How to Lead a Life of Crime

by Kirsten Miller

  It’s locked, but it takes me ten seconds to jimmy open the drawer with a screwdriver. Inside, there’s a f—ing folder labeled lease. I thumb though the yellowing pages to make sure I’ve got the right document. Something in the distance catches my eye. Movement. There’s a room off the studio, and the door is wide open. I knew this was too easy. I’ve been set up. Someone’s been waiting here to catch me red-handed. If they expect me to run, they’re in for a shock. I’ll go out fighting. With the lease rolled up and shoved in my pocket, I stand and silently make my way across the floorboards.

  But the room is empty. There’s a rumpled bed with faded flowery sheets and a desk that’s being used as a vanity. Clothes are strewn everywhere, as if the girl who lives here couldn’t decide what to pack. She must have been in a rush. She forgot to close the window, and the curtains are fluttering in the breeze. I notice that almost all of the pictures taped to the walls feature the same blond teenager. She reminds me of someone. In one of the photos, she’s waving. On her hand is a mitten from the wall downstairs.

  “The girl’s pretty cute, don’t you think?” I spin around to see Peter f—ing Pan. He must have come in through the window.

  “Jesus, Jude,” I manage to shout and not shriek. “Go away!”

  “So whatcha gonna tell Joi about all this?” He’s floating above me, about a foot from the ceiling.

  “It’s none of her business.”

  “But she might need to make room for the painter’s kids at the colony. By the way, how much do you think this one could charge?” he asks, pointing at the blonde in the pictures.

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m just saying she kinda looks like that girl at the colony who got kicked out of her house.”

  “Trina,” I say.

  “Her name’s Tina,” Jude corrects me. “Maybe she and this new girl could work the Lower East Side together. Pretend to be sisters or something. I bet they’d make more money that way.”

  I’ve never heard him speak like this. “Shut up. No one here is going to be homeless. There’s a place for crappy artists and their families. It’s called Queens.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure I don’t give a shit.” The words leave the taste of vomit in my mouth.

  “Then why are you feeling sick to your stomach?” He’s flying alongside me while I sprint downstairs to the bathroom.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I finally ask when the last piece of rice from my Chinese breakfast is floating in the toilet bowl. “Why are you making it so hard?”

  Peter Pan grins. “Because you still believe in me.”

  • • •

  I flush the food and every thought in my brain down the toilet. I make sure the lease is still in my pocket and head for the kitchen. I’m looking for something pungent enough to cover the stench of vomit on my breath. The family must have cleaned out the refrigerator before they left for the holidays. All I see are a few crusty condiments and four shriveled pickles floating in brine. Good enough. I grab the whole jar.

  I eat one of the pickles on my way down the stairs. I have to pause at the front door to make sure it stays in my stomach. I’m crunching on another as I slide into the passenger’s seat of my employer’s car. I finish the snack before I hand him the lease. I can tell from the expression on his face that the pickles were a nice touch. I must look totally badass.

  “That was fast. I assume you didn’t encounter any problems?” he asks.

  “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

  It’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

  If 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 fro
m 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.