Man of Fate. Rochelle Alers

holiday weekend.

      Duncan picked a stray raisin off the table and popped it into his mouth. “Right now I’m open, but Ivan mentioned something about having a cookout at his place.”

      Ivan owned a brownstone in the Mount Morris Historic District two blocks from their offices. “If he doesn’t want to do it, then I will,” Kyle volunteered. “I haven’t sat outside or used the grill since last year.”

      Resting a hand on Kyle’s shoulder over a starched white shirt, Duncan leaned closer. “Please tell Ivan you’ll do it. If I have to eat another hockey puck masquerading as a hamburger I’m going to go ape-shit and hurt Dr. Ivan Campbell. The man can’t cook for nothing!”

      “Hear! Hear!” Kyle intoned, bumping fists with Duncan. “That settles it. We’ll hang out at my place.”

      Duncan flashed a wide smile. “Thanks, buddy. You just saved a thirty-year friendship.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to meet a client in a few minutes. We’ll talk later.”

      Kyle waited for the financial planner to leave before gathering his files and returning to his office. There was something Mercedes had said that made him believe Rashaun Hayden was covering for someone, someone who might have threatened him if he decided to snitch. The street code of “snitches get stitches” prompted many defendants to take the rap for someone else.

      The elder Haydens had emptied their bank account to hire private legal counsel for their only child, feeling that a public defender wouldn’t fight to keep their son out of jail. Kyle was charging them half his hourly fee because he believed Rashaun was innocent. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed the Hayden residence. Rashaun answered after the second ring.

      “Hey, this is Ras.”

      “It’s ‘Hello,’ Rashaun. How do you expect a jury to believe you when you come across like that?”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. C. I thought you was one of my boys.”

      Kyle wanted to ask the teenager if he cut English classes, because he invariably screwed up his verb tenses. “The name is Chatham, not C, and, Rashaun, I need to see you.”

      “When, Mr. Chatham?”

      “I want you to ask either your mother or father to call me so I can set up an appointment.”

      “Do I have to come?”

      “Yes, Rashaun, you have to come.”

      “What do you want to talk about, Mr. Chatham?”

      Kyle leaned back in his executive chair. There was a thread of anxiousness in his client’s voice that hadn’t been there before. “You’ll find out when we all meet.”

      “Have you found out who really jacked up that lying bitch?”

      “I want you to listen real good, Rashaun, because I’m only going to say this once. Clean up your mouth or I’ll have the judge revoke your bail and you’ll find yourself back in Rikers at the mercy of some inmate who’d be happy to make you his bitch before he passes you around to his buddies for cigarettes.”

      There was complete silence on the other end of the line. Kyle knew he had gotten through to the cocky young man who believed doing a “bid” would enhance his street cred. What Rashaun failed to understand was that going to prison was not a walk in the park. He was facing a sentence of ten to fifteen years, with the possibility of parole in eight years. And a lot could happen to him in eight years.

      “Now that I have your attention, please let your parents know I called and that I want them to contact me as soon as possible.”

      “Yes, Mr. Chatham.”

      “Thank you, Rashaun.”

      Kyle ended the call, annoyed that he had to go there with the young man. He didn’t know where Rashaun had gotten the idea that going to prison was a badge of honor. Kyle had grown up with boys who’d gone to prison, only to return either hardened or broken men. Some were never able to assimilate afterwards and become a part of society, shut out from certain jobs because of their criminal backgrounds.

      The intercom rang and he pushed the speaker button. “Yes, Cherise?”

      “I ordered the flowers. They’ll be delivered to Miss Warrick before three today.”

      “Good.” Kyle made another call to the owner of one of his favorite neighborhood restaurants.

      “Good morning. This is Leroi’s”

      “Good morning, Pearl. This is Kyle Chatham. Is your husband available to come to the phone?”

      “Sure, Kyle. Leroi’s right here.”

      “What’s shaking, brother?” said a deep, booming voice.

      “I need a favor.”

      “Name it,” Leroi said without hesitating.

      “I want to buy a steak from you.”

      “Buy a steak or you want me to cook a steak?”

      Kyle knew Leroi probably thought he was losing his mind. “I want to buy two uncooked strip steaks from you. I’d prefer if they were aged.” He usually ordered his steaks directly from Peter Luger’s butcher shop, but the dry-aged strip and porterhouse steaks in his freezer were frozen solid. He’d suggested to Duncan they have the cookout at his place because it’d been a while since he’d entertained outdoors and he wanted to broil those steaks before they developed freezer burn.

      “How large do you want them?” Leroi asked?

      “Not too large.” Kyle planned to make steak au poivre.

      “I have a few aged ones weighing approximately sixteen and twenty ounces.”

      “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

      “Nope. It sounds like a lot of meat, but it won’t be after you broil it.”

      “Wrap up two for me, and I’ll pick them up around five.”

      “I can have someone run it over to you, Kyle.”

      “You don’t have to do that, Leroi.”

      “Yeah, I do. After all, you helped me out when you got that fraud to drop her lawsuit when she claimed she found bugs in her salad. I’m sending the steaks and think of them as a gift from me and the missus.”

      “Only this time, Leroi.”

      “No problem, brother.”

      Kyle hung up. Normally he wouldn’t accept a gift or gifts from his clients, but he knew it was useless to argue with Leroi, and he needed a premium cut of thawed beef.

      The morning and afternoon passed quickly for Kyle. He stopped long enough to order a Caesar salad with grilled chicken from a nearby deli. Mrs. Hayden returned his call, and he set up an appointment to meet with her, her son and husband the following week.

      Tonight his focus was on seeing Ava again. He stopped at a local grocer to pick up what he needed to go with his steak dinner, and then he hailed a taxi to take him to Morningside Heights.

      A different doorman was on duty when he stepped out of the taxi. He gave the man his name, waiting while he called Ava’s apartment. “Miss Warrick is expecting you, Mr. Chatham.”

      The doors to an elevator opened as he approached and Kyle stepped inside and punched the button for the fifteenth floor. When the doors opened and he saw Ava Warrick standing there waiting for him, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her or how fast his heart was beating.