First I posted about all that went into making the book. Then I posted about all the people who helped me make it. Then I provided a sneak peak inside. Then I revealed the cover.

Enough already!

The teasing and blatant attempts to build pre-launch buzz are finally over. In Wolves’ Clothing is NOW AVAILABLE!

You’re probably so giddy with excitement and anticipation right now, you can’t think straight and don’t know what to do. Don’t worry, I’m here to help.

Follow the bullet-points below. They are taken from the official “What to Do in the Event of a Greg Levin Book Launch” guide:  

• First, take a few deep breaths and try to relax. It’s just a book, for goodness sake.

• Next, click HERE to purchase a Kindle or paperback edition of the book on Amazon. (Or, if you are one of those weird people who needs to know a little more about a book before purchasing it, click HERE to read the description and a couple of excerpts, as well as some advance praise from early reviewers. And THEN go to Amazon to buy a copy.)

• Finally, share this post with everyone you know and don’t know on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, subway trains, commercial flights and grocery store lines.  

Oh, and just one more thing: THANK YOU … for putting up with all this, and for even considering my new novel. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pour champagne all over myself and the family/friends/pets I neglected while writing the book.

Peace, everyone!

As many of you know, I have a novel coming out in October. And as much as I hate using my blog to plug my own books (why are you laughing?), my publicist says doing so is essential for generating buzz and getting people excited to read the book.

My publicist says a big part of that is sharing excerpts from the actual book—even if the excerpts are controversial and dangerous. (Hang on, my publicist is shaking her head and whispering something to me. …) Oh, sorry … especially if the excerpts are controversial and dangerous.

Who am I to argue with her? Following are two snippets from In Wolves’ Clothing—a novel about a guy named Zero Slade who travels the world posing as a pedophile in order to rescue victims of child sex trafficking.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

(From Chapter Two)

Guadalajara.

The guys and I ogle the dozen or so pre-teen prostitutes being led into our villa by three slim, scowling men. Each of the men is wearing a different soccer jersey that looks the same. Each of the girls is wearing whatever discount-rack party dress the pimps forced them into. The room smells like Drakkar Noir and sweat mixed with Cotton Candy and fear. Some of the girls look at us and try to smile. The rest of them probably aren’t aware we exist.

We offer the girls some sodas as they plop onto couches and chairs in the huge open living room. Barrett says something silly in broken Spanish and several of the girls giggle. Even one of the pimps is smiling. I pour myself a glass of tequila and wink at a ten-year-old.

The trick to looking excited when children are presented to you for sex is to remember you are saving their lives. If you don’t look excited, the pimps will get suspicious. Show your anger and disgust, and you ruin everything.

I take a sip of tequila and grin at a child and would kill for an oxy. The one I ate an hour ago is losing its luster. But two on the job, that’s a no-no.

For help getting into character, think about the biggest douchebag frat guy you’ve ever met, imagine him with several million dollars, multiply his money and demeanor by ten, and then act like that guy. Right up until the cops remove your handcuffs and thank you.

This mission is a little bigger than the one in Acapulco yesterday, so there are six of us. Barrett, Malik, Drew and I have been joined by Anders and Scott from Seattle, who arrived in Guadalajara two days ago to get everything set up. Anders and Scott look more refreshed than the rest of us right now because they’re not finishing up a doubleheader. None of us at Operation Emancipation like doubleheaders—shooting off to a city to complete a jump immediately after finishing one in the same or similar time zone. Doubleheaders may be practical from a cost and logistics standpoint, but they’re never fun. For one, fitting a second pseudo-designer suit inside a valise is next to impossible. Secondly, if you play a pedophile too often, your face might stay that way. But Fynn makes the schedule, and you don't fuck with Fynn or her schedule.

The guys and I are chatting and laughing with the girls, warming up to them slowly with a “Qué guapa!” here and a “Muy bonita!” there, making sure not to lock eyes or look at their mouths or do anything else that might invite a kiss. If one of the pimps sees any of us rejecting an advance, they’ll know something’s up. Fortunately, these girls, just like all the other girls in all the other cities and countries we work in, almost never make the first move. They may be smiling and giggling, but they’re not. Sadly, their terror works in our favor. They think they’re about to be raped for the tenth or hundredth or thousandth time, so they aren’t in any rush to get things started. They’re waiting on us.

I’m not wearing a watch, what with my wrists still sore from yesterday, but the cops are a little late. We can stall only so long before the pimps will start getting nervous. And you don’t want a nervous pimp. Anders and Scott may have asked them nicely the other day not to bring any weapons to the party, but the thing about pimps is you can’t always trust them to respect house rules. The good news is these three clowns aren’t even paying attention to us. They’re too busy marveling over the size of the place, trying to fathom its value in their heads, wondering what knickknacks they might be able to nab when nobody’s looking. It’s not often they get to see the inside of a house on this side of town. We are in Puerta de Hierro, one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the greater Guadalajara Metropolitan Area. A twenty-minute drive and a million miles away from the pimps’ brothel on Avenida Chapultepec, where Anders and Scott went to arrange this party two days ago.

Another sip of tequila. Less winking and grinning. And we’re running out of stupid, flirtatious phrases to say to the girls. The watch I’m not wearing tells me we should definitely be getting arrested by now. It tells me it’s time for what we at OE call the tourniquet.

“Okay boys, let’s get busy!” I shout with glee at the guys.

You never get used to nearly throwing up in your mouth.

I grab the hand of one of the youngest girls—she’s not a day over nine—and place my other hand on the back of another girl who isn’t much older. Their forced smiles fall to the floor as we head toward the wide granite staircase. The other guys follow my lead, each picking the two girls closest to them and guiding them to the stairs. We look like teachers on a field trip, collectively accounting for all the children in our charge as we tour an historic home. If only it were that simple.

In about a minute, the girls will wonder why we aren’t removing any of our clothing or theirs. Our lack of sexual interest and aggression might even make some of them more uncomfortable than usual. We’ll just tell them we like it slow. What we won’t tell them is we’re here to rescue them. All it takes is one doped-up eleven-year old with a confused allegiance to her pimp to ruin a perfectly planned emancipation.

In this job, you learn to ignore the urge to comfort those you’re protecting.

***

(From Chapter Three)

I can't remember if I took an oxy during the flight, so I eat two. They pair nicely with the scotch.

It’s good to be home.

I should be upstairs sleeping, especially since I didn’t catch a single wink on the flight from Guadalajara. But there’s something I have to finish first.

An eight-letter word for gradually losing one’s edge.

Slipping.

I fill in each box of 27 Down with my black pen and take another sip of scotch. It’s times like these I turn into God. The crossword squares fill up by themselves in a secret blurry code. A few of the answers might even be correct.

The black pleather couch makes love to me as I solve 32 Across.

A four-letter word for spouse.

Neda.

She’s leaning on the banister, wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants that might have fit me when I was ten. Her eyes, almond-shaped during waking hours, are half open.

“You’re home?” she says, pre-dawn gravel in her voice.

“Hi, baby,” I say while trying to conceal the nearly empty lowball glass in my hand. “Sorry to wake you. I’ll be up in a sec.”

Neda yawns and combs her hand through a shining cascade of black hair. “What time d’you get in?”

I scratch my shaved dome, feeling the perspiration forming, and say, “Uh, a little after one maybe.”

Neda opens her eyes the rest of the way. “You’ve been here for nearly two hours? Why didn’t—”

“Baby, I just needed to unwind a bit before bed.”

Neda’s eyes open wider than the manual recommends. “Why must unwinding always involve single malt and a crossword?” she asks. “You know, some men unwind by spooning their beautiful wife. Especially when they haven’t seen her in four days.”

I ponder the answer to 36 Across.

“Zero!” Neda shouts.

The sound knocks the pen from my fingers, and I go, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“And look how that worked out for you,” says Neda. “At least if you’d come up when you got home you wouldn’t be getting yelled at.”

I tell her not to be mad, then get up from the couch as gracefully as a man two drinks and twenty milligrams in can. “I knew if I woke you right when I got home, you’d want to talk about the mission.”

I realize this is not what God would say. I can tell by Neda’s face.

“And would that have been so horrible?” she asks. “Us actually talking? About something other than your dry cleaning and where you’re flying off to next?”

 What I want to say is, “Yes.” What I actually say is, “Baby, come on. I don’t want to get into it.”

“I know, I know,” says Neda, pulling on the banister railing like she wants to replace it. “You never want to ‘get into it.’ I stopped asking you to ‘get into it’ a while ago, Zero, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

I tell her let’s talk about it in the morning, and she says we already are. Then she says, “You know what, forget it. Come up whenever. Or pass out on the couch. I don’t really care.”

Neda stomps up the hardwood stairs like gravity has doubled. I inhale in preparation to call out to her, but swallow the words. Neda has stormed off in similar fashion countless times before, but right now I can’t remember the protocol. Leave her alone for a while until she cools off? Go after her immediately and talk her down? Go after her immediately and just hold her? Wait a few minutes and then tear her clothes off?

There’s a good reason why I can’t remember the rules: They keep changing. I’ve tried each of the aforementioned approaches an equal number of times in the past, and was successful with each roughly half the time.

I feel like a bomb defuser who’s received minimal training. Do I snip the red wire first or the green one? Or the yellow one or the blue one? If I choose right, I’ll be a hero, saving the day and winning the heart of the princess. If I choose wrong, I’ll blow the whole goddamn kingdom to bits.

Or at least ruin breakfast.

I go with the red wire and pour another two fingers of scotch. The couch is softer than before, the crossword clues easier. If only the little boxes would stop blurring and bending, I’d be able write my answers inside them instead of somewhere over in the sports section.

The girls. They’re still screaming, only now no sound is coming out of their mouths.

I wonder how many of the girls from the two Mexico missions will stick around their safe houses long enough to be reunited with their family, or at least to learn a trade that doesn’t entail being raped thirty or more times a day. Hopefully more than half of them. Unfortunately, that would be considered a success. If only nine or ten of the girls we liberated in Acapulco and Guadalajara end up running off to find another brothel where they can get their daily fix of the drugs their previous pimp got them hooked on, victory would be ours.

You can imagine what losing looks like in my line of work.

Good thing I don’t lose when I’m two-and-a-half drinks and twenty milligrams in. I’m cozy and invincible. I’m satin wrapped in Kevlar. I’m—

“Zero, what the fuck are you doing?” Neda shouts from the top of the stairs. “Get your ass up here now and hold me!”

Damn it. I knew it was the yellow wire.

 

Key dates to keep in mind

Sept. 27: Cover reveal! (Hosted by Xpresso Book Tours.) Meet the cover of In Wolves’ Clothing, designed by the artistic geniuses at BeauteBook.   

Also on Sept. 27: Pre-order period begins! (For Kindle edition only.) You’ll be able to order IWC for your Kindle and have the ebook automatically delivered to your device when it officially launches in October. NOTE: Everyone who pre-orders the book will receive some mighty cool book swag! 

Oct. 11 (or Oct. 12): Official launch of IWC! The Kindle and paperback editions will be available on Amazon, and neither your life nor mine will ever be the same again. 

(Wolf mask image featured above used with permission from Merimask.)

Behind every good novel is an author who almost died in the process. And behind that author are a slew of people the author couldn’t have lived without.

That’s why the “Acknowledgments” page you see inside books was invented. It gives authors a place to thank everybody involved. Everyone they cursed and screamed and spit at while they were losing their mind trying to finish the damn book.

Since only about ten of you are going to buy my new novel In Wolves’ Clothing when it comes out in early October—and since only three of you ten are going to open and actually read it—I’ve decided to share the Acknowledgments page from the book here on my blog. I want as many people as possible to see what an awesome job I did expressing my humble gratitude.    

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While it’s my name on the cover of this book, there wouldn’t even be a book were it not for the following people:    

My wife, Miranda. Miranda’s humanitarian trip to Cambodia in 2016 is what sparked the idea for this novel. And her innate ability to earn actual money is what enabled me to sit around in my pajamas for a year writing what she sparked. Also, she kept me alive while I was killing myself to meet my editor’s deadline.

My daughter, Leah. Had Leah not made friends with people old enough to drive her around this year, I wouldn’t have completed this book until 2019 or 2020. That said, I regret not having been there more for my daughter. In my defense, she’s embarrassed to be seen with me. 

Radd Berrett. Radd is the guy on whom Zero Slade is loosely based. (For those of you who’ve skipped straight to this page without reading the book, Zero Slade is the story’s protagonist. Now go back and read the book.) Radd spent over two years putting his life at risk while traveling the world to help rescue victims of child sex trafficking. He’s both a badass and a sweetheart, and my interviews with him were invaluable. Considering he has the strength to bench-press my entire family, Radd is the last person I’d want to forget to thank.  

Suzy Vitello. "If you knew Suzy like I know Suzy ..." Actually, I don’t know Suzy all that well, but she’s buddies with the great Chuck Palahniuk, and Chuck told me Suzy’s the bomb. So when I met her and found out she offered editing services (in addition to being an amazing writer), I hired the hell out of her. Long blurb short, she’s the real reason this novel doesn’t suck. And if you think it does suck, well … blame Suzy.   

Graham Toseland. Graham, my proofreader from A Fading Street Publishing Services is why this book reads as cleanly as it does—assuming it reads as cleanly as I think it does. If, by chance, you’ve found any typos or grammatical errors (other than the one’s I intended as an artist who’s above the rules), let’s gang up on Graham and beat his British ass until he’s unconscious and/or issues me a full refund.

Angie McMann. Angie is a fellow writer, a selfless supporter of other writers, and one of the few people who responds promptly to my emails. She kindly offered to proof this book when Graham was finished with it—to make sure he didn’t ruin my American English with any English English corrections.   

The Writing Wrong Workshop gang. I was fortunate enough to be selected to participate in a writing workshop led by Chuck Palahniuk this past spring. During the workshop, I got the opportunity to read parts of this novel and get beaten Fight Club-style by Chuck and a group of my talented peers until I made many necessary improvements to the book. (Yeah, I realize I already name-dropped Chuck Palahniuk earlier, but when you get to hang out with Chuck Palahniuk for ten weeks, you’d be an idiot not to name-drop Chuck Palahniuk every chance you get. Chuck Palahniuk might disagree, but that is sooo Chuck Palahniuk.)  

Maria Novillo Saravia. I always judge a book by its cover designer, and Maria of BeauteBook is one of the best around. She’s highly creative … and very patient. Not once did she threaten to murder me for all the changes and tweaks I requested throughout the design process.

The Internet. I know, I know, the Internet isn’t a person. I also know many folks no longer capitalize “internet.” But when something does for you what the Internet did for me while writing this novel, hell yeah you thank it, and double hell yeah you give it a large first letter out of respect. Perhaps even ALL CAPS. Thank you, INTERNET, for providing me with instant access to everything I didn’t know but needed to for this novel to seem real. (I’d also like to thank the FBI for not detaining me despite all the creepy Internet searches on child sex trafficking I had to do.)     

Mom and Dad. I’d be an even bigger a-hole than I already am if I didn’t thank my parents for the love and support they’ve provided while I’ve thrown my life away on fiction writing. I’m so grateful to them for all the bedtime stories they read to me as a child. They’d read to me every night, no matter how good the cocktail party going on downstairs was. Such devotion instilled in me the passion for words and alcohol one needs to become an author.

You. Yes, you. For knowing how to read. Were it not for people like you, I never would have been inspired to ignore my family and friends for over a year to write this book that mostly only they will buy.   

And finally … (Warning: Serious shift in tone ahead) …

The victims of child sex trafficking. Nothing funny to say here. I’d list all the victims by name, but that would be a book in itself—the longest, most heartbreaking one ever written. Also, sadly, it’s impossible to know all the names. So I’ll just say this: I wish there weren’t a reason to write the novel I wrote. But it’s good to know that, thanks to all the amazing women and men dedicated to fighting human trafficking, the novel I wrote may one day be TOTAL fiction.    

 

Stay tuned for the cover reveal for In Wolves’ Clothing. I’ll be unveiling the cover very soon via the blog, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. You know, just like Hemingway used to do. The actual book will be available in early October. (Don’t worry, I’ll remind you.)

In case you missed my post about the making of In Wolves’ Clothing, you can check it out here.