I’d hoped the words would scare Ryan off.
They didn’t.
“I should drop by there, too,” he said, much to my surprise. “Mind if I tag along?”
I did. I said, “I don’t mind.”
There I was being a nice guy again.
When we were outside, Ryan started making small talk.
“Seems like a good building.”
“Yeah.”
“I used to live in a real run-down one. Every time I came home, I had to pass these Arabs sitting on the steps, smoking pot or drinking beer.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, in Toronto.”
It was a chilly fall evening, and even under his layers of loose clothing, Ryan was shivering.
The whites of his eyes were yellowish.
His smile never left his face.
For a few seconds, I entertained the idea he was a Caribbean vampire.
“What kind of music do you like?”
“I don’t know. I don’t listen to much,” I said. It wasn’t true, but the lie had been almost automatic. I didn’t like opening up.
“I like jazz,” he said.