The King of Mulberry Street (22 page)

But I understood: Pietro owed money—and you paid what you owed.

In the evenings we sometimes took walks together, Pietro in disguise and me. It was on one of those walks, on a night when the first real chill of autumn roughened our cheeks, that we did the important numbers. I'd learned that morning that a third-class ticket from Napoli to Manhattan cost between twenty and twenty-five dollars, depending on the ship. Pietro had worked for his
padrone
for more than three years, six days a week.

“At eighty cents a day,” I said to Pietro, “that makes at least two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Pietro's face went slack. He didn't speak.

“Come on, Pietro. You're good at numbers.”

“At Signora Esposito's,” he said slowly, “we each pay two dollars a week. It should cost a lot less at my
padrone
's—he feeds us garbage. It shouldn't even cost a dollar. It shouldn't even come to fifty dollars a year.”

We walked, our shoes tapping the sidewalk.

“I had no idea the passage cost so little,” said Pietro. His words came faster now. “There was no one I could ask. No one any of us could ask. Our
padrone
always said it was a fortune.” He put his hand over his mouth, as though he was about to be sick. Then he breathed loudly. “I've paid for my passage four or five times over. The boys I lived with—almost all of them have paid over and over.”

“And the thief beat you.”

“He beat all of us,” said Pietro.

“You don't owe him. You're free.”

“I'm free,” said Pietro, but his voice was small.

“Don't be sad,” I said. “It's over. That part of your life is behind. Now you've really got a reason to dance.”

“Gaetano was right all along; I'm a mook.”

“Don't say that.”

Pietro looked at me and his eyes glistened in the light of the streetlamp. “I lied just now. I could have found out the price of a ticket if I'd really wanted to. But I was afraid of being on my own. I hated my
padrone
—but I stayed with him.” He turned his face away and wiped his cheek. “And he counted on that. He counted on our being more afraid of freedom than of him.”

“You're not afraid anymore.”

“Because I have you now. You're my friend.”

“So is Gaetano.”

“I know,” said Pietro. “And you're both braver than me. I couldn't do it alone, like you did.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let's go home and write to your aunt.”

“My aunt. She said she'd never leave Napoli. But maybe if I sent her the money, she would.”

“Let's go.”

“I've got to think about this first,” said Pietro. “You go on ahead.” He walked up Mulberry Street slowly.

I didn't go home. Instead, I went down to the wharves almost without realizing where I was going. I stood at the black water. A huge passenger ship was docked there. For I don't know how long, I'd been telling myself it was time to find out about the cost of a ticket. One thousand sandwiches had come and gone long before. I'd stopped counting, but we'd probably sold two thousand by now. Every day I shoved my fist in my shoes, trying to stretch them, and I told myself to go find out. But I kept putting it off. I'd been too busy. I still went over my Napoli memories every night, to keep them sharp. And they still made me feel better. But I was so busy, I didn't think about Italy much during the day—not much at all—hardly ever.

And maybe it wasn't just because I was busy. Maybe it was also because I liked our business. I loved it. And I loved Gaetano and Pietro and Grandinetti and even Si-gnora Esposito.

Now I was dazed to think I had far more than enough
money saved for a boat ticket. And no matter how much phony documents cost, I probably had plenty for them, too. I could go back to Napoli anytime I chose.

The water lapped around the ship quietly. I stared at moonlight on black water.

I should have been overjoyed to know I could go back. I walked slowly, reminding myself of what I loved about my city. Going over my memories usually made me feel safe. As long as I did that, nothing truly awful could happen.

But it didn't work that night: when I got home, Pietro wasn't there.

He didn't come back and he didn't come back.

Even inside, I grew so cold, my teeth ached.

At midnight Gaetano said, “Go to bed. I'll look for him.”

Instead, I went out the door with him.

We walked up and down every street and every alley of Five Points, calling his name softly so we wouldn't wake anyone. Pietro wouldn't have left the
neighborhood. He was still far too skittish to do that. Wasn't he?

We went back home at dawn, just the two of us.

A sense of dread made me sluggish. I'd seen life change in a flash. One moment I was Mamma's boy; the next I was on my own. But this couldn't be another flash. I wouldn't let it. Pietro had to come back.

We couldn't search anymore. Not now. It was a workday, and people depended on us. Old Lady Cassone would have egg and potato sandwiches waiting in less than an hour. And there were Pierano and Grandinetti and Witold, the Polish butcher, and Martino, the baker, and the boys, Michele and Nicola and Roberto, who wanted to sell from the cart—all of them counting on us.

So we went to work.

As we were selling breakfast, I looked over at the boy playing the triangle. I'd looked at him every chance I got all morning, but he'd always had his back to me, as though on purpose. Now I caught him looking at me, too. He turned his back instantly.

Something awful had happened for sure.

Pietro had talked about the
padrone
's other boys the night before. He'd said almost all of them had paid their debt over and over. He'd said none of them knew that.

Everything outside my head went silent. Pietro was loyal. He'd never let those other boys stay in the dark about this.

I walked up to the boy.

His eyes showed terror and he turned his back to me.

“Is he at your
padrone
's place?” I asked, speaking to his back.

He played his triangle loud and fast.

“Okay,” I said. “I don't want to get you in trouble. I need information, that's all. You live on Crosby Street—I know that much. Just tell me the number.”

He played that triangle as though his life depended on it.

Maybe it did.

I walked away fast, looking around, praying his
padrone
wasn't spying.

As we pushed the cart back to Five Points to get ready for the lunch shift, I asked Gaetano, “Did Pietro ever tell you where his
padrone
lives?”

“No. And don't even think about it.”

“He told me he lived on Crosby Street, but I don't know where exactly.”

“Shut up!” said Gaetano.

“He went there. I'm almost sure of it. I told you what he said when he found out how much a ticket costs. He went to tell the other boys.”

“Shut up! I mean it.” Gaetano grabbed both handles of the cart and pushed fast.

I ran along beside him. “He told me once that his
padrone
ties the boys to the bedposts at night so they won't run away. He's probably tied up right now.”

“It doesn't matter. I know what the
padroni
do. Everyone in Five Points knows. Everyone but you. We've all seen it. You can't do anything to help him.”

“Yes, I can!”

Bam
! And I was on the ground, my ear ringing where Gaetano had punched me.

“Shut up! No crazy plans!” he shouted down at me. “You don't know what happened to him. You don't know
anything, you mook. And even if you're right, it's his own fault for going there. Anything you do might get you in trouble and you'll be dead, or good as dead. It'll be so bad that you'll wish you were dead. So just shut up!” He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand and went back to pushing the cart.

I got to my feet and punched Gaetano in the middle of his back.

He whirled around and put up his fists. But then he shook his head and dropped them.

We went through the motions of the lunch shift almost without thinking. But after lunch, all I could see was Pietro, hanging in the wind. Abandoned. Nonna would have been so ashamed of me. Loyalty was everything. Pietro's
padrone
was bad—the way Franco on the cargo ship was bad. When Franco kept Mamma off the ship, I didn't do anything because I didn't know what was going on. But now … I couldn't stand this!

Gaetano could handle the evening shift without me. All he had to do was try to speak English, and he could do the whole thing with a couple of boys helping him.

So while Gaetano was off buying the candies to load on the cart, I put one of the last oranges of the season in my pocket for Pietro and I ran up Mulberry to Canal Street and asked which way Crosby was.

I was there in five minutes. The trouble was, Crosby Street was lined on both sides with tall buildings. And it was long. Pietro could have been tied up in any one of hundreds of apartments.

Well. There was still a couple of hours, at least, before the boys who worked for the
padrone
would come home. So
the
padrone
himself was out on the streets, checking up on them. If I went fast, if I had any kind of luck, I'd find Pietro in that time.

The first building had a laundry on the ground floor. I went up one flight. Then the second. Then the third. I knocked on door after door. At a few, no one answered. Two were opened by women. Two by old men. One by a group of children. The children slammed the door in my face. Most adults shooed me away. One woman answered, but she didn't know where a
padrone
and a bunch of children lived. But one old man said, “There's a
padrone
in every building, the whole length of Crosby.”

How many
padroni
could there be in this city? Dozens? Hundreds? But I couldn't think like that. The search was just starting.

I tried the next building. And the one after that. So many doors. Confused faces. Frightened. Annoyed.

I was coming down from the top floor of the sixth building when I heard a woman singing, “
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half crazy
…” I stopped and gripped the banister. A second later I was face to face with Pietro's
padrone
, climbing the stairs. Our eyes met in a moment of shock; then his face twisted with rage. I turned and ran back up the stairs and down the hall to the door at the end, the only door on that floor where someone had answered me—an elderly woman, but at least she had a lock on her door. Before I got there, he hooked me around the chest from behind. He clamped his other hand over my mouth.

Caught! And good as dead.

I tried to bite, I kicked, I reached my hands over my head and scratched at his eyes. He lugged me to the rear
apartment. Then he let go of my chest and twisted one arm up behind me till I saw stars.

“If you make a noise, I'll pull your arm out of the socket,” he spat in my ear. “You haven't known pain till you've felt that. Then I'll throw you out the back window. Understand?” He kept hold of my arm and took his other hand off my mouth and fumbled with a key in the lock.

I screamed.

He had the door open and shoved me through so hard, I fell and skidded halfway across the floor, dizzy and sick. But he'd let go of my arm.

He locked the door behind him and stood there.

I breathed deep, getting ready to shout my lungs out. When he came at me, I'd have to move fast and grab anything I could use as a weapon.

He stood there.

So I let my eyes take in the room. Along the wall to my left were iron rings with rope through them. A small boy lay on his side in the corner, one wrist tied to the last ring. His eyes were closed, but I thought I saw his eyelids move. Pietro had lied; the boys weren't bound to bedposts—there were no beds. They lay on the floor, like animals.

The table near the door held stacks of bowls and a pile of spoons. Beside it a hook stuck out from the wall. A short whip curled on it. On the other side of the table was a single chair. The
padrone
dropped his hat on that chair.

And he just stood there.

My eyes jumped across him to the wall with windows looking out the rear of the building. Beside a large wood trunk stood an old three-drawer bureau. The bottom
drawer was partway open. There was a single bed and a large wood crate full of ratty blankets, and another crate overflowing with clothes.

“Why …,” came the gruff voice. The
padrone
cleared his throat. “Why are you here?” he asked, now in a more normal tone, speaking Napoletano. The rage was gone from his face. Everything was gone from his face.

Caught and good as dead.

I had nothing to lose.

“Where's Pietro?” I said loudly.

The boy in the corner let out a little hiss, as though he'd touched a hot stove. I looked at him and he rolled over to face the wall. He was so skinny that his hip bone smacked on the floor as he moved. He stuck the index finger of his free hand in his top ear and pressed the other ear into the floor.

“There's no Pietro here.”

“He came here last night,” I said.

The
padrone
's eyes flickered for a second. “You looked around just now. You didn't find him. Why?” He picked up his hat and sat on the chair and leaned toward me. “Because he isn't here,” he growled.

“I won't leave without him.”

One side of the
padrone
's top lip curled up at that. “Did your padrone send you to take his place?”

“His place isn't here,” I said. “He doesn't owe you a thing. He paid off his debt years ago. Most of the boys did. A passage only costs twenty-five dollars. They just don't know it.”

The
padrone
jumped to his feet.

I flinched, ready to spring out of the way. And I gasped. Just tensing my muscles like that hurt my shoulder so bad.

“You're lucky my boy here is sick and isn't listening,” he said. “I won't have my boys infected with your nonsense.”

“You're a criminal.” I made my voice as strong as I could. “Everything you do is illegal.”

He jammed his hat on and felt around the rim with both hands, slowly. “So you're not a criminal? You've got a
padrone
, that makes you part of the crime, too. Or, hey, don't you have a
padrone
? Huh?”