How to Lead a Life of Crime

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 a*shole? “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.”