2

Rita

It's not the kind of bar I imagined.

Scar Scarfoni is a martinis-in-the-lounge kind of guy. He likes high-end everything, from suits to cars to whiskey. He works hard, earns obscene amounts of money, and spends like he's never heard of the word retirement.

He's not shy about it, either.

But this place is a dive. There's a drop ceiling—an actual drop ceiling with probably-not-but-maybe-asbestos tiles—and fake wood all over the walls. Neon signs advertise beers I'm pretty sure don't exist anymore, and some ancient-looking faded pictures of retired Boston sports stars are tacked up on the walls—with actual tacks.

It's quiet at four in the afternoon. Scar scowls around for a moment until he leads me to the far end and deposits me at the end of a curving bar in the shadows of what I assume must be a kitchen. Or maybe where they send discontinued beers to die. "You'll stay here," he declares.

"I thought the meeting wasn't until six," I say, blinking rapidly. "You want me to sit here fo