How to Lead a Life of Crime

chapter EIGHT



THE INCUBATION SUITES





The chip comes first. There are six new students—five others and me. I don’t have a chance to learn their names or commit their faces to memory. We’re met at the academy’s entrance and immediately ushered downstairs. I’ll admit it’s a bit of a shock. I wasn’t aware that there was a downstairs. It wasn’t on the tour I was given. I start to wonder what else Mandel didn’t tell me. But then I remind myself that it doesn’t make any difference. The only thing that matters is that he has proof that Jude’s death was no accident. I’ll go wherever Mandel wants me to go, as long as I get it.

Three stories underground, we enter a long hallway. A sign reads infirmary. To our right is a white wall with six doors. The left wall is raw Manhattan bedrock. The hall ends at a pair of steel doors that are secured by a biometric lock. There’s an unlabeled buzzer beside it. I’d love to find out if anyone’s home.

One by one, the five kids ahead of me disappear to the right. The white doors close before I can figure out what lies beyond them. Finally it’s my turn. The room I enter looks like a doctor’s office.

A man in a lab coat and surgical mask is scrolling through a file on the computer screen that’s anchored to the wall. “Take off everything from the waist up and sit here,” he orders, pointing to an examination table. Then he disappears and a woman enters carrying a metal tray. It holds a scalpel, a computer chip, a needle and thread, and a few other instruments I don’t recognize. She straps on a pair of plastic goggles and begins to swab my forearm with iodine. The operation can’t be as simple as Mandel made it sound if the lady’s worried she’ll get blood in her eyes.

“Are you allergic to lidocaine?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“We’ll find out soon,” she responds.

The anesthesia numbs my left arm from the elbow down. I watch as she chooses a scalpel from the tray. I plan to observe the entire operation.

“You’re not squeamish?” the woman asks before she makes the first incision.

“No,” I tell her, and she pauses to make a note on the office computer.

It takes about ten minutes to insert the chip. When she’s finished, I examine the three stitches in my forearm and the small, square bump beneath them.

“Keep it clean. Don’t try to remove the chip. You could rupture an artery and bleed to death.”

“Okay.”

She leaves the tray and instruments in the sink. As soon as she washes her hands, she passes me a paper gown. “Take off your pants, shoes, and underwear. Dr. Giles will be back shortly.”

I’m pretty sure that the strip searches in Singapore prisons are less thorough than the examinations here at the Mandel Academy. After the probing I receive, I half expect the doctor to climb onto the table and cuddle up beside me. But he’s not done yet. The first thing I thought he’d check, he seems to have left for last. He peels the filthy bandage off my cheekbone and begins to clean the gunk from my wound.

“Didn’t the doctor at the hospital warn you about infection?” he asks.

“I hate doctors. I always stitch myself up,” I lie.

“How long ago did you graduate from medical school?” There’s a subtle sneer in his voice. I pretend not to hear it.

“Are you trying to say that I did a great job?”

“I’m saying you’re rather young to have been trained as a surgeon.”

“Yes, well, I’m full of surprises. I’m shocked you didn’t find more during the rectal exam.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t,” the doctor replies humorlessly. “We don’t like surprises.”

I don’t get a new bandage. My stitches are left exposed. The doctor pulls a white box from a drawer. The typed label on top bears a six-digit number. Inside are four empty vials, some plastic tubing, and a blood-drawing needle. But he chooses a long swab with a ball of cotton on its end. “Open your mouth,” he orders.

“Do most schools require a DNA test?” I ask.

“This will go much faster if you remain silent,” he says, jamming the swab into the lining of my cheek.

Anything for the proof, I remind myself. You have to do anything.

After I’ve dressed, I’m loaded back onto the elevator. It travels one floor up. According to the sign that greets us as the gates open, we’re now entering the Incubation Suites. I wonder what they’re incubating as I follow my guide down an unusually wide corridor. It’s at least fifteen feet from side to side, and the ceiling must be twenty feet high. I’m left in a room with six desks arranged to face an enormous movie screen. Four of the desks are already filled with my fellow newbies. There’s no other furniture. The floor is concrete and the walls bare Sheetrock. It’s like a Hollywood soundstage before a movie set has been built. And it has one rather unsettling feature. There’s a glass-encased catwalk suspended from the ceiling. It runs the entire length of the room and appears to continue into the room next door. I’m pretty sure we’re being observed. But the glass is frosted, and I can’t see through. There’s no way to tell who might be watching us from above.

“Take a seat.”

I see a woman standing next to the movie screen, a stack of papers in one hand and a half-dozen No. 2 pencils clutched in the other. Everyone glances at me as I sit. The sixth desk remains empty. While we wait for its future occupant, I get my first real look at the other students. There’s a black girl with platinum hair and diamond-covered fingers. Her impressive cleavage is on full display. She sees me staring and blows me a menacing kiss. The girl beside her is from a far less fabulous planet. Stringy brown hair and watery blue eyes that stare off into space. She looks like an extra from Deliverance. The kid to her left smiles and waves at me. He seems a little hurt when I don’t wave back. He’s handsome, Latino. His clothes are expensive. The sugar daddy pedophile who bought them clearly had good taste. The guy to my immediate right could pass for twenty-five. He’s blond, burly, and wearing the kind of leather jacket that you only see in Eastern Europe. He turns slowly to face me. His eyes are dark and cold. He takes me in, then rotates his head just as slowly back toward the movie screen.

A man in a lab coat enters and has a quick word with the woman in charge. She nods, then strides to center stage.

“It seems we’re beginning this semester with a smaller class than usual. The sixth student has a medical condition that renders her ineligible for the academy’s program. So only the five of you will be moving forward. The next stage of your assessment focuses on personality.” As the woman passes a booklet and pencil to each of us, I try to recall the sixth student’s face. All I can remember is the back of her head.

“The booklet you’ve been given contains the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator assessment. It is not a test,” the woman continues, interrupting my thoughts. “There are no right or wrong answers. Please feel free to begin as soon as you’re ready.”

Whenever someone insists that there are no right or wrong answers, I immediately assume that there are. It doesn’t hurt that I know all about the MBTI. You answer a bunch of questions that seem like total bullshit, and then it assigns you a personality “type” with a four-letter label. My father’s bank administers the test to every single person who applies for a job. The company claims the MBTI helps identify people who will “fit” with its culture. What it really wants to do is weed out the weaklings. I’m guessing that the Mandel Academy isn’t looking for warm, fuzzy, “feeling” types either. They must want leaders, and I’m eager to please, so I decide to be an ENTJ type (Extraversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judging). Just like dear old dad. I have no idea what I “really” am. I taught myself how to game the test back in grade school. I managed to take it twenty-five times online before my mother found out I’d been using her credit card.

So I tick all the right answers and wait for the other newbies to finish. There’s no clock in the room, but I’m pretty sure that big, blond Igor to my right has taken an hour longer than everyone else. It’s hard to believe that he’ll ever be Ivy League material.

He hands the woman his test, and I begin to slip out of my chair. My ass is numb.

“Please stay in your seats. There are a few videos we would like to show you,” says the woman. “You don’t need to memorize what you see. You won’t be tested on the content. We only want you to watch.”

I sigh and slump back down. The first video is a short clip of two men dancing a waltz together. The room stays perfectly silent. As soon as it ends, I raise my hand. The woman stares at me. I guess no one has ever had a question before.

“Yes?”

“Are you trying to test if I’m a Replicant or a homosexual?” I ask.

The black girl howls with laughter, which makes me like her. Any fan of Blade Runner is a friend of mine. I see big Igor beside me observing the girl with great interest.

“Let’s keep going,” says the proctor, tapping a note into a tablet computer.

The next video is footage from the scene of a car accident. When the camera pans across the mangled victims who’ve been hauled from the wreck, Igor starts to laugh. I’m watching as he glances at the black girl again. She raises a carefully tweezed eyebrow, as if to say WTF? When Igor realizes she’s not laughing, he abruptly stops. He studies her face for the remainder of the clip. Stupid and psycho. What a fabulous combination. Mandel missed the mark by a mile with this kid.

Four more videos follow. A little boy lost in a shopping mall. A couple passionately kissing. A wolf catching and ripping into a rabbit. A woman screaming insults at her teenage daughter. The film festival ends, and I’d like to throw up. But I force myself to look bored instead. Almost everyone else seems to have caught on. Only the Latin lover seems shell-shocked.

The lights come on. By the time my eyes have adjusted, Lucian Mandel has appeared.

“Excellent work!” he tells us. “You’ve all made it through the most difficult part of the assessment process! Give yourselves a big hand.”

A few halfhearted claps echo around the room. If our lack of enthusiasm disturbs him, Mandel doesn’t show it. He’s too wrapped up in his own performance. Today, he appears to be playing the role of everyone’s favorite uncle.

“My name is Lucian Mandel. My family has run this academy for over one hundred years. Since the very beginning, we have devoted our lives to helping talented but disadvantaged young people enjoy new beginnings. Each of you has come here to make a fresh start. After lunch, you’ll be casting away your old clothes, and by the end of your three-week stay here in the Incubation Suites, you’ll have cast away your old lives as well.”

My hand shoots up. Three f—ing weeks? Mandel ignores me.

“The first step toward assuming your new identity is answering to a new name. We have chosen first names for everyone. New surnames and government ID will be distributed at graduation.” The female proctor hands Mandel her tablet computer. He glances down at the screen. When he looks up, his eyes fall on the black girl. “You’re Ella,” he says.

Deliverance girl is now Aubrey. The Latin lover is Felix. Igor becomes Ivan. When Mandel reaches me, I speak for him.

“Flick,” I say. “My name is Flick.”

Mandel pauses. I can see the irritation beneath his smile. “You must have psychic abilities. That’s exactly what it says here.”

He passes the tablet back to the woman. “The next step of the process may be a bit painful for some of you. But it’s critical that you don’t drag any ghosts from your pasts into the Mandel Academy. We have no secrets inside this building. Each and every one of you has led a difficult life. We didn’t choose you despite the things you’ve seen and done. We chose you because we believe that such experiences can make people stronger. At other schools, you might feel the need to keep your skeletons tucked away in a closet. At the Mandel Academy, we want you to bring them all out and embrace them.”

Once again, he starts with Ella. She’s watching him with eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

“We’re very fortunate to have Ella with us. Despite her lack of formal training, Ella was an accomplished businesswoman long before she was accepted into our program. She has a pragmatic mind and a gift for mathematics. To this day, law enforcement officials remain unaware that she was once a major player in a drug empire that controlled most of the South Side of Chicago. Her mother’s only brother was the face of the organization—but Ella was the brains. As she got older, her uncle began to view her as a threat. When he tried to diminish her role, Ella lured the man into Marquette Park one night and shot him four times in the head. The assassination was captured by a wildlife camera, and that is how Ella came to be with us today. Did I leave anything out?” he asks the girl.

“I’m a Virgo,” she quips.

“That wit will come in handy,” Mandel remarks. I agree—Ella will do well.

He saunters up to the basket case sitting beside Ella and takes one of the girl’s limp hands. “We’re hoping Aubrey snaps out of her funk sometime soon, but we’re going to give her a little more leeway than most during the Incubation Stage. We checked her out of rehab a bit earlier than recommended so that she wouldn’t need to miss another semester here. By the end of this three-week period, she’ll have had ample time to physically recover from her methamphetamine addiction. If her mind mends as quickly, Aubrey will be a valuable addition to our student body. She too was once a budding entrepreneur, but she made two mistakes that Ella wisely avoided. Aubrey sampled her own product. And she brought her work home with her. She and her boyfriend built a meth lab in her basement bedroom. When it exploded, both of her parents died in the blaze.” He gives the girl’s hand a tender squeeze, then places it back on her desk. “Here at the Mandel Academy, we believe that the lessons one learns from such tragedies can inspire personal triumphs.”

Aubrey doesn’t look like she’s heard a single word. She’s still gazing into the distance when Mandel moves on. “Felix is a prostitute.”

The Latin lover gasps.

“I’m sorry,” Mandel says. “Have I been misinformed?”

“I was a . . . a . . .” The boy can’t finish the sentence.

“You’re right, of course,” Mandel concedes. “You no longer are. But you must understand, there is absolutely no cause for embarrassment. That’s one of the reasons we have this exercise. So that no one wastes his or her time on useless emotions like shame. You slept with men for money. You’re hardly the first student here who has done so. What makes you special, Felix, is how successful you were. Your charm, that handsome face. People line up to give you whatever you want. That’s a real gift. The Mandel Academy can teach you how to make the most of it. All we ask is that you set your sights on something a bit higher than a closet full of flashy clothing.”

Felix nods with enthusiasm. He’s bought every ounce of Mandel’s bullshit. I bet he doesn’t make it to the end of the semester.

“Ivan,” Mandel says. The guy grunts in response. “You are a very impressive specimen.” I can feel my head jerk back with surprise. He’s got to be kidding. “Your father was a remarkable man as well. The Butcher of Brighton Beach. He taught you everything he knew about the protection game. I’m not sure how much of it managed to sink in, but I do know that you became one of his enforcers two years ago at age fifteen. How many people have you disposed of since then, may I ask?”

“Nine.”

Nine? If that’s true, the guy’s a serial killer.

Mandel addresses the rest of us. “If we hadn’t found him, Ivan would have become a ward of the state. His parents are now serving life sentences, and his uncles and aunts refused to take him in.”

“I will thank them soon,” Ivan says. I detect a slight accent, but there’s no hint of emotion in his voice.

“You should,” Mandel agrees as though he missed the kid’s meaning. “They did you a very big favor.”

Mandel finally turns to me, and his smile broadens.

“Last, but not least, we have Flick. Flick is academically gifted. A master thief. And a champion boxer. I won’t bother listing his many other talents and achievements. But he too has known tragedy. The state of his face should tell you as much. However, unlike the rest of you, he isn’t here as a last resort. Flick is our only volunteer this semester. In time, you will realize just how meaningful that is. His personality profile tells us he’s a born leader. His physical exam revealed he’s in peak condition. We expect great things from Flick. He could be what we call a natural.”

Mandel holds his arms out, as if to wrap us all in a great big hug, and I realize that’s it. He’s let my skeletons stay in their closets. But my relief is followed by a terrible thought that spins me around in my seat. Whose secrets was Mandel protecting? Mine—or my father’s? Could my dad be one of the people watching us from the catwalk? I turn back and scour Mandel’s face for answers. He isn’t giving any away.

“So there you have it,” he says. “Welcome again to the Mandel Academy. Spend the next three weeks getting acclimated to your new home. You’ll learn a few fundamental skills and be groomed to take your place among the student body.” He checks his watch. “It’s one o’clock now. Go grab some lunch. This afternoon you’ll be taking another important step toward assuming your new identity. And remember—if you have any questions or concerns, you can always come to me.”

I raise my hand, but he pretends not to see it. Next time, I swear to myself, I won’t bother being polite.

• • •

I’m dying for a change of atmosphere, but the cafeteria doesn’t actually have any. What it does have is another stretch of glass- enclosed catwalk hanging high above our heads. The catwalk glass is clear. There are no spectators inside. But there will be. Every room in the Incubation Suites must be designed to administer some sort of test. We’re just lab rats being ushered from one cage to the next. They’ve kept the rooms featureless because they’re controlling the variables. They wouldn’t want any distractions interfering with the results of their human experiments.

There’s a long, stainless steel food bar at one end of the room. Pastas and sandwiches and burgers and sushi and salad. Far too much to feed five people. What’s the test here? I wonder. Will they be rating our impulse control? Gauging our risk of obesity? Watching to see if we chew with our mouths closed? Then I figure it out.

They want to see us interacting. There’s only one table in the room. And five chairs. Someone has already hauled the sixth away. I doubt the surface of the table is big enough to hold all of Ivan’s food. He has a plate piled with hamburger patties. No buns or fixings. Just patties. A plate of sliced salami. An entire loaf of bread. And he’s filled a soup bowl with the carved radishes that were serving as garnishes. I glance up at the catwalk. It must be enclosed in electronic smart glass because in less than two seconds, it shifts from clear to opaque. Which means our guests have arrived at last. I just hope someone up there is paying attention to Ivan. The guy has some serious issues.

I’m the last to get my lunch. Aubrey is the only one who hasn’t worked up an appetite. She’s sitting at the table between Felix and Ella, who are chatting around her. Ivan is folding beef patties in half and shoving them into his maw. He doesn’t even bother to examine what he’s eating. He’s staring at Aubrey, and I can’t quite interpret the look in his eyes. I take the only seat left. It’s next to him. If we weren’t under surveillance, I might be up for a little lunchtime conversation. But this feels dangerous. I haven’t been here long enough to know when I’ve said the wrong thing. Apparently the others don’t share my concern.

“The natural has finally joined us for lunch,” Felix says. “He kinda looks like that movie star. You know the one I’m talking about?” he asks Ella.

“Frankenstein?” Ella points at my stitches.

It’s interesting to see how they operate. Felix flatters those he believes may have power. Ella takes potshots to prove she’s their equal. I ignore them both. At this point I’ll learn more by listening.

“He must be the strong, silent type,” Felix tells Ella in a stage whisper. “So who’s your jeweler up there in Chicago?”

While they discuss diamonds and dealers, I dig into lunch. My hamburger is remarkably good. I’m trying to remember when I last ate anything quite like it when I notice that Ivan is muttering to himself. Apparently his lips move when he thinks. He’s still fixated on poor, lifeless Aubrey. I stop chewing to listen. The few words I catch tell me Ivan has a crush. And he’s not the kind of guy who sends flowers. He’s the kind who kicks down doors in the middle of the night. The girl is in some serious shit.

“She’s mine,” I announce in a casual voice. “Touch her and I’ll neuter you with a butter knife.”

Why am I doing this? Why am I risking everything for some brain-dead meth addict?

Ella and Felix stop yammering. Ivan slowly swivels around to face me. “What did you say?”

I’ve already opened my big mouth, so I give him my toothiest smile. “I told you she’s mine, you f—ing Neanderthal. So are the other two. I have a huge appetite.”

“Excuse me?” Ella jumps in. “I am not—”

“Shut your face,” I growl. Ella glares at me but obeys. She’ll hate me for a while, but laying claim to her body is the only sure way to keep Ivan off it.

“If you mark your territory, you must be prepared to defend it,” Ivan says. The guy may be a brute, but he’s not quite as stupid as I thought.

“This school is my territory. Everyone in it belongs to me now. Including you.”

As a rule, I never punch first. Even in the ring, I let the other guy have the first go. It’s the best way to find out what you’re up against. The first punch says everything. But Ivan doesn’t punch. He grabs me by the throat instead. I feel the chair give way beneath me. In less than a second, I’ve been slammed up against the wall of the lunchroom. My brain reels from the impact. But I keep my neck bent forward so my skull doesn’t crack. The move would have killed another opponent. Ivan is unbelievably strong. His fingers are on the verge of crushing my windpipe. And what’s really impressive is that he doesn’t seem to care. Most guys I’ve fought have an internal alarm that goes off when they’re about to inflict serious damage. You can see a flicker of fear in their eyes. Ivan’s remain dull and dark.

I grab his wrist with one hand and ram my knee into his jaw. He lurches backward, and his grip loosens. I rip his hand from my throat, keeping hold of his wrist. I lock his elbow and use the arm to spin him around and force him down to the floor. Then I grab a hunk of hair and slam his head twice into the hard concrete. The splatter of blood even reaches the walls. I should have worn goggles.

I know Mandel’s people must be watching. But no one has come to Ivan’s rescue. I could end his miserable life with one more blow. Instead I climb off his carcass and return to the table. Ella and Felix practically cringe as I sit back down, wipe the blood off my hands, and take another bite of my burger. Aubrey is the only one who doesn’t seem shaken. The battle has brought her back to life. She doesn’t dare say a word, but I can see it on her face. She knows exactly what I just did. I saved her.

Two men in lab coats and surgical masks rush into the room and load Ivan onto a steel stretcher. Lucian Mandel holds the door open for them as they leave. “Flick?” he says. “Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

We stroll along the wide hallway, which appears to be a giant square. The glass catwalk crosses the corridor at one point. But once you’re around the next corner, it’s out of sight. There’s a sense of privacy here, though I know not to trust it. The cafeteria door remains ajar, and we walk right past it and start a new lap. Mandel still hasn’t uttered a word.

The silence has given me a chance to think. At first I was worried I’d screwed everything up. All I had to do was play along. Instead, I nearly killed a fellow recruit. I figured Mandel would be furious. Now I can see he’s not angry at all. Not even close.

“Aubrey doesn’t seem like your type,” Mandel finally says.

“I’m not a necrophiliac,” I respond.

He laughs. “So you have no romantic interest in her?”

“No.” It would be ludicrous to pretend that I did.

“Still, you protected her. Did it ever occur to you that she might need to learn how to fend for herself? Aubrey can’t expect a white knight to come to her rescue every time she’s in trouble.”

I just demolished Ivan’s face, but that doesn’t appear to bother Mandel. He seems much more concerned that I tried to help Aubrey.

“I wasn’t protecting anyone,” I lie.

“Then why did you choose to make Ivan an enemy?”

“We would have ended up enemies anyway. I figured I’d make the first move and teach him a lesson. The great Chinese general Sun Tzu said that the victorious warrior wins first and then goes to war.”

“You’ve read Sun Tzu’s Art of War.” He’s impressed, I can tell.

“I’ve memorized it.” I’m sure that sounds great, but I hope he doesn’t decide to test me. I don’t know how many more quotes I could pull out of my ass.

Mandel seems to buy it. “We both know that your war could have ended this afternoon. You had a chance to destroy Ivan. You showed restraint by walking away. But Ivan should recover quickly, and when he does, he’ll want his revenge.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. Ivan is my only competition. The next three weeks would be a real bore without him.”

“What a fascinating young man you are,” Mandel says. I have no clue if he’s satisfied with the explanation I’ve given him. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you do next.”

“Thank you, sir,” I respond. “I hope it will be entertaining.”

This morning, there were a hundred questions I was eager to ask him. I’m finally learning to keep my mouth shut.