His desk was burled maple, not old but magnificent, and much more expansive than the ninety-six inches of wood veneer, including a return, that the city furnished her. Cahoon was creaking in an apple green English leather chair with brass studs and the same burled armrests, talking on the phone, looking out spotless glass and beyond aluminum pipes. She sat across from him and was on hold again. It really didn’t bother her all that much anymore, for Hammer could transport herself just about anywhere. She could solve problems, make decisions, come up with lists of matters to be investigated, and deliberate what would be good for dinner and who should cook it.

To her, Cahoon always looked naked from the neck up. His hair was a bristly silver fringe he wore like a crown. Cropped short, it stood up straight in different lengths and was shaped like a crescent moon in back. He was perpetually tan and wrinkled from his passion for sailboats, and he was vital and distinguished in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and Fendi silk tie filled with gold and deep red clocks.

“Sol,” she politely greeted him, when he eventually hung up the phone.

“Judy, thanks so much for fitting me in,” he said in his soft Southern voice. “So what are we going to do about these gay bashings, these queer killin’s? These fag-fisher-queens trolling in our city? You understand the false impression all of it is giving to other corporations and companies thinking of relocating here? Not to mention what it does to business in town as usual.”

“Fag-fisher-queens,” Hammer slowly, thoughtfully repeated. “Trolling.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “You want some Perrier or something?”

She shook her head, and measured her words. “Gay bashings. Queer killings. This came from where?” She was not on his same planet, and that was her choice.

“Oh come on.” He leaned forward, propping elbows on his rich desk. “We all know what this is about. Men come to our city. They cut loose, give in to their perversion, think no one will be the wiser. Well, the angel of death for these sickos is swooping in.” He nodded deeply. “Truth, justice, and the American way. God putting his foot down.”

“Synonymous,” she said.

“Huh?” He frowned in confusion.

“All are synonymous?” she said. “Truth. Justice. American way. God putting his foot down.”

“You bet, honey.” He smiled.

“Sol, don’t call me that.” She jabbed her finger the same way she did when making points while West was driving her around the city. “Don’t. Not ever.”

He settled back in his leather chair and laughed, entertained by this lady. What a trip. Thank God she had a husband to set her straight and put her where she belonged. Cahoon was willing to bet that Hammer’s man called her honey and she waited for it, apron tied in back, like Heidi, Cahoon’s first and only wife. Saturday mornings, Heidi served him breakfast in bed, providing he was in town. She continued this even now, after so many faithful years, although the effect wasn’t quite the same. What happened to the female body after it turned thirty? Men were ready and willing until death. They sat tall in the saddle and were unaffected by gravity and this was why it wasn’t out of the question for the male to seek out younger females eventually.