Hammered

know. Every time you say something smart it gives me hope that you might become the first new Druid in more than a thousand years. «

Chapter 7
    Moving sucks.
    Most people would nod and agree without question, but saying it that way leaves ample room for interpretation. How much does it suck? Well, it’s not as bad as the stink behind a steak house. Nor is it comparable to the slow burn of heartache or the breathtaking agony of a swift kick to the groin. It’s more like the secret existential horror I feel whenever I see gummy worms.
    I had a girlfriend in San Diego in the early nineties who noticed that I was profoundly unfamiliar with modern junk food. One day as I dozed at the beach, she tested the boundaries of my ignorance by arranging an entire package of gummy worms across my body, assuring me when I opened an eye that these gelatinous cylinders were some sort of new spa treatment called » sun straws « with UV protection built in, and I gullibly accepted her explanation. I woke up with bright death trails of corn syrup crisscrossing my torso, silently and stickily accusing me of wormicide in the hot coastal sun. Even the mighty rinse cycle of the Pacific Ocean couldn’t wash them away; they clung to me like soul-sucking leeches. She wasn’t my girlfriend after that, and I moved out of San Diego that very night.
    It gets worse the longer you wait between moves, because you’ve had time to accumulate massive piles of crap, even if you try to minimize your consumption like I do.
    Looking around at more than a decade’s worth of accreted stuff, I was glad this move would force me to leave it all behind. If I took anything with me, then » they « would know I’d scarpered off somewhere. Some of my best twentieth-century goodies were going to be let go—various bits of detritus saved from previous moves. My signed copy of the Beatles’ White Album was going to stay behind. So were the cherry Chewbacca action figures in the original packaging. I had a baseball signed by Randy Johnson when he was with the Diamondbacks and a beer bottle that had once met the lips of Papa Hemingway. Most of the weapons in the garage would be left; all I would take was the bow and the quiver of arrows blessed by the Virgin Mary, because those could come in handy. Other than that, I’d take Fragarach and Oberon and the clothes on my back, leaving everything else. The house was easy.
    The business was tough. If I was going to make it look like I planned on coming back, I had to keep it open. But I had only one remaining employee besides Granuaile—Rebecca Dane—and I hated to leave her in charge of the store all by herself, especially since it was the first place my enemies would look for me. By the same token, they’d know I’d left town instead of croaked if I packed it up or sold it; I’d prefer they think me dead.
    No matter how I rationalized it, I couldn’t help thinking that leaving Rebecca in the lurch would make me every bit the cocknuckle Thor was reputed to be. Hiring someone new to help her would only increase my cocknucklery.
    Added to this was the problem of my rare-book collection. There were seriously dangerous tomes in there, protected by seriously dangerous wards. I couldn’t leave either the books or the wards in place, but it had to appear as though the rare books were still there.
    Problems like that are why I like to have lawyers. They do all sorts of useful things for me and keep it secret under the attorney-client privilege. After going for a morning jog with Oberon and tuning the TV to Animal Planet for him, I met one of my attorneys, Hal Hauk, at a Tempe bagel joint called Chompie’s. Hal ordered a bagel with lox (shudder), and I had a blueberry one with cream cheese.
    Hal looked very businesslike, his expression professionally bland and his movements conservative and precise. He seemed to be slightly uncomfortable in his navy pin-striped suit, which was ridiculous because it was perfectly tailored. I knew that meant he was nervous. He hadn’t behaved this way since I first moved into Tempe and the Pack hadn’t settled my status yet. It made me curious: Had my status changed somehow with the Pack all of a sudden?
    » What’s got you all twitchy, Hal? Fess up. «
    Hal’s eyes met mine sharply, and I watched with amusement as his shoulders visibly relaxed, but only with a conscious effort. » I am not the least bit twitchy. Your characterization is scurrilous and unfounded. I haven’t