The King of Mulberry Street (17 page)

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.

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.

We threw away the bread from the soaked
sandwiches and ate the insides as breakfast. Gaetano wanted to do the same with the soggy ones, too.

“Sell the soggy ones for ten cents each,” said Tin Pan Alley. “The secretaries can buy them. At least we come away with something.”

“That's mook thinking,” said Gaetano. “If we sell a lousy product, we ruin our reputation.”

“You think you sound like some kind of hotshot, talking like that,” said Tin Pan Alley.

“Hold on.” I turned to Tin Pan Alley. “You were the one who said people have to trust food vendors. They trust us so far. If we sell bad stuff, we lose that.”

Tin Pan Alley blinked. “Are you on his side now?”

“All I want is to sell sandwiches. Wet sandwiches won't bring us more customers.”

“They're not that wet.” Tin Pan Alley spat on the ground. He wouldn't look at us. “Okay, then give them to me.”

“Pig,” said Gaetano. “We'll split them equally.”

“You can each take two—one for lunch and one for dinner. But I get the rest.”

Tin Pan Alley was the skinniest of us, but still … “You're going to get sick,” I said.

“I want them.”

Gaetano crossed his arms at his chest. “All right. Go puke. But only if we don't have to put money in your cup today.”

“Deal,” said Tin Pan Alley.

“I'll go patrol,” said Gaetano.

“It's okay today. All day long. My padrone went to Staten Island. I overheard him tell someone.”

So we sold the four good sandwiches, then left Tin Pan Alley with six soggy ones.

Gaetano and I walked toward Five Points. We had soggy sandwiches in our pockets, and I had the day's earnings in my fist—a whole dollar. Plus the penny I'd already borrowed from Gaetano for baggage check that night. But about halfway to Grandinetti's I stopped.

“You think he'll make eighty cents by the end of today?”

“That's his problem.”

“He's our partner. You even said so. So his problems are our problems.”

“How do we really know he's our partner?” said Gae-tano. “Maybe he's not going to eat himself sick. Maybe he's selling those sandwiches right now.”

“You know he isn't.”

Gaetano smirked. “You'll never be a shark, you know that, Dom? You can do the numbers, but you don't have a head for business.” He held out his hand with a resigned look on his face.

I gave Gaetano seventy-five cents and the basket to return to Grandinetti. Then I ran back to put twenty-five in Tin Pan Alley's cup.

He wasn't on his corner.

I crossed the street and walked slowly up and down the blocks, listening for his triangle. I never heard him.

When I got to Chatham Square, I saw a boy sitting on a curb ravenously eating a sandwich—one of our soggy ones. He had a small harp wedged under his knees and a tin cup between his feet. He was the boy I'd talked to before, the one with the welts.

I thought of beggar boys all over town eating soggy
sandwiches and feeling like some spirit had blessed them. Munaciello's good counterpart. Nonna would have loved Tin Pan Alley. Before I could think twice, I dropped the twenty-five cents in the boy's cup. He gaped at me. Then he quick tucked the cup between his belly and his knees and went back to eating.

It felt rotten to go to sleep on Wednesday with less money than the night before. We were going backward fast. A thousand sandwiches. How would we ever sell that many? How would I ever make enough money to get home?

I thought of how Mamma used to stand at the window and wave to me when I'd go somewhere with Uncle Aure-lio. I felt like she was waving to me that night—waving and calling—only I was too far away to see or hear her. I had to fight to get back to her.

Thursday went okay—so okay, in fact, that at the end of the day we each kept a dime for ourselves. Friday was the same. No thieves or rain. No
padrone
.

The only trouble we had was with the price. Tin Pan Alley would say it clearly. And men who were alone generally paid up, especially if they had suits on. But when there were two men together, or when someone was buying a few sandwiches at once, they gave us a bunch of coins and left fast. The faster they left, the less it turned out they'd paid for each sandwich. And women generally paid less, too, though usually they bargained. That was okay, though. After all, no one but the top guys could really afford twenty-five cents. It was either give a few breaks or lose customers.

Still, by the end of the lunch crowd on Friday, even after putting the money in Tin Pan Alley's cup, we had three dollars and sixty cents.

“Think how many sandwiches we can buy tomorrow,” said Gaetano. “It's going to be a good week after all.”

“The week is over,” I said. “No work on Saturday.”

“But Saturday's a workday,” Gaetano said. Then he stopped. “I could use a day off.”

Tin Pan Alley didn't say anything. I wondered if he ever got a day off.

“A buck a week for a couple of hours' work a day—not bad. Hand over the money,” said Gaetano. “I'm about to buy me a steak.”