"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."

CHAPTER SIX.

HOW TO LEAD A LIFE OF CRIME.

If I were still in school, I'd be a senior. I spent the first nine grades at a Connecticut prep school that's a household name in the households of millionaires. Then a teacher asked too many questions about my bruises. She was fired, but that wasn't enough to satisfy my father. I had to be punished as well. So he enrolled me at a crappy public school a few miles from my home. The teachers there had more kids to monitor, and they weren't the most inquisitive bunch. But eventually even they started to notice. When my face was rearranged right before Christmas break in my sophomore year, some anonymous Good Samaritan phoned the police. The cops bought my dad's story that my broken nose, fractured cheekbone, and black eyes were all the result of a bicycling accident. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe he just paid them enough to not care. Either way, the unwanted attention convinced my father to send me to boarding school. He chose a military academy in the swampy, malarial lowlands of Georgia.

At first I resisted. If I'd wanted to leave, I could have just run away. I'd packed my bag a hundred times over the years. I'd decided where to go and how to get there. I was fully prepared to disappear. But I didn't. I stayed. Every time I set out on my own, I thought about my mother and brother. And what might happen if I left them behind. As a kid I'd always dreamed that the three of us could escape together. But by the time I hit high school, I knew there was no chance we'd ever succeed. It made no difference where we tried to hide, my dad was always able to find us. I doubt he'd have bothered looking for me. But he wasn't willing to let Jude go.

Everyone knew I'd be safer in Georgia-even at a school famous for turning young men into half-savage soldiers. But with my little brother trapped in Connecticut, I wasn't about to be shipped down south. In the end, Jude was the one who convinced me to leave. It took several days of pestering before he found an argument that made me take notice. Jude said Mom would be happier if I was out of harm's way. The thought had never occurred to me-that my mother might be better off if I wasn't around. That it might be a relief to wake up each day knowing that she wouldn't have to stand between me and my father's fists. And then I realized I'd be doing Jude a big favor too. He was fourteen years old. He deserved to enjoy what little was left of his childhood. He needed time off from saving me.

So I left. And for a while, I was sure it had been the best decision of my life. I loved the fierce Georgia heat. I loved that my school days never brought any surprises. And I loved learning to be a warrior. Because even then, I planned to fight back. By the spring of my junior year, I held a Graduate rank in Krav Maga, and I was the school's undefeated boxing champ. I was certain I'd be invincible by graduation. Then, on the eighteenth of April-a few days before Easter-I found out how much I still needed to learn.

I'm smarter now than I was back then. My education cost everything that I had. So I find it amusing that Lucian Mandel thinks he's the one who'll be calling the shots. I guess he's been spying on me for a while, because he's convinced that he's got me all figured out. But I know something about him too. Lucian Mandel hates my father. Which isn't surprising. My dad's the CEO of one of the world's biggest banks. And he'd be the first to point out that nice guys don't get to the top. At this stage you'd need the US Census Bureau to count my dad's enemies. But only one of them has ever come looking for me. So I've agreed to hear what Mandel has to say.

Mandel pulls his Maserati into an alley a block away from City Hall Park. The lane is too narrow to stand back and get a good view of the building we're visiting. It must be one of the oldest structures in this part of town. Redbrick with terra-cotta trim. Ten-no nine-stories tall. A couple of towers that would look right at home on a haunted house. I don't know what I was expecting, but this sure isn't it.

The academy can't have changed much since my dad was a student. I wish I could have seen his reaction the day he stood on this spot for the very first time. The school must have seemed much more impressive to a poor boy from the mean streets of the Lower East Side. To me, it's like something right out of Dickens. A scene from an old movie flashes through my mind: A line of young boys with empty bowls are waiting for their morning gruel. "Please, sir, may I have some more?" asks one who's already scarfed down his portion. I almost laugh out loud at the thought.

"Shall we?" Mandel uses a card key to open a door marked service entrance. When I look inside, all I see is a bright shaft of sunlight.

Turns out the interior is much more impressive. And I see the source of the light. A glass pyramid serves as the building's roof, and all nine stories are wrapped around a central atrium. The open space in the middle of each floor is ringed by a balcony with a wrought-iron railing. Every balcony is supported by four metal dragons with outstretched wings and golden balls clamped in their mouths. I imagine them all taking flight and soaring in circles as they snatch up Mandel students one by one.

I walk to the center of the courtyard-across a tile mosaic. Tiny squares form giant letters, but I can't figure out which words they form. I'm too close to read them. So I tilt my head back and look all the way up. The steel and glass towers of Manhattan's financial district peer down at me through the roof. The sky overhead is cloudless, and the school is beautiful beneath the bright afternoon sun. But I bet on dark days, it looks a lot like the toy maker's building in Blade Runner.

"Where is everyone?" I ask Mandel. I don't see a soul. "Winter break?"

"We don't have vacations here," Mandel informs me. "Most of the young people at the academy must work nonstop to make up for lost time, so we can't afford any distractions. We don't allow visitors and we don't observe weekends or holidays. There are three semesters a year, and every day is a school day. The students are all in class."

Mandel saunters over to what looks like a tall iron cage on the north side of the atrium. Two metal boxes are suspended inside. One is stationed on the ninth floor. The other has stopped at the fourth. I've never seen an elevator like it before. Mandel presses a button, and I hear the sound of metal gates sliding shut. A car begins to descend. I can see straight through it. There's no one inside.

"The ground floor houses administrative offices and the alumni lounge," Mandel announces. "Floors two through four are classrooms. Floor five is the gymnasium. The cafeteria is on floor six. Floors seven through nine are the dormitories. We're going to pay a quick visit to one of the classrooms."

As our elevator begins to rise, I catch a brief glimpse of some of the academy's students through the window of a second-floor door. Whatever is being taught has them riveted. All eyes are fixed on the instructor at the front of the room.

Mandel and I exit on the fourth floor. I happen to glance over the balcony and immediately come to an abrupt stop. I'm finally high enough to decipher the mosaic below. There are three flaming gold spheres. Beneath them is a motto: Luctor et emergo.

"Do you know any Latin?" Mandel inquires.

"It means 'I suffer and arise.' What are the balls supposed to be?"

"My great-grandfather was the man who commissioned the mosaic, and I believe he would have said they were seeds. Most plants will sprout if you give them water, soil, and sunlight. But there are a few trees whose seeds must be sown by fire. Whenever a forest is destroyed by flames, they're the first species to rise and thrive."

"Interesting," I drone. The spheres could have been comets or cannonballs. Instead they're seeds.

"Not terribly," Mandel replies. "But that is what my great-grandfather would have said. I have my own interpretation. Someday, you will as well."

Someday, you will as well. He's been dropping little hints about my future since we left Floraison. He thinks he has me right where he wants me. He thinks I signed over my soul when I got into his car.

"Keep talking like that, and I'm out of here. I already told you what to do with your scholarship."

Mandel smiles at my warning. He's a cocky little weasel, I'll give him that. "How could I forget? You used such colorful imagery."

"Then you should remember I'm only here for one reason. You said you have something I'd want to see. Something to do with my father. Now are you going to show me or not?"

"I am, Flick. It's just down the hall."

I wish I wasn't so goddamned curious. I wish I could just walk away. But I'm dying to find out what Mandel has on my father-and why he'd choose to share it with me. I'm sure my dad's given this guy a hundred reasons to hate him. A prissy fop like Mandel would disgust a man like my father. He'd sneer at Mandel's stylish suit and manicured nails. He'd toy with him a bit first. Hurt him. Humiliate him. Then when my dad got bored of it all, he'd rip little Lucian to shreds. So I can understand why Mandel might be out for revenge. But I'm a seventeen-year-old thief who's ass-broke and homeless. What I can't figure out is why a big-time player like Lucian Mandel would want to be allies with someone like me.

I let him drag me downtown for the answer, but so far I've only received a lesson in botany. Now Mandel's leading me past a row of closed doors. I can hear the murmur of voices, but I can't make out any words. A single door on the floor stands ajar. This is the room Mandel chooses. He's brought me to an ordinary classroom. There's a large wooden desk for the teacher. A tall pile of pamphlets has been stacked in its center. I count a dozen smaller desks for the pupils. A blackboard. Chalk.

"Is this supposed to impress me? I've seen a f-ing blackboard before."

Mandel leans against the teacher's desk and crosses his arms. It almost looks like he's posing. "One of the things you'll learn here is that language like that doesn't make a young man seem formidable. It only makes him seem crude."

"F- you," I say, heading for the door. "I didn't sign up for an etiquette lesson."

"Don't let emotions cloud your judgment, Flick. You're not here to see a classroom. You're here to see this." I don't want to glance back, but I do. My tour guide has plucked one of the pamphlets from the stack on the desk, and he's waving it in the air. "This is the Mandel Academy's course catalog. I'd like you to take a look. I considered bringing a copy to lunch, but I decided it wouldn't be wise. Information like this mustn't leave the academy. . . ."

He doesn't flinch when I stomp across the classroom and snatch the pamphlet right out of his hand. I open the booklet to a random page and prepare to be bored. But I'm not. I skim the title of the first class that's listed, and I'm totally, helplessly hooked.

Caviar, Catnip, and California Cornflakes: How to Name and Market Street Drugs "Interesting courses," I mumble. "Cute titles too."

"Yes," Mandel agrees. "Our human resources majors are tasked with compiling the catalog. The student in charge this semester believes that a touch of humor will appeal to our teenage audience. I must admit, I was surprised by his suggestion. Caleb is a gifted student, but he's always been a rather dour young man. I wouldn't have guessed he possessed such wit."

As I keep reading, I begin to suspect that Caleb and his schoolmates might have a few other talents as well.

Partnering with Corrupt Regimes Basic Electronics: From Credit Card Skimmers to Keystroke Loggers Crime Scene Cleaning and Bio-waste Removal I flip to the back of the pamphlet.

The Art of Persuasion: Influence Peddling, Coercion, and Extortion Human Trafficking in the Internet Age Mining the Masses: Big Profits from Little People Hand-to-Hand Combat If I went down to the sidewalk, gathered ten random pedestrians, and asked them to share their opinions on the subject of dog grooming, they'd probably end up in a bloody brawl. But if I asked for their thoughts on the Mandel Academy, there wouldn't be any argument. They'd all say that the academy is one of the things that make this country great. You won't find another school like it anywhere else in the world. For decades, it's taken orphans, runaways, and delinquents off the streets and transformed them into lawyers, businessmen, bankers, and senators. The Mandel Academy has never welcomed reporters or outsiders into its building. The names of current students are a closely held secret. But anyone looking for proof that the American dream hasn't died only needs to google a list of the academy's graduates.

And this is the shit they all studied here? Extortion? Drug dealing? Larceny? Crime scene cleaning? Next I'll find out that Steve Jobs was Jack the Ripper.

I lock eyes with Lucian Mandel. There's obviously more to the man than I first suspected.

"Where's the course called How to Lead a Life of Crime? That's what this is all about, isn't it? You've got everyone thinking this is the best school in the country, but it's really just a Hogwarts for hustlers."

He's not insulted. He's only bemused. "You sound so appalled. Don't tell me you're one of them."

"One of who?"

"The believers," Mandel explains. "All the people who refuse to see how the world really works. The ones who think that cheaters never prosper. That the meek shall inherit the earth. Most people out there still believe all the sweet little lies they were told as children. But the truth is, no one in this country gets rich if they play by the rules. Power is granted to those who will do whatever it takes to succeed. Those are the facts of life."

He leans forward.

"So tell, me, Flick? Who are you? Are you one of the believers-or are you one of us?"

How could I possibly be a believer? I've known the sickening truth since I was a kid. That we're all swimming in one big cesspool. I won't pinch my nose and pretend that it's paradise, but I'm not going to train myself to love the smell of shit, either.

"I don't have any interest in joining your club, Mandel. What's so great about teaching a bunch of brats how to break every law in the country?"

Mandel sighs as if I've missed the point. "That's a very narrow-minded way of viewing things. And for the record, we never force students to commit any crimes. We merely teach them the true ways of the world. The Mandel Academy didn't invent fraud or extortion or insider trading. But we can't pretend that such things don't exist. They are tools that other people employ, so we train our students to make use of them too. That doesn't mean that they will. Some Mandel alumni are perfectly law-abiding. They choose to work within the system. Not that the law matters a great deal to any of us. We serve a much higher purpose."

I bet he wants me to ask about his "higher purpose," but I'm not going to humor him. The guy clearly loves to hear himself talk. I try to hand the course catalog back to him. Mandel refuses to take it. I should toss it into the trash can that's sitting next to the desk. But I don't.

"Look, I'm a thief. I'm not exactly qualified to debate ethics, and I don't really give a crap what you teach at this school. But if this is all you've got to show me, I'm going to be pissed. You said we'd be talking about my father."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

I despise smart-asses who speak in riddles and expect you to figure them out. "What does your shady school have to do with . . ."

Then I realize I already know the answer. My father isn't just a graduate of the Mandel Academy-he's on the goddamned board of directors.

"Has the academy always been like this?" I ask.

When Mandel isn't smirking, his gaze is unsettling. He makes me feel like I'm being dissected.

"Yes, from the day we first opened our doors. Although in the school's early years, students were trained in much simpler tasks. Lock-picking. Safe-cracking. Confidence games. Armed robbery. But now, our most successful graduates don't rob banks, they run them. Why risk your life sticking up a savings and loan? These days you can steal billions without ever leaving your office."

"So my dad took classes like the ones in this catalog?"

"Is that the question you'd really like answered? Speak your mind, Flick. There's no reason to tiptoe around me."

"My father is a crook, isn't he?'"

Mandel's laugh must be genuine. It's too damned bizarre to be fake. "Some people claim all investment bankers are crooks. I only know a few dozen, so I can't speak for the entire profession. But if you're born with sticky fingers, banking can be an excellent career choice. So the answer to your question is yes. Your father is a thief-just like his son. The difference is, you're only able to rob one person at a time. Your father can pick thousands of pockets with the click of a single computer key."

I've been waiting for the day I could punish my dad. For everything he did, and everything he might have done. I figured I'd have to use my own two fists. That's the reason I came to New York-to grow strong enough to beat him. I wanted to make the bastard bleed. I still do. But now, after I'm finished, I can send what little is left of him straight to jail.

"What do you have on him?" I demand. "That's why I'm here, right? You hate my dad. You want him taken down, but you don't want to do it yourself. Fine. It's a deal. Just tell me what you know, and I'll handle the dirty work."

"You're wrong, Flick. That's not why you're here."

The tone of his voice unnerves me. It's far too flat-like he's reading lines off a script.

"Then I'm not going to let you waste any more of my time," I announce. "I gotta go."

I'm on my way to the door when a bell begins to toll. Suddenly there's a stampede in the hall outside. Voices. Laughter. The students sound just like ordinary kids. I have to see them.

"No." For some reason, the command stops me. There doesn't seem to be any way around it. I turn back to face Mandel. "I wouldn't step outside right now. You're the only student who's ever been granted a tour. I don't want your future classmates to know I've been playing favorites. They wouldn't like that at all."

The only student. My future classmates. I'm halfway out the door, and Mandel still thinks he's got me right where he wants me. His little hints aren't just annoying anymore. At this point, they're starting to scare me. "What the hell is going on?" I demand.