This week, my novel, The Gods Who Walk Among Us, went on sale. A noir thriller, the story begins on East Fifty-Seventh Street, late at night.

I’d like to share the first five paragraphs:

It was September, late at night, in Manhattan. I was walking up Madison Avenue after having met my friend Arnie for a drink in East Midtown. I was a little drunk. Although there were cars, for New York City, it was deserted. It was hot, maybe unusually hot, but not oppressive. At Fifty-Seventh Street, I saw a bright light coming from a storefront. This was a choice part of Fifty-Seventh and the shops were high end, but at this time of night, they were shuttered and dark. Except this one. The light from it, in contrast to the dark street, was piercing. It intrigued me for some reason.

There were two big black SUVs with tinted windows parked outside the store and people in suits. This was the time of year when the United Nations was in session, and about 90 percent of the world’s dictators, tyrants and presidents-for-life were in town with their entourages and wives and mistresses. I got my phone out and was ready to take some video. I figured if it was one of the bigger genocidal maniacs, I might get $300 or $400 for a photograph from one of the New York City tabloids or maybe a little more for the video from an online site.

A group of men gathered outside the store. A couple of them were smoking and talking and laughing in hushed tones. I was too far away to make out what they were saying or even what language. One was a white guy, the other black. Both wore expensive charcoal-gray suits, white shirts, dark black ties.

Two other men stood farther out from the entrance, between the light of the store and the night. Like a cordon. The one closest to me wore black slacks, a black sports coat, and a black T-shirt that glistened like silk. No tie. He had a shoulder hostel with a handgun of some kind in the hostel. Probably a .45 automatic, but I didn’t know anything about guns. I’d never even held a gun in my hand, though I’d wanted to for some time, but in New York City it was hard to get a gun permit unless you were a celebrity, you were guarding cash all day, or you knew someone who knew someone who worked at the permit office.

There was no one else on Fifty-Seventh Street that night but me and the entourage in front of the store. I walked closer. The store sold jewelry: $275,000 watches, $400,000 rings and earrings–diamonds and platinum mostly, some white gold, and as a joke imagined the stones and metals contributed to the glare emanating from the store. The SUVs were parked one in front of the other. The one I could make out had diplomatic plates.