I stopped. I went inside. I made myself a sandwich. I poured myself a glass of sweet cider. The sweat began to chill on my body. I took off my shirt, rubbed myself down, put on a sweatshirt. I went outside to eat my lunch sitting in the sun.

—

It’s quiet up on the mountain.

The road is unpaved and rough. I can hear a vehicle coming a long way off. I can recognize UPS, FedEx, and what my neighbors drive by the sounds they make. I heard a car that wasn’t one of those. There was no reason for anyone to come to see me. I assumed that it would stop somewhere below. But it kept on coming. Very slowly, inching over the ruts and potholes. Finally, it crept around the last bend and into sight. It was a Cadillac CTS. I guessed it to be about two years old. Black. Cadillac has two blacks. This was the blacker black. Their name for it is black raven.

It stopped. Owen Cohen got out. Bitching and complaining. “Jesus, fuck. You call that a road? Didn’t you ever hear of pavement? Look at that…” He pointed to the dust and dirt that marred the car’s shine. “It won’t be enough to wash it. I’m gonna have to have it detailed.” He was dressed like a well-off detective would have back in the eighties for a casual day in the country. A hip-length leather jacket. Black. Light-gray shirt with a collar and cuffs. Clean, pressed jeans. Real shoes, black oxfords.

“Hi, Owen,” I said, still sitting in the sun. “How are you? Can I get you something?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll take a drink.”

“Water, cider, Gatorade…”

“A drink, Cassella, a drink. Or are you on some fuckin’ twelve-step thing?”

“I have some Scotch…”

“That’ll do. You got ice? All the way up here?”

I got up. He followed me inside. He looked around while I got the ice and poured some Scotch over it. He said some nice things about the house. I handed him his drink. I said, “What can I do for you?”

He took a sip. He gave a nod that the Scotch was alright. He looked at me, considering. “No chitchat?”

“Owen, you’re a surprise guest. I figure there’s a reason.”

He took another sip. Not like he needed to fortify himself but taking the moment to select his phrasing. “I’ll get right to it. I came for my cut of the McMunchun money.”

There was only one way to play it. At least for starters. Incredulous as could be. As if all I could say was, “What?”

“Come on,” he said, not buying it at all, going on, one smart guy to another. “Make an offer. Then I’ll make a counteroffer. Then we’ll meet in the middle.”

I stuck with incredulous. Added some oblivious. “Owen, what are you talking about?”