"You do think we've become enemies," Balthazar said. "I know you. That's exactly what you think, Fred."
"I have a little trouble imagining why else I'd see you again," Fred said. "I don't know why you've come, but you're here."
"I've come to hear about the Dread Poet, William Tekamthi," Balthazar said.
"That's one of the reasons," Fred said. "Don't take me as a fool now. I may be foolish, but I am not a fool. Give me that much."
"Tell me about the Dread Poet," Balthazar said.
"I already told you I would," Fred said. "I keep my word. That's what I'm good for. Suddenly it sounds like a bad thing. I suppose it's too late. The last time we saw each other, I told you I never wanted to see each other again, unless one of us was dead. If you have a fault, it's that you take things too literally. I'm dead, aren't I? You're going to kill me."
"I am not," Balthazar said. "That last time, remember what I told you?"
"'This ends today, but fate has more yet between us,'" Fred said. "It's one of Boy Benjamin's favorite phrases. I knew what you meant."
"You thought you knew, Fred," Balthazar said. "But that was always your problem. You never bothered to know Balthazar Romero. You only knew your partner, Boy Benjamin's henchman. Do you want to know what I meant when I said that?"
"I'm dyin' to," Fred said. "If you'll excuse the expression."
"I was giving you another chance," Balthazar said. "I was never that fond of B.B. I was never under his spell. He was a means to an end, nothing more. But you never caught on to that. You thought I was loyal. You thought I had nothing else going for me. You didn't understand that all that time, I was working to secure my own future, not Boy Benjamin's. I tried to secure yours, but you weren't interested. I held out hope that it could still work out for you."
"You're using the past tense," Fred noticed.
"Don't you understand? You brought this on yourself," Balthazar said. "If I am a herald of doom, then I am because you made me one. It's your fault."
"I gave as much as I got," Fred said. "You're as much at fault for our soured relations, Balthazar, you let things spiral out of control. Don't you try and pin all this entirely on me. Don't you dare."
"You're still trying to blame me," Balthazar said. "You still don't see how it was your fault. And it was. You didn't appreciate what I had to offer, you never did. We had different methods, we always did, but you never respected mine. You thought you were carrying us. Do you want to know how wrong you were? Do you want examples? I was carrying you, Fred, all those years. You wouldn't be alive today if it weren't for me. Do you understand? If it wasn't Boy Benjamin, then any of the long list of enemies you compiled. You had a flawed approach, and you have the balls to say - the gall to have underestimated me - that I'm the one at fault here? No, Fred. You don't have that right."
"I kept myself together," Fred said. "For all those years, I kept myself together."
"It doesn't matter," Balthazar said. "Don't you understand? It doesn't matter what you did for all those years to protect yourself. Your past eventually catches up with you. It's a simple matter of fact."
"What about yourself, Balthazar," Fred said. "You think you'll emerge from your own life unscathed?"
"I know how to protect myself," Balthazar said. "You never did, and you're only now beginning to understand how much it will cost you."
"You talk about preparations," Fred said. "You can't prepare for the unknown, Balthazar. That's where it always gets you. Maybe I'm just realizing it, but at least I am. You're giving me a warning, if that why you're here?"
"After a fashion," Balthazar said.
"Then I'm giving you your own warning," Fred said.
"I don't need it," Balthazar said.
"Don't be so sure," Fred said. The host for this exchange looked at his coffee, and decided he didn't want it anymore. He got up from the table they had been sitting at and dumped it down the drain. "A vice I took from you. I can give it away again."
"It's an awful gift," Balthazar said.
"Most gifts are," Fred said. "There are only two kinds of gifts: the informed and the uninformed. The second one is the kind you give because you think it'll be good for them. In my experience, it rarely is. It just isn't...appreciated. The giver is the one who receives the pleasure, and the only one who's supposed to. They've done their job. Gifts are a task, just like any other."
"You're getting sentimental again," Balthazar said. "The holidays are a long way off."
"Holidays are for those who can't appreciate life right now," Fred said. "We teach our children that they have to wait, that what they want is something that is to be given to them."
"Silly, I know," Balthazar said.
"No, you don't," Fred said. "You said I didn't know you. I know that you celebrate the holidays every year. Ordinarily, one could make this assumption of anyone, but I know that you did not always. There was a stake-out, one year, on Christmas Eve, during some of Butler's happier moments. You told me that you had nothing better to do and that it was not a new fancy of yours. I remember you using that word, 'fancy.' It impressed itself. We rung in Christmas handing Butler a present he would never forget. Do you remember what it was?"
"His father," Balthazar said.
"Who had not been in that urn that last time Butler saw him," Fred said. "It was a particularly dastardly idea, that one of yours. Butler didn't even believe it for years, and the postcards you sent, only convinced him further. You never even told me if Daddy Epstein was truly dead or not. I assumed he was."
"Those were better times," was all Balthazar would say about it. "For us, anyway."
"Bessie says she still receives those postcards," Fred said. "I saw one just the other day. You can't imagine how upset they make her. And I can never tell her about my connection to them."
"There's nothing to tell," Balthazar said.
"Of course not," Fred said. The doorbell rang. "I'm never expecting callers. But they always come. Maybe there's truth to your theory after all. This is supposed to be private residence."
As Fred went to answer the door, Balthazar began to feel something akin to regret. He had not expected the encounter to go half as well, and in fact was developing newfound respect for his former friend, but not enough. Fred had managed to avoid discussing Tekamthi thus far, despite having assured Balthazar several times that he would.
"It seems I've gotten a package," Fred called from the doorway, with no surprise in his voice. He must have already seen the return address Balthazar had briefly debated he should include. If he could make the decision over again, he would, and not include it. "You've sent me...a gift."
"So I have," Balthazar said.
"This was the point of the visit," Fred said. "Wasn't it?"
"Open the package," Balthazar said.
"Oh, I will," Fred said. "I already know what it is, don't I?"
"Only one way to find out," Balthazar said.
"No, there isn't," Fred said, as he found a letter opener, to cut the tape. "But I'll do it your way anyway, Balthazar."
The next moment, the broken watch was revealed. Fred stared at it for a moment, but wouldn't look at his guest. "Boy Benjamin. He says I'm living on borrowed time. Let's see what I can do to fix it."
"Don't do it," Balthazar said as he watched Fred begin to open the back of the watch with the screwdriver that had accompanied it. "You don't have to."
"It's too late," Fred said. He continued to work at it. The looser the backing became, the more liquid oozed from beneath, from within.
"Fred, please," Balthazar said.
"You've made your choice," Fred said. The liquid was covering his fingers now, and still he continued. "And I've made mine. You want to know how to find the Dread Poet? I'll tell you."
"Fred," Balthazar said. "Think of your wife. Your children."
"She's pregnant, you know," Fred said. No more liquid came forth. The plate was off and now the liquid seeped into his skin, disappearing. "Ashlee wishes she were, doesn't she? Why do you think that is? Because she knows her sister is, and she feels her...biological clock ticking.
"The Dread Poet. He lives a few blocks down from here, on Culver St, No. 22, in the basement of the house. The owners don't even know it. They don't even know they have a basement. He's been there as long as they have. Ten years. And they've never known. Their dog doesn't even know. But they should have. There were signs. There were signs everywhere."
Fred spoke no more. He was dead. Balthazar took his leave. Bessie and Rose and Hansen Mueller were still not even awake. The package had come very early, and now Balthazar had taken a husband and father away from his sister-in-law a second time. Ashlee must have known. She would know about this, too. But he couldn't worry about that. He needed to do bad things, but he did those things humanely. They would think Fred died of a heart attack. It would come as no surprise to anyone who knew him. To those who knew him well, they would know. He had left the box, but removed the return address. He had put it on a sticker, while he was still debating, in case he changed his mind. The postal service could still expose him. But he couldn't worry about that.
He had other things to worry about.
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