As soon as he rolled into the common room at Whispering Oaks, I knew it was DJ Skillz. First, I saw the boombox—JVC RC-M90, chrome like a Cadillac bumper—then the man behind it. He set it down, groaned, and grabbed the back brace under a faded Knicks warm-up. Rope chain. Orthopedic kicks. Same old smirk.

I was in my good cardigan and Velcro sneakers, visor crooked. They call me Randall here, a retired accountant. Once I was MC Assassin.

Skillz spotted me at the card table, playing bridge with Grace, Otto, and Jeanne. We froze like mannequins.

“What are you doing here, Simon?” I said, pushing upright, wincing from the ache in my hip.

“Assassin,” he said, low. “You’ve been dodging me for thirty years. Today’s your reckoning.”

I swatted the air. “You gonna have to wait thirty more.”

The room perked up. Wheelchairs rolled closer, forming a lopsided ring. Hearing aids clicked on in a wave. Someone killed the TV and silence felt electric. Nurse Sarah wheeled past with the meds cart.

Skillz raised the boombox like a stone tablet. “You owe me a rematch. You went personal. My girl. My kid.” The last word hung there.

“I retired the champ,” I said, quiet.

“Rematch!” Skillz roared.

The residents tapped their canes, banged the card tables, clapped their hands. “RE-MATCH! RE-MATCH!”

I’d never seen the place so animated.

Skillz pressed PLAY. Nothing. He smacked the lid. Nothing. He squinted.
“When did I change ’em last?” he wondered aloud.

“Don’t tell me 1993.”

Skillz nodded. “Yeah.”

We both laughed.

“Listen,” I said, low enough for just him. “Back then I broke the unwritten rules—went for family. I was scared of you, so I punched down. Then I hid from you. I’m sorry, bro.”

He looked at his reflection in the chrome, then at me. “I been hiding, too, man. My son. The call.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Andre?”

“Twenty years.”

I squeezed my rival’s shoulder. “It’s not too late.”

He looked around. “This is nice.”

“Nancy and I moved in four years ago,” I said. “She passed last winter.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve been burying grief with bridge and video poker. And a colonoscopy. Four years overdue. I’m scared.”

“Truth,” Sarah said, steering a resident out of a three-point turn.

Skillz scratched the RC-M90’s handle with his thumb. “I still demand my rematch,” he said with a crooked smile.

“After Jeopardy,” I said.

The TV came back on. The blue board lit the faces around us; hearing aids hummed in unison.

“So, you think I should call ’Dre?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What do I say?”

“Start with ‘hey,’” I said.

“You gonna get that colonoscopy?” Skillz asked. “I’ll pick you up.”

“That’s a bet.” We fist-bumped as the Jeopardy theme played.

We faced the screen like two old gladiators, truce declared, boombox shining on the table between us like an offering of peace.