8
Benji
Four Months Later…
“Benji, my good friend,” said the man in a thick Russian accent. He spread his arms out wide to pull me into a hug. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, patting me on the back. “It is good to see you. It has been very long.”
“Good to see you, too, Ivan,” I said.
“Come, sit, please.” He pointed at the chair across from his desk as he returned behind it and settled in, crossing his hands over his fat belly. Snapping his fingers at the pale young teen standing at attention on the far wall, he barked, “Petrov, go get a drink for my old friend, Benji. Vodka.”
“Little early for vodka, isn’t it?”
“Never too early for vodka.”
“You’re a Russian through and through,” I remarked.
“Ah, what can I do? It is in my blood.” He leaned forward in his seat and eyed me up and down.
