table and made him wait until I finished my breakfast. And I didn’t bother to rush.
The ride ends sooner than I expected. We’ve stopped on Charles Street in Greenwich Village—just across town from Pitt Street and a whole world away. Tourists think Manhattan’s most picturesque neighborhood is still home to the city’s artists, painters, and poets. There hasn’t been a poet sighting in the Village for years. You have to work in finance to afford all this cuteness.
The man points out his driver’s-side window.
“That’s where you’ll be working,” he says.
It’s a four-story town house. Old. Brick. Tons of original detail. Every New York banker’s wet dream. But the people who live here appear to be the last of the breed I thought was extinct. I can see an easel standing by a top-floor window. The house is dark. Looks like no one’s been home for a while.
“You just parked across the street from the place you want me to rob?” I ask. What an idiot. His money must be inherited.
“There’s no need to worry. The occupants are out of town. And I’m in the process of purchasing the building.”
He’s giving me that smile again. He’s expecting me to ask why he wants to rob his own building.
“What do you want me to get?” I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“I should explain a few things first,” the man says.
“Just tell me what you’re after, and I’ll find it. I’m not interested in exposition.”
But he won’t be hurried. “You might want to indulge me. A young man should never pass up a chance to see how the world really works. You could learn a few new tricks,” he says with all the good humor of a sitcom dad.
“I know how the world works,” I respond.
“Then you should also know when it’s time to be quiet and listen.” He still hasn’t stopped smiling.
“Listening costs extra,” I say.
For some reason, this seems to amuse him. “Will another two hundred suffice?”
“Spill your guts, Goldfinger.” I slouch down in my seat and stare out the windshield.
“I’ve always preferred Blofeld,” the man replies with a laugh. “I’m a cat lover too.”
“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
The ride ends sooner than I expected. We’ve stopped on Charles Street in Greenwich Village—just across town from Pitt Street and a whole world away. Tourists think Manhattan’s most picturesque neighborhood is still home to the city’s artists, painters, and poets. There hasn’t been a poet sighting in the Village for years. You have to work in finance to afford all this cuteness.
The man points out his driver’s-side window.
“That’s where you’ll be working,” he says.
It’s a four-story town house. Old. Brick. Tons of original detail. Every New York banker’s wet dream. But the people who live here appear to be the last of the breed I thought was extinct. I can see an easel standing by a top-floor window. The house is dark. Looks like no one’s been home for a while.
“You just parked across the street from the place you want me to rob?” I ask. What an idiot. His money must be inherited.
“There’s no need to worry. The occupants are out of town. And I’m in the process of purchasing the building.”
He’s giving me that smile again. He’s expecting me to ask why he wants to rob his own building.
“What do you want me to get?” I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“I should explain a few things first,” the man says.
“Just tell me what you’re after, and I’ll find it. I’m not interested in exposition.”
But he won’t be hurried. “You might want to indulge me. A young man should never pass up a chance to see how the world really works. You could learn a few new tricks,” he says with all the good humor of a sitcom dad.
“I know how the world works,” I respond.
“Then you should also know when it’s time to be quiet and listen.” He still hasn’t stopped smiling.
“Listening costs extra,” I say.
For some reason, this seems to amuse him. “Will another two hundred suffice?”
“Spill your guts, Goldfinger.” I slouch down in my seat and stare out the windshield.
“I’ve always preferred Blofeld,” the man replies with a laugh. “I’m a cat lover too.”
“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
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