How to Lead a Life of Crime - By Kirsten Miller Page 0,3
scaled the fence of a construction zone and lain down for a nap on the third floor of a concrete box that was rising up amid the old tenements. I wanted to be ready for the next stage of my journey. But my dream of the desert drained what little was left of my energy. I knew it was Jude’s way of warning me not to go any farther. And when I opened my eyes, I saw how close I’d come to rolling over the edge of the unfinished building. I sat up and let my legs dangle in the open air while I tried to figure out why my brother thought I should stay. That’s when I saw them on the sidewalk below me. Well-heeled tourists filing out of a luxury hotel just down the street. Kids from Manhattan’s finest families stumbling from one bar to the next. Slick young professionals with freshly filled wallets who were too busy texting each other to notice the predators mingling among them. And I suddenly knew I was where I should be.
I came to the Lower East Side hoping to suffer enough to grow strong. I didn’t stay because the pickings are easy. I’m still here because the competition is suitably dangerous. The weather is brutal. And fights are always easy to come by. Even on Christmas Eve.
I hear a siren a few streets away. Someone at the bar must have called the cops. I check my reflection in the side mirror of a delivery van. A stream of blood is still trickling down my face. The collar of my coat is completely soaked. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning, and there’s only one place I can go.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
TALES OF DEAD CHILDREN
Once upon a time it must have been worse, but Pitt Street will always live up to its name. The east side of the road marks the edge of the housing projects. Those who live on the west side are forced to contemplate the view. The fashionable types who have invaded the Lower East Side say they appreciate the neighborhood’s “grittiness.” But they don’t want to see real misery out their front windows. So Pitt Street has been left to the rest of us. It remains one of the last cute-free zones in downtown Manhattan.
Joi and her urchins live in the basement of a building three doors down from Our Lady of Sorrows. The entrance is barred by a gate that could withstand any enemy invasion. There’s no buzzer, but even this late, there’s usually a kid or two keeping watch from behind the iron bars. They act as the building’s unpaid doormen. Which may explain why they’re allowed to stay. Tonight I don’t even see who’s on duty. Whoever it is must have seen me, though, because I hear feet flying down the stairs.
Someone at the bottom shouts, “Joey!” Spelled J-o-i. That’s what she told me the first day we met. A few seconds later, the gate creaks open and she appears. Joi’s long, jet-black curls blend into the darkness. Two wide-set amber eyes take in the damage that’s been done to my face. She doesn’t gasp or wince like most girls would. Joi is completely unflappable. She steps aside to let me in, but for a moment I refuse to move any closer. Keeping my distance from Joi is the only true test of my willpower.
“Are you waiting for a formal invitation?”
Once I’m inside, I catch a whiff of cocoa butter and jasmine. Joi leaves a trail of this fragrance wherever she goes. It’s not perfume, she says, but a product she uses to tame her hair. As far as I can tell, it’s the only luxury Joi allows herself. The Jamaican hairdresser down the street sells it to her at a discount. She assumes the blood of her people flows through Joi’s veins. So does the guy at the Mexican diner who slips “bonita” a free café con leche each morning. And the Indian deli lady who treats Joi like the daughter she never realized she wanted. And the European tourists who always assume she can speak their languages. Everyone wants to believe that Joi belongs to them.
“How’s the other guy look?” she asks.
“Unconscious,” I say. Now that I’m near her, I keep moving closer.
She puts a hand on my chest to halt my advance. “You’re going to need at least eight stitches.”