The probably-once-stately building’s soiled white paint was cracking and peeling off of the brick façade, and it seemed every third shingle on the roof was missing. A couple of window-mounted air-conditioning units outlined in thick layers of duct tape jutted out conspicuously from the windows on the far side of the first and second floors, while every other window had been left wide open, the thin white curtains inside lying perfectly motionless in the still, tropical air. A vacancy sign that looked like it hadn’t been removed for years was planted in the middle of the parched lawn, next to a cracked front walkway.
J.R. was in apartment 2C. The idea that there could be a “C” at all, implying that there were at least three separate domiciles crammed onto the second floor of the compact building, was in and of itself remarkable.
With his heart rate rising, more from anticipation than anxiety, Ryan strode confidently through the front door and bounded up the steps two at a time. Without pause, he knocked confidently, loudly, on the green door marked 2C, which from the orientation of its entryway seemed to overlook the street.
“Restraint,” he whispered to himself.
No answer. The door had no peephole, and Ryan was pretty sure he hadn’t been spotted on his way in. He gave the door one more good knock, jiggled the handle for good measure, and yelled, “Dr. Ralston?”
Again no answer. Ryan checked his phone — 6:15. Maybe he was out getting something to eat, which didn’t strike Ryan as a bad idea. He hadn’t eaten since Miami six hours earlier, and he’d noticed an English pub across the street. Maybe he could even pick up a little info on J.R. from the locals.
On his way out, Ryan stopped at the base of the stairs and pulled a solitary letter halfway out of 2C’s mail slot. The postmark was recent, and it was addressed to Jared Ralston. This was definitely the right place.
Ryan seated himself in a booth in a back corner of the sparsely-populated, entirely unauthentic English pub. A glass display case featuring large plastic bottles of well liquor hung above the bar, while spigots for the low-budget American and Caribbean beers on tap peeked up from underneath. Against the far wall, one patron had apparently called it an early night, already face-down on the bar.
Ryan ordered a can of Coke, no ice to be safe, and a basket of fish and chips, which all came out together in less than five minutes.
Too hungry just to walk away, he doused the limp planks of fish with malt vinegar and salt, more to ensure they were sanitized than to flavor them, and managed to choke down about half his order.
“Anything else?” his waitress asked briskly as he finished up, hoping he’d take the hint to ask for the check.
“No, I’m all set,” he answered, handing her his credit card without asking to see the bill, equally anxious to get the hell out of there. He didn’t want to miss an opportunity though.
“Actually,” he called out, “there is one more thing.”
The waitress, already halfway to the register, rolled her eyes before effortfully faking a smile and spinning back around.
Ryan waved her over closer to the table, which seemed to strain her insincere smile even further.
“I’m looking for an old family friend,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t happen to know an American by the name of Dr. Jared Ralston?”
The waitress politely shook her head no and started to turn back toward the register.
“Or he might go by the name of J. R.?” Ryan added. “I was told he lives right across the street.”
With that, the waitress’s smile widened, and she threw her head back, cackling loudly. “You mean him?” she howled, pointing to the drunk at the end of the bar. “Hey doc!” she shouted mockingly. “Wake up! You got company!”
He didn’t budge. “Paging Dr. Cuervo!” she yelled, delivering a swift kick to the back leg of his barstool. By now everyone in the pub was laughing, except Ryan and the passed-out drunk.
The drunk yanked his head up off his folded arms, his lids only half open, and took a clumsy swipe at the waitress, nearly falling off his stool in the process.
“That him?” the waitress called out.
He seemed to have aged a good twenty-five years in the eleven years since Ryan had last seen him. But his face was unmistakable. This was it — the moment Ryan had been waiting for for years.
His gut reaction was to take a quick survey of the room to see if there was anyone in the place who would be physically able to prevent him from picking up a pool cue and bludgeoning him to death with it. His best guess was no. But he forced himself to take a deep breath and count to five — just as he’d rehearsed.
He stood slowly from his seat, stretched out his arms and clenched and unclenched both fists a couple times, cracking his knuckles in the process.
The rest of the pub disappeared, as he narrowed his sights on J.R.
Taking slow, controlled breaths through his nose, he strode slowly but confidently across the bar area, never taking his sights off his target who had just warily turned his head in Ryan’s direction.
Stopping a few paces short, Ryan dropped his jaw. “J.R.! Is that you?” he exclaimed, feigning a smile.
“Who wants to know?” J.R. slurred, squinting and shielding his eyes from the dim overhead lights.
“It’s me. Ryan Ewing — Ryan Tyler.”
“Ryan?” J.R. gushed. “Little Ryan? You’ve grown up, kid! You’re bigger’n I am now!” He struggled to his feet and leaned in to give Ryan an awkward hug, slapping him on the back a few times. He reeked of alcohol.
“Yep, all grown up,” Ryan said, trying to keep up his chipper tone and pretending not to take note of any of the glaring stigmata of chronic alcoholism staring him in the face. He yelled down to the waitress to add J.R.’s tab onto his card. “I’m down here on spring break from Hah-vahd. You still on faculty at the medical school? I didn’t see you on the website last time I checked.”
“Nah, I’m done with that. I gave up my twenties and thirties to the practice of medicine.” He brought his closed hand up to his mouth as he ducked his chin, futilely trying to suppress a belch. “And even when I wasn’t at the hospital, I was answering their stupid pages all day and night. I finally said, ‘Enough!’ and checked out for good.”
“Wow. We need to catch up! So, what, you live down here now?” Ryan asked.
“Me?” J.R.’s mind was moving too slowly to lie effectively. “Nah — I mean not yet. I’m just watching a friend’s place for awhile, till the construction on my cozy little beachfront bungalow’s finished.”
Ryan looked up at the waitress, on her way back over with his credit card, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, having heard J.R. tell that same lie countless times.
“Hey, whaddya say I go buy us a bottle of something and I meet you over at your place — I mean your friend’s place — in a couple minutes?” Ryan offered, guessing that someone who looked like J.R. probably wouldn’t be able to resist the prospect of more alcohol.
“Yeah,” J.R. slurred right on cue. “Let’s do it. I’m up in 2C across the street.
“Oh, and why don’t we drink a little Beefeater tonight? British island, British drink?”
And with that, J.R. stumbled out of the pub ahead of Ryan and wobbled across the street to his apartment, while Ryan ran two doors down to a small liquor store to buy his host a gift. J.R. was already well beyond drunk. Ryan wouldn’t have considered buying even a single serving of alcohol for a real friend. But for J.R., Ryan left the store carrying two one-liter bottles of 94-proof Beefeater gin.
J.R.’s second-floor apartment was stifling, obviously not one of the units blessed with air-conditioning. The space was sparsely furnished with a card table and two folding chairs next to a small galley kitchen, a futon in the main living area, and an unmade double bed in the tiny lone bedroom. The walls were bare, painted a sterile white, and the white-tile bathroom looked like it may have never been cleaned. Despite the open windows, a stale smell hung in the air, giving the not-too-far-off impression that the unit had been abandoned months ago.