So I was prepared for the invasion of my home by men sent to kill me. I had almost been looking forward to it, as until an attempt was made on my life, or until sufficient time had passed-say three years-without any such attempt, my life would be in limbo. And I didn’t have the funds to maintain a three-year vacation. Or, the patience. The cottage has been my home for five years, and I always had enjoyed my quiet, lakeside existence. But that had been when I was working, when I was gone for a week or more on a job, and then would come back for rest and solitude. Year-round rest and solitude, though, could prove boring and probably stagnating. And, in the past, I’d spent a lot of time enjoying myself, with friends (a regular group of us played poker, sometimes as often as three nights a week), and at nearby Lake Geneva, primarily at the Playboy Club. This was a vacation area, with water sports in the summer, skiing in the winter, so there were good-looking women to be had most of the time.

But all of that I’d had to put on the shelf. With the possibility of an attempt on my life coming at any given moment, I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of being distracted. And my poker-playing pals, who were straight types who thought I was a lingerie salesman, might get a little unnerved if our game got broken up one night by gunfire. My sex life had to be forgone, if for no other reason than it’s hard to keep it up when any second you might get shot down. And, too, you tend to be somewhat off your guard when you’re fucking somebody. People have been killed in bed before, it happens all the time, and dying happy is some small compensation, I guess, but no thank you.

All of my attention, then, had been focused on my survival in this specific situation: the invasion of my home by killers.