How to Lead a Life of Crime

chapter THREE



A SIMPLE PROPOSITION





I’m shocked that I don’t have a hangover. I must have been drunk to come so close to spilling my beans last night. The moment I wake, I scan the room for Peter Pan. But he’s returned to his hiding place inside my head.

Jude was ten years old when he came home from school clutching a copy of Peter Pan. One of his teachers had called him “the boy who wouldn’t grow up.” The idea intrigued him. He consumed the first novel in a single night and devoured the rest of J. M. Barrie’s works by week’s end. My brother’s obsession didn’t end when he reached the last page. As soon as there was nothing left to read, Jude decided to become Peter Pan. And no one ever laughed. Because it didn’t take much imagination to believe Jude could fly.

He was smart. So much smarter than I ever was. And charming and clever. Two things I’ll never be. A handsome trickster with a thatch of strawberry-blond hair that he insisted on cutting himself. Jude could con you out of your most cherished possessions—and make you thank him for taking them off your hands. He could look like a saint while spinning lies that would make a hardened sinner blush red. Other kids followed him. Adults were in awe of him. When teachers called him a scoundrel, they always said it with smiles on their faces. A friend of my mother’s predicted that Jude would one day be president or in prison—or both.

My father took all the credit, of course. He once told me that the moment I was born, he knew I belonged to my mother. That must have been the reason he demanded another child so soon after the first had arrived. He wanted a son of his own. And he wasn’t disappointed the second time around. When my father looked at Jude, he saw everything he’d desired. He was a man with no tolerance for whimsy. But even when Jude began flying through the house dressed up like an androgynous elf, my father still saw his boy. Who knows—maybe he’d read Barrie’s books for himself. And maybe he’d stumbled across the same clues I have. Peter Pan, I’m now almost certain, was Captain Hook’s son.

But there were things about Jude that our father never saw. He never saw Jude hiding me when the old man went on one of his Scotch-fueled rampages. He never realized that most of Jude’s attempts to get his attention were only meant to draw it away from me. My father thought Jude despised his weakling big brother. He didn’t know how much of his own strength Jude wasted trying to save me.

I won’t let Joi make the same mistake that Jude did. She’s lying beside me, her face cradled in a nest of her hair. None of her features fit together, and yet I’ve never seen anyone so lovely. Her beauty is perfect because it’s all wrong. I’ve been searching for flaws hidden beneath Joi’s surface, and while I’m sure they exist, I still haven’t found one. I would sacrifice almost anything to stay here with her. And that’s exactly why I have to leave. She will keep me from becoming what I need to be. And if she tries to save me, I will end up destroying her.

Today I plan to be dressed and gone before Joi has a chance to ask me to stay. Whenever I spend the night at the colony, I’m usually the one who sleeps in. I work the nightshift, while Joi keeps regular business hours. Every morning, she hops on the subway and heads to a different part of town. She returns in the evening with a bag of supplies. Jeans for the kids who’ve outgrown the ones they arrived in. Food for the kids who can’t feed themselves. Trinkets for anyone celebrating a birthday. It’s all stolen, of course. I’d kill for a chance to observe her technique. She must be a world-class shoplifter if she’s nicking enough to support a whole colony. But Joi refuses to let anyone tag along. All she’s ever told me is that she won’t hit the same store twice in one year. And when she takes something, she leaves behind a handwritten receipt. Thank You for Donating $___ in Goods to the LES Children’s Fund. Somehow I doubt the IRS lets the store owners write off their losses. But it seems to keep Joi’s conscience clean.

Her swag bags have gotten heavier over the past few weeks, and I suspect she has something special planned for Christmas morning. I don’t want to know what it is. Before I slip out, I remember the wallet I stole last night. I unhook the clasp and pull out a wad of bills. There’s more than three hundred dollars—far more than I need. I keep a twenty and leave the rest for Joi. I hope she buys something nice for herself.

• • •

Outside, the streets are dead. It’s the first time I’ve seen the city so empty. I’m wandering around like the sole survivor of some mysterious cataclysm that’s destroyed the rest of my species. I’m humanity’s last hope. The thought makes me laugh out loud.

The last man on earth needs to eat. But there’s nothing open. Even the delis and diners are dark. Chinatown may be the only place I’ll be able to trade my twenty for food. So I start walking south on Clinton Street. I stop just short of Essex to peer through the window of a jewelry shop. There’s a kid staring back at me. He’s got a beaten, broken face that still manages to be a little too pretty. He’s not who I want to see. I’m looking for the store’s owner. His name is Jim Neverbotheredtoask, and he’s my fence of choice. His rates aren’t what I’d call fair, but at least they’re consistent. And he’ll take anything I bring him. Jewelry, bikes, electronics. A few weeks ago, he let me roll a Vespa right into the shop. He even gives me a few bucks for each credit card I collect. I’ve never found his door padlocked before. Apparently Jim has taken the day off to celebrate the birth of his Lord. I’d like to know how much of the stuff under this year’s Christmas tree is hot.

I keep walking, and when I hit Grand Street, I see my first signs of life. A bunch of Orthodox Jewish kids are playing some kind of game in the street. They stare at me as I walk past, and I sense their disappointment. They were sure the city was theirs for the day.

I’m about to turn right on Grand Street when a strange compulsion comes over me, and I continue my path down Clinton. At the next intersection, I stop. I visited this place on my second day in the city, but I’ve steered clear of it ever since. On the southeast corner of Clinton and East Broadway sits a six-story building. Grimy beige bricks with dark green trim around the top. It looks like every other apartment building on the Lower East Side, except for the entrance. The doorway is red and flanked by two columns that support a decorative balcony. The name of the structure is written in red just below. The Mayflower. That’s how I knew I’d found the right place, even though I’d never been given an address. My father spent his first sixteen years living on the fourth floor of this tenement. Then he won a scholarship and set out to seek his fortune. He works on Wall Street these days. His office is less than a mile away, but I doubt he’s ever returned to the Lower East Side.

I wonder what he would say if he could see his old quarters. The first time I visited, I broke into the building and had a look around a fourth-floor apartment. I’m not sure if it was the one my father had called home, but it was the only apartment that was empty that morning. The rooms were tiny, the bathtub was in the kitchen, and the walls were riddled with oozing plaster pustules. My father thinks that most kids of my generation are too soft to last in a place like the Mayflower. I might have agreed with him until I saw all the pictures on the apartment’s walls. At least three Latino kids seemed to be surviving just fine in my father’s childhood home. Maybe they were all exceptional actors, but the smiles on their faces looked perfectly genuine.

Jude used to say that my father was full of shit. He thought the Mayflower was nothing more than a lie. I suppose the truth is a little more complicated.

• • •

The tourists might be missing, but Chinatown is open for business. I slip into my favorite restaurant on Doyers Street. The décor leaves much to be desired, and I’m not always sure what I’m eating. But whatever it is, it’s cheap and delicious. The locals love the place, and tables are usually hard to come by. But today, the restaurant is empty. It’s just me and Mr. Song, who’s always behind the counter—at least sixteen hours a day.

While I wait for my food, I pull out the wallet I stole last night and start to examine its contents. It belongs to one Mia Osman. The girl’s got every credit card known to man. I spread them out on the table. Fourteen pieces of plastic that could keep Joi’s colony fed and clothed for years. I’m sure they were all canceled first thing this morning. Replacements will be arriving by FedEx tomorrow.

There’s not much else here to entertain me. Just a few strange notes crammed into the pockets. Chanel Rogue Shine in Deauville! reads one. A prescription for Adderall that might come in handy. A receipt for a thousand-dollar pair of Louboutin shoes. Another for lunch at a bistro on the Upper East Side. She left a 5 percent tip and dotted the i in her signature with a heart.

I feel a cold breeze as the restaurant door opens, and I quickly sweep the contents of the wallet into my lap before I look up to see who’s joined me for breakfast.

A man has chosen a table by the front window. He pulls out a chair that’s facing me, which instantly tells me there might be a problem. When two strangers take seats in an empty restaurant, they almost always prefer not to look at each other. Unless one of the strangers finds the other intriguing. I’ve had men hit on me before, but it usually happens on days when half of my face isn’t hidden beneath a bandage. Anyway, this guy doesn’t strike me as the lonely-and-looking-for-love sort. If he was, he could afford someone much better-looking than me.

I know this because there is one skill at which all rich people truly excel, and that’s recognizing each other. Even when we’re in disguise. The first thing I notice is the man’s overcoat, which fits him perfectly though he’s not a standard size. He takes it off, revealing a turtleneck sweater and jeans that he probably bought at J. Crew. That might make me question my assessment if it weren’t for his shoes. My father owns several pairs made by the same small shop in Italy. You could fly around the world three times for the price.

My eyes come to rest on his face. Maybe he doesn’t want my body, but he does want something. And he’s not shy, either. He’s met my gaze. I keep my expression stony, but he smiles. I’d say he’s thirty-five. But a rich thirty-five, which means he could pass for a man in his twenties. Tousled brown hair that was probably red in his youth. Blue eyes. Freckles so densely distributed that from a distance they might be mistaken for a tan. He seems friendly. Boyish. But there’s something he’s hiding. Something he doesn’t want me to see.

He’s risen from his seat, and he’s moving toward me. Mr. Song has disappeared. The man stops at my table and places a palm on the top of the chair across from me.

“May I join you?” he asks.

I hook the toe of one boot under the bottom rung. The chair doesn’t budge when he tries to pull it out. “Why?” I demand.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he is looking for love. But I doubt it.

“What?”

“I’d like to hire a thief, and I believe you might be the right man for the job.”