“Hell yeah,” DeSantos said, then paused to gulp some air. “This is the shit I live for.”
Archer moved right to allow another runner to slip between them. “Then maybe we should handle this at my place. Somewhere secure.”
“We’re here,” DeSantos said, “let’s at least get the run in first.”
They jogged for another fifteen minutes, passing many of the three thousand winter-barren Japanese cherry trees. After circling back, they drove into nearby Georgetown, where the Archers owned a modest two-story brick house trimmed with steel-blue-and-oyster shutters, and accented by an ornate wreath that hung from a brass hook on the front door.
Small security cameras mounted high above on the eaves recorded their arrival. DeSantos good-naturedly waved to the one above his head, then wiped his running shoes on the bristly welcome mat. He followed his partner into the hallway and glanced at the decor. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
Archer followed his partner’s gaze, which took in the rustic country motif: distressed oak furniture, frilly white curtains with denim trim, braided rugs, old pottery tastefully placed around the kitchen. DeSantos flashed on the last time he was invited over for dinner three months ago. He had tracked in soil on the bottom of his shoes and scratched the entryway’s twenty-five-year-old wood flooring. The Archers had just dropped $2, 000 refinishing the floor, and DeSantos had spent the next few days feeling guilty and begging for forgiveness.
“Remember the re-fi?” Archer asked. “We pulled ten grand out and this is what it got me. Lots of furniture and… all this fancy country stuff.” He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of glasses from the cupboard. “I was fine with my La-Z-Boy and the old Hide-A-Bed.”
DeSantos filled his glass with water. “The shit didn’t match, Brian.”
Archer shrugged. “It’s better to take on more debt?”
“Hey, you’re married, bro. Debt comes with the territory. Speaking of which, where’s Trish?”
“In the nursery, sewing some curtains. She’s really getting into this baby stuff.”
“Her first kid. Must be like playing with dolls.”
Archer placed his glass in the sink, then regarded his partner. “That’s very intuitive, Hector. Where the hell did that come from? What do you know about mothers and babies?”
DeSantos shrugged, left his glass on the counter, and moved down the hall toward the basement door. “I’m a very intuitive person, especially when it comes to women. You know that.”
Archer slapped him across the back of the head. “You’re so full of it.”
DeSantos flipped on the stairwell light and headed down into the damp basement. Archer followed him and watched as his partner pulled a tiny electronic device out of his front pocket.
“What are you doing?”
DeSantos placed an index finger over his lips. “When was the last time you swept?” He pressed a button on the device and began moving it around the room.
“There are no bugs down here,” Archer said, hands on his hips.
DeSantos winked. “Allergic to spiders, can’t take a chance. Those spindly little creatures have a way of putting up their webs in the worst places.” He continued to move the unit around for another moment, then switched it off. “Okay, we’re clear.”
“I already told you that.” Archer pulled a chain and a fluorescent fixture flickered on, suffusing the basement with harsh white light. Beside him was a barbell resting on a stand adjacent to a weight bench, where a stack of iron plates sat neatly arranged in size order.
DeSantos lifted an eighty-pound plate and placed it on the Olympic barbell. He began tightening the end bracket while Archer repeated the procedure on the other end.
“You first,” DeSantos said as he removed his jacket.
Archer lay down on the bench, shifted his torso a bit, then lifted the bar off the stand and completed a press.
“About the document,” DeSantos said.
“First, I have something to ask you,” Archer gasped, completing the next rep. “A favor.”
“I don’t like the sound of this. The last time you asked me for a favor it was something really important, something that required the R-word.”
Archer groaned as he hoisted the heavy weight. “Responsibility… is not… a dirty word.” He motioned for DeSantos to take the barbell from him. As his partner laid the weights in the stand, Archer swung his legs off the bench and sat up. His chest was pimpled with sweat and he was breathing hard. “Too much weight. Haven’t worked out in two weeks.”
DeSantos pulled a padded bench over from the far wall and sat down. “So you’re serious. You need something,” he said, leaning forward.
“It’s really not that big a deal. I mean, it is, but it’s not something you have to dread. It’s a good thing.”
“You need money? Whatever you need, bro, you know, you got it.”
“Hello!” called a voice from the stairwell. “Honey? That you?”
“We’re down here,” Archer shouted. “Hector’s here, we’re talking shop.”
Trish Archer carefully descended the stairs, her baby-engorged abdomen arriving a couple of steps before the rest of her. She brushed a wisp of short, straw-blond hair behind her ear and smiled at DeSantos, who had walked over to the bottom of the landing. “Hector,” she said, throwing her arms around him.
“Brian keeps me apprised of your… progress,” he said, looking down at her stomach. “He’s right, you do look like a whale.”
Trish’s mouth dropped open as she looked at her husband. “You said what?”
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” Archer warned.
DeSantos laughed. “You look positively radiant, even in fluorescent lighting.”
Trish planted a kiss on his cheek, then stuck her tongue out at her husband.
“Honestly, honey, I didn’t call you a whale.”
Trish’s hand went to her abdomen. “Oh, just got a kick. Want to feel?” she said to DeSantos.
“Nah, I’ll pass if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, come on.” She took his hand and placed it where hers was, in the lower right portion of her abdomen. “Did you feel it?”
“What is that?”
“That’s her foot pushing against your hand. Go ahead, push back against it, gently.”
DeSantos applied some pressure and the foot retracted. “That’s cool. Do you do this?” he asked Archer.
“When she lets me.”
DeSantos stepped back and regarded her abdomen the way a painter studies a blank canvas. “Aren’t you, like, close to bursting?”
“Could burst any moment,” Archer said. “That’s why God invented cell phones, isn’t it? So husbands could be at their wives’ beck and call twenty-four hours a day?”
“Speaking of which,” Trish said, “did you ask him yet?”
DeSantos looked at Archer. “Ask me what?”
Archer sat down on the bench again. “Trish and I want you to be Presley Jane’s godfather.”
DeSantos stood there looking at Archer, expressionless. “You mean, like Don Corleone, like, ‘He made me an offer I can’t refuse’?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“No,” Archer said, “the other kind of godfather.”
DeSantos almost laughed, but realized his partner was serious. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes.”
DeSantos joined his partner on the bench. “Godfather?” he asked, his eyes downcast. He brought his gaze up to meet Archer’s. “You said it yourself, Brian. What the hell do I know about kids? I can’t be someone’s godfather. I’m lucky to still be married. I’m a playboy, you know? Maggie puts up with all sorts of shit.” He stood up and rested his hands on his hips. “Why me?”
“Because I’ve got no family, Trish’s parents are dead, and the kid needs someone we trust.” Archer paused for a moment. “Really, it’s not that big a thing.”