The next day around midmorning, a guy who coulda been my blond twin walked into the forge, looked around, smiled, and lumbered up to me, holding out a ham-sized hand.
“Hey, you must be Butch. I’m Jax.”
I took his hand, and we had a short, friendly, grip-strength match. I won. Which was sure good since I figured he musta been looking for a job. He had that aiming-to-please swagger.
“I saw your ad.”
Bingo.
“Nice to meet ya, Jax.” I gestured toward my office. “How about we go in there to talk? I need to keep an eye on the door. In case of people.”
On a Tuesday after a dead weekend, the only walk-ins I get want to stroll around the shop touching stuff or gawk at me in my leather apron. If I was covered in sweat, they’d want a picture and shove their girlfriends or wives up next to me. Th
