The Retirement Plan

Chapter 3

The two men lost a couple of hours bullshitting, unfurling old stories, adding the odd embellishment here and there. Reggie, eyes animated, retelling that one about the Cuban club-owner who refused them entry on the opening night of his club. The Cuban was a big boy, all right. Maybe not so big that you couldn't slide a cheque past him when he stood in a doorway, as Reggie suggested. But the man was a lump.

It had been a typical August night, sticky, airless heat, mosquitos hovering around in the dark waiting to feast on any exposed skin. The two boys wanted to be inside, press their sweaty flesh, with the slinky mamacitas moving snakelike to the mambo beat. Never going to happen, the owner objecting to Ricky's choice of footwear. Far worse crimes against fashion on display on the heaving dancefloor.

Reggie got in on the argument, pissed they were denied entry on account of flip-flops. That's when the big Cuban brought race into the equation. Bad move. Reggie collapsed his ass with one punch. Ricky smashing the bouncer in the solar-plexus before the lumbering giant got any heroic ideas.

Hard to believe that had happened almost twelve years ago. The two men had known each other about three years by that time. First clapped eyes on each other in a dingy, smoke-filled dive-bar in Alicante. The place was grimy, patrons using the floor for an ashtray. Reggie, fresh in town, had spent half the evening traipsing the city, searching for anywhere showing the finals. Needed to see this one, his beloved Celtics taking on the Lakers. He settled onto a hard-backed stool by the bar, bottle of corona in hand. One eye on the game, one ear on the guy at the other end chatting up the Russian bar-girl, intrigued by this wiry white-boy tossing out American phrases in a thick Irish accent.

At the end of the first quarter, Reggie bought the man a beer. Discovered the guy had spent three years living in Boston. After that, the conversation flowed as quick as the beers, the pair of them racing towards wasted by the time the final whistle blew. A few things were said that made Reggie think they shared more in common than onetime residency in his hometown. An attitude, and mentality that didn't jive with the teaching position the Irishman claimed to hold.

They met up a few nights later for the next game. After some initial cagey verbal shadow-boxing, and due in no small part to the drink, certain pertinent facts came to light. Turned out the Paddy had slipped off to the city on the hill to escape the attention of Irish police. The man's crew hitting armoured vans like it was going out of fashion. Reggie, a long-time practitioner of the old tax-free armed withdrawal, had found himself a new buddy. Since then, the two amigos had been through more heavy-duty shit than a sewage plant.

Reggie looked at the thick silver watch on his wrist. "Reminiscing times over, cuz. Gotta go see the man."

Stepping out on the street, they slipped on their shades. The two men looked at each other. Swapped smiles. Felt like old times, again.

"What you think of the ride?" Reggie said, waiting for a reaction.

Ricky stared at the cream-coloured RV, unimpressed. "Looks like you been watching too much Breaking Bad."

"What... Not that piece of shit. I look like no mullet-wearing, broke-assed trailer-park boy to you?" Fishing the keys from his pocket, he aimed the fob at the shiny Rover MG parked at the end of the narrow street. "This how Reggie roll."

"You jack this?"

"You see a brother with a flash motor, you gonna automatically assume its stolen? What kinda ass-ignorant shit is that?"

Ricky smirked, like he knew better. "Reggie, I see you in a motor cost more than my crib. I know it ain't legit."

"Just get in the car already." Reggie opened the driver's door, slid into the bucket-seat, leather squeaking under his ass. Eyeing Ricky, as he stuck the key in the ignition. "You best not even think about lighting up."