You do your best to seem disinterested and confused, but the man persists in this one-way conversation of his.


"Does an even two million sound right to you?" he says.


Again, he seems to know more about what is going on than you do. You fumble for your phone in your pocket, desperately trying to maintain the illusion of disinterest and mild irritation, but the words two million are still resonating in your brain.


You have no idea what kind of mission Mr. Berringer wants to hire you for. Well, scratch that; you do have a very good idea. Your potential new employer in Boston is the type of person who desires certain items, and you are the type of person who can procure them. The only thing you don't know at the moment is what the item is in this case, and where you'll need to go to find it.


But if this guy with the bad hairdo and worse clothing is willing to pay you two million... .


Well OK, you tell yourself, let's not get greedy. You have no idea what Berringer's offer is going to be. On the other hand, though, here you are flying on the ticket he purchased for you, chilling near the rear of the plane in economy class. And next to you is a guy who seems eager to steal you away. He doesn't look nearly as well-heeled as your usual employers, but maybe he's just the messenger for somebody else. And to be frank, two million would be real money.


Assuming that we're talking dollars here, and not something idiotic like Bitcoins. The last thing you need is a bank account full of arcade tokens.


But working for Mr. Berringer is like playing in the big leagues — an opportunity that is likely to lead to others. That is worth thinking about, too.


__________________________________________________

You ignore him and wait for your meeting with Mr. Berringer.

This conversation is getting out of hand; encounters in a public space like this one is not how these transactions usually occur. It is becoming clear to you that Mr. Plaid Suit is an amateur at this kind of game, and based on his appearance it seems unlikely he has two million of anything to give you. Best to end this now, you think.


"Not interested," is all you say, your jaws clenched and your voice low. The last thing you want is to be overheard by anyone else on the plane.


"Can I interest you in a soft drink?"


The attendant's voice startles you; the cart has now reached Row 30, but you were so distracted you had lost track of it's progress. The woman in the window seat seems to wake from her nap in an instant. "Yes," she says. "Do you have Coke or Pepsi products?"


"We have Coke products: Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite. We also have coffee, orange juice, and water."


"I'll have a Diet Coke, please," the woman says.


As the attendant pours the soda out of the can into the plastic cup, she asks Mr. Plaid Suit, "And you, sir?"


"I'm fine, thanks."


The attendant hands you the Diet Coke to pass along to the woman in the window seat. "How about you?" she says to you as you hand off the cup.


"Coffee will be good," you say. And a moment later you are cradling a paper cup full of black coffee in your hands.


This entire interruption has thrown your neighbor off his game. He continues to fidget in his seat, but with the woman to his left in the window seat no longer napping, and with you clearly not interested in his solicitations, he acts as though the remainder of the flight has no purpose for him. Out of the corner of your eye you see him reaching for the newspaper again, only to put it pack in the magazine pouch as if faintly disgusted with it. He pulls out a dog-eared copy of Condé Nast Traveler instead and pretends to be interested in some article about an apple festival in Upstate New York.


The plane touches down at Logan before you even finish your coffee, and you make a hasty exit off the plane. There is no need to go to the baggage return because everything you need is in your carry-on — traveling light is always a boon in your profession. So you rush through the terminal, not even looking to see if Mr. Plaid Suit is following you. The airport is already filling with people, a medley of humanity in motion, and you can only assume that the bald man with the bagel breath is now busy looking for the next flight back to New York.


Outside the terminal, dozens of people are lined up at the taxi stand waiting to hail a ride, or waiting for their Uber to arrive. You're already ahead of that game; as soon as the plane landed and you were able to turn on your phone, you hailed a ride of your own. Now you have a message that your ride has arrived: a black Camry driven by someone named Julio.


Indeed, you see a car matching the description across the street, just behind a family of weary but excited travelers loading their suitcases into the back of a minivan, telling the relative who is picking them up about their flight from Cleveland. You are musing to yourself about how every man, woman, and child in this family is wearing either a Red Sox or a Patriots shirt when you hear the whiny revving of a four-cylinder engine. Too late, you turn to see the Camry charging out of its waiting spot, clipping you as it weaves through the dawdling taxis and Ubers and then speeds toward the city.


The last thing you remember is your face hitting the hard pavement.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

When you come to, you are in a hospital room. There is a window, but the only thing it reveals is what must be the next wing over. The TV is turned off, and the only voices are coming from down the hall.


You have no time for this; you're going to miss your meeting with Berringer! Swinging your feet out of bed, you realize you are wearing nothing but a standard-issue hospital robe; and as you try and sit up, your left arm tugs at all the medical equipment that you didn't realize were tethered to you.


Two nurses rush into the room. Are they more concerned about you, or the equipment you almost toppled over?


"You're awake!" the lead nurse says, wearing a loose-fitting maroon scrub and paisley leggings.


"Yes," you say, "but I can't stay." Your voice is raspier than it should be.


"Oh, is that so?" the nurse says.


"I have a meeting. I can't afford to be late."


"Well how about we just lie back in bed and get yourself comfortable? Then we can get Dr. Green to come in and have a chat with you." She is speaking as though she is making a suggestion, but she and her confederate are already lifting your legs back into the bed and guiding your head back toward the pillow.


"But—"


"I'm sure your meeting can wait," she says. "Besides, you're in no shape to be interviewing for a job, or wherever it was you were going. If you like, I can turn the TV on for you. Do you like Jeopardy! ?"


Who's got time for game shows? you think, but you're starting to realize you don't have the energy to put up a fight. The nurse points the remote control at the TV, and indeed Jeopardy! is the first thing you see.


Alex Trebek is reading a clue off the blue video screen. "In the 2002 movie Gangs of New York, the Five Points crime boss William Cutting is also known by this macabre nickname."


"Who is Bill the Butcher? I'll take 'Scorsese Flicks' for five hundred."


The nurse stands back to regard her handiwork, once you are tucked back in the bed where she seems to think you belong. "There. Better?"


Maybe. Probably. Actually, you have no clue what happened or why you are here, except that you have this unusual headache. The pain is dull, so you must be medicated.


"Oh, by the way, these flowers came for you today. Would you like to read the card that came with them?"


She points to a small calling card, propped on a plastic stick and surrounded by a bouquet of blue and white flowers. Who even knows you are here? You nod, and she hands the card to you. It reads:


Get well soon.


Regards,


Walter Berringer.


PS: Better luck next time.



THE END