six hundred. That should be enough time.”

“What?” Croak.

I circled the base with my left hand. Stroked up and down with my right. Shades of middle school. Such an easy pleasure to bestow. To hungry, overly-appreciative boys. Until they learned about BJs. Those were easy too, though.

I hummed a light ditty and leaned my cheek on Walker’s chest. Uh-oh. Hummingbird-flutter. Just what I need — myocardial infarction. I pictured myself at the Inquest. “Um, Judge, it’s not how it looks even though he’s still erect.” Stop.

I stood up, letting my towel neglect its duties, puddling at my feet. Still gripping firmly, I led the lad back inside, back to our bed. Both lamps were on.

“Winter.”

“Shh.”

I pushed him softly down; he was lying face-up, staring at me. In awe. As was appropriate. Well, maybe not appropriate.

I eased my hands, palms up, under his butt. Then cupped his thighs and slid upwards to the back of his knees. Gently, so gently, I pushed his upper legs toward his chest. Walker continued to stare at me.

I smiled. Whispered, “Show me.”

“Winter.”

“Walk.”

“Do you mean ... are you... ?”

“I do. I am.”

I lay face down, cupped my chin in my hands. Lifted my feet up, crossed my ankles, and settled in. Audience comfy, performer nervous.

My lovely little boy stared at me, closed his eyes, began his magic ritual. Hands under his hips, he arched backwards, knees touching his shoulders. His throbbing essence was perfectly lined up ... it just glided in between his lips.

I smiled, “Look at me, baby.”

He blinked open, uncertainty turned to ... I’m not sure. Something else. Pleasure, some nervousness. Excitement. Love.

As he drew closer, I massaged his balls softly. Then that shudder-sigh that just melts me. As he pulsed and pulsed, I lay on my back beside him. Whispered, “Kiss me.”

No hesitation; he rolled over on top and opened his mouth, inserted his tongue. Eager tongue, ravenous. I reached down, hands on his butt and pulled him closer. Walker tasted familiar and exotic, both at the same time. I devoured him.

He couldn’t get enough. Was unconsciously humping against me. I realized that what had become semi-soft was now fully throbbing against my pussy. My moist pussy. Damp. Wet. Fuck.

I was aware, on some subliminal level, that it was the back of his cock, not the head. I tightened my grip on his butt and thrust up to meet him. Our tongues were going crazy and I heard myself groaning ... need, frustration, desire.

My pussy lips felt as open as my mouth. My body was on the verge.

Walker’s brain caught up with his physical being and he stopped all movement while he digested our ... um, proximity. His breath caught. Then he lifted his hips and, still deep-kissing me, let his cock spring free. Rigid, pointing right at me.

My heart was racing.

He little-boy moaned into my mouth, lowered himself so the very tip brushed against my ... my me. My essence. My mind was crazy-circling — no, yes, maybe, no. I squeezed his butt even harder, nails digging in. Signaling ... I have no fucking idea what. A mixed message at best.

If Walker had started to soften after he had cum, it had only been for a few seconds. And his libido had definitely not taken any time off. His age, his hormones, his crush on me ... little boy lost. Big girl too.

He was supporting himself on his elbows. Mouth still locked on mine. In mine. But his focus was lasered in — his tip on my clit.

I pushed up at his waist: stop. At the same time, I spread my thighs: don’t stop. Pushed up...

We attached new luggage tags and placed our cases outside the door. We’d be in Seattle in the morning. Our last port of call.

Walker looked at all the luggage, up and down the hallway. Winked at me, “AKA.”

“Right theory, wrong place.”

“Whataya mean?”

“You’ll see. Feed me. Now.”

In the morning, like good little sheep, we reported to the theater. Along with two or three hundred other passengers. That, and the lifejacket demo were the only mandated assemblies we attended.

Then, row by row, we stood, shuffled forward, down several flights to the exit area. Had our card keys scanned one last time. Down the gangplank. More shuffling, then a huge luggage area. We found our color-coded section and walked up and down aisles of cases. Walker muttered, “He’d better not take ours.”

I whispered, “He won’t. Knows better. But see that little red sticker near the bottom of that case?”

“Yeah?”

“AKA’s crew went through the halls last night, marking their target bags.” I looked around, nudged my bro, “Check that out.”

An enormously fat man, black, sweating, was pushing a luggage cart from the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Seattle. He was wearing a vaguely-bellhop uniform with a red cap like a train station porter. But he looked official, no question.

The cart had half a dozen cases stacked on it, plus two hanging suit bags. Granny was walking officiously in front, pausing to point to a Tumi, then continuing briskly.

I slid into the booth opposite Pat Hodges. Handed her a DVD. Showtime.

“What’s this?”

“This is where you earn your money. Every game that Sandy Seaver pitched in so far this season. Edited to show only his time on the mound.”

Pat blinked. “Oh. Sandy Seaver. That’s what this is about.” She frowned, “I haven’t heard anything about him, not even a whisper.”

“I hope there’s nothing to hear. But I need to know. We need to know.”

“You and Tony Gonzales?”

“No, he led me to you. He’s just a ... contact.” Who’s doing my mother and any other female who’ll slow down for him.

“Who is your client?”

I shook my head, “Confidential.”

A flicker of annoyance, but not at me. At not knowing. Pat’s business was knowing.

Pilar, “Horse walks into a bar. The shocked bartender points a finger at him in alarm and yells, “Hey!”

Walker: “You read my mind, buddy.”

On the road again...

The first Royals road trip I could go on started in New York. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Besides, I’d be saving money by staying with Clint Callahan.

Who was impressed with my Yankees tickets. “Expensive,” was the operative word.

We lost the Thursday game; ‘we’ being the Royals and me. Clint wasn’t too overt in cheering on his beloved Bronx Bombers. Sandy Seaver didn’t pitch.

Friday was rained out, but Clint and I were able to entertain ourselves. We had lunch at the Grand Central Oyster Bar, one of my favorites from my John Jay days. I’m still impressed by those vaulted ceilings with those magnificent Guastavino tiles.

We sat at the counter and Clint went with a dozen Watch Hill oysters. I ordered one of my usuals — pan-roast. Cherrystone clams. I smiled demurely at Clint, “Kiddo, a dozen oysters aren’t going to be nearly enough.”

The counterman choked back a laugh.

I said, “Did you ever play ball? Baseball?”

He nodded, “In school. Had a cannon of an arm, but I couldn’t hit the curve. I’d sit on a fastball, adjust for the curve.” He smiled, ‘Didn’t matter.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Somebody said that baseball is the most important thing that doesn’t matter.”

I thought about that.

Clint said, “You win, you lose, but there’s always tomorrow. Or next season. Always another game.” He grinned, “You believe stuff like that when you’re 17.”

“What is the role of human agency in our lives?”

Pilar looked sharply at Gertie. The little girl tried to act casual, but she always listened to the New Yorker. Listened with a fierce intensity.

“Human agency?”

Gertie stirred her Tanqueray with her middle finger, “Like today. Take the current administration in DC.”

Pilar frowned.

“How did we pivot from Obama to Trump?”

Pilar crossed her slender arms.

“Are events — like national elections — shaped by broader forces? Like economics and demographics and geography?”

Vanessa and Walker and I were paying attention. Hobo too, his head resting on Pilar’s thigh. The Proper Villain was engaging in a well-deserved power nap.

“Or are events determined by the nature of the ... character of ... our leaders?”

Pilar said, “Both?”

Gertie nodded, “I was reading a piece by Jon Meecham the other day.”

To be contributing, I said, “Historian.”

“He posited that it took someone like Lincoln — his political talents and moral strengths — to save the Union. Most people, even most of our other Presidents, couldn’t have done that.”

Walker said, “Sixteenth President.”

“And Meecham said that FDR, with all of his complexities, was able to rescue the economy and lead an isolationist country into a position of global responsibility.”

Pilar, “What about Obama?”

“It’ll be interesting to see how he’s perceived a couple of decades from now. He was able to win two national elections by appealing to the future. By standing on the side of hope.”

“And the Oinker?”

“Trump didn’t gain a majority like Obama did. But he tapped into the flip side of hope. Fear.” Gertie smiled grimly, “Of course Hilary had so much baggage, that was a major factor too.”

“Grab ‘em by the pussy.”

“Too early, way too early, to see how history will judge Trump. But think back to the concept of human agency operating in an environment like 2016. The right man with the right message ... stagnant incomes for all but the wealthy. An inchoate resentment of ‘others’. An almost subconscious yearning for nativism.”

“Fucker.”

“Obama rose to prominence with a compelling life-positive narrative. Then, this last time around, Trump simply had a better story. And told it better than all the other candidates.”

I said, “So which is it? People or the ... larger forces around us?”

“Pilar got it right. It’s usually a mix of both. But, once in a while, a Lincoln or an FDR comes around. Someone with brains and talent and vision. Sometimes one person can shape events.”

Hobo head-nudged Pilar. Snack time.

But Pilar had one more question, “Gertie, what do you think about all of this targeting of blacks and Jews?”

“Yet another chapter for African Americans in this country. Of course for Jews ... nothing new, nothing restricted to America.” She sighed, “The chevra kadisha will be busy.”