"I'll need an extra five hundred if you want to discuss your pets."

"Then perhaps we should get down to business." The man smirks. "The building is currently owned by a gentleman who should be dead in a matter of days."

"You planning to kill him?" I ask. It's a joke, but my employer answers as if I were perfectly serious.

"Of course not. The gentleman in question is ninety years old, and he's dying of renal failure. I've already made a deal with his son to buy the house as soon as the old man is gone. Unfortunately, the building comes with a pest problem. There's an artist and his family living upstairs. I want them all out."

"So give them the boot after you buy the building."

My new boss sighs. "If only it were that simple. The house's owner has always considered himself a patron of the arts. At some point in the 1980s, he befriended a promising painter who was down on his luck. He offered the young man an apartment and studio on the top two floors of this building. The neighborhood wasn't quite as genteel in those days, and rents were much cheaper. But the painter got a deal that was remarkable even back then. He pays two hundred and fifty dollars a month-plus six terrible paintings a year. I've had my lawyer look over the document. She says that the lease is good for another twenty years."

"Outrageous," I drone. I honestly couldn't care less.

"I suppose the deal might have worked out well for the owner if the painter had gone on to fame and fortune. But the best art is always inspired by pain, and life isn't terribly painful if you're living in the most sought-after part of Manhattan for three thousand dollars a year. Everything our painter has produced since he moved here has been mediocre. Even his two dim-witted children."

"Let me guess. You want me to find the painter's copy of the lease so you can destroy it and kick the guy out." My fingers grip the door handle. I really can't stand any more of this. It's time to cut to the chase. "No problem."

The man is still trying to hammer a point into my head, but he's finding my skull can be remarkably thick. "You understand, don't you? These people don't belong here."

What in the hell does he want from me? "There's no doubt in my mind that you deserve to live here much more than they do," I assure him, my voice slick with sarcasm.

"I have no intention of living here," the man tells me. "I have a perfectly fine house a few blocks away. But I'm something of a bibliophile, and my library is overflowing. I need a building close to home where I can store my rare books."

I laugh so hard that tears start to well up in my eyes. This is, hands down, the strangest conversation I've ever had. "Whatever," I say. "Are we done here?"

"Yes," the man replies.

"Then drop me off down the street. You don't want anyone on the block to see me getting out of your car. I'll meet you around the corner when I'm done."

I consider hitting the road as soon as his car is out of sight. This whole scenario is too goddamned weird. And it gets even stranger when I discover that the front door of the building has been left unlocked. I wonder if I'm being set up. Maybe I'm the unwitting star of some new reality show that explores the dark side of the human soul. I turn around and grin for the cameras, just in case they're watching.

Past the front entrance is a small foyer. I'm facing a pair of doors. The left must lead to the lower apartment. The right door is blocking the stairs to the top two floors. I examine the lock on the door I need to open. Then I immediately check the foyer for hidden cameras. I'm not smiling anymore. I'm serious now. This has to be some kind of joke. Every apartment in Manhattan has at least one dead bolt on the door. Every apartment except the one I'm being paid seven hundred dollars to rob. There's just a dinky bedroom knob-the type with a push-button lock. I spend a moment wondering if anyone who lives in New York could really be so stupid. Maybe a painter, I decide.

I take out one of Mia Osman's credit cards and slowly slide it down the crack between the door and its frame. The lock opens on the very first swipe.

Paintings line the stairway that leads up to the artist's apartment: A bum in Washington Square Park. A panhandler on a subway platform. Poor kids dancing through the spray of a fire hydrant. They're crap. The guy can paint, but his choice of subjects is pure cheese. I'm expecting more of the same when I step into the living room on the building's third floor. But the first thing I see steals my breath for a moment. One entire wall of the room is covered in mismatched frames. Behind the glass in each frame is a mitten that must have belonged to one of the artist's kids. There are dozens of mittens, and none of them are identical. Every one is a different color. Some are damaged and dirty. Others couldn't have been worn more than twice. The first mitten in the row closest to the ceiling looks small enough for an infant. The white snowflake stitched on its palm is almost too tiny to see. Little by little, the flakes get fatter and the mittens grow larger. The last one that was framed is almost adult-sized.

It's as beautiful as anything ever displayed in my parents' home. My father always chose art that screamed good taste and deep pockets. He never bothered to see if it spoke to him. As far as he was concerned, a painting was just a way to hang money on the wall. I don't think he ever realized that each of his "investments" contained a little piece of someone's soul.

I'm starting to feel a bit jittery. So I pull my eyes away from the mittens and scan the living room. No television. An ancient turntable. A computer with a goddamned floppy disk drive. No wonder the door downstairs doesn't have a dead bolt. The family doesn't think they have anything worth stealing.

The lease will probably be in a desk or filing cabinet, and there isn't anything like that here. I wander down the hall and peer into a bedroom. It doesn't look promising, but I'll give it a more thorough search if I don't find what I'm after on my first go- through. Across the hall is a room that belongs to a teenage boy. The door is plastered with those stupid stickers they hand out at conventions. Hello, my name is . . . The name Jack is written graffiti-style inside all the white spaces. I don't even bother to enter Jack's lair. I rule out the kitchen at the back of the apartment, then head upstairs.

There's an enormous skylight in the studio's ceiling. The room must be perfect for painting. The easel I spotted from the street displays the artist's latest masterpiece: an old lady pulling weeds in a tiny garden wedged between crumbling buildings. I groan at the sight and turn my attention to a paint-splattered table. On top, there's a jumble of tubes, tools, and brushes. Underneath is a small filing cabinet. Jackpot.

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 maitre 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?"