A grand piano played its tune, inside a small church outside of the bustle of the city. The pianist, an aging man with a sharp nose and twinkling eyes, performed for the neighborhood every day this year. At first, he when he had arrived in the area, he played to an empty audience. But gradually, people heard his music and came to sit in the church. Every day, at 4 at night. Today, like the other days, he did one last song, and stood. This was the sign for his neighbors to leave. Today he finished with one of Beethoven's sonatas, but as his audience filed out, one remained seated. He was dressed in a black expensive suit, and was young, his face devoid of stress lines. The pair, the man and the pianist, sat in peaceful quiet for a while, taking in the serene nature of the church. Finally, one of them broke the silence.
"You are quite popular here," the man in the suit said, his voice, and it's accompanying Boston accent muttering softly back at them as they hit the high pointed ceiling of the church.
"I never ask; they just come," the pianist replied, and turned around on the piano bench. "It looks like life at the P. Wentworth building has agreed with you."
The other man laughed. "That it has!" he exclaimed, and stood up, walking toward the pianist. "How are you, dad?"
The old man stood as well, and embraced his son. "I am fine, Neil. My heart issues are lessening already." The Irish in his voice became more prevalent.
"I am glad, father. I'm afraid mine are just beginning," he said, but smiled when his father looked up, alarmed. "Relax, I am only kidding. Everything at the-" he looked around, and continued when he determined it was safe to do so. "Everything at ECS is terrific."
Sam Murray relaxed. "You are flying out today, right?"
"Yes," Neil replied. "I have business out west." he checked his watch. "My plane will be departing soon. I'll need to leave for Logan Airport now if I'm to catch it."
Samuel nodded, but then quickly shook his head. "If you are to catch it? Its your plane, Neil!"
Neil smiled. "I don't want to burden the pilot. Goodbye father." The two men shook hands.
The ride to the airport was uneventful; Neil took solace in that the Boston traffic was tolerable. Upon arriving at the airport, he found his entourage - two tall, muscular men with black shirts labeled 'Security' and 9mm pistols attached firmly to their belts. He followed them to the plane - a private jet, fairly modest from the outside. As he stepped in, the air conditioning kicked in, and a waitress brought him a tray of beverages, which he declined. Neil walked over to the only other occupied seat and took the one opposite it. Across from him was a bald man, in his thirties, with a trimmed goatee.
"Chicago?" the man asked.
"Chicago," Neil answered. That was all the conversation needed for the pair; the rest of the trip was silent.