Flinch Factor, The by Michael Kahn

p.m.
    He’d gone downtown that afternoon for a meeting at the Federal Reserve Bank, which had retained him as a consultant on some trade regulation matter. He’d promised to drop by on his way home.
    â€œIt’s happy hour, Darling.”
    Benny stood in the doorway. He had a six-pack of Schlafly’s Hefeweizen in one hand and a large white bag in the other. As he stepped into my office the tangy aroma of barbecue filled the air.
    â€œThat smells delicious.”
    â€œSmoki O’s finest.”
    Smoki O’s is a barbecue joint in the warehouse district on North Broadway, a hole in the wall that Benny stops at every time he’s downtown.
    He took a seat over at my small work table, put the six-pack and the bag on the table, and gestured toward the empty seat next to him.
    â€œDig in.”
    I joined him at the table as he lifted two foil-wrapped containers out of the bag.
    â€œWhat’d you get us?”
    â€œWhat do you think? Once upon a time, the Rachel Gold I knew could scarf down some real barbecue—back before she turned her home into a pork-free zone. But since we ain’t home, I went whole hog, so to speak.”
    â€œWhich parts?”
    â€œWhich parts? Come on. We’re talking Smoki O’s. That means we’re talking two parts.”
    â€œOh, no. Noses again?”
    â€œNot noses, for chrissake. Snoots. And not just any snoots. These are primo snoots. Trust me, if the Rabbis of the Talmud had sampled Smoki O’s snoots, they’d have carved out an exception in the laws of kashruth.”
    He unwrapped the foil on the containers and looked up with a smile.
    â€œPlus rib tips, my sweet. Snoots and tips—best combo on the planet outside the bedroom.”
    â€œYou wore that outfit to meet with officials of the Federal Reserve?”
    He gave me a puzzled frown and then looked down at his clothing. He was wearing baggy cargo pants and a navy blue sweatshirt over a red T-shirt. On the front of the sweatshirt was an official-looking logo that read Department of Redundancy Department. Benny was a Firesign Theater fan.
    He shrugged. “Actually, the sweatshirt adds a touch of class to what might have been missing with just the T-shirt.”
    â€œWhich one is it?”
    He leaned back and pulled the front of the sweatshirt over his ample belly to reveal the slogan on the red T-shirt: I AM THAT MAN FROM NANTUCKET.
    I rolled my eyes. “Benny.”
    â€œA line from a beautiful poem. My favorite. Meanwhile, it’s not like I was down there testifying before Congress. And believe me, those clowns lost all speaking privileges today.”
    â€œOh? What happened?”
    â€œI get on their elevator and guess what’s playing over the goddam speakers?”
    I couldn’t help but smile. “What?”
    He opened a bottle of beer and handed it to me.
    â€œThe 101 Strings,” he said.
    â€œPlaying what?
    â€œBrace yourself. AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell.’”
    He shook his head in disgust.“Can you believe that? A fucking Muzak rendition of ‘Highway to Hell’? On an elevator owned by the federal government?”
    â€œThat’s pretty bad,” I conceded.
    â€œPretty bad? That shit is so wrong in so many ways that all you do is shake your head and say, ‘What the fuck?’”
    â€œWhich is what you said to them?”
    â€œFor starters. Then I told them the Founding Fathers would be spinning in their graves. I told them if you’re going to play AC/DC on government owned and operated elevators, do it the way Ben Franklin would have: electric guitars and all.”
    â€œI must have missed that history lesson. I had always assumed Ben preferred the unplugged version.”
    â€œWhy do you think that crazy dude was out in a thunderstorm with a kite? Old Ben was a heavy metal freak.”
    â€œThese rib tips are delicious, Benny.”
    â€œWhere’s Jacki? She’s my