Chapter 1
Maybe he should raise llamas, grow saffron, open a farm-to-table restaurant in Vermont. Instead, Arlo Hatch, Esq. sat in a disheveled office in the West Fifties, staring at the text from Kostya. Nothing subtle about Konstantin “Kostya” Kozlov, his former client: “Tonight, asshole. K.” Followed by a butcher knife emoji. Just released from Rikers Island, Kostya had to be seething with rage—and blaming Arlo for his five-month stint, most of it in solitary after kicking a guard in the balls.
Arlo glanced out of his twenty-first-floor window at the hotel across the street: row after row of the same rooms with the same white blinds blocking out the sun—except for one room, directly across, where an exhibitionist was blowing cigarette smoke through a cracked vent window. Tight little rings of smoke, floating up, losing their form, disappearing into the sooty air.
He looked back down at the text, and he could see Kostya coming. Kostya…with his hairy, bulging forearms, weirdly bigger than his biceps, and his turkey-sized fists. And his fondness for knives. And his C-4 temper. Arlo handled business litigation—he must have been out of his mind to take on Kostya’s criminal case. Even so, he did a decent job. Not his fault that the big dope insisted on taking the stand. The only other witness was a blind man with a hearing aid, but when Kostya dropped his six-foot-five-inch, 250-pound body into the witness box, and tried to justify the dental work he’d done on the gangster “victim,” the jury was terrified. Not Arlo’s fault. Five months was a gift from the judge.
Kostya. Yet another reason to get the hell out of New York, back to his boyhood home in the lush Green Mountains of Vermont. Life in the City was grinding him down. He had worked hard for an equity partnership, and it was almost within reach—three years early at that, at age thirty-three. One million a year if he got it. But so much of the job was exquisite bullshit, moving money around from one corporate miscreant to another. Vermont would be a relief.
But then, there was the little matter of falling in love…with Stella, his client Tucker Barnett’s New York-centric daughter.
All irrelevant anyway, if Kostya slit open his gut with a butcher knife.
****
At 1:00 a.m., a guard buzzed Arlo out of his office building. He looked both ways—the block was deserted—and walked quickly across Seventh Avenue, towards his apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He made Broadway, walked down to Forty-Eighth, turned right, and after half a block, he heard a cough and a trash can fall over. Someone was behind him. About five car lengths away. Skinny man, in a dark hoodie. Arlo picked up his pace. So did the man in the hoodie.
A voice called out, “Wait up!” Arlo stopped under a streetlight, turned, and the figure drew close. More of a kid than a man? Hard to make him out. “You got the time?” High-pitched voice.
Arlo looked at his watch. “One fifteen.”
“That’s a cheap-looking watch, if you don’t mind my saying. Plastic?” The man had some kind of knife, partially covered by a long coat sleeve. “Let’s see your wallet.” Nervous dude. Black goatee. Designer shades. He was jerky and talking fast.
“It tells time. I don’t need it to last forever.” Arlo pulled out his wallet and handed it over.
The man scowled. “One debit card. That’s it?”
“I don’t carry a lot of cash. In case I’m mugged.”
“LOL.”
“There’s an ATM around the corner.” And maybe some help.
“Fine.” The man pointed with the blade of the knife.
They walked to Ninth Avenue and turned south. No help in sight. Arlo walked slowly. “It’s across the street.”
They crossed at the light and walked farther down Ninth. “I don’t see any ATM,” the man said.
“They must have moved it.” Arlo felt a prodding in his back. “I’ve got money in my apartment.”
“It better be close.”
****
Arlo knocked twice, waited a second, knocked again.
“What are you knocking for? It’s supposed to be your apartment.”
“Just a habit. Sometimes my girlfriend’s over.” Something hard pressed against Arlo’s kidney as he stuck a key into the lock and opened the door. A quick clunk, and the man’s face was upside down below Arlo’s knees.
“Who’s this skinny little dude?” Kostya was holding the man’s ankles in an oversized hand.
“Have to ask him.”
“Hand me a belt.”
“Mikey,” the man said, just before Kostya hung him upside down from a chin bar bolted across Arlo’s bedroom door. “My name’s Mikey. That clunk you heard was Mikey’s head on the wall.”
“Let’s have some grub.” Kostya was smiling at his handiwork. He pointed to a spread laid out down the hall on the kitchen table—caviar, crème fraîche, blinis, and vodka nestled in a bucket of ice. An eight-inch chef’s knife rested next to the baguette.
Maybe he should raise llamas, grow saffron, open a farm-to-table restaurant in Vermont. Instead, Arlo Hatch, Esq. sat in a disheveled office in the West Fifties, staring at the text from Kostya. Nothing subtle about Konstantin “Kostya” Kozlov, his former client: “Tonight, asshole. K.” Followed by a butcher knife emoji. Just released from Rikers Island, Kostya had to be seething with rage—and blaming Arlo for his five-month stint, most of it in solitary after kicking a guard in the balls.
Arlo glanced out of his twenty-first-floor window at the hotel across the street: row after row of the same rooms with the same white blinds blocking out the sun—except for one room, directly across, where an exhibitionist was blowing cigarette smoke through a cracked vent window. Tight little rings of smoke, floating up, losing their form, disappearing into the sooty air.
He looked back down at the text, and he could see Kostya coming. Kostya…with his hairy, bulging forearms, weirdly bigger than his biceps, and his turkey-sized fists. And his fondness for knives. And his C-4 temper. Arlo handled business litigation—he must have been out of his mind to take on Kostya’s criminal case. Even so, he did a decent job. Not his fault that the big dope insisted on taking the stand. The only other witness was a blind man with a hearing aid, but when Kostya dropped his six-foot-five-inch, 250-pound body into the witness box, and tried to justify the dental work he’d done on the gangster “victim,” the jury was terrified. Not Arlo’s fault. Five months was a gift from the judge.
Kostya. Yet another reason to get the hell out of New York, back to his boyhood home in the lush Green Mountains of Vermont. Life in the City was grinding him down. He had worked hard for an equity partnership, and it was almost within reach—three years early at that, at age thirty-three. One million a year if he got it. But so much of the job was exquisite bullshit, moving money around from one corporate miscreant to another. Vermont would be a relief.
But then, there was the little matter of falling in love…with Stella, his client Tucker Barnett’s New York-centric daughter.
All irrelevant anyway, if Kostya slit open his gut with a butcher knife.
****
At 1:00 a.m., a guard buzzed Arlo out of his office building. He looked both ways—the block was deserted—and walked quickly across Seventh Avenue, towards his apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He made Broadway, walked down to Forty-Eighth, turned right, and after half a block, he heard a cough and a trash can fall over. Someone was behind him. About five car lengths away. Skinny man, in a dark hoodie. Arlo picked up his pace. So did the man in the hoodie.
A voice called out, “Wait up!” Arlo stopped under a streetlight, turned, and the figure drew close. More of a kid than a man? Hard to make him out. “You got the time?” High-pitched voice.
Arlo looked at his watch. “One fifteen.”
“That’s a cheap-looking watch, if you don’t mind my saying. Plastic?” The man had some kind of knife, partially covered by a long coat sleeve. “Let’s see your wallet.” Nervous dude. Black goatee. Designer shades. He was jerky and talking fast.
“It tells time. I don’t need it to last forever.” Arlo pulled out his wallet and handed it over.
The man scowled. “One debit card. That’s it?”
“I don’t carry a lot of cash. In case I’m mugged.”
“LOL.”
“There’s an ATM around the corner.” And maybe some help.
“Fine.” The man pointed with the blade of the knife.
They walked to Ninth Avenue and turned south. No help in sight. Arlo walked slowly. “It’s across the street.”
They crossed at the light and walked farther down Ninth. “I don’t see any ATM,” the man said.
“They must have moved it.” Arlo felt a prodding in his back. “I’ve got money in my apartment.”
“It better be close.”
****
Arlo knocked twice, waited a second, knocked again.
“What are you knocking for? It’s supposed to be your apartment.”
“Just a habit. Sometimes my girlfriend’s over.” Something hard pressed against Arlo’s kidney as he stuck a key into the lock and opened the door. A quick clunk, and the man’s face was upside down below Arlo’s knees.
“Who’s this skinny little dude?” Kostya was holding the man’s ankles in an oversized hand.
“Have to ask him.”
“Hand me a belt.”
“Mikey,” the man said, just before Kostya hung him upside down from a chin bar bolted across Arlo’s bedroom door. “My name’s Mikey. That clunk you heard was Mikey’s head on the wall.”
“Let’s have some grub.” Kostya was smiling at his handiwork. He pointed to a spread laid out down the hall on the kitchen table—caviar, crème fraîche, blinis, and vodka nestled in a bucket of ice. An eight-inch chef’s knife rested next to the baguette.