"Are you Michael Westen?"
How the hell do these people find me? It's not like you can just look up former spies in the yellow pages. I don't go around broadcasting my position to the world.
"You're the one who helps people who can't go to the police, right?"
You would think that I had rented a billboard telling people about my special skill set.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I said to the man who had rushed up to me in the hardware store.
"You're the one. You have to be the one. 'Cause if you're not the one then bad things are going to happen. Really, really bad things." His hair was in disarray, sticking up at every angle, in every place. I sighed, how do I get roped into these situations?
"What I kind of bad things?" I asked despite myself. Since coming to Miami I had fallen prey to my softer side.
"Bad, bad things. Things that I can't tell you, they're so bad. Anyway, bad things."
Do I look like I can read minds? A word of advice, if you are ever going to ask an ex-spy for help, tell them exactly what is going on. And include the important parts, like you and your rich wife are in the middle of a custody battle or step-daughter has been kidnapped by the Mob.
"You need somebody else's help, man." I said, turning and walking away. The man looked crestfallen.
"But Michael?" He called out.
"Victor said to find you."