Gaboon’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 US Bank 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.
His desk was hurled 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 hurled
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 kinin’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, Gaboon’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