I nodded. “Thanks. He told me some tall tales about you two.”

“If he ever said Hap was good-looking, well hung, or kind to old ladies, then he was lying.”

“Those three things never came up.”

“Set a spell,” said Hap, waving to a plastic milk crate on which someone had placed a rather pretty blue pillow. I sat.

The stories my dad had told me were often long, funny, painful, and insightful. Hap was a bleeding-heart liberal who’d gone to jail rather than Vietnam. Leonard, despite being a gay Black man, was a fiercely devoted Republican. All of which shows you that you can’t go by assumptions. Deep South—the Black guy votes right and likes men; the white guy votes left and isn’t much of a fan of country music.

When my dad first met them, Hap and Leonard were working in the rose field, cutting long stems for shit wages. But over the years, they’d gone through a number of adventures that—if Dad wasn’t exaggerating—meant that they were serious badasses. Lately, they’d gone into business with Brett, Hap’s wife, and were now officially licensed private investigators. Which, I assumed, was what accounted for Hap’s face.

They had glasses of iced tea, and Hap went inside and got me one. He also brought out a plate of cookies. Goddamned vanilla wafers.

“Have one,” said Hap, offering me the plate.

I smiled. “Thanks, but no.”

“More for me,” said Leonard and took the plate from Hap. There was a small tug-of-war about, but Leonard won. He smiled as he bit into the first one.

Seriously, what is it with vanilla wafers? Was Leonard Church’s long-lost son? Was it some kind of cult thing? I had no idea.

I sipped the tea. It was excellent, with mint leaves floating in it.

“Got a couple of goody bags someone dropped off for you,” said Leonard. “All kinds of Mission Impossible shit.”

“Not that we looked,” lied Hap.

“Hell yes, we looked,” countered Leonard. “Don’t know what half that shit is.”

“Some of it goes bang,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t blow my dick off, so we’re good.”

I drank some tea.

Hap said, “This guy who called me, Mr. Church? He told me to tell you that you should tell us why you’re here.”

“Did he?”

“Said that we’re—and I quote—‘family adjacent.’”

I had to laugh. “Okay. That’s a bigger thing than you know.”

“But what’s it mean?” asked Leonard.

I gave them the bones of it. They listened and asked good questions, but we didn’t have any light bulb moments.

“So, you came all this way to poke around at the convention center with a bunch of governors people from their own states don’t care about?” asked Leonard.

“Pretty much.”