Klein sat in the back of the cab watching neon lights blur past the window, running the numbers in his head.
He had money now. Real money. Which meant it was time to stop living like he didn't.
First priority: housing. The apartment on Queens had served its purpose — it was where Klein Carter had scraped through college on fumes and stubbornness, and it had been where he'd spent his first month figuring out this world. But it was ten square meters, it had no security worth mentioning, and the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors argue about television channels. It wasn't a base. It was a waiting room.
He needed somewhere that was quiet, private, and actually his.
Location mattered. Not too remote — he needed to move freely and access the city without it being a production. Not the middle of Manhattan either, too loud and too visible. Somewhere near Chinatown would work well; familiar food, familiar rhythms, easier to settle into.
Transportation was the second thing. Taxis were fine for now but they had limits — you couldn't take a cab to certain places without leaving a trail, and there were parts of this city where you wanted to arrive in your own vehicle and leave the same way.
Third: something to do.
Not because he needed the money. But because a man with six and a half million in cash and no visible means of income was eventually going to attract the wrong kind of attention. He needed a reason to exist on paper. A business, a front, something that explained where the money came from and gave him a social shape in this city.
What kind of business, he hadn't figured out yet. Something small enough to manage without being a full-time job. Something that suited the particular set of things he could actually do.
The ideas were there, just not formed yet.
"Sir, we're here."
Klein paid and climbed out. The night air was cold enough to sharpen his thinking slightly.
He went upstairs, locked the door, stood in the middle of the small apartment and looked around it.
It felt smaller than it had this morning.
Easy to get used to better things, he thought wryly, and went to shower.
He slept well and woke up to sunlight angling through the window at nearly ten o'clock.
He lay there for a moment, not moving, and then reached for his phone and called Peter.
"Hey, Klein—"
"Do me a favor. Tell Professor Walsh I'm not feeling well, can't make it today."
A pause. "Klein, this is the third time this month—"
"Are you helping or lecturing me?"
"...Fine." A sigh. "But next time—"
"You're the best, Peter, I'll buy you dinner." Klein hung up before the lecture could start properly.
He lay in bed for another five minutes out of principle, then got up, brushed his teeth, shaved, changed into clean clothes, and pulled one hundred thousand dollars from the stash — packed into a plain kraft paper bag, stuffed into his old backpack. Enough to move on a property if something looked right. The rest stayed under the mattress for now.
He ate brunch at the fast food place on the corner — burger, fried chicken, large Coke — sitting at the high window counter watching Queens go about its Tuesday morning while he thought through what to look for.
Then he pulled out his phone and started searching for real estate agencies.
The first three were disappointing in different ways. One had an agent who clearly wanted to show him whatever was paying the highest commission regardless of what he'd asked for. One had nobody who seemed to actually know the neighborhoods he was asking about. One was so aggressively cheerful that he left after four minutes.
The fourth was quieter. One person in the office, a young guy in a clean but inexpensive shirt, focused on his computer screen. He looked up when Klein walked in, stood, and offered a straightforward smile.
"Good afternoon. I'm Tony. Buying or renting?"
"Buying." Klein laid out the requirements: quiet, strong privacy, near Chinatown or adjacent neighborhoods, budget flexible for the right property.
Tony listened without interrupting, nodded a couple of times, and then turned back to his computer and started filtering rather than immediately launching into a sales pitch. Klein appreciated that.
"Six listings fit your criteria. Two had letters of intent signed this week — four are available now." He printed the sheets, photos and basic specs, and handed them across. "We can go look today if you want."
Klein scanned the pages. "Let's go."
Tony drove a semi-old Toyota with the calm competence of someone who knew the streets well. The afternoon went through three properties that each had something wrong with them.
The first was well-located but hemmed in on all sides — too dense, too much foot traffic, neighbors twelve feet away on every angle.
The second had space but the interior was a gutting job. Whoever had maintained it last had done so with the philosophy that maintenance was optional.
The third had a good layout and decent location, but the seller had attached a list of conditions that read like a legal document written by someone who'd had bad experiences with buyers and intended to pass the trauma along.
The sun was getting low by the time Tony parked on a side street in Brooklyn, a few blocks from Chinatown.
"Last one for today." He pointed at a detached two-story building on the corner. "Owner is a Chinese-American woman, retired dentist. Wants to sell so she can move back to her home country. In a hurry, but not desperate — she cares about the place going to someone who'll take care of it."
Klein got out and looked at it.
Brick and stone construction, clearly older, but everything about it said maintained. Clean exterior, no peeling, windows clear. Corner lot — street on one side, narrower road on the other, which meant two faces of natural light and no direct neighbor on either exposed side.
Tony unlocked the front door. A faint smell of disinfectant, not unpleasant — the remnant of a dental practice that had been here for years.
The ground floor was open and spacious. The clinic equipment was gone but the bones of it remained — solid plumbing, full electrical, gas lines, a bathroom, a kitchen, a storage room in the back. The bones of a functional commercial space.
Upstairs: living room, full kitchen, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a card room, and a small balcony overlooking the alley out back. The decor was dated but every surface was clean with the particular thoroughness of someone who had made cleanliness a habit over decades.
Klein walked through it twice, slowly.
Three hundred and eighty square meters total, Tony said. Top and bottom combined.
He stood at the second-floor window and looked at the quiet street below. A couple walking a dog. A delivery truck making a stop two blocks down. Not silent, but calm — the specific quality of a residential street that had found its own rhythm and kept it.
The ground floor could be a business front. The second floor was a proper living space. The corner position meant natural light and clear sightlines in two directions. The brick construction meant privacy that wood-frame buildings simply couldn't match.
"What's the asking price?" Klein turned around. "And why has it been sitting?"
Tony rubbed the back of his neck with the expression of someone about to say something slightly awkward. "The owner is asking four million. Which is — honestly — the problem. At that price in this area, a pure residential apartment would get you something newer with better building management. A pure commercial space would get you a better-positioned storefront. This one is mixed-use, and mixed-use properties are harder to sell because buyers have to decide which way they're using it before they can justify the price."
"It's been listed six months. People look, they hear the number, and they walk."
Klein did the math without showing it on his face. Four million out of six and a half left him with two-point-five, plus whatever the jewelry and gold liquidated to. Tight, but workable — especially since the ground floor could generate income.
And the mixed-use nature wasn't a problem. It was exactly what he needed.
"Is the price negotiable?"
[End of Chapter 15]
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