It’s a popular beach bar in neutral territory.
Without any idea of what to expect from the meet-up, Artur and I walk into the bar and out onto the back terrace facing the ocean. There are a lot of people around, most of them wearing ghastly bright palm tree shirts and board shorts. Or no shirts at all, as they laugh too loudly and sip cocktails with umbrellas hooked onto the side of the glass.
Music plays as background noise. Jazz. I never particularly understood or enjoyed jazz. It seems messy and unpredictable. I like things to be predictable. Things should have a set path that makes sense. And why would you play jazz in a beach bar?
“Misha?” I ask, walking toward the tall man in a pale gray shirt and black slacks. He turns toward us with a wide grin.
“Guys, isn’t it a beautiful day? But damn, it’s hot out here,” he laughs, holding out his hand to shake mine. “Joseph? It’s good to meet you in person.” His face is friendly and relaxed. It’s a stark contrast to the tension behind this meeting.
“Misha, it’s good to meet you too,” I say, taking his hand with a firm grip.
Artur nods his head in greeting and opts not to shake Misha’s hand. Misha chuckles and shrugs. “You haven’t changed, Artur,” he muses as his eyes drift over his old friend.
“Can I get you boys a drink?” Misha asks, gesturing toward the bar.
“We’ve ordered, thanks,” I say, standing next to him at the tall round table. He leans against it with one elbow resting on the surface as he gazes out at the lake.
“Beautiful place to live,” he says.
“It is,” I agree, wanting to get on with the important aspect of this meeting, but understanding that this small talk is part of the process.
Artur hasn’t said a word, but his eyes are tightly locked onto Misha. Both of us have noticed the giveaway sign of a gun tucked at his left ankle.
“Misha, I think it’s important for us to talk about…” I begin.
“Artur, why did you pick Chicago?” Misha asks, turning to the man next to me, cutting me off.
“What difference does it make to you? As long as I was no longer in your city? Right?”
“Right,” Misha nods, amused. “You were bringing down the properly value with your presence,” he scoffs sarcastically.
Artur’s mouth pulls tight, and he flexes his jaw.
“Misha, can we discuss…” I try again, but the man interrupts a second time.
“So, my old friend, you fled out here to try and make a name for yourself? A little orphan boy like you in the big city?Now, why do you think people would want you around? You never were anything special, you know,” he says coldly.
What the fuck? This guy is being a dickhead. What the fuck is his problem?
Artur sneers. “You have a problem with the fact that my parents died when I was young? Does that offend you, Misha?” he growls. Emotion flickers darkly across his face.
“Can we please take it down a notch?” I say, in an attempt to defuse the escalating tension.
Misha shoots me a glare. “You like hanging out with the commoners, Joe?” he asks me.
Misha continues to taunt Artur, and I listen, not interrupting, waiting for him to slip up and say something telling. The longer he talks, the more obvious it becomes. This man is dangerous. He’s underhanded and fake. And there is something disturbing about his coldness.
Artur is doing his best to stay in control, but the hurt I see in his eyes tells me that something from the past sits unresolved in his mind. Something Misha did broke him.
After five more minutes of bullshit from him, I shake my head and snarl, “Are we ever going to get to the point? You’re acting like a fucking grade school kid with these insults. Why don’t you just spit out whatever your problem is? What the fuck happened between you two? You were friends. How did it come to this?” I snarl at Misha, unable to take another second of this.
Misha snorts with laughter. “Friends? Please. Don’t insult me. This man was never worthy of being my friend. Poor little orphan came under my wing. I gave him everything. I gave him every opportunity he could dream of…”
“No, you didn’t,” Artur snaps. “Your uncle was the one who took me in, not you. He was the one who helped me and taught me. He brought me up to your level so that I could work in his company. That was what he wanted all along. But you didn’t, did you? You didn’t want me to do as well as you?” Artur growls, dangerously close to losing it.
“Pfft,” Misha scoffs. “You didn’t deserve to beat my level. I have no idea why my uncle dragged you into our family. And then…and then, you stupid arrogant asshole, you started getting on with my sister a little too well. I could see exactly what you were doing. You wanted to marry into the family. You were gunning for our surname. You thought that getting together with Maria would give you the key to the Baburin name?” he snaps.
“Are you fucking kidding me? I really liked your sister, Misha. We were growing closer because we got along. There was no hidden agenda. You were my best friend, and she was a sweet, beautiful girl who treated me like she enjoyed having me around,” Artur blurts out, hidden emotion bubbling closer to the surface.
