After letting himself in, Ryan closed the door and headed straight for the kitchen, pouring J.R. a ten-ounce glass of straight gin and himself a glass of water. “Still not 21,” he smirked to J.R. who was watching him intently from his seat at the card table.
Ryan took the other seat at the card table opposite J.R. and endured several minutes of his absurd confabulation over his past, present and future, studying his burned out appearance as his hollow words evaporated into the ether.
He looked even worse in the fluorescent light of the apartment than he had at the bar, his greasy, stringy hair framing a ruddy complexion, underlain by delicate spiderwebs of red and blue veins. His shifty eyes, blood red around the dull hazel of his irises, faded to a rusty yellow near his sagging lower lids. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and his gray teeth were stained by some combination of coffee and tobacco. Clearly chronically malnourished, his swollen ankles and protuberant belly only served to draw added attention to his otherwise rail-thin frame.
Ryan found himself so entranced by J.R.’s appearance that he almost failed to notice that his glass was empty. And his slurred speech had started to slow.
“I just found out my grandfather was murdered!” Ryan blurted out, hoping he hadn’t overshot with his more-than-generous pour of gin. Directness was all he had time for at this point. “J.R., did you call in a prescription for insulin to a Seattle pharmacy the day he before he was killed?”
“What? No!” J.R. said, exaggerating a shocked expression but coming off looking like a chocolate-faced four-year-old, denying he’d seen the missing cookies.
“Look, I’m not accusing you of anything. You were the best friend my dad ever had.” If there was an ounce of humanity in J.R., that lie would have to add to his guilt, which was the only thing that made telling it bearable. “But I know why your training license was put on probation.
"I know you wouldn’t have done anything intentionally.” Again, Ryan cringed at his own words. “But I think Avillage might’ve been behind this. Did they put you up to it?”
“They tricked me, Ryan,” J.R. said, his eyes now welling with tears — not of contrition or sorrow but of self-pity. “They offered to pay off my student loans if I just called in one prescription. I didn’t know what it was for!”
And you didn’t question why someone would be willing to pay off your loans for calling in one prescription? He was clearly lying. “But you worked with them again, J.R. You fed them my parents’ location the night of their accident. Why?” Ryan demanded, as if he knew it as fact. J.R.’s lids were drooping. “J.R.! Why?”
His eyes snapped back open. “They told me if I didn’t help them out one more time, they’d rat me out to the police for what happened to your grandfather.”
“J.R., who is ‘they?’ Who told you to call in the prescription? Who told you he’d call the police? Who wanted my parents’ location?”
“I don’t know! Somebody at Avillage!”
“Was it Aaron Bradford? J.R.! Listen! I promise I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Just tell me.”
“I don’t know!” he blubbered with a woe-is-me moan, emotionally incontinent from his drunkenness. “I swear. I’d tell you if I knew.”
It was pointless. He probably truly didn’t know, but there was no way Ryan could trust a single word that was coming out of his mouth either way. One thing was clear though. J.R. had clearly benefited directly from his actions — twice.
“J.R., listen to me,” Ryan said placing his hand on J.R.’s trembling bony shoulder, still intent on getting a good measure of revenge. “You look tired. I’m gonna let you go to bed. And don’t worry. I can see life has dealt you some bad breaks, but I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of.” And with that, Ryan walked out of the apartment, not stopping to look back.
Before heading back to his hotel, he made one last stop back at the liquor store, just before close.
As the owner jotted down his credit card information, Ryan placed a unique order. “I want you to deliver a liter of gin everyday to Jared Ralston in apartment 2C across the street,” he said. “If he asks for more, I want you to deliver more. As much as he wants. Understood?”
The man behind the counter looked at him suspiciously. “You’re gonna have to pay up front — a month at a time. Plus delivery.”
“You can put a thousand dollars on the card now and a thousand more every thirty days. Call me if it’s not enough. I’ll pay more if I have to,” Ryan said flatly.
The confused owner just nodded his head silently as he slid Ryan’s card through the reader, still somewhat skeptical but not willing to risk blowing the biggest single deal he’d ever been offered.
There were fates worse than prison. Fates worse than death. And there were a few souls rotten enough to deserve them.
Ryan arrived back in Boston, three days early, to a stack of thick envelopes he guessed were probably job offers. They were too substantial to be rejection letters. And those usually came later in the interview season, after the employers were sure all their slots had been filled.
He rifled quickly through the envelopes, considering which one to open first: Goldman Sachs? McKinsey? Maybe one of a handful of silicon valley firms?
But his attention was drawn to a shiny square envelope toward the bottom of the stack with his name hand-written in ornate calligraphy on it. The letter contained no return address but had been postmarked in New York. Probably an early invitation to a graduation party from one of his exorbitantly rich classmates, he thought.
He ran his finger underneath the flap of the envelope and pulled out another smaller envelope inside. If he’d known anyone who was planning to get married, he would have sworn it was a wedding invitation. The second envelope contained a small reply card, a frivolous bit of translucent tissue paper, and a hand-written invitation.
Dear Ryan, it read. I would ask respectfully that you not formally accept any job offer prior to discussing your options with me. I would be happy to arrange transportation and lodging for you here in New York at my expense.
The simple invitation on otherwise blank stationery was signed, Sincerely, James Prescott.
CHAPTER 15
“James Prescott.”
Ryan’s mind went blank. The last thing he’d expected was that Prescott would answer the phone himself — on the first ring.
Prescott smiled at the silence; his ploy, one he’d used countless times on less-experienced business associates to gain an early psychological advantage, seemed to have worked. Ryan had initiated the call, yet somehow he was the one back on his heels, as Prescott calmly spoke first. “Thank you for calling, Ryan. I presume you received my invitation?”
“Uh, yes. Yes I did,” Ryan stammered, cursing himself for blowing his one and only chance to make an assertive first impression.
“I do hope you’ll accept. As I mentioned in my note, I’d be happy to arrange transportation and lodging. Unfortunately, the one thing I can’t offer is a lot of flexibility on dates.”
Ryan already felt like he was playing catch-up in the conversation. As a legal adult, he had no obligation to Avillage, other than the appropriations from his income. So while he was intrigued by the vague invitation, he had no interest in making this too easy on Prescott. “What is this concerning?” he asked flatly.