At first I just got pulverized like the other boys. But eventually I learned to fight dirty, and to be quick, and listen for soft footsteps creeping up behind me. I learned how to hurt people, and how to be hurt but not show it. The training wasn’t pretty, but after a while I found that I liked pain better than emptiness. The little monster inside of me fed on the violence and grew strong. I imagined it as a green tiger with enormous teeth. It was quiet and prowled the cage of my ribs and licked its lips.
Part of the training was in general thuggery. We were sent out to watch how the older boys did it. They’d go to shopkeepers and ask for “chai.” If a wad of money wasn’t produced, fingers were broken, inventory smashed, and daughters eyed meaningfully. I went out a few times, but Bug Eye found my attempts uninspiring. More often than not, people just laughed at me, a tiny girl demanding tea.
So I looked at myself and thought about how to take advantage of being a tiny girl. I began working on my own variation on the bump and wrist flick that is a pickpocket’s bread and butter. I’d be way better than Ketchup could ever dream of being. I spent hours every day forcing my body into insane postures so I’d be able to squeeze through barred windows. I decided to show Bug Eye what I could do. Maybe he could think of a better way to use me?
The first place I broke into was the home of a loan shark. My job wasn’t to steal anything, but to leave him a message in black paint on his living room wall: “Hi family, tell Baba to pay up. Love, the Goondas.” It worked. He paid. The very next day. Delivered the cash himself to the warehouse. I’d found my niche. There were enough Goondas who could break arms and shatter windows. I would be a scalpel. Let the other guys be clubs.
I got better and better at thievery, moving on to actually stealing cash, jewelry, electronics. And soon, when I was creeping into a dark shop or a merchant’s plush home, or bumping with choreographed precision through a crowd toward a mark, I found that I was more myself than at any other time. I was a new person. A thief. Solid, strong. Unbroken.
When it came time to get tattoos, there was no question. The very first thing I asked for was a wheel on one arm, sword on the other, just like the ones on Mama’s Saint Catherine prayer card. I got others later on, but those were the only two that ever really mattered.
I still had to do the exercises with the other guys. We ran, we climbed, we fought one another. Sometimes Mr. Omoko would drop by and watch us. When he did, all the boys would show off. Omoko had an elite squad of bodyguards, and they all wanted to grow up to be one. There were a million stories of all the money and cars and girls the guys in Omoko’s inner circle got, but he would take only the best.
Bug Eye would make us spar in front of him. I hated it. I could hold my own against the boys, but it still made me feel like a monkey on a string being told to dance. The other Goondas thought I was crazy for not kissing up to Omoko, but I didn’t care. He knew I didn’t want to be his bodyguard. We’d had our chat. My destiny was shaping out in a different direction.
Mr. Omoko rarely spoke to me after that first year. But I didn’t mind. His silence was approval, and that was all I needed. I was in dress rehearsal. Once I’d established what I could do, Omoko started assigning specific jobs to me. Bug Eye would relay them. Easy ones at first: breaking into an unguarded shop at night. Tailing and pickpocketing. Then harder ones: getting into homes with security, human and electronic. Cracking safes. Stealing not just things but information. When his IT guy got stumped trying to hack into a politician’s email account, I said, Let me try—I know a boy who’s a tech genius and owes me a favor.
I never got caught. Not once.
Not until now.
FIFTEEN
While his parents are at church, Michael and I look through everything we’ve got, hoping that with fresh eyes, we’ll find some new detail about Mama’s murder. The day is bright and sunny, but we lock ourselves in Michael’s room and close the shades. It’s overkill, but better than maids popping in or gardeners seeing us through the windows. I bet they think we’re in here making out, especially after Michael’s performance in front of the guards last night, but whatever. People thinking I’m bonking the boy of the house is the least of my problems.
I’ve checked the ferry schedule and know I’m supposed to meet Boyboy at three o’clock. I’m not worried about being able to get out of here, only that disappearing on my own for a few hours so soon isn’t going to go over real well.
“We should set the scene,” Michael says, after a while. “Like we’re staging a play.”
When I don’t respond, he prompts, “The killer must come in through the tunnel. None of the other cameras inside show anyone but Dad and your mom in the house that night. So how does he or she get in?”
“Good question. Probably he got in through the front door because he’s your dad.”
“Tina . . .”
“Fine. I don’t know how the mystery killer got in. But magically he does, then he kills my mom.” I tilt my head. “Or she does. A jealous lover, perhaps? How many does your father have, exactly?”
Michael’s eyebrows pinch. “This isn’t a joke.”
“Believe me, I know. Okay, jealous lover-slash-murderer does the deed. Bang. Then what?”