newspaper chain, and preferred black-label Giorgio Armani that he did not get in
Charlotte. Hornets fans had priorities other than draping their spouses in two-thousand-
dollar foreign suits, it seemed, and shopping remained a difficulty in the Queen City.
Panesa was, as it turned out, dazzling in a tuxedo with satin lapels, and trousers with
stripes. His was black silk, and he wore a matte-finished gold watch, and black lizard
shoes.
“So tell me,” Panesa said when Hammer climbed into the Volvo.
“What’s your secret?”
“What secret?” Hammer had no idea what this was about as she fastened her shoulder
harness.
“You look stunning.”
“Of course I don’t,” Hammer said.
Panesabacked out of the driveway, checking his mirrors, noticing the fat man working on
geraniums. The fat man was watching them leave, and Panesa pretended not to notice as
he adjusted the air conditioning.
“Do you shop around here?” Panesa asked.
“Lord, I need to.” Hammer sighed, for when did she have time?
“Let me guess. Montaldo’s.”
“Never,” Hammer told him.
“Have you noticed how they treat you in places like that? They want to sell me
something because I can afford it, and then treat me like an inferior. If I’m so inferior, I
ask myself, then why are they the ones selling hose and lingerie?”
“That is absolutely the truth,” said Panesa, who had never shopped in a store that did not have clothes for men.
“Same thing in some restaurants I won’t go to anymore.”
“Morton’s,” Hammer supposed, although she had never eaten there.
“Not if you’re on their V.I.P list. They give you a little card, and you can always get a
table and good service.” Panesa switched lanes.
“Police officials have to be careful of things like that,” Hammer reminded the publisher, whose paper would have been the first to print a story about Hammer’s V. I. P status or
any other special favors possibly resulting in one establishment getting more police
protection than another.
“Truth is, I don’t eat much red meat anymore,” Panesa added.
They were passing the Traveler’s Hotel, upstairs from the Presto Grill, which Hammer
and West had made rather famous of late. Panesa smiled as he drove, reminded of
Brazil’s Batman and Robin story. The hotel was a horrific dive. Hammer thought as she
looked out her window. Appropriately, it was across Trade Street from the city’s
unemployment office, and next door to the Dirty Laundry Cleaner & Laundry. No eating
or drinking was allowed in the lobby of the Traveler’s. They’d had an axe murder there
several years earlier. Or was that the Uptown Motel?
Hammer couldn’t remember.
“How do you stay in shape,” Panesa continued the small talk.
“I walk whenever I can. I don’t eat fat,” Hammer replied, digging in her purse for
lipstick.
“That’s not fair. I know women who walk on the treadmill an hour every day, and their
legs don’t look like yours,” Panesa observed.
“I want to know precisely what the difference is.”
“Seth eats everything in my house,” Hammer was out with it.
“He eats so much, I lose my appetite on a regular basis. You know what it does to you to
walk in at eight o’clock, after a hellish day, and see your husband parked in front of the
TV, watching ” Ellen,” eating his third bowl of Hormel chili with beef and beans?”
Then the rumors were true, and Panesa suddenly felt sorry for Hammer.
The publisher of the Charlotte Observer went home to no one but a housekeeper who prepared chicken breasts and spinach salads. How awful for Hammer. Panesa looked
over at his peer in satin and beads. Panesa took the risk of reaching out and patting
Hammer’s hand.
“That sounds absolutely awful,” the publisher sympathized.
“I actually need to lose a few pounds,” Hammer confessed.
“But I tend to put it on around my middle, not my legs.”
Panesa searched for parking around the Carillon, where Morton’s Of Chicago steak house
was doing quite a business without them.
“Watch your door there. Sorry,” Panesa said.
“I’m a little close to the meter. I don’t guess I need to put anything in it?”
“Not after six,” said Hammer, who knew.