SOFIA BUCKSTEIN got off a train at Grand Central and made her way toward the main hall, towing her carry-on suitcase that contained four days’ of clothing, all of it with the labels removed, in case she had to abandon it. Her shoes were good for sprinting, if necessary, and the big bag slung over her shoulder contained the stuff of her work: cash, credit cards, and wristwatches she had taken off marks; three wallets, each stuffed with a different passport, a driver’s license, a couple of credit cards, and some useful fluff like insurance cards. Her iPhone was tucked into a silk holster, clipped to a bra that supported her ample breasts. She didn’t carry a gun, but there was a very sharp little switchblade tucked into a garter. She had had to use it only once, but it was always there. Then she looked up and saw the guy.

He was clearly rough trade, and she liked that. He was heavy, in a muscular way, had a shaved head tucked under a tweed cap—very different from the men in handmade suits on the train that she could think of only as marks.

She walked straight up to him. “Where can a girl get a drink around here?” she asked him, straight-out. “And are you buying?”

He gazed down at her. She was only five-three, but very well built. “Right this way, sweetheart,” he said, taking the handle of her roll-on and starting down the platform. “You gotta name?”

“One for every occasion,” she said. “Let’s start with Maria.”

“That’s classy, I like it. I’m Curly, for obvious reasons,” he said, lifting his cap. He led her into a restaurant in the station, parked her case in the cloakroom, and steered her to a bar stool.

“So,” she said, “how’s business?”

“Slow,” he replied, “but not too slow.” He beckoned a bartender. “What’ll you have, Maria?”

“Macallan 12 will do me.”

“Two of those,” he said to the bartender, and laid a fifty down, “and make them doubles.”

“You work the platforms regular, Curly?”

“When I don’t have anything better to do.”

“What’s your pitch?”

“A judo chop to the back of the neck,” he said. “If you do it just right, you can catch them before they hit the pavement.”

“How do you get away with that in a place like this?”

“I start yelling for somebody to call nine-one-one, and I give the bum chest compressions while I pick his pocket. Then I get somebody to spell me and I disappear. Anybody stops me, I tell ’em I’m going for a cop.”

“Well, it’s simple, I’ll give you that, and you save a lot of time not having to work the guy.”

“That’s me, simple and direct. Charm has never been my strong suit.”

“I like that in a man. You ever get picked up for that dodge?”