I stick my bleeding thumb in my mouth and taste pennies as I head for the front door. It’s 8 p.m., and I can’t even begin to fathom who the fuck could be at my door, let alone at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.

Whoever the hell this is, he’s even taller than me, which is saying something, and he’s hunched at the shoulders, with droopy but intelligent eyes, and I’m reminded of a vampire from an old black-and-white movie.

“Nathan Fischer?” he asks, in a slow, deep, syrupy Southern voice.

“Yeah, that’s me. Who are you and you what d’you want?”

“May I come in? I shall be brief.”

“Not until I know who you are, and what you want.”

“Understandable. First, let me apologize for the late hour on a weekend.” He withdraws a business card; it’s thick, expensive card stock, ivory in color and printed in navy blue ink trimmed with gold leaf. This is the business card of a serious attorney.

Tomas Anton, Esq., specializing in estate law. Levine, Levine, & Anton, attorneys at law.

“What do I want with an estate lawyer?”

“It’s more what I want with you. I represent the estate of the late Adrian Bell.”

“Adrian…” I swallow. “Okay. Still not following what you want with me.”

He nods. “I understand your confusion, Mr. Fischer. Please, may I come in? What I have to say is private, and sensitive.”

I nod, open the door and admit him. My kitchen table is my makeshift workbench, so it’s littered with curled bits of shavings, and the piece I’m working on sits in the midst of the largest pile of shavings. It’s a bird, a life-size rendering of a raven caught mid-caw, wings ruffling.

Mr. Tomas Anton, estate attorney, ambles to the table, bends at the waist and peers at the nearly finished carving. “That is remarkable, Mr. Fischer. You are a true artisan.”

“Thanks. It’s a hobby.”

He has a briefcase, a slim leather thing that’s probably more accurately called an attaché. He pulls a chair away from the table, sweeps the pine shavings off with a long, elegant hand, and sits down. Props the case on his knees and pops the latches. Lifts the lid. Removes a manila folder, marked with my last name in calligraphic handwriting on the tab. Closes the lid and sets the folder on top of the case. Each movement is precise, considered.

His eyes lift to mine. I’m standing, arms crossed, hands tucked under my armpits. “Perhaps you would like to sit down.”

“You’re recommending?”

He nods. “Indeed.”

I sling a chair around, perch on it backward, arms folded over the back. “I’m listening, Mr. Anton.”

“I will get right to the point. Mr. Bell, with whom you were friends, made rather extensive arrangements prior to his tragic passing.”