Several outer offices later, Hammer entered the one occupied by the executive secretary, Mrs. Mullis-Mundi, also known as M&M by those who did not like her, which was virtually all. She was candy-coated, but with nuts. She would melt in the mouth and break teeth. Hammer frankly had no use for this perky young thing who had gotten married and kept her name while appropriating that of her husband, Joe Mundi. Mrs. Mullis-Mundi was bulimic, and had breast implants and long dyed blond hair. She wore size four Anne Klein. Her cologne was Escada. She worked out daily in Gold’s Gym. She did not wear slacks, and was simply biding time before she sued for sexual harassment.

“Judy, great to see you.” The executive secretary stood and offered her hand with the same lilting style that Hammer had observed in devout bowlers. “Let me see how he’s doing.”

A half hour later, Hammer remained seated on a buttery-soft ivory leather couch. She was reviewing statistics, memos, and attending to the armies marching restlessly inside her briefcase. Mrs. Mullis-Mundi never got off the phone or grew tired of it. She took one earring off, then the other, then rotated the phone again to a hand less weary, as if to emphasize the painful demands of her career. Often she looked at her large scratch-proof Rado watch, and sighed, flipping her hair. She was about to die to smoke one of her skinny menthol cigarettes that had flowers around the filter.

Cahoon was able at last to fit the chief in at precisely thirteen minutes past the hour. As usual his day had been long, with far too much in it, and all insisting that they could speak to no one but him. In truth he had never been in a hurry to let Hammer into his office, regardless of the minor fact that it was he, versus her, who had demanded a meeting. She was ornery and opinionated and had treated him like a bad dog the first time they’d met. As a result he was one without fail and consistently, when dealing with her. One of these days he would send her down the road and bring in a progressive man, the sort who snapped open a briefcase with the Wall Street Journal and a Browning Hi-Power inside. Now, that was Cahoon’s idea of a chief, someone who knew the market, would shoot to kill, and showed a little respect to leaders of the community.

Hammer’s first thought whenever she was face to face with the ruler of the city was that he had made his fortune on a chicken farm and had attributed his history to someone else by another name. Frank Purdue, she almost believed, was an alias. Holly Farms was a front. Solomon Cahoon had made his millions off plump breasts and thighs. He had gotten rich off fryers and fat roasters and their little thermometers that popped up at precisely the right time when things were heating up. Clearly, Cahoon had dovetailed these experiences and resources into banking. He had been wise enough to realize that his past might pose a credibility problem for one securing a mortgage through USBank, if this person happened to see the CEO smiling on chicken parts at Harris-Teeter. Hammer couldn’t blame him for coming up with an alias or two, if this was what he had in fact done.