The Angel of Death is at my door. I start to shake. To his credit, he mollifies my fears right away. "No, no. I just need to use your bathroom. I have been on the job all night and haven't had a chance. I'm just bursting dude." I tell him be my guest. He rushes by me and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

I hear the water run. I guess the Angel of Death washes his hands.

He comes out wiping his hands on his trousers.

"A roll of paper towel wouldn't kill you. No pun intended. It's just good hygiene."

I tell the Angel of Death "My bad. I don't get many guests."

He says "It's all good. I see you read the New York Times. Interesting." I had read the Sunday Book Review on the toilet. I left it in the bathroom.

I say "The book review. Hoping they review something I have written one of these days." I don't know why I am telling the Angel of Death my hopes and dreams. I guess I am a little nervous.

He says "They won't print my letters to the editor. That Friedman doesn't have a clue." I don't know if he is just fucking with me.

The Angel of Death looks at his watch. He has a gold Rolex. He says "Listen, I've got a thing I need to do in about an hour. Do you think I can hang here?"

I say "Um."

"It's just I need to be close by. For this thing I need to do."

"In the building?" I ask. "You have a thing to do in this building?"

"I can't say. Just for," he checks his watch again, "57 minutes."

"Right, right. Sorry. I was just wondering. Of course you can stay. Can I get you a drink?"

"Do you have something peaty?"

I give him an 18-year-old Laphroaig. As I hand him the glass he says "Corner three bedroom".

I say "Really?"

He puts his finger to his lips and says "You didn't hear it from me."

The Angel of Death eyes the ivory chess set I have on my coffee table - it is really more decorative than anything.

"Game?" He suggests.

I look up and say "We have less than hour." The Angel of Death smiles and says "It won't take that long. Fischer was one of mine. Let's just say we took the long way home. He taught me a few things on the way."

The Angel of Death plays pawn to king 4. I make my move in reply.

"Sicilian Defence. Nice. This might take me a few more minutes than I thought."

I say "My father loved the Sicilian."

"Ah Marco," he says and my heart skips a beat. But before I can ask him anything, he spots my record collection and walks over to the shelf.

The Angel of Death now starts rifling through my record albums. He admires my turntable. "Old school eh? I haven't seen one of these in ages."

Old school eh? Is the Angel of Death Canadian?

"Yeah," I say. "I guess I am a bit of an audiophile."

The Angel of Death pulls out The Band's Music from Big Pink. "Oh man," he says. "Are you fucking kidding me. I love this. Can we put this on?"

I say "Be my guest. You don't get to listen to music where," I struggle to find the right words "where you come from?"

The Angel of Death gently places the vinyl on the turntable and ever so delicately lowers the needle.

"The old man has a thing for musicals," he says, not hiding his contempt. "I mean, I love Hamilton as much as the next guy but could you give me a break for the love of… well you know."

I say "Yeah," but I don't really.

We sit and listen to The Band. I help myself to my own pour of Laphroaig and top up the Angel of Death's glass. It gives me a chance to get a better look at him. He has the requisite goatee and a cowlick which looks like it is held down by gel. He is wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. If I didn't know he was the Angel of Death I would have guessed he was an assistant manager at Whole Foods.

I haven't listened to The Band for a long time too and the combination of music and scotch is creating a nice vibe.

We sing the chorus of The Weight together. 

"Take a load off Fanny

Take a load for free

Take a load off Fanny

And and, and... you put the load right on me"

The Angel of Death has a nice voice. It is the last song on the first side. We sit in silence for a minute and then the Angel of Death starts chuckling.

"The old man was convinced it was Annie," he says. "Take a load off Annie. We had a huge fight about it. He almost had me go get Robbie Robertson to settle it. I had to talk him out of it. Talk about stubborn."

"Jesus," I say.

"Yeah. He put me on earthquakes for a year after that. Backbreaking work. I can tell you. He said it had nothing to do with it but you do the math." Then he flips the album and we listen to the other side.

When I Shall Be Released comes on the Angel of Death says:

"You know, I like this version better than Dylan's."

I say "I do too."

And then the Angel of Death says "Levon Helm. So fucking great." The Angel of Death might be a little drunk.

I say "Yeah, so fucking great." I might be drunk too.

"Hey, I am going to take another whiz and be on my way."

I say "Let me grab you a paper towel."

"Thanks man."

The Angel of Death comes out of the bathroom singing "Any day now, any day now, I shall be released," smiles, then says "Thanks for the hang."

I say "My pleasure."

He says "I understand if you say no but any chance I can take the album. I am going to try and sneak it in."

I take the record off the turntable, slip it back into the sleeve and hand it to the him. A CD might be easier to hide but I am not about to argue with the Angel of Death. We say our goodbyes. I put the scotch glasses in the dishwasher.

Twenty minutes later I hear a knock

The Angel of Death is at my door.

"You going to the Greenberg wedding next week?"

I say "Yeah."

And he says "You might want to take an Uber."

The end.