The King of Mulberry Street (11 page)

But I'd already arranged the fruit. That was work, because the man had paid me.

In fruit, not money. That's not really pay—that's not really work.

And playing music, that wasn't really work, either. It was entertainment. So long as I didn't pocket any of the money. “I'm stopping,” I said.

“You look sick.” Tin Pan Alley counted out nine coins. “Here's your nine cents.”

I shook my head.

“That's half of eighteen,” said Tin Pan Alley, “which is what's left over after I pay my
padrone
. I'm not cheating you. You'd have had to get a whole dollar to earn ten cents.”

“I told you, I can count,” I said.

“So you're trying to cheat me now, is that it? And I thought you were okay. Well, you can't have ten cents. You can't cheat me.”

“I'd never cheat you,” I said. “I keep a promise. Look, how about you do me a four-cent favor.”

“What's that mean?” asked Tin Pan Alley.

“Come with me to Mulberry Street to give a boy four cents.”

“Why don't you give him four cents yourself?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to tell you.”

Tin Pan Alley looked at me with troubled eyes.

“Come on, Tin Pan Alley. If you do this, you get to keep my other five cents.”

Tin Pan Alley put the coins back in his pocket. “Let's hurry. If my
padrone
passes and finds I'm missing, he'll be mad.”

I thought of the welts on the neck of the boy who played the harp in Chatham Square. “How often does he come by?”

“Most days not at all. Other days he'll come a few times. But never early in the morning. Besides that, you can't predict. That way he keeps us honest.”

“Mulberry isn't that close,” I said. “It'll take time.”

“I know where Mulberry is.”

“Look, let's not risk trouble with your
padrone
. Just keep the money.”

“What, are you feeling sorry for me? Don't waste your time. I'm going to earn back what my
padrone
paid for my passage over and then I'll find a regular job and I'll send to Italy for my aunt and my cousins on Vico Sedil Capuano. We'll all have the good life.” He started up the road.

Vico Sedil Capuano. I knew that street. Tin Pan Alley's family was practically my neighbor. What had happened to his parents?

“Come on,” he called to me. “A deal's a deal. You think you're the only person in the world who can keep a promise?”

We went to Mulberry Street, to the alley where Gaetano had shown up before, and waited.

“You got the four cents?”

I turned around. Gaetano stood there. Tin Pan Alley put four cents in Gaetano's hand.

“Wait a minute,” said Gaetano. “I've got a treat in mind, and it's four cents just for the two of us. I'm not paying for this mook.”

“I don't take nothing from no shark,” said Tin Pan Alley.

I didn't know what a mook or a shark was, but I could tell they were insults. “Tin Pan Alley,” I said quickly, “meet Gaetano. He's my friend. Gaetano, meet Tin Pan Alley. He keeps his promise.”

“Oh, another good boy, like you,” said Gaetano. “A beggar, huh?”

Tin Pan Alley spat on the ground.

I moved between them. “He's a musician.”

“A musician? Not a beggar, just a really skinny musician.” Gaetano blew through his lips, making a horse noise. “Well, come on, then.” He walked and talked, pointing as we went. “This is Baxter Street. Lots of people from Napoli live here. Like on Mulberry and Mott Streets. But the people from Genova live here, too. And the best ice cream vendor in all of Five Points is here.” He led us past grocery stores with wooden barrels of dried fish—delicious
baccalà
—and up to the ice cream vendor. He put the four pennies in the man's hand.

“It's a penny a serving,” the man said in his dialect. “You want three extra-large servings for four cents?”

“No. Tw o doubles,” said Gaetano, talking in the same
dialect the ice cream vendor used, “for me and the little squirt.” He jerked his elbow toward me. “Nothing for the mook.”

“One double,” I said. “And two regulars.”

The ice cream vendor raised his eyebrows at Gaetano. Gaetano gave me a look of disgust. “I had a big lunch, but I guess I can stuff down a triple serving,” he said to the man. “Give the squirt one regular serving, then.”

The man took out a bit of brown paper and put a dab of ice cream on it and handed it to me. He gave three dabs to Gaetano.

What Gaetano had done was lousy.

I ate half the ice cream as slowly as I could. It was creamy and cold and not nearly enough. “You could buy a serving,” I said to Tin Pan Alley. He had fourteen extra pennies in his pocket, after all—his nine and my five.

“It's not your business what I buy or don't buy,” said Tin Pan Alley.

There must have been days when he didn't take in eighty cents. When extra money saved from a good day could spare him a beating.

I handed the paper to Tin Pan Alley.

He ate the rest of the ice cream in one bite and licked the paper clean. Then he turned and walked down Baxter toward Park.

“Bye,” I called.

In answer, he looked back over his shoulder at me.

“Where'd you pick him up?” asked Gaetano.

I shrugged. “What's a mook?”

“An idiot.”

“He's not an idiot.”

“He's got a
padrone
, doesn't he?” asked Gaetano. “Any kid who's owned by a
padrone
is an idiot. If you weren't one to start, you become one fast.”

“What's a shark?”

“A boss.”

“It can't mean just that,” I said. “A boss isn't something bad, but a shark is.”

“Depends on how you look at it. A shark sees what there is for the taking and takes it. Sharks are smart.” Gaetano pointed at the doors we passed. “That watchmaker, he's a banker on the side. He takes in Italians' money and saves it for them until they've got enough to send for relatives back home. Or, for the really stupid ones, until they think they've made their fortune and decide to go back to Italy. But in the meantime, he gives them nothing—not a cent— and he has their money to use however he wants. He can spend it to start a business of his own. Or he can lend it to immigrants who want to start businesses. None of the real banks will lend them money. But a shark will. He does nothing—he just sits there and makes money off the hard work of the people he lends to. And he makes money off the savings of other people, see? That's a smart shark.” He pointed. “That wine store, it's the Banca Italiana. It has no license, nothing. The owner did nothing but say he was running a bank, and people gave him their money. That's what I'm going to do when I get it all together. I'll open a bank.”

“And who's going to trust you with their money?” I said.

“You. And mooks like you.”

“I'm not a mook.”

“Oh, right, you're a king, the way you gave Tin Pan
Alley the rest of your ice cream. Listen, mook. Half-wits like you can't protect yourselves. It's either give me your money or get robbed on the street.” Gaetano tilted his head at me. “You keep surprising me, Dom. You know less than the Baxter monkeys.”

“I saw a monkey today,” I said.

“You like monkeys? That figures. Come on.” Gaetano swaggered up the street like a big man—a shark—and I followed like a mook. He stopped midblock. “Here it is. The most famous monkey-training school in the city. A smart monkey goes for thirty dollars.” He grinned at me. “You'd go for maybe twenty.”

There were curtains over the windows, so I couldn't see inside, thankfully. But I could hear monkey chatter from within. And I heard something else, too. Snaps. A whip?

It was right then that my stomach cramped. I doubled over.

Gaetano laughed. “The price of ice cream,” he said. “The Genovesi are pigs. They use dirty ingredients and dirty mixing bowls and they make dirty ice cream. But it tastes the best. If you stick around long enough, your guts'll get used to it.”

I knew Gaetano was following me. And he knew I knew. He didn't even try to hide. Every time I'd look back over my shoulder, he'd be there, a half block behind.

I didn't go to him, though, no matter how much I wanted company. The ice cream had taught me a lesson. Anyone who would let me get that sick couldn't be trusted. Mamma was right—Eduardo was right—no one could be trusted.

Except maybe Tin Pan Alley; Tin Pan Alley was a stand-up kind of guy. But he was off somewhere with his
padrone
.

So I walked up and down alleys, relieving myself whenever the cramps from the ice cream were too great, never stopping for longer than that, trying to lose Gaetano.

After a while, I stumbled the two blocks east to Elizabeth Street, where Gaetano told me the Siciliani lived. He followed. But when I went beyond that, he stopped and turned around.

I got scared: was something awful east of Elizabeth Street? After all, Gaetano seemed to know everything. I turned back.

And there he was, waiting for me. He followed. Four blocks west of Baxter he stopped again. So I turned back.

Then I went south. Gaetano didn't cross Park. But I knew there was nothing dangerous south of Park, because I'd gone all the way to the wharves.

That meant Gaetano was like the stray dogs back in Napoli. He had a territory. If I slept outside his territory, he couldn't bother me.

But the only place I knew to sleep in was my barrel. I wandered south of Park, until I felt sure he'd given up. Then I snuck back to my barrel.

Sunday morning announced itself with church bells. For a moment I thought I was home in Napoli. Those could have been the bells of San Domenico Maggiore or Cappella San Severo or the Duomo itself.

I thought of that last morning in Napoli. Mamma's black hair, spread across my arm. The smell of meatballs and citronella candles. Sneaking out. I remembered other mornings, too. Her constant singing. Her hand on my cheek. How she lifted me to touch the
mezuzah
.

I didn't cry, though. I didn't make any noise at all,
nothing to let anyone know where I was. Napoli was a dreamworld. I was here. In America. In my barrel.

I had to make sure Gaetano didn't see me getting out of the barrel. I peeked over the edge. An old woman with a sack thrown across her back rummaged at the opening of the alley, putting bones in the sack. When she saw me, she ran off.

This area was filled with ragpickers. Most were women or boys who worked for a
padrone
, picking up junk. I'd seen them the day before.

I jumped out of the barrel and ran all the way to the wharf.

The top deck of the
Bolivia
was empty. The third-class passengers must have been taken to Ellis Island fast. Or maybe the
Bolivia
only had first and second class.

I ran to the plank.

A man came down, addressing me in English.

“I need a job on your ship,” I said. “I can do anything and everything. I'll be the errand boy. Everyone's job will be easier with me around.”

“Italian?” he said in English. Then he tried to shoo me away.

I stood my ground.

He said more things. Louder.

I wouldn't leave.

He waved over someone from across the street. A policeman.

Okay, keep calm, I told myself. Walk, don't run. Like when a dog's coming at you. I walked along the wharf road without looking back.

I crossed the road and went back up to the neighborhood Gaetano called Five Points.

Gaetano appeared in my path almost immediately. I knew he would. He looked cleaner than usual. His hair was slicked down and the crust he'd had on his chin the day before was gone. “I've been looking for you. It's time to go to church.”

“I don't go to church.”

“Don't say that.” Gaetano hit me on the ear. “Don't ever say that.” He walked ahead up Mulberry Street. “Come on.”

I didn't move.

“Come on,” he said. “There's food.”

“Why would you care if I get food?”

“I'll get more if you're with me. Come on, don't be a mook.”

I caught up to him.

Gaetano looked down his nose at me. “Yesterday you told that mook we were friends. So are you my friend or not?”

We walked.

“Speak up. Are you my friend or my enemy?”

“I'm not your enemy,” I said.

He grinned. Gaetano was the biggest grinner I'd ever met. “Then when I say ‘Come,’ you come.
Chi me vô bene ap-priesso me vene
.”

I knew that proverb—If you like me, you follow me. It seemed strange that someone as young as Gaetano would recite proverbs. He was trying to make himself seem important again. “How come you never leave this area?” I asked.

He smirked. “You think you're smart. You think you're smarter than people who are a lot older than you.”

I shrugged.

“Like I said, you know nothing. You want to get sick on meat from a Polish butcher, huh? Or fish from a Yiddish fish peddler?”

“What do
Polish
and
Yiddish
mean?”

“Dirty. Polish people come from Poland. Yiddish people come from Germany and other places. Some of the Poles are Jews and all of the Yids are. If you go outside Five Points, who knows what they'll feed you. You'll get sick as a dog.”

Jews, dirty? Never. “Sick as I got from that Italian ice cream?”

“Don't be disloyal to Italians,” said Gaetano.

That stung. Nonna had always prized loyalty. She said the worst thing you could do was leave someone you loved hanging in the wind.

But I didn't want to give Gaetano the satisfaction of agreeing with him. “Yesterday you said the Genovesi were pigs.”

“Between you and me, sure. Among the Napoletani, you can criticize the people from Genova all you want. But don't ever criticize them to people who aren't Italian. Loyalty is more important than anything else.”

There was something about his voice that made him seem younger than he was. I felt bolder. “So you stay within Five Points so you won't get sick from Jewish food?” I said. “I don't believe you. I think you're afraid. You're a rabbit.”

“Me, a rabbit? It has nothing to do with being afraid. Have you talked to anyone out there?”

“I talked to a ship captain just this morning.” Maybe the man I talked to wasn't the captain, but it sounded good.