there like an idiot. Then, without another word, he turned and walked to the door.
He shook his head all the way back to his office. Was it possible that he’d been wrong about Kozlowski? The notion of the detective together with Lissa was too weird for his mind to grasp, but why? Kozlowski was older but not outrageously so. And in many ways, they might be good for each other. Something about it just seemed so odd. It couldn’t actually work between the two of them, could it?
Finn was still wrestling with the notion as he approached the office. In New England, night falls early in December, and it was pitch-dark out even though it was just past six o’clock. As he took out his key and slid it into the lock, a shadow emerged from around the corner of the little building.
“You Finn?”
Finn looked up. The man was standing directly in front of a streetlamp, making it difficult to see anything other than his general shape. It seemed like a large shape, though. “I am.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About a case. Not here, though. Inside.”
Finn squinted, trying to get a better look at the man. He was tempted to tell him to come back on Monday during normal working hours, but he’d lost so much time on administrative matters over the previous two days that he felt guilty. A couple of years on his own had taught him that you had to pounce on any potential new business without hesitation. You never knew where the next meal was coming from, and hustle was 70 percent of surviving as a solo practitioner. “Okay,” he said. “Come on in and we’ll talk.” He opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open behind him to let the man in.
“So, you need a lawyer?” Finn took off his coat and threw it over a hook on the wall.
“Not really,” the man replied.
Finn turned to get a good look at him. The impression from the street had drastically underestimated his size. He’d seemed large, but he was in fact huge. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, though neither thin nor gawky. He had massive shoulders from which hung long solid slabs of muscle ending in hands the size of baseball gloves. His neck, which rose from a giant cask of a torso, was as thick as a telephone pole and looked as solid. As he took off his hat, a shock of red hair stood on end, and his complexion was ghostly white. He looked young, early twenties at most, but he had the eyes of someone much older. “You look familiar,” Finn said. “Have we met?”
“No,” the young man said.
Finn shrugged. “Well, if you don’t need a lawyer, I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“Mr. Slocum sent me.”
An alarm charge ran through Finn. This was not a good sign. “Why?” he asked.
“He said he’s considered your offer to settle this divorce.”
Finn stood in the center of the large central office space, only a few feet from the giant. The man had an odd resolve about him; he looked neither excited nor nervous.
“And?” Finn asked. “Does he have a response?”
The man nodded. Then he took two quick strides toward Finn— surprisingly graceful, almost balletlike strides for a man his size—and swung one of his massive arms, driving a sledgehammer fist into Finn’s abdomen so hard that Finn thought he felt it push its way through his organs and connect with the front side of his spine.
Finn doubled over and fell to his knees as the giant took two steps back. For over a minute, Finn was unable to move or make a sound, and he seriously considered the possibility that he was going to die. He’d taken plenty of beatings in his youth, and dished out his fair share as well, but he was sure he’d never been hit this hard. He’d heard stories of guys taking a punch to the head that killed them, and he wondered whether it was possible to have the same result from a gut shot.
Gradually, he regained the ability to move, if only slightly, and his lungs expanded enough that he was at least making some noise
He shook his head all the way back to his office. Was it possible that he’d been wrong about Kozlowski? The notion of the detective together with Lissa was too weird for his mind to grasp, but why? Kozlowski was older but not outrageously so. And in many ways, they might be good for each other. Something about it just seemed so odd. It couldn’t actually work between the two of them, could it?
Finn was still wrestling with the notion as he approached the office. In New England, night falls early in December, and it was pitch-dark out even though it was just past six o’clock. As he took out his key and slid it into the lock, a shadow emerged from around the corner of the little building.
“You Finn?”
Finn looked up. The man was standing directly in front of a streetlamp, making it difficult to see anything other than his general shape. It seemed like a large shape, though. “I am.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About a case. Not here, though. Inside.”
Finn squinted, trying to get a better look at the man. He was tempted to tell him to come back on Monday during normal working hours, but he’d lost so much time on administrative matters over the previous two days that he felt guilty. A couple of years on his own had taught him that you had to pounce on any potential new business without hesitation. You never knew where the next meal was coming from, and hustle was 70 percent of surviving as a solo practitioner. “Okay,” he said. “Come on in and we’ll talk.” He opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open behind him to let the man in.
“So, you need a lawyer?” Finn took off his coat and threw it over a hook on the wall.
“Not really,” the man replied.
Finn turned to get a good look at him. The impression from the street had drastically underestimated his size. He’d seemed large, but he was in fact huge. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, though neither thin nor gawky. He had massive shoulders from which hung long solid slabs of muscle ending in hands the size of baseball gloves. His neck, which rose from a giant cask of a torso, was as thick as a telephone pole and looked as solid. As he took off his hat, a shock of red hair stood on end, and his complexion was ghostly white. He looked young, early twenties at most, but he had the eyes of someone much older. “You look familiar,” Finn said. “Have we met?”
“No,” the young man said.
Finn shrugged. “Well, if you don’t need a lawyer, I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“Mr. Slocum sent me.”
An alarm charge ran through Finn. This was not a good sign. “Why?” he asked.
“He said he’s considered your offer to settle this divorce.”
Finn stood in the center of the large central office space, only a few feet from the giant. The man had an odd resolve about him; he looked neither excited nor nervous.
“And?” Finn asked. “Does he have a response?”
The man nodded. Then he took two quick strides toward Finn— surprisingly graceful, almost balletlike strides for a man his size—and swung one of his massive arms, driving a sledgehammer fist into Finn’s abdomen so hard that Finn thought he felt it push its way through his organs and connect with the front side of his spine.
Finn doubled over and fell to his knees as the giant took two steps back. For over a minute, Finn was unable to move or make a sound, and he seriously considered the possibility that he was going to die. He’d taken plenty of beatings in his youth, and dished out his fair share as well, but he was sure he’d never been hit this hard. He’d heard stories of guys taking a punch to the head that killed them, and he wondered whether it was possible to have the same result from a gut shot.
Gradually, he regained the ability to move, if only slightly, and his lungs expanded enough that he was at least making some noise
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