The Charity Stripers
Written by Mick RoseNick Palatino snorted a fine line of coke. Snagged one of ten active burner phones—and punched speed dial to ring his favorite Vegas hooker: “St. Suzie’s signed me to a five year deal. I’m gonna coach men’s hoops and change the team name to Alien Nation. How’s your sweet ass feel about movin’ to New York City?”
Buck naked on the sofa, nipples suddenly taut, Diane Walsh purred. “How much green they giving you?”
“Roughly $20 million—if I last five years—which I doubt will happen. But the budget for my staff is also highly lucrative.”
“About $5 million then for the upcoming season. You gonna make my sweet ass rich if I make the move Nick?”
Palatino popped the cork on a bottle of Booker’s bourbon. Poured four fingers over ice. “Beyond your wildest dreams Diane—if you meet my demands and follow my instructions without fail.”
Diane turned to hooking her second year in law school after turning 24. Then switched to part-time classes so she could excel at both. Now four years later? She felt ready to tackle the Multi State Bar Exam—and would test this July. Private practice beckoned: truly special clients with special needs. Special people with proven talents like Nick Palatino. “Does this mean you’re finally ready to unveil The Charity Stripers? I got good news this morning Nick—our Trademark application has been approved.”
“We’re nowhere close to unveiling. First things first Diane. We need a qualified team to work in NYC. I want a list of candidates, with complete photo-spreads and basic bios by noon next Friday. We’ll do background checks later. But to the best of your knowledge? No one with a rap sheet—and no drug addicts. Intelligence, veiled ambition and maturity are a must. Racial diversity is important and strict age ranges are essential. Bare minimum for now? A dozen young women age 19 to 22, at least 5 of them black, no more than 4 white. And at least 6 women between 28 and 40—4 of them Snow Whites, who feel comfortable schmoozing with blue-blood assholes. But no one born in countries with sex trafficking reputations.”
Palatino paused. “Keep our cards close to your fine tits, Diane. Whatever you do? Do not promise anyone a job. But be sure to tell them these positions will likely last for twenty-four months. Their prospective non-profit employer will provide corporate housing, full health insurance, pay their relocation costs, and provide access to a fleet of electric vehicles—alongside with a high five-figure base salary. Meanwhile top performers can double their salaries to six figures within six months. However, they will be on call 24-7 the entire first year.”
“So noted,” Diane said. “When should I pack my suitcase?”
“Depends how fast you fill our charity roster. Can you book a private venue for next Friday? Then start scheduling interviews for me? Ideally I’d like to lead with the older women. I’ll need them in New York ASAP,” Palatino said.
“No worries whatsoever on those first two items Nick. But we’ll need to be cautious with the younger women. They’re the weakest links in this plan of yours.”
“I’m already behind the eight ball and I’ve never won shit without taking risks,” Palatino said. “Be well, Diane—I’ll see your sweet ass soon.”
Palatino killed the call and used his Bluetooth headset to request Kaito’s presence. Treated as pariahs in their respective home countries of America and Japan, the two shunned men met in Thailand—where Palatino coached an all-shemale team to a World title in the Lady Boy Hoops League.
No matter where he coached? Palatino tried to keep his Winning philosophies simple. His absolute favorite? Win at All Costs. Because History loves winners who go out on top. Take Napoleon for example. No one knows how many battles the little general won during his career. All they remember is he lost Waterloo and never won again.
Kaito entered the suite and the friends exchanged bows before the fireplace. Kaito was a Master in The Art of War—and supported Palatino’s Win at All Costs mantra—which included the maxim: Recruit and Retain Top Players by any Means Necessary.
Palatino looked distraught and handed the martial artist two dozen glossy 8 x 10 photos and a written abstract—
“This poor kid lives in Oak Stump Junction, Michigan,” Palatino said. “This goddamn rural backwater has no legal boundaries—and no legal population. It’s so deep in the fucking woods that anyone who lives there has to pump in sunlight. Both his parents are unemployed alcoholics. And if his fucking life wasn’t bad enough? His demented pa’s a Michigan State fanatic—so his spiteful ma roots wildly for the Michigan Wolverines. Since their meal ticket son won’t tell them where he hopes to attend college? They’ve spent the last three years beating their kid with switches—and his crazy pa’s threatened to kill him and his mother if the hapless kid doesn’t attend Michigan State.”
Kaito’s rare gray eyes flashed in anger. He set the photos ablaze in the roaring fireplace. Memorized the abstract: tossed that in the fire, too. “How can this young man flourish when he’s abused by selfish parents whose combined IQ’s are lower than Komodo dragon turds?”
Palatino nodded. “My sentiments exactly.”
“Lucky for this young man? I am adept at solving these kinds of problems,” Kaito told his friend. “Now, if you will excuse me? Today is Sunday. I must tell my daughter Asuka I’ll be gone for a week.”
***
A town car rolled onto the St. Suzie’s campus at seven a.m. Monday under yet another cloud-riddled April sky. The NCAA’s March Madness tournaments were barely in the books—but schools were already roaring in overdrive, preparing for next season—which launched in November. And why the fuck wouldn’t they be? Broadcast rights and other revenues for this year’s festivities once again dumped more than $1 billion dollars in the Association’s coffers. Palatino strolled to the Computer Science department and rapped the dean’s door-frame: “Can you spare ten minutes Tom? I’m Nick—”
Tom Wheeler chucked a St. Suzie’s Nerf ball at Palatino’s head … but missed by two inches. The six-foot six-inch Wheeler waved at an empty chair. “I know who you are. After ten losing Big East seasons? You’re the fucking savior I’ve been praying for. So how can I help you make our dreams come true?”
Palatino smirked, laid a black leather briefcase on Wheeler’s desk. Snatched the dean’s pen. Scribbled a six-figure number on a nearby note pad: spun the pad around. “How’d you like to oversee our favorite team’s analytics staff? Before you answer that? You’d have to resign as Department Chair—lighten your teaching load and, ideally, travel with the team.”
Tom Wheeler glanced at the pad. “Are you shitting me? Even Giselle Bünchen couldn’t drag me away. I’ll resign today—and hell yeah, I’ll travel with the team.”
Palatino retrieved the Nerf ball. Rifled a pitch that plugged Wheeler in the nose. “Some people say I’m a pain in the ass to work for.”
The gangly nerd laughed. “Such people have never taught snotty rich college students. I’m still in,” he said.
“Great. Then welcome to the Team. But don’t ever chuck anything at me again—not even brand spankin’ new hundred dollar bills with hot pole dancers attached. Meanwhile, in keeping with St. Suzie’s core mission principles? Give a full month’s notice, Tom. As Team leaders? We want to ooze loyalty in all things.” Palatino nodded at the office window. “No rain yet. So let’s walk-n-talk outside.”
Palatino chose a bench beneath a dogwood tree. “Item number two on my current Wish List, Tom. I need a discrete genius student to make me several apps and a few web sites.”
“You need The Pinball Wizard,” Wheeler told his personal Savior.
Palatino arched his eyebrows: “Is this kid deaf, dumb and blind—or just a Who fanatic?”
“He ain’t dumb or deaf but he is legally blind. The kid is also tin foil hat paranoid. I had to switch all his classes to Independent Studies. He kept screaming at his classmates: “Quit staring at me you freaks.”
“Can you arrange a meeting?” Palatino said. “This afternoon if possible?”
“I’ll do my best Nick, and get back to you. But if things don’t work with The Pinball Wizard? I’d be happy to create the apps for you.”
“Trust me, Tom. We need a student for these apps. If any shit hits the fan? People forgive kids much quicker than adults. Meanwhile, speaking of Independent Studies. Can you create some courses for the athletes on our roster—and get them approved? A curricular with an overarching theme like ‘Business & Lifestyle Management for Today’s Student Athletes.’ Courses such as Maximizing Name, Image & Likeness, Building Your Brand, The Rewards of Public Service, and Social Media Savvy should top the list.”
“No sweat Nick. Give me forty-eight hours to flush out some course descriptions. Which do you prefer a written overview or a PowerPoint presentation?”
Palatino raised a finger to the question … fished his briefcase: handed Tom a burner phone and a box of SIM cards. “Your first business present,” he said. “We swap SIM cards once a week. You’ll find two numbers in the Contacts. Mine is Alpha and the second belongs to Beta a/k/a Diane Walsh. Don’t use this phone to contact anybody else. Unless you’re replying to me or Beta? Only send us texts in matters requiring urgency. Keep texts innocuous—and never use names. Messages like ‘Call me ASAP’ will suffice. Ms. Walsh is a consummate professional and the two of you will work closely together. For starters? She’ll oversee those courses for our Independent Studies. I won’t have any involvement with the curricular. I’ve got a hoops team to run—and God willing a national championship to win.”
“Amen, brother. Preach it,” Wheeler practically shouted.
Rifling his sports coat pocket, Palatino produced two pieces of plastic and a business card: “Use the pre-paid AMEX to buy yourself a laptop exclusively for Team business. Do not register the fucker. I don’t give a rat’s ass about product warranties—and don’t ever use Microsoft products since I don’t trust those bastards. I’m convinced that company’s spying for the National Security Agency. Never—and I mean never—use any other computer for Team matters. Your next set of nevers? Never save any files to your new laptop.” Palatino tapped the blue-n-white business card. “This company in Norway provides secure Cloud storage, VPNs, and private e-mail service. More importantly? They refuse to share client information with other countries, including the U.S. government. Use the pre-paid VISA to set up your three accounts—and when you meet Diane Walsh? Please provide her with a password for your new Cloud server. Any file, letter or image you want us to read or see? Upload it to the Cloud—don’t send attachments using Messenger or e-mail.”
The soon-departing department chair smirked. “I think you and The Pinball Wizard are gonna relate just fine.”
“Well,” said Palatino. “Let’s hope the FBI never gets the urge to jam their noses up his ass—or yours either—like they did mine. I’ve suffered more bullshit than most people can imagine. It’s taken three hellish years to wash some of the mud from my tainted name. So one day next week my security specialist will swing by your office and sweep the place for bugs. He’ll teach you the procedures, and leave the equipment with you. After that? I’ll expect you to do a sweep first thing each and every day that you use your office. Naturally your condo will need sweeps as well, but we’ll address that later. Meanwhile? I’m flying to Vegas Thursday evening—and returning Sunday night. How’s your calendar look? I’d like you to join me. Assuming of course you still want this job.”
Tom Wheeler knew his life had changed forever. He grinned like an idiot and felt so happy he nearly pissed his pants. “So is my code name Gamma?”
Palatino rolled his eyes. “You don’t get a code name. I want you to have fun. But working for me and Beta is serious shit Tom. My enemies will become your enemies. And people you thought were friends? Some will likely turn on you because they feel jealous—or consider me a dick.”
Wheeler crossed both arms against his bony chest. “I know that Nick. Academia’s brutal—especially at a school with a prestigious history like St. Suzie’s. So I’m still in.”
The two new teammates parted fifteen minutes later—as menacing April raindrops splattered the concrete walk. Intent on looking dignified, Palatino strolled to the waiting town car. The car rolled off campus and Palatino pointed. “Hey, Hal. Kindly stop beneath that overpass—and wait outside. I need to make a call. Then I’ll buy us coffee.”
“Sure thing Coach!”
Palatino tapped speed dial—
“Jesus Christ, Nick. My sweet ass is still buried between satin bed sheets.”
“Well, Diane. I’m training your ass to function on Eastern Standard Time. Don’t know if you’ve had a chance to read his dossier yet, but Tom Wheeler’s onboard. You’ll be meeting him this weekend, since we’re arriving Thursday night. Can you book us a room in the heart of the strip? And treat Wheeler to dinner early Friday evening?”
Diane Walsh popped an Altoid. Lit a Virginia Slim. “Why an early dinner, Nick?”
“Because while you and Wheeler are dining? I’ll still be interviewing Charity Striper candidates,” Palatino said. “But once our chores are done? I’m hoping you and me can hook up and debrief—in every sense of the word.”
“Since you promised to make my sweet ass rich? I think I can arrange a full Friday night debrief,” Diane purred. “You want me to grab you guys at the airport?”
“Absolutely not,” Palatino said. “I told Tom Wheeler you’re a consummate professional. But I hope you’ll grab my privates in private Friday.”
“Ha-ha,” Diane said sliding out of bed. “Speaking of professional. Did you ask Wheeler to sign a non-disclosure agreement?”
“No. He knows my reputation—and that I’m not a Boy Scout. At least for the moment, he’s got an appetite for danger. But I want to keep him clean … and I need him to trust me. As a former department chair? Wheeler’s got key political insights and career connections. He’s been fully vetted: no red flags. From where I sit, at the end of the day? If a guy’s a fucking rat? An NDA won’t shut his yap—
“On the other hand, from where your sweet ass sits? Feel free to have Wheeler sign any NDAs you want for your player course curricular,” Palatino said. “That’s standard business practice so I doubt he’ll even blink.”
“I like the way you hold my ass in such high esteem, Nick.”
“Yeah, ain’t love grand?” Palatino said. “Meanwhile, there’s no need to meet us at the airport. I want Wheeler amped to meet you—knowing it’s only you and him, so let’s make the guy stew. You’ll also get a better read on our Mr. Wheeler without me in the picture. When your ass is outta bed? Please send him a text—you know the drill. Okay, I gotta roll. Give your lovely nipples a Good Morning pinch from me.”
Palatino lowered his window: “Java time Hal. Sorry for the wait.”
“No worries, Coach!”
The town car pulled away—and Palatino sent a text of his own on a different phone.
***
Tom Wheeler locked his office and told his secretary to cancel his appointments for the rest of the week. Racing to catch the open elevator, his burner phone chimed twice. Wheeler stabbed floor one, fished out the old school flip phone. Two new texts … one from Alpha, one from Beta. Best to read Alpha’s first: If you’re thirsty for a drink this evening? Check out Sal’s on Seventh from Happy Hour till 7.
Wheeler texted back: I get thirsty at sixish. About that rock opera: Wed @ 2 if that works for u.
Next floor down the elevator opened—
Five blonde coeds with red St. Suzie’s skin-tight yoga pants and push-up sports bras shuffled inside. Eyes-n-noses glued to iPhones, two tight asses absently brushed against him. Lord have fucking mercy. Wheeler fought the urge to bash his tortured skull against an elevator wall. Bloody hell, screw it: he ducked out the open door to the second floor and raced the spiral stairwell to the central lobby, where its blessed sliding doors led to the great outdoors.
His pulse rate closer to normal, Wheeler opened Beta’s text: Welcome to the Show! Your attendance is required Friday eve 5 to 7. Expect particulars Thursday. Cheers!
Loping cross the lot, Wheeler pondered his response. He considered Palatino a ticking time bomb. Sooner or later some shit would hit the fan. But after slaving eighteen years in academia? He felt bored out of his gourd. If Palatino succeeded over the next two seasons while avoiding any scandals? Wheeler would retire from St. Susie’s with a full pension. Good thing bitchy Barbara divorced his ass last Christmas—no way she would’ve have let him work for Nick. The only downside to Barbara’s departure? She’d fucked him Christmas day to celebrate their divorce. But three months had passed: he hadn’t been laid since—and the school’s hot coeds were driving him fucking nuts.
When Tom turned thirteen? His older brother taught him: Never shit where you eat. Sound advice Tom clung to like Gorilla glue. Maybe the weekend in Vegas would present a cure for his horny ills. Because if Beta was smoking hot? Working closely with her would stoke his fires higher.
Wheeler tapped Reply but revised three times before hitting Send: Thanks! Acknowledged. Cheers!
That task finally over? Wheeler gave himself the secret code name Phantom!
Finished reading Wheeler’s file, Diane Walsh called Raven—an Elvira look-a-like who stood six-three in platform fuck-me pump stilettos: “Sorry to call so early but I need you Thursday night for a Secret Santa gig. Because of the particulars? Consider this an audition for that New York City job.”
“Thursday’s rough. I might need to juggle. But I’m listening,” Raven said.
“No need to lose your clothes if you’re short on time Thursday. But you need to loose his load before the weekend’s over and he heads back to NYC,” Diane said. “If the stars align? You’ll get the NY job and this guy will be your Secret Santa regular.”
“Swing by in an hour sugar? Eat me for breakfast—then feed me those particulars?”
“Absolutely,” Diane said. “I love breakfast in bed.”
Diane tweaked her nipples before the bathroom mirror. “As requested Nick.”
***
Kaito sluiced through the swamp, spearing the Ford Ranger north, his alert gray eyes scanning for County Road 407. According to his map? Somewhere in the distance, blocked by miles of forest, Lake Superior’s southern shoreline hugged the Michigan border.
He’d spent the last few miles staring at the Blind Sucker River. Talk about a dumbass name. During its heyday, lumbermen used the river to float logs downstream. The martial arts master initially assumed that some poor bastard in the 1870s got caught in a winter storm that rendered him snowblind—and the luckless sucker slid into the river, where he froze to death—the surging waters dumping his icy blind corpse into the adjoining Dead Sucker River.
But nope. No such drama. In this boondoggle? Suckers were fresh water fish that feed on muddy bottoms—including the river beside him. But based on what he’d read? None of the fish were blind.
Kaito had crossed into Canada early Monday morning from Buffalo, New York using a fake passport, and then drove west toward Lake Huron. The blue Chevy Blazer he drove for that leg of his trip was registered to a company in the Bahamas—and couldn’t be traced to him. He spent Monday night in a remote hunting cabin, after slicing the plastic sheathing that covered a broken window. Before dawn broke Tuesday he hit the road once more, pausing mid-morning to grab coffee and a muffin at a Tim Horton’s drive-thru. Late afternoon he bought camping supplies and canned goods at a Canadian outpost. He changed fake passports just before sunset and reentered the U.S.—arriving by boat at the port of Saginaw, Michigan—the Chevy locked and hidden by Lake Huron on the Canadian side. The closest major cities to Saginaw? Lansing and Detroit, with the Motor City looming about a hundred miles south. Though billed as Michigan’s Capital and the home of the Michigan State Spartans? Lansing’s inner city housed less than 113,000.
Kaito seethed with thoughts of Will Walton’s abusive parents. Courtesy of the Spartans, Will was spending the week in Lansing at the school’s sports facilities—and the young man’s absence made Kaito’s job easier. Unlike the skunk that sprayed Kaito last night … as he pitched his illegal tent in the Shiawassee National Wildlife Refuge. Ripping that skunk’s head off whet his blood-lust appetite.
Much like his friend Kaito? Palatino pressed his nose against the St. Suzie’s player recruiting grindstone. The coach dialed a number with Atlanta digits. Someone took the call … but the line stayed silent. “Rock the Casbah,” Palatino finally said.
“Took you long enuff to call.”
The coach rolled his eyes. “Only took two weeks to track you at this number. This a burner phone?”
“Does James Harden love strip clubs?”
“Your brother with you?” Palatino said.
“Yeah. It’s just me and Kendrick so I’ll put us on speaker.”
“What’s up Coach?” Kendrick Walker hooted. “We knew you’d be back. Congratulations, man.”
“Wasn’t easy Kendrick. But you know me. I never quit,” Palatino said. “I finally got access to the player Transfer Portal—and was surprised to see your names there. Sounds like the Howlin’ Hedgehogs ain’t treating you two well.”
“Man, don’t get me started,” Derrick Walker muttered. “Those mother fuckers broke about a hundred promises. Since the NCAA kicked you to the curb? Our basketball lives have sucked.”
“When you recruited us? And we played for you our freshmen year? You never broke a promise,” Derrick Walker added. “When we won the national title? The whole damn country was callin’ us The Slash Brothers—and one of the top guard tandems in the nation. Now everything is shit. We sat out the COVID season. Then this year we didn’t even make The Dance … and peeps is callin’ us losers. Some dude on Tik Tok dubbed us The Butter Knife Brothers—and the damn name has stuck. So we been keepin’ low and got this burner phone.”
“How much you make last year selling your Name, Image and Likeness?” Palatino said.
“Kendrick pulled twelve grand. I made nine,” Derrick whined.
“That’s cause I be prettier,” Kendrick Walker said.
Derrick Walker snorted. “We’re identical twins you moron.”
“That we be,” said Kendrick. “But my ass is tighter. And my disposition sunnier.”
“Yeah but my dick is half an inch bigger. And you won’t be lookin’ sunny when I jam your disposition up that tight ass.”
Palatino interrupted: “You still have a laptop and a VPN like I taught you?”
“Has James Harden gotten fat?” Derrick Walker said.
“I’m gonna you give you access to a Cloud server in Norway,” Palatino said. “Type in this address.”
“Okay, we’re there.”
“Good,” said Palatino. “RocktheCasbah as one word is your user name. I’m going to recite the 16-character password one character at a time—don’t write it down just type. Okay. Now open the file named SB23. And tell me what you see.”
“Holy shit,” chirped The Splash Brothers. “It’s a Promissory Bank Note for $100 grand payable to us for Name, Image and Likeness licensing—if we transfer to St. Suzie’s by April 15th.”
“And that’s just the appetizer,” Palatino said. “If the two of you transfer to St. Suzie’s—and we fight our way to The Final Four—if you haven’t netted half-a-million dollars each 12 months from now? I’ll eat your goddamn jock straps.”
“I think we got a couple ain’t been washed in a year,” Kendrick Walker said.
“You two got eight days to consider my offer,” Palatino said. “If I don’t see your asses in New York before the 15th along with signed transfer papers? I’ll be callin’ you The Butter Knife Brothers. Should you decide to join me at St. Suzie’s? The expenses for your trip will be paid up front—so you won’t spend a dime. Read file SB24 to learn how. And don’t you dare print or download these files; the site will tell me if you do and you can kiss these offers goodbye. One last thing,” Palatino added. “Lock them dirty jocks in your mother’s basement if you got any doubts about your future earnings. I don’t want your funk stinkin’ up my locker room.”
***
Kaito’s binoculars panned the Walton’s crumbling cabin in the woods. Two door-less old refrigerators, three rusted washing machines and mounds of empty beer cans littered the property.
You could be a redneck if your home looks like this, Kaito muttered. The cabin’s best feature? A wrap-around porch.
Lard asses parked in front porch rockers, Mr. and Mrs. Douchebag chugged Schlitz Malt Liquor—an open case perched between them on a plastic milk crate—crushed empties at their feet. Scant sunlight worked its way through the trees. Smirking Kaito reckoned their pump must be clogged. Circling round the back, Kaito hung three wireless speakers on head-height pine branches—each of the trees twenty feet apart—then resumed his watch out front.
Mr. Douchebag belched. “About time you fetched me my supper woman.”
Peeling herself from the chair she snatched another Schlitz and tottered inside. Kaito waited three minutes: tapped Play on a cell phone app. The University of Michigan fight song Victory drifted through the trees.
“What the fuck Annabelle. Turn that shit off!”
“That ain’t me,” she hollered. “Turn it off yourself.”
“That damn shit is comin’ from our trees.”
“Don’t complain to me,” she yelled. “I like this song just fine.”
“Listen up you mother fuckers,” Douchebag bellowed. “You turn that shit off now—or I blow your dickheads off!”
Kaito jacked the volume. Red-faced Douchebag stumbled inside—popped out seconds later brandishing a sawed-off shotgun—his wife two steps behind clutching a box of shells. Working west-to-east then east-to-west around the porch, Douchebag blasted a dozen rounds, his wife feeding him fresh shelves after every second shot. After his twelfth useless blast? His warbling wife belted out several fight song lines—while skipping several others: “Hail! Hail! To Michigan, the leaders and the best! Hail! Hail! To Michigan, the champions of the West!”
Douchebag wheeled, reloaded—and shot her singing face off.
Kaito seized the chance to grab Douchebag from behind. Nothing like a perfect choke-hold to render a man unconscious. Kaito would’ve enjoyed working the groin like Master Ken recommended. But stomping his nuts flat would cause postmortem bruising that a coroner should notice. He dropped the abusive slob in a porch chair and snatched the shotgun. Wedged the gun’s butt against the seat between his ham-hock thighs and wormed the hot barrel into Douchebag’s mouth. Draping the redneck’s hands around the stock Kaito pulled the trigger—and sayonara Douchebag.
A quick check on the missus. Dead and gone like he figured. He thought she looked better post-shotgun shell surgery. But not by much.
Kaito peeled off his gloves. Retrieved his speakers. Felt satisfied the scene looked like a murder-suicide. He hopped in the Ranger. Caught a logging road heading south—then hooked east.
While Kaito drove east? Palatino flew west. Soon as his plane hit the Vegas tarmac? Palatino powered up three burner phones. Just one missed text from Diane Walsh: Sent a driver to the airport. Look for ‘Alien Nation’ sign. Cleared to leave their seats, Wheeler slung the Team laptop across one shoulder and snatched both carryons. Palatino showed him the text before deleting the message.
“I hate public airports and fucking commercial flights,” Palatino said.
“Be glad you’re not six-four,” countered Wheeler. “Pigs penned in a fucking slaughter house get more leg room than I do on a stinking commercial flight.”
Palatino spotted their sign; Wheeler focused on the driver—her dangerous curves and straightaways draped in black leather and motorcycle boots.
“Welcome to Vegas gentlemen. Do you have luggage to retrieve at the carousels?”
“Hell no,” they said.
“Good. Before we proceed, do either of you suffer from motion sickness? I’ve got Dramamine if you need it.”
The coach locked eyes with Wheeler, who shook his head no. “Thanks, we’re fine,” Palatino said.
“Excellent.” She smirked. “Then please follow me—and try not to get seasick.”
“Holy shit,” whispered Wheeler.
“I think you’re going cross-eyed,” Palatino told his colleague.
“Are you gentlemen okay back there?”
“We have two options,” Wheeler said. “Either I walk with you—or I’ll take that Dramamine.”
“It’s my job to ensure your safety. Please take my arm,” she said, winking at Palatino. “And you, sir?”
Palatino grinned. “You two lead the way. I’m fine back here.”
“As you wish,” she said. “Will either of you require a cigarette break? Smoking is prohibited in your vehicle.”
“Nope not necessary,” Palatino said. “But my colleague would likely benefit from a bit of air that’s fresher than New York City’s.”
“Then fresher air he shall have. We can exit here—”
Arm-in-arm with the driver, Wheeler worked his iPhone with one hand. “That’s odd,” he said.
“What’s odd?” she said, her bright green eyes almost level with his.
“The U.S. Geological Service hasn’t yet reported any seismic disturbances here at the airport.”
“They don’t want people to panic,” she said. “Short-term pockets of increased seismic activity have occurred routinely all across the region for the past five years. Some people attribute these disturbances to increased UFO traffic. But I staunchly oppose that theory—
“How are you faring, sir?” she called out to Palatino.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m a pro at body surfing.”
Wheeler ignored his boss: “So you’ve lived here five years?”
“No. My parents moved to Vegas when I turned 10. But I didn’t wear platform pumps until five years ago.”
“Which explains your opposition to the UFO theory.”
“Exactly.” She smirked. “And hey, can you blame me?”
“Can’t say I blame your opposition to the UFO theory. But I can fault you for the seismic disturbance.”
“Touhé,” she said. “This your first time in Vegas?”
“Actually, my third. But until now? I never saw the appeal.” Holy fucking moly. Did this Goddess just blush?
“I’m part of a vaudeville act at The Hurly Burly that launches at 10 tonight. The club’s only a stone’s throw from your hotel. I’ve got one free ticket left. You want?” she said.
Wheeler offered an open palm: “Do geologists study earthquakes?”
Palatino fired a text to Diane Walsh: Interesting lure. Keep the line slack, don’t jerk the hook yet. Make another cast Friday.
***
Sometimes God was cruel. Palatino’s first Charity Striper candidate? An Amarillo MILF with a Texas twang that rattled the coach’s eardrums like a quacking duck quartet. After swallowing three Advil? Palatino shook hands with Keesha Williams. Diane had warned him that she was on his slate.
“I remember meeting you during your sister’s college hoop days with the Baylor Bears,” Palatino said. “No surprise she tore up courts in the Women’s NBA for nearly five years.”
“I’m surprised you remember—I’d just turned 12, still carryin’ baby fat and grade school pom poms. While my sister’s a World Class jock? I love jocks-n-cocks,” Keesha Williams said. “I learned that in junior high as a cheerleader. And while growing up in Houston? They became my hobbies. In senior high I learned I love money more. After graduation? I moved here to Vegas, where jocks-n-cocks became my business and my pleasure. Believe me that’s not easy for any woman—especially if she’s black. This world’s full of men who think they’re going to own you. Maybe with their money. Maybe with their fists. Maybe with a wedding ring—and bullshit from a bible or some misogynistic prophet.
“My thoughts on brutish men aside, I’ve been a licensed Massage Therapist here in Nevada for five years. I completed 550 hours of educational course work that included anatomy, physiology and kinesiology—and I was also subjected to a criminal background check. My record’s still clean—and I fully intend to keep it that way. I’m also required to complete 24 credit hours of annual course work in my field.”
Palatino nodded, jotted a shorthand note only he could understand. “You’ll turn 24 this August, right?”
“That is correct, Mr. Palatino.”
“Sounds like you’ve built a life that you enjoy Ms. Williams—lots of people never will. What drives you to consider moving to New York City?”
Keesha Williams grinned. “As I told you early on—I love money. And you excel at making people money.
Palatino laughed. Her grin dazzled him. “How would you describe your therapeutic approach?”
“That depends.” Ms. Williams smirked. “On how much I like the client. Based on pure speculation? DeShaun Watson wouldn’t have gotten a Happy Ending from me.”
“Hypothetically speaking? That’s certainly his loss,” Palatino said. “You’ve been candid with me, so I’ll return the favor. I need attractive women in specific age ranges with an array of skill sets. Women willing to perform sexual favors are essential for my team—but for some positions such acts are not required. I can’t stand saccharin sweet, but everyone’s public personas must remain friendly and approachable at all times. Not an easy task. You’d be dealing with wealthy snobs, pampered athletes—and quite possibly narcissistic weirdos like fucking Russel Wilson. On the other hand? I wouldn’t expect you to be a doormat.”
Palatino paused. “With perhaps a few exceptions everyone on my Team will be involved with fundraising. And that’s where you’d make your money. The more money you raise? The more money you make. But at this start-up stage? I need multi-taskers: nobody on the Team will fund raise full-time. Whether or not you’d use sex to help close a deal? That’s entirely up to you—but you would never accept money in exchange for sex since that would be illegal.
“If I hire you Ms. Williams? I want you to feel happy. Some of my team members will provide sex to our student athletes—and they won’t get to pick and choose—it’ll be all or nothing. Players will range in age from 18 to 22 and come from different ethnic groups. I understand if you feel they’re too young for you. Regardless, we could use your massage therapy skills. If you accepted such a position? You’d draw a higher salary if you travel with the team. Given your sister’s celebrity status? I guarantee the camera crews would be showing you on TV.”
Keesha Williams grazed Palatino’s hands and smiled. “May I call you Nick?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Assuming my massage therapy skills might interest you? I did some research Nick. New York state’s licensing requirements strike me as draconian. For starters? Licensed therapists from out of state need at least 800 hours of course training. Since I fall short of that standard? I’d need to take additional course work in NYC before I can practice. Completing those requirements will likely take three months—so that’s something for you to consider. Meanwhile, the thought of being on TV never crossed my mind … I need to reflect on that. You’re spot on about the players: some feel too young for me. But I can assure you—the thought of fundraising for The Charity Stripers makes me totally wet.”
Palatino stood. “That’s the kind of maturity and bridled ambition I’m eager to find Ms. Williams. If you have any questions, please run them by Diane.”
Keesha brushed his crotch and smiled. “I’d rather run my questions by you Nick, but as you wish,” she said. “And please call me Keesha.”
“Enough you villainous woman. I don’t tolerate sexual harassment in the workplace. You made your point Keesha.”
Keesha smirked at his hard-on. “Indeed I did,” she said. “I’d say sorry boss, but you haven’t hired me yet.”
“Another good point,” Palatino said. “But I’m quite content with my current Happy Ending provider.”
***
Dreaming of Happy Endings, Palatino wolfed a cold BLT, and re-read Ms. Chelsea-from-Chelsea’s file with eager interest. Asian American. Filthy rich Chinese family. Just turned 22. A newly-earned degree in Media Relations—and a dozen leading roles in Community Theater plays. But according to her file? She owed $150 grand in student loans.
6 p.m. on the dot she strolled into the office. “Pleased to meet you Chelsea. Why do you want a job as a Charity Striper?”
Chelsea grinned. “Because according to my therapist? I’ve got major Daddy Issues. My father’s a relentless money grubbing bastard—and I’ve spent the last four years trying to piss him off—without becoming a Paris Hilton cliché.”
Palatino smirked. “How’s that working for you? Your student loan debt’s pretty steep.”
“That debt is worth every penny, Mr. Palatino. With Diane Walsh’s help, I’ve been turning tricks and making my monthly payments. Naturally I told Daddy. But to my dismay? I think the twisted shit is happy that I’m charging guys for sex—instead of fucking them for nothing … like I started doing when I turned 14.”
“Since you’ve got no qualms about fucking guys for money? Let’s do a bit of role play,” Palatino said. “Hypothetically speaking, a rich philanthropist wants to buy one of your kidneys—and he’s willing to pay $250 grand. How do you answer him?”
“That’s easy,” Chelsea said. “You want the left one or the right?”
“Okay, role play scene two: The philanthropist believes you are truly sincere. He produces a backpack—like the one on my desk. To avoid nasty questions from the IRS? Inside the bag are poker chips from local casinos. The combined value of the chips? $250 grand. The backpack contains one more item—a new burner phone with a lone number saved in the Contacts.
“In exchange for one of your kidneys—and providing you make several public charity appearances? The backpack’s yours the philanthropist tells you. If the authorities ever question you? You found the backpack with the chips at the Wicked Spoon buffet inside The Cosmopolitan. Cashing in the chips and depositing the cash would alert the Feds and cause you countless nightmares, the philanthropist warns you. But if you call the number stored in the burner phone? You’ll learn how to launder the money so it can’t be traced to you—and you’ll get the chance to make a lot more money.”
Without another word Palatino left the room.
When St. Suzie’s signed him? The school doled out a million dollars as a signing bonus—with the bonus paid up front. Palatino was using the money to launch The Charity Stripers—and he used various runners to buy the poker chips.
Once outside the building, he sipped an Evian behind the parking lot. Just as he hoped fifteen minutes later? Chesea-from-Chelsea and the backpack had both vanished.
Palatino fully trusted that Kaito’s daughter Asuka had Chelsea-from-Chelsea under full surveillance.
Debriefing time drew near. And Palatino was more than ready to leave for the night—but a young redhead in Osh Kosh overalls bounced through the door—
“Hi, I’m Handjob Hannah Ryan a/k/a Hannah Banana. Ms. Diane Walsh asked me to have a talk with you. She even bought my plane ticket to fly here from Missouri. So how could I say no? My uncle Lou, who raised me, opened a Spiffy Lube—and I worked for him on weekends and after school. People could get an oil change and get their car washed in less than 15 minutes.
“But Lou needed surgery—and his business was failing. I desperately started offering a Crankcase Special to the guys from school. Lou owns an old Yellow cab. And that’s where I gave them handjobs. To keep them boys from doing anything stupid? My Doberman Daisy sat in front—and naturally I kept a switchblade in my boot. I based my business model off speed dating. I rigged the meter to start at 15 bucks—and bump 50 cents every 30 seconds. Most guys didn’t last more than 60 seconds. Others? Two minutes tops.”
Palatino interrupted—
“How did you meet Ms. Walsh?”
“When my uncle’s health got even worse? I hopped a plane to Vegas, hoping to triple my money so I could pay for rehab care after Lou’s surgery. That’s when I met Ms. Walsh.”
While Hannah told her shocking story? A hostess led Walsh and Wheeler to a private room—where a bottle of champagne beckoned from a posh ice bucket.
“I hear you two are celebrating. Would you like me to pour?” the hostess said.
Diane’s eyes deferred to Wheeler.
“Thank you, but no. I’ll do the honors,” Wheeler said.
“Then I hope you enjoy your evening. Nice to see you again Ms. Walsh.”
Diane smiled, the hostess left.
“This was kind of you,” Wheeler said. “May I propose a toast?”
“Please do,” she said.
Wheeler filled two flutes; raised his glass: “To a stellar St. Suzie’s season—for everyone involved.”
“Amen to that,” Diane said. “Nick mentioned you played forward for St. Suzie’s.”
“A lifetime ago. The school’s been good to me. After finishing my post doc? I started teaching there. But I’m ready for a change. Nick’s offer couldn’t come at a better time.”
“I can relate,” Diane said. “I’ve studied law part-time the past four years. I’ll finally take my bar exam here in July. And unless somehow Life goes awry? I’ll be moving to NYC in about a month.”
“Congratulations,” Wheeler said. “You sound as psyched as me. Which reminds me,” he added fingering his wallet. “Here’s the password for my Cloud account. Sixteen characters, no words as Nick instructed.”
“Thank you, Tom.” Diane produced an iPhone, opened a page in Notes and typed the characters. “I look forward to reading your synopsis. But let’s shelve the shop talk this evening.”
Rummaging her purse, Diane Walsh fished an ashtray, a cigarette lighter, and a pack of Virginia Slims. She handed Wheeler the lighter—and the white card bearing his Cloud password. “Please burn your card in the ashtray and light my cigarette Tom? The smoke detector overhead has already been disabled.”
The grinning Phantom granted both her wishes.
“Should we order appetizers and get our mini-party started?” she asked. “I’m in the mood for something stronger than champagne. Drink what you will, as much as you like—I hired a driver to pick you up at seven.”
When Walsh and Wheeler stepped outside at seven? Raven greeted them on the sidewalk—decked in dessert camo—and standing six-two in black combat boots. “I’m driving a Jeep tonight,” she told Wheeler.
Raven drove the Jeep into the dessert just outside the city limits. Loosened Wheeler’s fly. Then loosed his load. “I don’t mean to kill your buzz. But my break time’s over and duty beckons back in the city.”
Duty tonight included fucking an Earl from England.
“Thanks for yet another Vegas seismic event,” relaxed Wheeler said.
Raven smirked. “People call me a workaholic. But as you know, money doesn’t grow on palm trees. My only free time this weekend is early Sunday morning. How do you feel about breakfast in bed?”
“Would I get the chance to play with my food?”
“Assuming your mind is in the gutter? Then the answer’s no,” Raven said. “But the odds are high you may experience another seismic incident.”
Wheeler forked her a hotel key card. “Front desk gave me two at check in. I never imagined this one would get any use.”
Today during lunch? Palatino offered Raven a New York City job. She eagerly accepted. But no rush to tell Wheeler. Let him fly back home with pants-filled fantasies. Maybe in a month or two some of them would come true.
Meanwhile Palatino had completely lost his pants—and a grinning Diane Walsh had artfully debriefed him.
“Why didn’t you brief me about Hannah Ryan?” Palatino said.
“I didn’t think she’d show—and if she did? I wanted to see if she tugged your heart strings as hard as she did mine,” Diane said.
“I told Hannah that she’ll work as your personal assistant. That young woman’s a fighter,” Palatino said. “But she’s way too guileless to work for the likes of me.”
***
Will Walton stared at his mother’s and father’s graves. For once the two weren’t fighting.
“Hi, I’m Hannah Ryan. I’m sorry about your parents. And I really mean that—mine died when I was twelve.”
“You knew my parents?”
“No,” Hannah said. “I learned what happened from Coach Palatino.”
Will’s pale blue eyes brightened. “You know Coach? He came to one of my games when I was just thirteen. Coolest guy I’ve ever met … but I haven’t seen him since.”
“I only recently met him—but I agree he’s cool,” Hannah said. “His friend Sarah Walsh offered me a job when Life was kicking my ass and everything seemed hopeless.”
“That’s awesome,” Will said. “But why are you here?”
“When my parents died? I felt crushed. My Uncle Lou brought me home and raised me as his own. When Coach Palatino told me you have no relatives? I couldn’t stand the thought of you being all alone. I asked Ms. Walsh if I could take a few days off. And she kindly consented. I hopped a plane to Detroit, grabbed a rental car—and voila here I am.”
Will gawked at Hannah. “You know what?” he finally said. “You’re even cooler than Coach Palatino.”
Hannah cracked up laughing, punched his right shoulder. “I doubt that,” she said.
Will rubbed his arm. “Well,” he said. “I’m entitled to my opinion.”
“True dat,” Hannah said. “If you need a hug? I can give you one. Just make sure you ask me first—otherwise I’ll sock you harder than I did your shoulder.”
“I’ll keep both things in mind. Can I buy you a coffee or somethin’ before you head back to …. Fuck,” he added. “This is cool but also kinda weird. I don’t even know where you live.”
“You got wheels?” Hannah said.
“Yeah,” Will nodded. “I got my father’s truck.”
“If you got no place that you gotta be? I got me a cottage over at Halfway Lakes. My place has a picnic table. I can make us coffee and a sandwich—then we can chill outside. I have to hit the road by eight tomorrow morning. My plane leaves Detroit shortly after noon.”
“That sounds good, Hannah. I know the Halfway.”
“Then I’ll see you there.”
“Hey, quick question, Hannah. Mind if I bring a bottle of spirits with me?”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
Will thought about it. “Probably not,” he said.
Hannah gave Will a hug—and a terse warning: “Keep your hands on my back or I will cap your ass and my Doberman will bite it.”
“Dobermans are scary,” Will told Hannah.
“So am I,” she said.
Because Palatino didn’t dare attend the Walton family funeral? The coach stood in Queens with real estate and auto mogul Blake Witherspoon—one of his former college players at a Rhode Island Catholic school. After his father’s grisly stabbing death two years back? Young Blake adeptly doubled the Witherspoon family’s wealth. While Blake was busting his ass? The police had no suspects and couldn’t find the knife. Rather than leave the case unsolved? Some of New York’s finest happily arrested some oblivious wino, who was known to piss on NYPD cars.
What Blake didn’t know that Palatino did? Kaito had staged a mugging and murdered the old bastard—who hated his gay son.
This kind deed done? Kaito flew back to Thailand—and shared the news with Palatino.
Palatino’s reaction? Surprised but not shocked. When he turned 18? Kaito murdered his own abusive father.
Yup. After all these years? Kaito still battled major Daddy issues.
Blake led the way to the five-story structure that sat on the outskirts of the St. Suzie’s campus. The first floor would include a sales showroom for Blake’s electric car company—and The Charity Stripers would lease office space next door, using a sliding scale based on the charity’s income.
“When will construction end?” Palatino said.
“Different dates for different phases. The split-level housing apartments on the fourth and fifth floors should get living permits in five weeks tops. The basketball court, the locker room and the training facilities? Maybe twice that long. As you requested? We’ll do the third floor office spaces and the student classrooms last.”
Players and their girlfriends, as well as Charity Stripers and key Team personnel, would live in these apartments—which were well segregated from the campus dorms. To help appease strict Catholic parents? The guys bedrooms would sit on the fifth floor, with the gals on the fourth: everything else was communal. Palatino had struck deals with two of last year’s role players. Neither one would start—but their girlfriends would share their rent-free apartments. With such an arrangement iced? Diane’s Charity Stripers would blend in seamlessly: and could fuck or blow his players any time day or night without arousing suspicion. All the Stripers would enroll in a single online course—making all of them students at St. Suzie’s.
“Have you considered my proposal to add a commissary?” Palatino said. His staff would include a nutritionist and a chef. No fucking way should his players eat swill—or waste their precious time standing in line for college cafeteria crap. These new apartments should stay stocked with healthy food choices—and hot meals made available 24-7.
“My money guru ran the numbers and devised a plan: we’ll bake hand-tossed pizzas in your commissary—and make campus deliveries only using my Volt electric cars. I’ve already secured the permits.”
“You should make a tasty profit,” Palatino said. “Meanwhile, here’s the executed Name, Image & Likeness contract between The Slash Brothers and Volt Motor Company.”
“Excellent,” Witherspoon said. “I’ll be splashing The Slash Brothers on billboards and buses all over town. If St. Suzie’s starts hot in November? We’ll supplement with TV and streaming adds featuring Volt cars—which Diane Walsh advised will require another contract and cost me more money.”
“Of course those ads will cost you extra,” Palatino said. “But what the fuck do you mean if my team starts hot?”
***
“Hey, Will. It’s Hannah. You free to talk a while?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said.
“Good,” said Hannah. “Because Ms. Walsh has got some serious questions for you—”
“How are you Will?” Diane Walsh suddenly asked.
“I’m hanging in there. It’s kind of you to ask Ms. Walsh.”
Diane hit speaker. “I’m calling from Las Vegas. If you’d like to spend the weekend here? I’ll buy your plane ticket. Vegas is fucking weird—and I’d feel better about your safety if you stayed with my friend instead of a hotel.”
Will struggled to find words. “That’s an incredibly generous offer Ms. Walsh. I’d love to see Hanna. And meet you of course. But I don’t wanna inconvenience you or your friend—and flying me down will be expensive. Are you sure you can afford that? Cause it would take a while before I could pay you back.”
“Well,” Diane said. “Hannah says you’re potty trained and that you put the lid down after using the cottage toilet—so I’m willing to take the risk of having you around for at least a day. And I’ll happily make that two if you don’t disappoint me. Meanwhile? No worries whatsoever about your plane ticket. I honestly can afford it—or I wouldn’t offer. But no pressure. If you need time to think? I can call you back in a couple of days.”
“No, no, no, Ms. Walsh. I don’t need a coupla days—I accept your kind offer.”
Hannah and Diane exchanged low-fives. “Excellent,” Diane said. “Do you have an email address where I can reach you? Okay got it. I just saved you in my Contacts and I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Thank you, Ms. Walsh. I’m totally psyched to meet you. Can I speak to Hannah?”
Hannah shook her head, mouthed the word “no.”
“I’m sorry Will,” Diane said. “But Hannah isn’t available to talk right now. I’ll let her know you asked. I’m going to send you an email as soon as I hang up. You’ll find my contact info under my email signature. If you need anything Will? And I mean this from the bottom of my heart—anything at all. Write, call, or text me. Any time day or night. If I can’t answer right away? I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.”
“You’re bein’ so nice to me Ms. Walsh that I think I’m gonna cry.”
“Then let your tears fall, Will. It’s okay for a man to cry.” Diane glanced at Hannah—
Tears fell on her cheeks, too.
Will ended the call. Wished he could call Hannah. But she always called him from an Unknown Number. He’d never had a girlfriend. And knew fuck-all about women. Other than basketball? He’d never really had anything at all … except for lousy parents. Now they were gone.
“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” Hannah Ryan sobbed when Will killed the call. “I can’t fight the feeling Will could be my first. I still haven’t told him I’ve been staying with you—or that we’re moving to New York City. And on top of that? I haven’t given him my number or email address.”
“Why not?” Diane prompted. “Not that you owe him any of these things: you met Will once out of kindness—and that was two short weeks ago.”
“I need to know if Will can stand on his own two feet—just like I did when my uncle’s heath failed. That’s the only way I can respect him. More importantly? I need to make sure I’m not attracted to him just because his parents are dead like mine … and because his ass looks hot in black Levis 505s.”
“You’re right on all three counts,” Diane said. “Do you want a hug?”
“Absolutely yes, Ms. Walsh. Absolutely yes.”
The older woman wrapped her arms round the younger.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Diane’s tears rained down her cheeks, too.
Will snagged his father’s moonshine. Popped the cork—raised the bottle … lowered the liquor again. Still not a good idea. When Will’s father was a kid? He likely didn’t dream of becoming an alcoholic. And neither did his mother. Or his four grandparents either.
Both hands shaking like an epileptic, he poured the sloshing shine into the kitchen sink—then set the bottle in his new Recycling tub. He grabbed his basketball and marched outside. He needed to spend some time at the Charity Stripe working on his free throws.
***
Will stepped off his plane in Vegas. And spotted five people holding a 12-foot banner: Welcome Will-The Chill-Walton.
“Hey, Will. I’m Kesshaa Williams—you’ll be staying at my place along with—”
“I know you guys,” Will said. “You’re The Splash Brothers.”
“That we be,” said Kendrick Walker, as they exchanged high-fives.
“Hey, I know you, too” Will told The Pinball Wizard. “I follow your YouTube Channel.”
“Holy shit,” said The Wizard. “I only have two followers. And one of them is my mother cause she feels bad for me. That makes you PostMan32.”
“Yup,” said Will. “Kevin McHale wore 32 for the Boston Celtics. I model my game after him.”
Chelsea-from-Chelsea scrolled her iPhone. “Hey,” she said “These play lists rock. So guess what Wizard? I’m now follower number three. My handle is CausticChick22. Did you know that Dancing With Chainsaws is here in Vegas for a show tonight? You wanna go with me? I’m Chelsea-from-Chelsea,” she added—shaking Will and The Wizard’s hands.
“Bloody hell, yeah,” The Pinball Wizard said. “Last time I saw them? I had to take my mother.”
“Some people have no fucking taste in music,” Chelsea-from-Chelsea said. Good thing she’d studied his file like Diane Walsh advised—and researched every band on The Pinball Wizard’s channel. Lucky for her? She actually liked Dancing With Chainsaws.
“Where’s Hannah?” Will said to no one in particular.
“Hannah and Diane Walsh had to work this morning,” Keesha Williams said. “They should be done by lunch time.
Derrick and Kendrick cornered Will. “We got a message for you. Our boss Coach Palatino would like to buy you dinner.”
Will’s eyes widened. “Coach is here in Vegas?”
“Does James Harden like strip clubs?” Derrick Walker said.
“So what’s your answer Will?” Kendrick Walker said.
“Please tell him yes,” Will said.
Derrick palmed Will a phone: “Tell him yourself. His number’s under Alpha. I’d call him now,” he said.
Will stepped aside and rang Alpha.
“Thanks for calling,” Palatino said. “First of all Will, I’m sorry I missed the service for your departed parents. But my attendance there wouldn’t have been appropriate. Once the press found out? Those jackals would’ve pounced—and hounded you non-stop.”
“No worries Coach. I understand.”
“I appreciate that Will,” Palatino said. “I’m also sorry we haven’t spoken in five years. That hasn’t been easy for me. But after we met and I watched you play? Your father said he’d kill me if I ever dared to contact you again—unless I was coaching for Michigan State.”
“And you believed him?” Will said.
Palatino sighed. “Yes, Will. I did.”
“I feel bad my Pa kept us apart … but I’m happy that you believed him Coach.”
“Are we on for dinner Will? I can’t talk longer now—I’m wrapping up a meeting with Diane Walsh and Hannah Ryan.”
“You bet Coach. Can I talk to Hannah?”
“Sorry, Will,” Palatino said. “Hannah says she isn’t available until dinner time this evening. But she looks forward to seeing you. Meanwhile Diane Walsh would love to buy you lunch.”
“Sure thing Coach—I’m dyin’ to meet Ms. Walsh.”
Raven picked up Will at noon. And escorted him to a private dining room.
“We meet at last,” Diane said. “And this is Blake Witherspoon, the real estate developer that we talked about.”
The two shook hands. “Sorry for your loss,” Blake said. “My father died two years ago. We didn’t get along … but still he was my Dad.”
“Thanks,” Will said. “Sorry you lost your Dad.”
“I’d be shocked if you weren’t totally stressed these days. So I sent an appraiser to look at your place,” Blake said. “While your cabin has no value, your family land has some. How much exactly? Well, that depends on how many acres you might want to sell—and which lots.”
“All accept the two by the Blind Sucker River.”
Blake quickly worked his phone’s calculator—showed Will his offer number.
“Looks good to me,” Will said.
“Time is of the essence,” Diane said. “But Will won’t be ready to close until he chooses a college and gets settled.”
Blake nodded. “We can execute a Memorandum of Understanding—and give Will a down payment prior to closing—if that helps his financial situation.” Blake made sure that Will was looking him in the eye. “But before you draft an MOU Diane? I insist that Will hires his own appraiser—that way he’ll know I’m treating him fairly.”
“Excellent advice,” Diane said. “An appraisal won’t cost much,” she told Will. “And I can front you that.”
“Where do you think you’ll go to college Will? My first choice was UCLA. But they turned me down,” Blake said.
“That’s the Big question,” Will said. “All I know at this point? I’m sure as hell not going to Michigan State—or Michigan either. I’m hoping Hannah Ryan will have some suggestions.
“What are you fucking nuts?” Hannah said to Will when dinner was over. “You don’t choose a college based on where I live. Why do you think I haven’t told you? And for the record—before you do something dumb?” I don’t live in Vegas: I’ll be leaving soon.”
“I’m sorry,” Will said. “I’ve never had a girlfriend before.”
“Listen up you idiot—I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Okay, okay,” Will said clutching his aching head. “My mistake … I thought you liked me Hannah.”
“What are you Will? A complete fucking moron? Of course I like you—why do you think Ms. Walsh invited you for the weekend?”
“Hey Will-The-Chill!” Derrick Walker yelled at the closed door. “Why you takin’ so long man—you promised we’d shoot hoops right after dinner. Time’s a wastin’ dude.”
“That was fucking insane,” Will told Derrick when they hit the street. “Thank God you got my back.”
“No shit,” Derrick said. “Why you think James Harden spends so much time at strip clubs? I ain’t supposed to know this—so you didn’t hear it from me: Diane Walsh and Hannah are movin’ to New York City.”
“Why wouldn’t Hannah tell me that?”
“If you moved to NYC just to be with her? And you hate the place? Or you and her don’t work out? She’s afraid that you’re gonna blame and resent her.”
“That makes sense,” Will said. “Why didn’t I think of that.”
“Has Coach asked you to play for us Will?”
Will nailed two free throws from the Charity Stripe. “Not exactly. Said he’d feel honored if I played for him.”
Derrick snagged the ball. “That’s how Coach is. Since your parents just died? He don’t wanna come across as a dick. But you ain’t got much time to make a decision Will—Coach has gotta fill our roster.”
Will stole the ball—and dunked it. “Even if Hannah wasn’t in the picture? I’d jump at the chance to ball with The Slash Brothers.”
Derrick Walker grinned; Will’s phone chimed with a text: Hey, Will—it’s Hannah. I’m sorry that I shouted and insulted you … I’m just feeling overwhelmed. I hope you’ll forgive me. And I’d be pleased as punch if you stayed here in Vegas until next Friday (Ms. Williams gave her blessing). Here’s my number if you wanna call me…
“Did Coach really hire hookers for the guys on the team when you were a freshman?” Will asked Derrick.
“Hell no,” Derrick said. “An assistant coach did—and the guys on the team told investigators that. Coach learned about the hookers long before the school or the FBI. But he kept things quiet to protect us players—and cause he ain’t no rat. Can I tell you a secret Will?”
“Sure,” Will said. “I got your back.”
“I’m kinda like James Harden … I been addicted to hookers since I was sixteen. Man, I been tryin’. But I ain’t been able to beat this sick addiction yet. If you or Kendrick wasn’t with me? I’d be around the strip trollin’ for hookers now. I told Coach already, I’m leavin’ Vegas in the mornin’—and Kendrick’s comin’ with me. Hope I’ll see you soon back in the Big Apple—wearin’ Alien Nation red.”
***
“Whadya need Nick? I’m trying hard to study for my bar exam.”
“I’m with The Pinball Wizard. You’re on speaker,” Palatino said.
“The web sites, the apps and the social media sites for Alien Nation.net and The Charity Stripers are ready to rock-n-roll,” the Wizard said. “Coach and I just took everything for a test drive. We launch five nights from now—that’s Sunday, May 15th at Madison Square Garden—when the New York Knicks play host to the L.A. Lakers.”
“They’re gonna love your sweet ass,” Palatino said.
“Easy there cowboy. There’s young-uns in the room.”
“Coach is right, Ms. Walsh,” The Wizard chimed in. “I get cross-eyed staring at your tush. Makes me glad I wear Stevie Wonder dark sunglasses.”
With people busy buying beer and making in-game bets at half time? Only four dozen people watched Diane Walsh’s ass as she strode to the Garden podium. “How many of you have saved someone’s life?” Diane said. “If you have? I’m pleased to salute you—along with tonight’s Charity Stripers guest. If you feel inclined? Please direct your eyes to any of the Garden’s world-class Vision screens—”
“God recently spoke to me,” Chelsea-from-Chelsea said. “And told me to donate one of my kidneys. Then He blessed me with a vision. I saw a girl sleeping in a hospital bed. The Grim Reaper loomed above her—and her distraught parents screamed. But an angel of light appeared. ‘Don’t cry,” the angel said. ‘Your daughter will get a kidney.’
“Early this afternoon, the skilled and passionate doctors here at St. Suzie’s Hospital removed my left kidney—and I’ll sleep great tonight knowing I just saved a life. Rock on Alien Nation!”
“Rock on Alien Nation! And thank you Charity Stripers,” The Pinball Wizard echoed, raising Chelsea-from-Chelsea’s triumphant hand.
While perhaps a third of the Garden audience watched? Diane Walsh artfully disappeared.
“I just spoke with Dr. Helen Kelly, the Medical Director at St. Suzie’s Hospital—and she has assured me that what we just witnessed is not a hoax or a deranged publicity stunt,” sideline reporter Rachel Slater told five million TV viewers “Because of patient confidentiality issues? We still don’t know who this courageous woman is. But we intend to find out—and we’ll keep you updated.”
In less than 15 minutes? The Charity Stripers web site scored 1.2 million hits. When the 11 o’clock news aired on the West coast? The web site’s hits had soared to 30 million-plus. Curious people learned that Ms. Chelsea Chung from Chelsea, MA had bravely given away her left kidney. And twenty million people—most of them horny guys—decided to follow Chelsea on Social Media.
The next night at Madison Square Garden? Diane Walsh made another public appearance as the NY Rangers hosted the Vegas Golden Knights. “I’ll be quick,” she said. “I’m grateful to the Mayor, the NHL and our New York Rangers for inviting me tonight—and I’m overwhelmed with joy by two more of our Charity Stripers.”
Three split screens appeared—
“Hello Alien Nation. My name is Hannah Ryan. I met Diane Walsh when my life was falling apart. My parents died in a car crash when I was 13 and my uncle raised me. But my uncle’s health failed—leaving me on my own. I’d just turned 18 … and Ms. Walsh took me under her wing. She nurtured me in every way—and offered me a job working for The Charity Stripers. It’s because of her kind actions that I’m with you here tonight.”
“Greetings Alien Nation! I’m Kendrick Williams. Because of our prowess on college basketball courts? Some of you know me—and my brother Derrick—as The Slash Brothers.”
“Cheers, Alien Nation!” Chelsea-Chung-from-Chelsea said. “I met some of you last night when I shared the news that I’d just had the honor of becoming a kidney donor.”
“How are you feeling Chelsea?” Kendrick Walker said.
“I’m fantastic, Kendrick. The entire staff at St. Suzie’s Hospital was truly awesome—but it’s nice to be back home. And I’m lucky to have you and Derrick as upstairs neighbors. Thanks for making me dinner—and watering my plants.”
“You are truly an inspiration Chelsea,” Hannah Ryan said. “That’s why Kendrick and I have some news to share—”
“We have both decided to become kidney donors,” Kendrick Walker said.
The screens faded to black … but The Pinball Wizard’s voice cut through the speakers. “I’m not rich and famous. Or brave enough to donate a kidney. Maybe you aren’t either. There’s no shame in that. But all of us can belong to Alien Nation—and together we can do many great things. To learn how? I hope that you’ll visit aliennation.net. On behalf of The Charity Stripers? We hope you enjoy tonight’s hockey contest.”
Before Palatino’s team played a single game? Fifty million people world-wide donated kidneys. Meanwhile, on American soil? Thousands of parents claimed that their lucky daughters had received Chelsea’s kidney. Since no one could legally prove them wrong? Most were interviewed on TV, radio and podcasts.
Elated by his daughter’s instant Celebrity status, Chelsea’s money-grubbing father held a press conference—and donated a million dollars to The Charity Stripers. Just as he expected? His company’s sales and profits tripled.
“Does Ms. Chelsea’s father deserve to be killed?” Kaito asked Palatino.
“Not at the moment,” Palatino said.
That’s a shame,” Kaito said. “Perhaps another time. Good things often come to those who wait.”
Kaito wore a lot of hats for The Charity Stripers: Chief Security Officer; Executive Sushi Chef; Health & Wellness Officer (he led Tai Chi on the rooftop five days a week—and taught self-defense classes every other day. Self-defense students learned judo throws and how to work the groin—again, and again, and again). But his favorite hat? Environmental Control Officer—which included Waste Management and taking out the trash.
Ten mere minutes after learning that killing Chelsea’s father didn’t qualify as a justifiable act? Raven politely knocked on Kaito’s office door.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But I need a quick cleanup on Aisle Three.”
Kaito swatted aside the urge to kiss Raven’s forehead. Aisle Three was a code phrase for the British Isles. And requesting a cleanup meant some douchebag needed killing.
“This spill was not an accident—the perpetrator acted with full malicious intent,” Raven said. Her old client the Earl from England was threatening to out her as a former prostitute.
“Do you happen to have a picture of this spill?” Kaito said.
“Indeed I do,” Raven said.
“Good,” Kaito said. “Please place a copy on this thumb drive—and I’ll remove your spill.”
“I’ll be gone for two weeks,” Kaito told his daughter while he ran the photo through facial recognition software. “I must cross a large pond in a shipping container—so my journey will be slow.”
“I understand,” Asuka said. “If anybody asks? You are off the grid taking a Lonely Planet trip—and that’s all I know.”
***
Three nights a week from June until October, St. Susie’s University hosted fundraisers at the school’s gym. These events were broadcast on local Cable and select Streaming services. Anyone who became an Alien Nation member—and donated $1 to The Charity Stripers with the charity’s app—was eligible to become a fundraising contestant. Lucky contest winners got to take 15 free throws within 90 seconds from the Charity Stripe—and 100 contest winners got to shoot each night.
Admission to the gym was free for these events—and Blake Wilson sold pizzas like they were fucking hotcakes. He built a second commissary next to a bus stop on the other side of campus and started selling his pizzas frozen. People could buy the frozen pies at the sales counter using the Alien Nation app: and Blake saved thousands on delivery costs. He convinced the Witherspoon family to become Official Sponsors of The Charity Stripers—and they gladly paid half-a-million dollars for this stellar honor. Since The Charity Stripers leased their office space from Blake on a sliding scale? The Stripers gave Blake his family’s money back—but the accounting ledgers would show
12 monthly lease payments of $41,666 and 67 cents. Truly a win-win for everyone involved.
Meanwhile the general public could sponsor any contestant through The Charity Stripers app—paying as little as 10 cents for every free throw made. And Keesha Williams busted her ass securing corporate sponsors for every free throw-contestant under age 18. After all? What angry mother would wash the family clothes with Tide if the company wouldn’t sponsor a six-year-old kid who might make a single free throw on TV—while his friends and family watched? Overcome by glee? She planted a wet kiss on Palatino’s lips. “In two more months Nick? I may be a millionaire.”
Palatino smirked. “Not if you get fired for sexual harassment Keesha.”
“Hold that thought for two more years,” she said.
“Never fear Keesha dear,” Diane Walsh told her. “Technically you work for me. And I’m feeling mighty gracious since I aced my bar exam. Thanks for your hard work.”
Diane loved the simplicity of their operation. The mission statement of The Charity Stripers? To promote acts of charity. Unlike other charities? They didn’t need to feed hungry children, save any desperate animals, host blood drives, or build houses. Nor did they have to sell or collect anything—like Toys for Tots or Goodwill did. And nothing in the her charter stated “how” The Charity Stripers would spend its donations. Diane could pick and choose who she wanted to help—and how much money to give them. She formed public partnerships with many existing charities, and kept most donations modest: new basketball nets for parks; hockey equipment for schools; books for local libraries. She spent more on other projects—like Childcare Vouchers for single mothers—and Tuition Vouchers for vocational training in fields like Cosmetology, Tattoo Artistry and Paralegal Studies.
To gain further public favor? Diane publicly announced she wouldn’t draw a salary from The Charity Stripers over the next two years. But she privately earned more than a million dollars for public speaking engagements. Her primary goal? To become a sports agent and earn her millions in this field. Kendrick and Derrick Williams had already signed with her—and Diane was getting paid a 5% commission for every deal she struck on their behalf. If things went well this season? Will Walton would likely join her stable of athletes, too. Palatino believed that Will had NBA talent—but The Slash Brothers didn’t.
The brothers didn’t care: they just wanted to play together once they finished college. Diane aimed to get them signed by the same team in the Euro League.
Palatino’s players also busted their asses—and when March rolled around? St. Suzie’s advanced to The Final Four after playing in the South. To Will-The-Chill’s surprise? Diane Wash brokered him a TV commercial deal for Sketchers Hands Free Slip-Ins—and The Chill would appear with pop icon Snoop Dogg during the pre-game show. Even more surprising? Derrick Walker wasn’t upset that the team’s next game would be played in Vegas.
“Whether we win or lose, when this tourney’s over? Keesha Williams has promised me a date,” Derrick told Will. “That woman turns me on more than a hundered hookers.”
“Cool,” Will said. “That woman’s got magic hands. After this tourney’s over? Hannah’s promised me we’ll finally have sex. I got no idea what she means by ‘sex’ … or if we’ll both get naked—and I ain’t gonna ask. At least it’s progress.”
“These Charity Striper women sure as hell ain’t easy,” Derrick Walker said. “I been askin’ Keesha out for 10 fucking months.”
Will shook his head. “At least we ain’t alone. Chelsea-from-Chelsea told The Pinball Wizard she’s savin’ herself for marriage—but she has no intentions of ever getting married.”
“That poor Wizard’s head is fucked. He’s been hiring hookers who look like Chelsea,” Derrick Walker said.
Will’s eyes widened. “The Pinball Wizard’s blind,” he said.
“That he be,” Derrick said. “But one night I hooked him up with a black chick—and he knew she was black when she walked through the door—and she hadn’t said a word. At least our Team has had some success. When Raven announced last night she’s gonna move in with Wheeler when her Broadway show Raven the Maven launches? I almost keeled over.”
In their Texas hotel room three doors down, Diane Walsh fucked Palatino’s brains out. “Since I’m staying the night? You owe me $12 grand,” Diane said after his third Happy Ending.
“Jesus,” said the coach. “I still can’t believe you tripled your hourly rates after passing the bar exam.”
“Well, I did,” she said. “Since you made my sweet ass rich? You’re now my only client Nick. Ain’t love grand?”
