From the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
A subway station bustled, infected with morning commuters. Some walked; some ran; some stood; some slept. Trains zipped by in every direction, screeching from the forced steel-on-steel contact. Chaos engulfed the dwelling, yet everyone seemed to have a plan.
Burgundy tiles lined the floor, abused by the soles of humans. Overflowing blue trash barrels littered the walkways next to benches. Red digits from clocks stabbed the stuffy, sweat-soaked air. It was five minutes after seven o'clock in the morning.
A particular train slowed, its moan echoing off the concrete walls. It was not unlike the other trains as its stainless steel exterior displayed its share of graffiti, but there was something different about this particular train--something not about the way it looked, but rather the occupant it held.
The train finally stopped. The doors burst open and the crowd waiting to embark fought those struggling to exit.
Just as it seemed the deck had shuffled, a pair of charcoal gray shoes stepped from the train. They were made of calf leather with a hand-sewn Goodyear construction for exceptional durability, comfort, and support. Synthetic shoelaces were snaked through five holes with a small piece of white leather sewn into their faces. A pair of black dress slacks swished on top of the polished leather. The pants were made of 100% virgin wool that virgin hands had carefully stitched. They were 34 inches in the waist and had an inseam of 34 inches as well. They had one-inch cuffs, a traditional inflection, and they were pressed with a hint of starch to keep a knife-edge crease, no matter where the wearer took them. The bottom of a black trench coat rested just below the knee, enough to keep it from hindering the movement of its occupant. A stout black briefcase hung from the right side of the man as one of his black leather gloves gripped its steel-hinged handle. The trench coat was open and allowed others to see a black suit coat, size 42 long. A black and white tie hung proudly and covered the six ivory buttons on the man's fitted white dress shirt. The clothes that cloaked the man ended at his face, or rather, the man who cloaked the clothes began there. He was tall, standing at 6'2", and he had a cunning face ripened to the age of forty-three. His hair was black and styled like a Wall Street millionaire, perfectly parted to the left. He had the power to tickle any woman's libido and the stature to make any man envious of his style. The man who walked through the crowd had something about him, something nonchalant, something that begged further inspection. His name was Trevor Malloy.
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