I had expected La-Z-Boys, posters of heavy metal bands, and a Harley-Davidson presented like a work of art. I realized now that Butch Hammer’s arms weren’t sleeved with tattoos, which should have prepared me for something else entirely.
As he led us from the foyer into the living room, he called out, “Mother, we have guests!”
The woman who appeared through a hallway door was an attractive brunette too young to be his mother, perhaps just old enough to be his wife. She wore white sneakers, pale-green jeans, and a white blouse with the tail out and the sleeves rolled up. At about five feet eight, she was statuesque, but beside her husband, she looked petite. Butch introduced her as Cressida, and she told us to call her Cressie. She asked if we wanted coffee or anything, and Bridget said that wasn’t necessary, and Cressie said it was no trouble at all, and Butch said negotiations were always more pleasant when there was good coffee, so he went to the kitchen with his wife to help her provide refreshments.
Bridget and I sat on the sofa. She put the container of cash between us.
I said, “I always wondered what Thor’s home might look like.”
“Now you know.”
“Why did you use our real names?”
“He would have known if I didn’t, and he wouldn’t have bothered further with us.”
“How would he have known you were lying?”
“Because of who he is, what he is.”
“What do you mean? What is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s not one of us, and he’s not a Screamer, but he’s something.”
“Something?”
“Yes. There’s a secret war they never cover on the news. You and I and Grandpa and probably a lot of other people are on one side of it, and the wormheads are on the other side. And then there are people you meet, like Butch and Cressie, who seem to suspect the truth of the world but have no proof of it. They’re . . . righteous. They’re persuadable, and they’ll help you when you need help, if you respect them, if they know you’re telling the truth.”
“Okay, but how do they know when you’re telling the truth?”
“They just do. They probably don’t know how they know. It’s their gift.”
I thought about that for a few seconds. Then I said, “That T-shirt he’s wearing—what do you think it means?”
“Just what it says.”
I was silent a few seconds longer. Then I said, “What’s the likelihood they’ll put knockout drops in our coffee, and we’ll wake up in chains and be sold on the black market and have our organs harvested for illegal transplants?”
She said, “Almost zero.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because of who I am.”
“That was all very circuitous.”
She said nothing, smiled, and patted my knee reassuringly.
“I wish you’d said zero instead of ‘almost zero.’”
“It’s a fallen world, dear. No one’s perfect.”
Quicker than seemed humanly possible, bringing with them the delicious aroma of a fresh-brewed Jamaican blend, Butch and Cressie Hammer returned with a wheeled cart holding a coffee service. There were also a few liquors to enhance the brew, if any was wanted, and an assortment of tiny homemade two-bite cakes and a variety of little cookies.
Bridget and I took some Bailey’s Irish Cream in our coffee, which was delicious, as were the miniature cakes and cookies.
When our host and hostess were in armchairs, facing the sofa, Cressie said, “Butch tells me you’re engaged.”
“Just today,” Bridget said. “We sort of fell into it in the loveliest way.”
“I haven’t bought a ring yet,” I said. “There hasn’t been time. We’ve been so busy. But I know how to do it. I mean, I know where to buy one. A ring.”
Butch and Cressie stared at me with something like pity.
She said, “Relax and just give yourself to it, child. No need to be tense. A good marriage is like a sound ship that will carry you through all the storms of this world.”
“You’re a lucky young man,” Butch said. “I was a lucky young man once.” He smiled at his wife. “And my luck has grown into a great fortune.”
Cressie blew a kiss to her husband. “You’re still a young man, Mr. Hammer.” To me, she said, “What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a staff writer for Arizona! magazine.”
“We’ve thought of subscribing,” she said.