across from Boston’s skyline. To the left, the endless Atlantic. To the right, the Cradle of Liberty. If you’re going to die, you might as well die with a view.
“Stay here, pup.” I scratched Updike’s chin, then put my Bruins beanie on. I kept my Patriots hoodie snug. “I’ll be back in nine minutes.”
He whined.
“I’ll do what I gotta do and I’ll leave, okay?”
He whined.
We’d parked a block away to facilitate any possible stealthy arrival. They knew I was coming but I still needed to pretend I had a chance. On the brisk walk toward my doom, I rehearsed.
The first line of defense was likely the front desk staff. Honestly, what was I supposed to say? “Hello, my name is Guy About to Die Upstairs. Would you please inform Mr. Riddle Me with Bullets that I’ve arrived? Thank you. I’ll wait.” Every single minimum-wage-making individual I’d encounter would have been briefed on how to handle me. In fact, it was likely that one of them—the plumber, the maid, the cable guy kneeling by a toolbox containing a Beretta M9A3 with suppressor—would be the grim reaper. I’d be killed when I least expected it, while most expecting it.
“Mr. Michael Ryan to see Mr. Vatroslav Mesic,” I said to the front desk staff member.
“He’s expecting you,” said the front desk staff member.
That’s how it was going down. Seconds later I was alone in the elevator, watching the numerals climb to “PH.” I should’ve had my gun drawn, ready to fire away at whatever might appear beyond the sliding doors.
I didn’t.
I had a bottle of Kamešnica plum brandy. The one errand I had run along the way.
The elevator nestled to a stop and I walked into what felt like a carpeted air lock. Thought I killed you at Harvard, I said to myself upon seeing him. No, but all these bodyguards looked alike.
Vatroslav gestured for me to hold still, then had me slowly pirouette for him while his massive hands groped. He discovered my Smith & Wesson revolver—they always do—and took it.
What a joke of an apartment.
Picture three point eight million dollars spent as idiotically as possible on decadent all-white postmodern lowest-bidder neo-conformist decor. Wherever you looked you saw a bad decision. The odd walls. The couch from outer space. The rug with a Nike logo on it.
Then there was Vatroslav, standing by the distant window. I almost expected him to be in a velvet robe and monogrammed slippers, casting his gaze toward the bay while quoting Sun Tzu before snapping his fingers to have my throat slit from behind.
He was in jeans and a track jacket. Didn’t even dress for the part.
“You actually showed up,” he said.
“Figured you had questions that only work on a second date,” I replied.
“Yeah. How did you know I had a pair of eights?”
He was as boring as I’d hoped.
“Seriously,” he repeated. “How?”
Off to the side was a barefoot supermodel at a glass dining table busying herself with her phone. Part of me felt relieved to see her there. Her presence meant I might not be shot at. But after some good ole-fashioned pessimistic thinking, I remembered that imported sex trade girls are shown as much violence as possible as often as possible, so that they have motivation to cooperate. The guy behind me was armed with a delayed-blowback Croatian VHS-2 assault rifle. I made no eye contact with him. I crossed the room and sat in an armchair and started to undo the cork on the bottle I was still carrying.
This was way ahead of schedule. I’d meant to uncork it at the most strategic point in the upcoming banter. I stopped.
“Really?” said young Vatroslav. I couldn’t tell whether he was impressed or insulted. “You sit down in my chair, you give up your gun, you keep your back to the man with the VHS-2, you ignore my question.”
He said all this after observing me just doing nothing for a full minute. He was oddly patient despite his youth.
“This is not the skillful Michael Ryan I know of.”
“He’s retired.” I finished opening my bottle, then took a Balkan-sized swig. When in doubt, talk about yourself in the third person.
Vatroslav came over and sat in the armchair opposite mine. I was in doubt. Terrified. He was somewhat bewildered by my actions. So was I.
“You’re not on suicide watch, are you?” he asked.
I took another swig. The alcohol content of this swill was gut-wrenching. Kruskovac brandy, they called it. I set it down on the ottoman between us.