The Retirement Plan

Chapter 25

Phil eased into the one-piece plywood seat by the end of the terrace. He picked up the cardboard coaster, tapped it on the surface of the table. Looked over the wooden rail at the cars passing by on the street.

The re-opening of the bars was supposed to signify a return to normalcy. However, the handful of customers, both inside and out here on the usually packed terrace, highlighting the new reality we were living in. Fear.

A waitress with dark curls arrived a few minutes later with his caña. Phil smiled at her. The small wrinkles around her big brown eyes showing that beneath the surgical mask, she was reciprocating in kind. After been holed up in his hotel room drinking for the past few days, Phil was grateful for even the smallest amount of human communication.

He dug a ten from his wallet and laid the note on the table. Told the waitress not to bother with the change. Her eyes grew wide and bright.

Why not? It might be the last tip he ever left.

Phil had phoned Max, on the stocky man's insistence, and arranged the meet. His ears still burning from the inferno of abuse, the Dutchman had shouted down the line. He had grown wearily accustomed to the threats to maim and dismember. This had become his new normal. Now, all he could do is wait, and wonder if Max would follow through this time.

The waitress returned with a small ceramic bowl containing an assortment of salted nuts and placed it by his elbow.

He plucked a few from the bowl with unsteady fingers and threw them in his mouth, washed them down with a generous gulp of cold beer.

Phil finished the caña in four long swigs and let out a long, satisfied sigh.

He was debating whether to order a second beer when he spotted the man with the silver side-parting and healthy middle-aged spread walking toward the table. Wearing neither a mask nor a smile, Max sat down opposite him.

Phil eyed Max's expensive tailored pinstripe shirt, remembering a time when his wardrobe was stocked with similar luxury garments.

"Here you are," Max said with a grotesque smile. "My little runaway. I wonder what I should do with you." Phil couldn't resist the urge, breaking into song, "I wah-wah-wah-wah wonder."

The Dutchman stared at him, the vein in his forehead pulsating, hands balled into fists. "You think this is fucking funny?"

"Life is funny. This parade of absurdity we partake in, this lunatic existence we cling to, the endless—"

"It's not endless. And for some it ends a lot quicker than they expect."

Phil's smile wilted.

"Now, are you going to tell me where I can find that mierenneuker, Chris?" Max said. "Or do I have to obtain it from you in ways that would make a Gestapo officer vomit?"

Phil's stomach dropped, and with it, the address from his lips.

"We go," Max said. "Now."

"Now?" Phil said, glancing around. "It's twenty to six in the evening."

"I didn't know there was a set time for killing somebody."

"Look here—"

"I am looking," Max said, blue eyes colder than a Siberian lake. "I'm looking for one good reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"And what guarantees do I have you'll find one?"

"I'm not a car salesman. I don't offer guarantees."

"Probably for the best," Phil said, raising a smile. "You'd make a lousy salesman—you never tell people what they want to hear."