They were holed up in a little one-story motor court just outside of Malvern, Pennsylvania. It wasn’t the worst place I’d ever seen, but I guess if you were stuck there for an extra day or two, it would start to get to you. Especially if you were trying to keep a low profile, ordering pizzas instead of going out, passing a bottle back and forth instead of seeing what the local bars had to offer. Whatever the reason, they weren’t all that happy when I finally showed up.

There were only two of them. I didn’t think I’d find such a small crew, but there they were, both staying in the same room. Which I’m sure didn’t help their mood any. The man who answered the door was the man who seemed to be the leader. He was bald and maybe twenty pounds overweight, but he looked strong enough to put me right through the window. He spoke with a pronounced New Yorker accent.

“Who are you?” He stared me down for five seconds, then it hit him. “Wait a minute, are you the guy we’ve been waiting for? Get in here!”

He pulled me inside and shut the door.

“You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke?”

The other man was sitting at the table, in the middle of a hand of gin rummy. “What’s with the kid?”

“This is the boxman we’ve been waiting for. Can’t you tell?”

“What is he, like twelve years old?”

“How old are you, kid?”

I put up ten fingers, then eight more. I wouldn’t turn eighteen for another four months, but I figured what the hell. Close enough.

“They said you don’t talk much. I guess they were telling the truth.”

“The fuck took you so long,” the man at the table said. His accent was a lot thicker than the first guy’s. So thick it sounded like he was standing on a Brooklyn street corner. I nicknamed him Brooklyn in my mind. I knew I’d never get real names.