Play Ball Winter JenningsChapter 15 EEEE
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Play Ball!: Winter JenningsChapter 2: Breton free porn video
Walker, pimp-rolling, “You feel me, dawg?”
Vanessa, glorious smile, soft fist-tap, “Dawg.”
Clint called me, right before I left for work. The kids were on the Max, heading for their schools. Clint’s calls weren’t frequent, weren’t annoying. Steady, that was the word. Having earned a Ph.D. — with Honors — in Men, I suspected gonadal twinges.
“When are you coming to New York?”
“Short-term memory loss? I have a wife. A family. Career.”
“When are you coming to New York?”
“Hit the fast-forward button, hon.”
“Winter.”
“It’s amazing how you manage to hide those bolts on the side of your neck.” Click.
Vanessa smiled at me, “I like him.”
“My luck, I’ll walk into his place and see his dead mother sitting in a rocking chair.”
With my Jedi-level ability to compartmentalize, I was able to simultaneously operate on multiple levels. I was just starting to tiptoe around the edges of the Royals caper. If there was a caper to tiptoe around. My family, first and always. Clint.
Like that.
Yet, something kept niggling at the back of my medulla oblongata. Aha! The puppy that didn’t bark. There was no longer a Dixie Wexler in my life. No one lurking, lurking, in my subconscious.
Okay, I had to admit that the average Kansas City gal probably didn’t feel relief that no one was out there scheming to kill her. Hmm ... could this be ... like normal?
Excrementum equorum.
Back in my outlaw days, back when I was swamping around in that Macklin pharmaceutical morass, I’d had an inkling of a Greta Gunther idea. A glimmer. That bitch had sent Dixie Wexler to kill me. It didn’t work out, but he did murder Matt Striker.
Well, Wexler’s pushing up weeds; so is his murderous partner, Karl Hoffstatter. But Gunther is still breathing in and out, in and out.
“Winter.”
“Walk.”
“Are you and Clint ... I mean ... what are you thinking? About him?”
I placed a tender palm on his cheek, “It’s above your pay grade, pal. You don’t understand me, don’t cogitate on my level.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am a carbon-based life form.”
“Winter.”
“Okay, boyo. You’re not really asking about Clint, are you?”
“Yes. Partly.”
“And partly about yourself, right?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“‘The time has come,’ the walrus said...”
I sit down with my son on a fairly regular basis. Often to discuss sex. But our more consequential conversations revolve around ... relationships. Attitude, what to do, what not to do ... life. He’s a good lad and I’m blessed because he innately wants to do the right thing. Now, where he got that...
In any case, he’s like most kids — pushing limits, testing, confident, scared, hopeful. Horny.
I can understand horny. And I can provide perspective, pretty good perspective, on the larger issues too. And do.
Handsome Tony Gonzales made his own entrance. Wide, graceful, confident, he glided to our table, nodding to two, then three other parties. He stood behind my chair; I had no doubt he was checking cleavage. I turned to my left and watched him openly assess Vanessa. He nodded approvingly and sat down in the banquet facing us.
I said, “Red wine?”
“Of course. Whiskey while it breathes.”
Okay, expensive evening. Vanessa placed a palm on my thigh.
As the guest of honor, Tony ordered first, “Chickpea Calamari to start. Faroe Island Salmon. Let’s see ... roasted heirloom tomatoes, cheesy grits. You can pour the wine now.” Nodded judiciously to himself, “Better open that second one too.”
I wasn’t mentally adding up the dinner tab. It was a business expense, a legit one. I’d be reimbursed; it was part of my Royals / Sandy Seaver investigation. Which so far had resulted in two dinner invitations from the GM, Chip O’Grady.
But not two dinners, just invitations. I was a professional detective, licensed.
Walker: “A guy walks into a bar and sees a sign:
“Cheese Sandwich: Buck-fifty. Chicken Sandwich: Two-fifty. Hand-Job: Ten Dollars.
“Are you the one who gives hand-jobs?”
Pilar: “Yes, I am!”
“Well, wash your fucking hands, I want a cheese sandwich.”
Three men have shot at me. I killed all three. Gunner Gunther. Karl Hofstadter. Dixie Wexler.
But that wasn’t how I thought of it. Matt would have scorecarded it exactly that way. Maybe Clint would too. It was a guy way of thinking. You punch me, I punch you back.
For me, it wasn’t that black and white. I would much rather be like Daddy; he’d never even fired his gun on the Job. On the other hand, I’m no Quaker. Some dude aims at me ... well, fuck him.
But it’s never that simple, is it? Some nights, the Guilts pay me a visit. Or maybe just the Regrets. I’d gone through counseling with Dr. Lindsey Conners and it helped back when I needed it the most.
The first time, with Gunner Gunther, the gunfight was controlled, barely controlled, panic for me. Coupled with a determination not to die running away. I wouldn’t, would not, get shot in the back.
With Hoffstatter and Wexler, and I have no clue why it was so, I was icy calm. Matt had just been killed, but I was focused on the job directly in front of me — staying alive.
My numbness in the aftermath wasn’t because I’d shot and killed two scumbags; it was because Matt was dead.
Yet. Wexler had dropped his rifle. Laced his hands behind his head. I still shot him without hesitation. No fleeting thoughts that he had once escaped custody. No rationalizations. I just fucking shot him.
As cold as when Matt executed a double-crossing forger right in front of me.
Fuck.
Pilar smiled at Vanessa and me, “I just love Walker. You know, for a starter boyfriend.”
Vanessa eyeballed Walker up and down. Nodded understandingly.
Greta Gunther. I’d been thinking about her, off and on, ever since Dixie Wexler killed Matt. Gunther had reached out to Wexler through her attorney. Back before the Feds went Asset Forfeiture on her butt.
She wanted me dead; correctly blamed me for the Gunthers’ problems. Which were twofold — they were all in prison or dead.
Matt was killed because Gunther sent Wexler out to get me. Collateral damage, some might call it. I’m still here, but Gunther had to have taken some considerable satisfaction in Matt’s death. Knowing he was close to me, understanding how bad I would feel.
I had vowed never to see Gunther again; never give her the opportunity to gloat. But I had a little pilot light of an idea flickering away. Gunther was assuming there was nothing more I could do to her. Well, let me ponder...
I had a long memory. Like China.
“Gertie, I wish I was old enough to vote.”
“And who would you vote for, dear?”
Pilar gave a ferocious grin, “Anybody but the Oinker.” She shook her head, “He insulted women with that Kavanaugh guy.”
“Well, a lot of women came out in support of him. Even after Dr. Ford’s allegations.”
“I wish I could vote 20 times.”
Walker said, “Voter fraud.”
Gertie stirred her Tanqueray with her middle finger, “Voting 20 times isn’t necessarily that farfetched.”
Vanessa arched an eyebrow, “Oh?”
“Quadratic voting. The idea’s been around for a while. Radical voting.”
Vanessa said, “What?”
“Let’s say that for the next election everyone has 16 voting credits. You could cast one vote for each of 16 individuals and issues. One vote per. But if you felt really strongly about ... oh, gun control, you could cast up to four votes. Which would use up your 16 credits.”
Vanessa said, “Quadratic?”
“One vote uses one credit. Two votes equals four credits. Four is sixteen.”
I said, “How would that work?” Sounded better than ‘I never heard of such a thing’.
“Okay, take the next Presidential election. Let’s posit that it’s Trump again.”
Pilar crossed her arms.
“Running against ... say, Elizabeth Warren.”
I said, “Okay.”
Pilar said, “So I could vote against the Oinker 16 times? No, four times.”
“That’s right, your ballot would be counted as four votes for Warren.”
Pilar grinned.
“But then you wouldn’t be able to vote for senator, for your representative, for ... say, a clean air initiative.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Voters are more passionate about some candidates than others. Some policies. If you really feel strongly, you can concentrate your enthusiasm for your favorite candidate.”
Pilar nodded, “Or against.”
I told Pilar, “You need to carry a whistle, a flashlight, a crucifix, and a loaded Glock.”
“Of course.”
The kids were Ubering to, and from, Knuckleheads Saloon. With their fake IDs that showed them to be 18. They would be seeing Yvette Landry. Walker and I had caught her act during our Louisiana sojourn. A Cajun girl who sounds like a whiskey-soaked 60-year old. But is a young slip of a lass. Sings a lot of her songs in French. Ooh, la!
The joint is down in a sketchy part of the Forgotten Northeast, but it’s family-friendly with good security. The kids won’t be able to order beer ... tough titty.
Vanessa placed her palm on Pilar’s cheek, “Don’t let any guys pick you up unless they’re really cute.”
Pilar nodded, “Adios, Papi.”
Clint, “Hi, Winter.”
“You’re breaking up ... kwrzz kwrzz ... what ... sorry, my loft is going through a tunnel ... kwrzz kwrzz.”
I’d been interested in the law — the criminal justice system — ever since I could remember. Back when I was 10 or so, I would cut school and take the bus down to the courthouse when Daddy was testifying in a case.
In New York, while I was at John Jay, several of us attended trials that looked interesting. All of us were in, or would be in, law enforcement. And some days, many days, the courtroom drama beat anything on Broadway. Even off-off-off-Broadway.
UMKC, and its law school, were just south of the Plaza. A few blocks east. And north of Brookside, so the university was squarely in My Kansas City.
The nature of my work usually allowed me enough calendar flexibility to juggle class-time, work-time, and family. If something had to give it would be the classroom.
I was generally a pretty good, pretty conscientious, student. I graduated from middle school, high school, and college on time and with decent grades. I knew that graduating from law school would be like gaining the academic standing of a professional doctorate, but that didn’t deter me.
I’d motor through, one way or another. Pretty sure. Plus I had great tits and several male instructors.
Vanessa handed the menu to The Oliver waiter, smiled, “I’ll have the O Burger.”
He smiled back, “And on the side?”
“You decide, Timmy.”
I ordered the Fried Chicken Bennie. Handsome Tony frowned, took another look at his menu. He wouldn’t find it listed — brunch only. But anyone with Vanessa...
The Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna, descendant to the Romanov family of Imperial Russia, seemed particularly regal these days. Even more imperious. She and Nature Boy, often accompanied by Hobo and the Proper Villain, strolled the Wrigley halls, whispering, gesturing animatedly.
Pilar filled us in, “The Duchess believes that Amazon is going to do a feature on her.”
Vanessa, “What!”
Walker, “It’s that new series, “The Romanoffs”. Each episode will be about people who believe they’re descendants of the royal family.”
Pilar, “Amazon should contact her. They wouldn’t even need to hire an actor, she could just be herself.”
Hobo seemed to nod in agreement.
I fielded a call from a former, pre-Vanessa, boyfriend. “Quincy, if you want phone sex, I only have an hour or so.”
Walker and Pilar looked at me.
Huh. Ole Quince must have fond memories of me. Well, why wouldn’t he?
Vanessa and the kids were curious. Why was an old beau reaching out to me? I mean beyond the obvious — pussy. I told them, “Quincy had to cut his vacation short — his boss called. So, he offered us a weekend at Sturgis.”
Vanessa said, “Sturgis?”
Walker pumped his fist in excitement, “Yes!”
Pilar said, “Sturgis?”
I said, “South Dakota. It’s supposed to be pretty amazing. Town of six or seven thousand turns into the motorcycle capital of the world every summer. Half a million bikers come from all over.”
Vanessa gave me skeptical, “And we would be interested ... because?”
Walker jumped in, “Bikes. Concerts. Body painting! Wet tee contests!” Growing enthusiasm as the idea sunk in.
I said, “Quiet everyone, Walk is receiving signals from his home planet.”
Pilar giggled.
Vanessa grinned, “Sturgis. I see.”
Pilar said, “Where would we stay?”
“Quincy has some sort of big RV there. Sleeps six or eight. Kitchen. Bathroom of course.”
There were practical considerations before we found ourselves on a flight to Rapid City. Vanessa had to coordinate Euforia things with Lina. Walker and Pilar had to ask for Thursday and Friday privileges from their summer jobs. Pest control.
Since I wasn’t making any progress on ... anything, I just started packing. I’d turned in my law school assignments and would miss only two classes. Taxation (yawn) and Bar Prep. I can live with that.
As the plane landed in Rapid City, no one mentioned that Matt and I had flown in here before. On our way to the WHITES compound. No one mentioned that he’d been killed just a few miles west. For me, was it like getting back on a horse? No. It was just an unplanned family vacation, one we deserved. I was determined to enjoy myself.
We lucked into a red Camaro convertible from Mr. Hertz. Just a half-hour drive up to Sturgis. Bikers here, there, and everywhere. Riding in huge, noisy packs. Solos. Sidecars, three-wheelers, every gaudy paint job you could imagine.
So many beards. Leather? A gigantic S & M convention.
But it didn’t feel menacing, not in the least. We didn’t put the top up for the entire four days.
We were stopped at the entrance to the Hills RV Park. Two polite boys, in their 20s, apologized as they went through our luggage, examined the trunk carefully. For booze. They want you to buy drinks at the official venues.
Vanessa hid her smile when she checked out my reaction. She knew we’d be smuggling in bottles later that day. She turned to the kids, “It’s not a law, just a private policy.”
I clarified, “Fuck ‘em.”
Quincy’s directions were spot on. The key was hidden where it was supposed to be. First thing — air conditioner. Next, exploring. The Airstream was cute. Deco and streamlined and ... cute. Tight quarters, but that would be fine.
The two big beds were in the back of the trailer, no curtain separating them. Walker grinned, Pilar nudged him with her elbow.
As instructed, I double-checked the hook-ups. Water, electricity, sewer. That was the sum and substance of my official duties.
The campground was huge. Hundreds of RVs, campers, pickups with ... um, shell things in back. And hundreds of tents for the heartier souls. Pilar wrinkled her nose, “Ugh.” Portable johns were everywhere. Now why someone would pitch a tent next to ... well, their business.
We walked around, four good-looking people in shorts. Three of us female. There was a massive concert venue on the north edge. Lesser bands were already on stage by noon. Heavy hitters like Kid Rock, Steppenwolf, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Foreigner, would rock the night away. Nights.
Food booths and booze — mainly beer — everywhere. Walker nodded at a tattoo place, “May get me some ink while we’re here.” We ignored him. He didn’t comment at a piercing booth. Pain-baby.
It was a kaleidoscope of a weekend. No agenda, no schedules. We let the kids go off on their own — one of them had a good head on her shoulders. The concerts, all outdoors, were fun. Nobody took the music too seriously; the crowds were there mostly to party.
Weed everywhere. The private security teams — made up of cops who flew in from all over the country — mostly ignored it. They were concerned with underage drinking, fights, the usual stuff.
Downtown Sturgis had been transformed. Almost all of the businesses closed up shop and rented out their stores for the ten days. Vanessa shook her head, “It’s all tattoos, tee shirts, piercing, souvenirs.”
Walker was gob-smacked the entire time. There were so many scantily-clad women. Everywhere. Some of them tipsy before lunch. All of them happy to pose for a horny lad. Pilar shrugged it off; she owned Walker.
My son is pretty intelligent. It didn’t take him all that long to realize that many, many girls weren’t wearing tops — just body paint of Technicolor swirls, cartoon characters, flags — American and Confederate. Some had BAND-AID-like nipple coverups. Others didn’t bother.
We had flown up on Thursday morning. That afternoon Vanessa and I stripped off our tops and drew quite the crowd in the concert field. Her girl painted a red, white, and blue bikini top over her boobs. I went with all white to contrast with my golden tan.
Whistles, cheers, and free beers rewarded our efforts.
She and I spent the day wearing skin-tight short-shorts, sneakers, and ... well, that was plenty.
Back at the Airstream, Pilar had a magnificent eagle, wings spread, painted on her chest. Illegal, given her age. She smiled sweetly, “Didn’t Papi do a great job?”
Right.
Around midnight, Vanessa and I took our shower — cramped but giggly. We hopped in the back bed. Fresh sheets, thank you, Quincy. When Walker and Pilar came out of their shower, the only illumination came from the Airstream windows where some light seeped through the dark curtains.
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