The King of Mulberry Street Page 13

  “I won't ask for a penny tomorrow.”

  Grandinetti raised both brows. “Promise?”

  I hated to promise. What if I still needed a penny tomorrow? But, well, if I did, I'd have to get it someplace else. “I promise.”

  Grandinetti gave me a penny.

  “Thank you.”

  I walked to the train depot and checked my shoes in baggage overnight. They'd be safer that night than I would be—how funny. I went to Central Park and pawed through trash. All I found were ends of bread smeared with a nasty yellow paste. They barely eased the ache in my gut. And they did nothing for the ache in my head; I'd had two quarters in my pocket and now I had nothing. In the morning I'd have to face Tin Pan Alley and Gaetano. I was pretty sure Tin Pan Alley would forgive me. But Gaetano … even if Gaetano didn't punch me, he'd be disappointed. They'd both be disappointed in me. Sick of me. I was sick of me. Me and my big plans. I'd never get home if I kept doing things wrong.

  This was too hard. Everything was too hard.

  Long before dark, I crawled under the thick bushes by the big pond and slept.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  More and More Money

  “You lost both quarters?” Gaetano shook his head.

  “I told you. I was robbed. They jumped me in the alley.”

  “Both?”

  I turned my pockets inside out. “See?”

  “What'd they look like, these thieves of yours?”

  “One was kind of big. Bigger than you. With slick hair. The other one, I don't know, he was ordinary.”

  Gaetano smirked. “What are you, blind? No one would pay a cent for information like that.” He shook his head. “You look pretty good for someone who got jumped. Your face isn't so hot, but your clothes are clean.”

  “I woke up before dawn and rinsed my clothes in the pond and washed myself off.”

  “Your clothes dried that fast?” Gaetano tapped his foot.

  I didn't want to tell him that my clothes dried fast because I'd been running around for hours. After I got my shoes out of baggage deposit at the station, I stacked fruit at Grandinetti's and earned a tomato for myself and a badly bruised orange that I shared with Tin Pan Alley at his corner. Gaetano would say it was stupid of me to give Tin Pan Alley oranges. But I was going to give Tin Pan Alley an orange every morning I worked; the look on his face as he ate was worth it. I'd told Tin Pan Alley about the thieves and he didn't get mad—and that was before he knew I had an orange to share. All he said was “I hate thieves.” I could tell he'd been robbed before. Lots of times.

  I looked at Gaetano now and shrugged. “It's hot out.”

  Gaetano scratched behind his ear.

  “What? You think I hid the money someplace? You don't trust me?”

  He grinned. “That's what I asked you yesterday. If you'd given me all the money, we'd be fifty cents richer today. Am I right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He put out his hand. “Trust from now on?”

  I shook his hand. “How come you're not crazy mad that our money's gone?”

  “So' cadute l'anielle, ma so' restante 'e ddete—The rings have fallen away, but our fingers remain—and we've still got the quarter in my pocket. Let's get to work.”

  That was Uncle Aurelio's kind of optimism—bad things happen, but you don't miss a step. Gaetano could make a decent Jew. I didn't tell him that, though.

  We bought the long sandwich at Pierano's and cut it in fourths. The block before we got to Tin Pan Alley's corner, Gaetano stopped. “You stay here with the sandwiches. Let me check things out first.”

  “Why?”

  “His padrone. Or don't you remember?”

  Oh. I had to confess. “Tin Pan Alley's all right. I saw him this morning. Early. He was alone.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Gaetano looked hurt. “The two of you are close, huh? Well, I think I'll just go ahead anyway, to check if that padrone's come back.”

  Right. The padrone could have shown up again by this time of morning. I hugged the sandwiches and stood against a building wall. The walkers were so thick I couldn't see past them. I couldn't see Tin Pan Alley's corner.

  A woman came out of the nearest door and said something to me in English. I moved over to the next building.

  What was keeping Gaetano?

  Finally he appeared beside me. “The area's clear.”

  “And Tin Pan Alley?”

  “The mook's playing his triangle. You go sell with him. I'm going to patrol. If I spy his padrone, I'll come get you fast.”

  Over the next hour and a half, we sold four sandwiches, each one for a full quarter, to guys in fancy suits, and no sign of the padrone. Soon I sat on the curb outside the paper mill in Chatham Square, waiting while Gaetano bought the roll of brown paper, basking in that day's luck. Tw o customers had been repeats from the day before. The new ones were friends of theirs. One of them said that if we sold sandwiches at lunch break that day, he'd send down a fewof his friends. Tin Pan Alley swore we'd have plenty for everyone.

  I could practically feel the ship ticket in my pocket. One thousand sandwiches would be sold in no time. I looked around—yes, good-bye to New York—good riddance.

  And out of nowhere there they were: the thieves. I sat tall. The big boy's hair was so slick it glistened in the sun. They stood on the north side of the street, watching. They didn't even have the decency to turn their heads away when our eyes met. I leapt to my feet, but then what? Surely they wouldn't jump me here, in front of everyone. Besides, I had no money on me. The quarters we'd made so far that day were in Gaetano's pocket. My heart beat hard; I wanted to run.

  “What's the matter?” Gaetano came out of the factory with the roll of paper in his arms.

  I pointed.

  Gaetano looked at the boys. They looked back.

  “Those are the guys who robbed me.”

  “Oh yeah? I figured as much. Maurizio's the only thief I know who uses ape snot in his hair.” He gave them a wave and walked leisurely toward Park Street.

  I walked beside him, looking back at the boys. “Why'd you do that? Why'd you wave as though they're buddies or something?”

  “I'm not buddies with anyone,” said Gaetano. Then he winked at me. “Except you, that is.” He sort of swaggered now. “They stay out of my way, I stay out of theirs.”

  “They stole some of your money yesterday.”“No, they didn't, not as far as they know. They think they stole your money. They'd never steal mine.”

  “Why not?”

  “My big brother. He'd stab them.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “I told you not to ask about my family.”

  I could have bitten my tongue.

  “Anyway, this time I'll answer, 'cause we're buddies. No. No brother. But they don't know that.” He stopped outside Pierano's. “If you ever talk to them, remember: they've done wrong to you, not to me. If they think they got away with robbing me, then nothing protects me anymore. You got it?”

  “Can't your big brother protect me, too?”

  “Here.” He gave me seventy-five cents.

  I went into Pierano's, bought three long sandwiches, and came out holding them in a bundle tied together with string.

  “Where'd you get the string?” asked Gaetano.

  “Pierano tied them. Without my even asking. And he smiled at me. I'm becoming his best customer.”

  “Not you, you mook. He thinks whoever you're working for is his best customer. You're just a kid.”

  We walked toward Grandinetti's. I kept looking around for the thieves. “What're we going to do, Gaetano?”

  “About what?”

  “Our money, for one.”

  “I can keep the money safe.”

  “What if you can't?” I said.

  “I can. With my big brother's help.”

  I twisted my fingers through the string around the sandwiches. “Well, what about that roll of paper? You already admitted you don't have anyplace to store it where it won't
get rained on.”

  “I'll come up with something.”

  I looked over my shoulder again. “The thieves. A block back.”

  Gaetano didn't say anything.

  “They won't know I don't have money on me,” I said. “They'll jump me anytime they get me alone.”

  “After a few times of finding nothing in your pockets, they'll stop.”

  “I don't want to get jumped. It hurts. Where do they live?”

  “What?” said Gaetano in surprise.

  “I want to make sure I don't go on their street.”

  “I can't help you.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “You don't get it, do you? I don't know where they live, okay? I don't ask. That's how it is with the kids in Five Points.” He stuck his finger in my chest. “I'll see you later. For now I've got to come up with a place to stash this roll of paper.”

  I hadn't realized that don't ask was the code of the whole neighborhood. It took a second to sink in. Then I ran and caught up to him. “Grandinetti's,” I said. “Remember? That's the perfect place.”

  “He's Calabrese,” said Gaetano. “He might act nice now, but if he gets mad at us, there's no telling what he'll do.”

  “You're wrong. And he can keep our money safe, too.”

  “I can keep the money safe,” said Gaetano.

  “It's going to be a lot soon. Your pockets aren't big enough.”

  “Stop talking. I've got to think.”

  We fell into step in silence.

  Grandinetti was busy with the morning shoppers. He rushed about, counting out fruits and weighing vegetables and wrapping everything in newsprint from the Italian paper.

  But we couldn't wait if we were going to sell sandwiches to the lunch crowd. So I stood behind Grandinetti and whispered, “Can we use the knife?”

  “Where? My counter's busy now. You can see that.”

  “In your storeroom.”

  He looked at my bundle of long sandwiches. Then he shook his prayer hands at me. “Be careful. Let your friend use the knife.” He jerked his chin toward Gaetano. “He's older.”

  While Gaetano cut the sandwiches, I wrapped them. The pile was high. “How can we carry them all?”

  We searched around the storeroom and came up with an empty bushel basket. Gaetano started throwing the sandwiches in it.

  My hand stayed his arm. “We have to ask first.”

  “He likes you. He'll say yes. Especially if the sandwiches are already in it.”

  “All right. But let me do it.” I arranged the sandwiches neatly in three layers.

  I went into the main part of the store. There was only one customer left, and she was taking her time choosing lettuce. I tapped Grandinetti on the arm.

  He followed me into the storeroom. “What's this?”

  “Could we borrow this basket?” I said. “Just for a few hours? Please.”

  “Okay, but I need it tonight.”

  “I promise.” I gave Grandinetti back his knife. And I handed him a wrapped sandwich—a whole one, not just some small piece. “Lunch,” I said with a smile.

  Grandinetti looked at me. “You didn't have to do that, Dom.”

  Gaetano stood the roll of brown paper against the wall of the storeroom. “And we'll leave our paper as security.”

  “You mean you have no place else to keep it?” Grandi-netti turned to me and shook his prayer hands. “Are you trying to be a fox on me? No tricks, you hear?”

  “We're just trying to do business,” I said. “And we need your help. No tricks.”

  “All right. You can leave the roll of paper.” Grandinetti kept his eyes on me. “Get out of here now.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Gaetano took one of the wire basket handles and I took the other. We carried the sandwiches out through the store.

  Gaetano stopped in the doorway. He looked at me and pointed with his thumb down the street. One of the thieves leaned against a wall, watching Grandinetti's store. “One more thing,” said Gaetano to Grandinetti. “Would you walk outside holding that knife and shake it at Dom?”

  “What?”

  “Then turn toward Chatham Square and shake it high in the air. Like you're threatening someone.”

  “We're putting on a play?” asked Grandinetti.

  “Two guys are after me,” I said. “One of them's watching.”

  “Is that how you got the fat lip?”

  I nodded.

  Grandinetti sighed. “I don't want my customers to see me shaking a knife.”

  “Then just point it,” said Gaetano. “You don't have to shake it.”

  “All right already. Get out of here.” Grandinetti shooed us out the door. He pointed the knife at me. Then he swung it in an arc and pointed toward Chatham Square.

  The thief took off running.

  Gaetano really was smart.

  “And one last thing,” said Gaetano.

  “Basta,” said Grandinetti. “Enough is enough.”

  “Just a little towel.” Gaetano cocked his head and shifted his weight and somehow his whole appearance changed. He seemed much younger, more in need of help. “We have to cover the basket. So no one knows what's in it. Otherwise, kids will snatch sandwiches as we're walking.”

  Grandinetti slapped his palm on his forehead. Then he put his fists on his hips. “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You cut the bull with me. No more phony talk about the paper being security. No more acts. You treat me straight, I'll treat you straight.”

  Gaetano offered his hand, all grown up again. “Gae-tano,” he said.

  “Francesco,” said Grandinetti.

  They shook.

  Grandinetti took the towel from his shoulder and spread it over the sandwiches. “Get out of here. But have that basket and towel back before I close shop.”

  Within a few minutes of our arriving at Tin Pan Alley's corner, a trickle of people came out of the buildings. The lunch break was just starting.

  “You'd better patrol,” I said to Gaetano.

  “It's okay,” said Tin Pan Alley. “My padrone came by while you were gone. I bet he's off eating now.” He looked at a passing man. “Sandwiches,” he called out in English. “The best in town.”

  “What's that mean?” I asked. When he told me, I practiced the words under my breath. “Sandwiches. The best in town. Sandwiches. The best in town.”

  Gaetano unwrapped a whole sandwich and slowly ate it. We hadn't talked about each of us getting a whole sandwich. Now we'd only have eight to sell—but I'd started it by giving Grandinetti a whole sandwich.

  I felt faint with hunger. The bigger he chewed, the fainter I felt, but the more sandwiches we sold.

  Then it was Tin Pan Alley's turn to eat.

  “Sandwiches,” I called out. “The best in town.”

  Gaetano smirked. “Listen to you try to speak English. You sound worse than Tin Pan Alley.”

  “He sounds good to me,” said Tin Pan Alley. “He sounds perfect. Go on, Dom.”

  “The best in town,” I called.

  A woman bought a sandwich.

  Gaetano stared at me.

  I strutted; I couldn't help it.

  Then it was my turn to eat. When I'd ordered the sandwiches at Pierano's, I'd thought about getting one without meat. But I figured it wouldn't sell as well. So now I picked out the meat.

  Gaetano watched me. “That's not salami. That's ham. What, you don't like ham, either?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, don't do the dog routine again.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's not fair. I won't act like a dog, so Tin Pan Alley gets more meat than me. If you're going to give away your ham, give half to me.”

  “Wait,” said Tin Pan Alley. He pulled slices of cheese out of his pocket. “I saved my cheese in case you didn't like the meat today, either. I can trade for your meat.”

  So I ate my thick cheese sandwich.

  We sold out
. And still there were people asking for sandwiches.

  “We'll have more tomorrow,” said Tin Pan Alley in English. “Bring your friends. We'll have lots more.” Then he told us what he'd promised.

  “Good work. See you tomorrow.” I put twenty-five cents in Tin Pan Alley's cup.

  He looked at it. “That's five more than we agreed on.”

  “That's right,” said Gaetano. “At least the mook can count.”

  “Five extra are for yesterday.” I didn't look at Gaetano as I spoke. “And tomorrow we'll start earlier and sell more.So it'll take more of your time. So we'll put more in your cup.” I turned and picked up the empty basket.

  “You got some weird ways,” Gaetano said. “But you're the king. If that's the way you want to play it, okay. Give me the money now.”

  “It's a dollar and seventy-five cents,” I said, tightening my arms around the basket.

  “I can count.”

  “It's way too much to keep in your pocket overnight.”

  “You're the one who gets robbed, not me.”

  “Grandinetti could keep it for us,” I said.

  “We already talked about that,” Gaetano growled. “No. Turn it over. Now.”

  I gave him the money. “Can you spare a penny?”

  Gaetano wiped his mouth and looked at me. “If you take a penny, that leaves us a penny short when we go to buy sandwiches tomorrow.”

  “I mean one of your own pennies. Can you spare one?”

  He turned his head away. Then he handed me a penny without even looking at me. “When we split the profits, you owe me.” He walked off.

  I returned the basket and towel to Grandinetti, checked my shoes into baggage at the train station, and went to Central Park for the night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Things Go Wrong

  We'd made a whole dollar and seventy-five cents. It was like the difference between the sun and the moon—as Uncle Aurelio said. Getting rich in America was easy after all. By my calculations, even after setting aside sandwiches for ourselves (including Grandinetti) on Wednesday, we'd still have two dozen to sell. I went to sleep as happy as anyone curled under a bush in Central Park could be.

  But at lunchtime Wednesday it poured in a burst. By the time we managed to take cover under an awning, the top layers of sandwiches in our basket were soaked through so bad, the bread was coming apart. The bottom and side sandwiches were a little soggy. Only four sandwiches from the middle were perfect.