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I’m offering him an infected weasel, but then he takes it. His grip is firm, but his palm is clammy and wet. I’m not sure if it’s the condensation from my glass or if Sherman just has sweaty hands. I turn to his companions and offer my hand to them, as well.
    â€œAnd what are your names, gentlemen?”
    One of the men, a squat, fat guy with a face like a toad, shakes my hand. His grip is not as firm as Sherman’s, but it is just as wet. It feels like I’m holding an eel. He pumps my hand once, twice, three times, and then stops, holding it in midair. I brace my feet, in case he tries to pull me toward him.
    â€œThat’s very rude,” he says, licking his upper lip. “You should never ask a person what their name is. Names have power. If you know someone’s name, then you have control over them.”
    I nod. “This is very true. But how else can introductions be made?”
    â€œInstead of asking a person for their name, ask them what they prefer to be called.”
    â€œI see. And what do you prefer to be called?”
    â€œI’m Livingston.” He releases my hand, and I resist the urge to wipe my palm on my pants. Instead, I turn to the third man. “And you, sir? What do you prefer to be called?”
    â€œYou may call me Koehler.”
    â€œWell, it’s very nice to meet you, gentlemen. And I believe I already know the fellow strapped to the slab.”
    â€œYou’ve made his acquaintance?” Sherman asks.
    â€œNot formally. But I watch the news. I’m something of a political junkie.”
    â€œSo you know us.” Koehler leans forward and stares at me intently. His eyes don’t blink. “But you haven’t given us your name yet, son.”
    I raise my glass and take another sip of Old Crow. The ice cubes clink against the rim.
    â€œI prefer to be called Uncle Lono. I also answer to Dr. Lono.”
    Koehler asks, “What are you a doctor of?”
    I respond simply, “Why is it that nobody asks me to name my nephews, or show off a snapshot of my pretty young niece?”
    On the slab, Senator Eagleton moans and whimpers. Sherman and Livingston glance in his direction. Koehler’s attention remains focused on me, perhaps now in a pedophiliac fugue state from my mention of a notional niece, maybe a blond with long, mosquito-scabbed legs flowing from the cuffs of her short-shorts. I decide then that he’s the one I’ll have to watch. Sherman walks over to the slab and tests Eagleton’s bonds.
    â€œWell,” Koehler says, “as you can see, this is a private meeting. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you tell us the purpose of your visit.”
    â€œIt’s like I told Sherman. I’m here for the meeting. I’m sorry if I interrupted all the fun. The bartender told me just to come right back.”
    â€œDid she? Something tells me you’re not an initiate.”
    â€œShould I have knocked first?”
    I’m aware that Sherman has circled around behind me, but I don’t want to take my attention off the other two long enough to see what he is doing. His footsteps shuffle across the floor, and I’m fairly certain he’s moving toward the door. My eyes flick down to my watch. The bus will be leaving any minute now, and I’m faced with a terrible decision. I can flee this scene and let the Greyhound carry me away, but doing so will mean abandoning this story, and believe me, there’s a story here. I feel it deep down in my journalistic nuts. I can abandon the bus and stick around, scratching these guys and seeing what develops—but doing so might prove hazardous to my health.
    â€œUncle Lono.” Koehler says it slowly, drawing out each syllable. “That’s an interesting name. Lono was a Polynesian fertility god, of course. Descended from the skies on a rainbow and married Laka, I believe. Or maybe he was the god of music. It’s hard to