How to Lead a Life of Crime (4 page)

“Nope,” I say.

“I’m impressed.”

“You gave me a job. I did it. Now pay up.”

“Certainly.” He pulls his wallet from his coat pocket and counts out seven hundred-dollar bills. “And to show my gratitude, I’ll even throw in a ride across town.”

I’m about to tell him not to bother when I see him stick the wallet in his pocket. “Whatever you say, boss.”

That wallet will be mine before we hit Broadway. But it was a mistake to stay. Now that there’s nothing to distract it, my mind is filling with rage. I hate the man sitting beside me. I hate the people who are about to be kicked out of their home. I hate the blond girl who reminded me of Tina. I hate that I know Tina’s name. I hate Joi too. I hate her for keeping me weak. But most of all, I despise myself. I fantasize about grabbing the wheel of the car and steering it into a lamppost. I wouldn’t mind dying if I could drag the man in the driver’s seat with me to hell.

The streets have vanished. I can’t see anything. I don’t hear anything. I’m not even sure that I’m breathing. All I know is that I need to get out of the car before something bad happens. The next time the Maserati slows to a stop, I reach for the handle and spring out. I start walking against traffic so he won’t be able to follow me. I hear someone shouting my name, and I walk even faster. Only on the third FLICK! do I recognize Joi’s voice. The world comes back into focus. That’s when I realize that the bastard in the Maserati has dropped me off on Pitt Street. Right outside the colony.

Joi rushes up to me. She instantly knows that I’m in terrible shape. “What’s wrong?” she demands.

I don’t speak. She has silver Christmas tree tinsel woven through the braid in her hair. It glows one moment and turns dull the next, like it’s playing catch with the sunlight.

“Who was that man, Flick?”

I shake my head and accomplish the impossible. I manage to scare the shit out of Joi.

“What happened Flick? Tell me what happened.” She’s getting hysterical. “DAMMIT, FLICK, SAY SOMETHING!”

“Leave me alone.”

“What?” She takes a step back like I’ve punched her.

“Get the hell away from me.” That’s it, I tell myself. Quick, fast. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

It’s time. I’ve waited too long already. I got too close. It’s her fault I’m still weak.

I don’t look back.

• • •

I can’t remember what happened in the hours before dark. I’m sitting at the bottom of a slide in the Seward Park playground when I feel the extra weight in my pocket. Part of me would like to toss the filthy thing into the sewer. That part of me won’t be indulged anymore. So I open the last wallet I picked. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so much money. But that doesn’t interest me right now. I pull out a driver’s license and find the man from this morning smiling back at me. I have to squint to read the name in the darkness.
Lucian Mandel.
The license slips from my fingers. I leap up and scan the playground. I think I may be having a heart attack. Then I see the card lying on the ground. There’s a Post-it attached to the back. I don’t dare touch it, but I need to know what it says. I squat down and take a look.

Now that you know who I am, perhaps we should have lunch.

I’ll be at Floraison tomorrow at noon.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE GATES OF HELL

I
t’s been three days since I washed. I didn’t glance in a mirror this morning, but I know that the bandage on my face is hard with dried blood. I slept in the park last night, and there are so many dead leaves stuck to my coat that it probably looks like a ghillie suit. And I purposely stepped in dog shit on my way here.

Yet the maître d’ at the most exclusive restaurant in Manhattan doesn’t bat an eye.

“Right this way,” he trills. “Mr. Mandel is expecting you.”

Outside, it’s winter. In Floraison, it’s always spring. Flowering trees twist out of stark concrete planters. I once overheard my father say that they were genetically engineered to bloom year-round and produce no pollen. Nature has not only been tamed, it’s been taught to do tricks for the delight of the rich.

The tables I brush past are filled with some of the city’s most powerful people. My father may be sitting among them. This is his favorite restaurant, and he must know I’m here. But I refuse to search for his face in the crowd. If my dad sent Mandel to find me, I want him to see that I’m not afraid. I’ve already had everything taken away. He was the one who made sure I had nothing to lose.

My lunch companion is waiting at a table against the far wall. I glance at his freckled, smirking face. I estimate the cost of his stylish gray suit. I take note of the slight bulge in the breast pocket of the jacket. He’s already replaced the wallet he lost. Then I focus on the painting that’s hanging above his head.

It must be some kind of forgery, but it’s a damn good one. I grew up looking at the original. I wasn’t allowed in the room in which the painting was displayed, so I would sit outside the doorway and watch it. A Rothko with no name. Just a ragged black square on a bloodred background. The sort of painting most people believe that a five-year-old could paint. Live with it awhile, though, and you’ll realize it’s alive. The empty red space in the center of the square pulsates with energy. It moves and breathes. It calls to you when you turn away.

The artist loathed the rich, yet he knew his work was bound for their walls. This was one of the last things he painted before he slashed his own wrists. I always wondered if it was meant to send future owners a message. Rothko didn’t give it a name, but Jude and I called it The Gates of Hell.

“Are you an admirer of Rothko’s work?” Lucian Mandel asks once I’ve taken a seat at his table.

“That can’t be a real Rothko,” I say, my eyes still on the painting.

“It’s real. It was in a private collection for many years, but the owner grew bored of it. The restaurant picked it up at auction a few months ago.”

I bring my gaze down to Mandel’s boyish face. He’s toying with me. I wonder what he’s going to say about the wallet.

“Thank you for coming, Flick,” he says. “That’s your name, am I right?”

“We both know that’s not my real name,” I reply.

“And since you received my invitation, you know my name as well.”

He studies me while he waits for a response. I say nothing.

“Excellent! What a remarkable poker face! Not even the slightest twitch.”

Why does everything seem so amusing to this asshole? “You’re Lucian Mandel. You run the Mandel Academy.”

“That’s correct.”

“I thought you people were supposed to help street kids, not pay them to rob houses.”

“I was helping you, Flick. The job I gave you was what you might call an entrance exam.” He changes the subject before I can figure out what he meant. “What, may I ask, have you heard about the Mandel Academy?”

It’s an odd thing to ask. “Everyone knows about the Mandel Academy. Where would you like me to start?”

“Let’s start with whatever your father has told you.”

“You sure you want to start there? Everything the man’s ever said was a lie.”

Mandel chuckles. “Yes, your father is a master of twisting the truth to his own advantage. But I promise—I’ll never be anything but honest with you. The academy was founded by my great-great-grandmother, Fredericka Mandelbaum, in the 1870s. Very few people know about the institution’s early days. Until the turn of the century, it was known as the Grand Street School. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?”

“No.”

“Yes, well, it was a different beast back then. But it did share our current goal of educating disadvantaged youths. In fact, most of the school’s first students were plucked right off the streets of the Lower East Side. Many were pickpockets and thieves just like you. My grandmother had an eye for talent. Her school was a stunning success from the start.”

“Yeah?” I fake a yawn. I don’t want him to know that I’m interested. “So why the name change?”

It seems to be a question that my host is eager to answer. “My grandmother was a philanthropist, but she was also a businesswoman. And I’m not ashamed to admit that some people called her a criminal. She made a fortune trading in stolen goods. When the police shut her down, she fled to Canada, where she died an extremely wealthy woman. Her son wanted to continue the good work that his mother had begun in New York. Unfortunately, the Grand Street School was tainted by its association with the Mandelbaum family. So he dropped ‘baum’ from our name and opened the Mandel Academy in a beautiful building on Beekman Street. Have you seen it?”

“No.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers entwined, eyes on me. “Would you like to?”

I lean in too. “I didn’t come here for a history lesson or a sightseeing tour. You know who I am. You knew where to find me. You’ve obviously been watching me, and I want to know why.”

I should terrify him. I’m big, filthy, and I reek of dog shit. But he seems to find me adorable. Like I’m just a naughty little scamp with a plastic pistol who’s told him to reach for the sky.

“Because I’d like to offer you a place at the Mandel Academy.”

This time I can’t hide my surprise. Mandel eats it up.

“It’s a wonderful opportunity,” he continues, sitting back against the plush banquette. “We’re considered the best school in the city, and we only admit eighteen students a year. Since 1960, every one of our graduates has been awarded a full scholarship to an Ivy League university.”

“I thought the Mandel Academy only accepts charity cases. I’m not exactly what you’d call disadvantaged.”

I get the sense that he and I define the word differently. But he’d rather humor me than argue. “I’ve decided to make an exception in your case. Although I must say, you look rather disadvantaged at the moment. And you smell even worse.”

We’re still dancing around the real issue. “My father is on the Mandel Academy’s board of directors. Does he know about this?”

“Certainly! All of our students are carefully vetted. I could never hide a candidate from a member of our board. Your father has been informed of my plans every step of the way.”

“Then tell me this.” I lean even closer. “Why the f— do either of you think I’d attend that bastard’s precious alma mater?”

“For the same reason you’ve been living in his old neighborhood for the past seven months. You want to grow up to be just like him.”

I grin. There’s no longer any reason to stay, so I scoot my chair away from the table. “I was almost impressed. But you’ve got me all wrong.”

“Have I?” Mandel asks before I can make my exit.

“Tell my father I’ll see him soon.”

“Without my help, you’ll never be ready to face him,” Mandel says.

The surprise forces me back down in my seat. “What do you mean?” I growl.

“Your father is one of America’s richest men. You grew up in a mansion in Connecticut. And yet you’ve chosen to live on the streets. You must imagine the hardship will toughen you up. But do you honestly believe that a few months on the Lower East Side can teach you everything you need to know? The place is a theme park for tourists. You’re just part of the show. You’re not really dangerous. You pick a few pockets, throw a few punches, then hurry home to your sweet little girlfriend.”

He’s talking about Joi. I feel a jolt of fear for the first time in months. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“No, I suppose she’s much more than that. Have you told her why you’re here? Does she know who you are? Does she know who your father is?”

He doesn’t expect any answers. He thinks he already has them. “What’s going on? Is this some sort of sick game?”

“Call it whatever you like, Flick,” Mandel says. His smile has vanished. “But you wouldn’t be here right now if I wasn’t on your side.”

CHAPTER SIX

HOW TO LEAD A LIFE OF CRIME

I
f I were still in school, I’d be a senior. I spent the first nine grades at a Connecticut prep school that’s a household name in the households of millionaires. Then a teacher asked too many questions about my bruises. She was fired, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy my father. I had to be punished as well. So he enrolled me at a crappy public school a few miles from my home. The teachers there had more kids to monitor, and they weren’t the most inquisitive bunch. But eventually even they started to notice. When my face was rearranged right before Christmas break in my sophomore year, some anonymous Good Samaritan phoned the police. The cops bought my dad’s story that my broken nose, fractured cheekbone, and black eyes were all the result of a bicycling accident. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe he just paid them enough to not care. Either way, the unwanted attention convinced my father to send me to boarding school. He chose a military academy in the swampy, malarial lowlands of Georgia.

At first I resisted. If I’d wanted to leave, I could have just run away. I’d packed my bag a hundred times over the years. I’d decided where to go and how to get there. I was fully prepared to disappear. But I didn’t. I stayed. Every time I set out on my own, I thought about my mother and brother. And what might happen if I left them behind. As a kid I’d always dreamed that the three of us could escape together. But by the time I hit high school, I knew there was no chance we’d ever succeed. It made no difference where we tried to hide, my dad was always able to find us. I doubt he’d have bothered looking for me. But he wasn’t willing to let Jude go.

Everyone knew I’d be safer in Georgia—even at a school famous for turning young men into half-savage soldiers. But with my little brother trapped in Connecticut, I wasn’t about to be shipped down south. In the end, Jude was the one who convinced me to leave. It took several days of pestering before he found an argument that made me take notice. Jude said Mom would be happier if I was out of harm’s way. The thought had never occurred to me—that my mother might be better off if I wasn’t around. That it might be a relief to wake up each day knowing that she wouldn’t have to stand between me and my father’s fists. And then I realized I’d be doing Jude a big favor too. He was fourteen years old. He deserved to enjoy what little was left of his childhood. He needed time off from saving me.

So I left. And for a while, I was sure it had been the best decision of my life. I loved the fierce Georgia heat. I loved that my school days never brought any surprises. And I loved learning to be a warrior. Because even then, I planned to fight back. By the spring of my junior year, I held a Graduate rank in Krav Maga, and I was the school’s undefeated boxing champ. I was certain I’d be invincible by graduation. Then, on the eighteenth of April—a few days before Easter—I found out how much I still needed to learn.

• • •

I’m smarter now than I was back then. My education cost everything that I had. So I find it amusing that Lucian Mandel thinks he’s the one who’ll be calling the shots. I guess he’s been spying on me for a while, because he’s convinced that he’s got me all figured out. But I know something about him too. Lucian Mandel hates my father. Which isn’t surprising. My dad’s the CEO of one of the world’s biggest banks. And he’d be the first to point out that nice guys don’t get to the top. At this stage you’d need the US Census Bureau to count my dad’s enemies. But only one of them has ever come looking for
me
. So I’ve agreed to hear what Mandel has to say.

• • •

Mandel pulls his Maserati into an alley a block away from City Hall Park. The lane is too narrow to stand back and get a good view of the building we’re visiting. It must be one of the oldest structures in this part of town. Redbrick with terra-cotta trim. Ten—no nine—stories tall. A couple of towers that would look right at home on a haunted house. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this sure isn’t it.

The academy can’t have changed much since my dad was a student. I wish I could have seen his reaction the day he stood on this spot for the very first time. The school must have seemed much more impressive to a poor boy from the mean streets of the Lower East Side. To me, it’s like something right out of Dickens. A scene from an old movie flashes through my mind: A line of young boys with empty bowls are waiting for their morning gruel. “Please, sir, may I have some more?” asks one who’s already scarfed down his portion. I almost laugh out loud at the thought.

“Shall we?” Mandel uses a card key to open a door marked service entrance. When I look inside, all I see is a bright shaft of sunlight.

Turns out the interior is much more impressive. And I see the source of the light. A glass pyramid serves as the building’s roof, and all nine stories are wrapped around a central atrium. The open space in the middle of each floor is ringed by a balcony with a wrought-iron railing. Every balcony is supported by four metal dragons with outstretched wings and golden balls clamped in their mouths. I imagine them all taking flight and soaring in circles as they snatch up Mandel students one by one.

I walk to the center of the courtyard—across a tile mosaic. Tiny squares form giant letters, but I can’t figure out which words they form. I’m too close to read them. So I tilt my head back and look all the way up. The steel and glass towers of Manhattan’s financial district peer down at me through the roof. The sky overhead is cloudless, and the school is beautiful beneath the bright afternoon sun. But I bet on dark days, it looks a lot like the toy maker’s building in Blade Runner.

“Where is everyone?” I ask Mandel. I don’t see a soul. “Winter break?”

“We don’t have vacations here,” Mandel informs me. “Most of the young people at the academy must work nonstop to make up for lost time, so we can’t afford any distractions. We don’t allow visitors and we don’t observe weekends or holidays. There are three semesters a year, and every day is a school day. The students are all in class.”

Mandel saunters over to what looks like a tall iron cage on the north side of the atrium. Two metal boxes are suspended inside. One is stationed on the ninth floor. The other has stopped at the fourth. I’ve never seen an elevator like it before. Mandel presses a button, and I hear the sound of metal gates sliding shut. A car begins to descend. I can see straight through it. There’s no one inside.

“The ground floor houses administrative offices and the alumni lounge,” Mandel announces. “Floors two through four are classrooms. Floor five is the gymnasium. The cafeteria is on floor six. Floors seven through nine are the dormitories. We’re going to pay a quick visit to one of the classrooms.”

As our elevator begins to rise, I catch a brief glimpse of some of the academy’s students through the window of a second-floor door. Whatever is being taught has them riveted. All eyes are fixed on the instructor at the front of the room.

Mandel and I exit on the fourth floor. I happen to glance over the balcony and immediately come to an abrupt stop. I’m finally high enough to decipher the mosaic below. There are three flaming gold spheres. Beneath them is a motto: Luctor et emergo.

“Do you know any Latin?” Mandel inquires.

“It means ‘I suffer and arise.’ What are the balls supposed to be?”

“My great-grandfather was the man who commissioned the mosaic, and I believe he would have said they were seeds. Most plants will sprout if you give them water, soil, and sunlight. But there are a few trees whose seeds must be sown by fire. Whenever a forest is destroyed by flames, they’re the first species to rise and thrive.”

“Interesting,” I drone. The spheres could have been comets or cannonballs. Instead they’re seeds.

“Not terribly,” Mandel replies. “But that is what my great-grandfather would have said. I have my own interpretation. Someday, you will as well.”

Someday, you will as well. He’s been dropping little hints about my future since we left Floraison. He thinks he has me right where he wants me. He thinks I signed over my soul when I got into his car.

“Keep talking like that, and I’m out of here. I already told you what to do with your scholarship.”

Mandel smiles at my warning. He’s a cocky little weasel, I’ll give him that. “How could I forget? You used such colorful imagery.”

“Then you should remember I’m only here for one reason. You said you have something I’d want to see. Something to do with my father. Now are you going to show me or not?”

“I am, Flick. It’s just down the hall.”

I wish I wasn’t so goddamned curious. I wish I could just walk away. But I’m dying to find out what Mandel has on my father—and why he’d choose to share it with me. I’m sure my dad’s given this guy a hundred reasons to hate him. A prissy fop like Mandel would disgust a man like my father. He’d sneer at Mandel’s stylish suit and manicured nails. He’d toy with him a bit first. Hurt him. Humiliate him. Then when my dad got bored of it all, he’d rip little Lucian to shreds. So I can understand why Mandel might be out for revenge. But I’m a seventeen-year-old thief who’s ass-broke and homeless. What I can’t figure out is why a big-time player like Lucian Mandel would want to be allies with someone like me.

I let him drag me downtown for the answer, but so far I’ve only received a lesson in botany. Now Mandel’s leading me past a row of closed doors. I can hear the murmur of voices, but I can’t make out any words. A single door on the floor stands ajar. This is the room Mandel chooses. He’s brought me to an ordinary classroom. There’s a large wooden desk for the teacher. A tall pile of pamphlets has been stacked in its center. I count a dozen smaller desks for the pupils. A blackboard. Chalk.

“Is this supposed to impress me? I’ve seen a f—ing blackboard before.”

Mandel leans against the teacher’s desk and crosses his arms. It almost looks like he’s posing. “One of the things you’ll learn here is that language like that doesn’t make a young man seem formidable. It only makes him seem crude.”

“F— you,” I say, heading for the door. “I didn’t sign up for an etiquette lesson.”

“Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment, Flick. You’re not here to see a classroom. You’re here to see this.” I don’t want to glance back, but I do. My tour guide has plucked one of the pamphlets from the stack on the desk, and he’s waving it in the air. “This is the Mandel Academy’s course catalog. I’d like you to take a look. I considered bringing a copy to lunch, but I decided it wouldn’t be wise. Information like this mustn’t leave the academy. . . .”

He doesn’t flinch when I stomp across the classroom and snatch the pamphlet right out of his hand. I open the booklet to a random page and prepare to be bored. But I’m not. I skim the title of the first class that’s listed, and I’m totally, helplessly hooked.

Caviar, Catnip, and California Cornflakes:

How to Name and Market Street Drugs

“Interesting courses,” I mumble. “Cute titles too.”

“Yes,” Mandel agrees. “Our human resources majors are tasked with compiling the catalog. The student in charge this semester believes that a touch of humor will appeal to our teenage audience. I must admit, I was surprised by his suggestion. Caleb is a gifted student, but he’s always been a rather dour young man. I wouldn’t have guessed he possessed such wit.”

As I keep reading, I begin to suspect that Caleb and his schoolmates might have a few other talents as well.

Partnering with Corrupt Regimes

Basic Electronics:

From Credit Card Skimmers to Keystroke Loggers

Crime Scene Cleaning and Bio-waste Removal

I flip to the back of the pamphlet.

The Art of Persuasion:

Influence Peddling, Coercion, and Extortion

Human Trafficking in the Internet Age

Mining the Masses:

Big Profits from Little People

Hand-to-Hand Combat

If I went down to the sidewalk, gathered ten random pedestrians, and asked them to share their opinions on the subject of dog grooming, they’d probably end up in a bloody brawl. But if I asked for their thoughts on the Mandel Academy, there wouldn’t be any argument. They’d all say that the academy is one of the things that make this country great. You won’t find another school like it anywhere else in the world. For decades, it’s taken orphans, runaways, and delinquents off the streets and transformed them into lawyers, businessmen, bankers, and senators. The Mandel Academy has never welcomed reporters or outsiders into its building. The names of current students are a closely held secret. But anyone looking for proof that the American dream hasn’t died only needs to google a list of the academy’s graduates.

And this is the shit they all studied here? Extortion? Drug dealing? Larceny? Crime scene cleaning? Next I’ll find out that Steve Jobs was Jack the Ripper.

I lock eyes with Lucian Mandel. There’s obviously more to the man than I first suspected.

“Where’s the course called How to Lead a Life of Crime? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’ve got everyone thinking this is the best school in the country, but it’s really just a Hogwarts for hustlers.”

He’s not insulted. He’s only bemused. “You sound so appalled. Don’t tell me you’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The believers,” Mandel explains. “All the people who refuse to see how the world really works. The ones who think that cheaters never prosper. That the meek shall inherit the earth. Most people out there still believe all the sweet little lies they were told as children. But the truth is, no one in this country gets rich if they play by the rules. Power is granted to those who will do whatever it takes to succeed. Those are the facts of life.”

He leans forward.

“So tell, me, Flick? Who are you? Are you one of the believers—or are you one of us?”

How could I possibly be a believer? I’ve known the sickening truth since I was a kid. That we’re all swimming in one big cesspool. I won’t pinch my nose and pretend that it’s paradise, but I’m not going to train myself to love the smell of shit, either.

“I don’t have any interest in joining your club, Mandel. What’s so great about teaching a bunch of brats how to break every law in the country?”