The King of Mulberry Street (15 page)

“That's all I'm asking for.”

“All right.”

“And do you have a knife I can use?”

“What's this all about?”

“I'm just going to cut a sandwich with it.”

“Bring the sandwich in here,” he said. “I'll cut it.”

I took the twenty-five cents and ran barefoot to Luigi Pierano's store on Park Street. I bought a long sandwich stuffed with salami and provolone and hot peppers and onions and tomatoes and lettuce, nodding my head yes to everything he offered.

At Grandinetti's, Gaetano was waiting with the brown paper.

Grandinetti shook his head. “Exactly how do you expect to get your shoes back?”

“I'll bring you money, I swear. Just cut the sandwich into four equal sections. Please.”

“His shoes, for a picnic,” said Grandinetti under his breath as he cut the sandwich.

Gaetano and I wrapped the four pieces. Then we ran back to Wall Street. We didn't have to talk; Gaetano knew what was up.

“Here.” I held out the cut sandwiches to Tin Pan Alley. “Sell them. Fifty cents.”

“Sandwiches?” He looked around. “I'm not a vendor. I just make music.”

“You were going to sell the orange,” said Gaetano.

“One orange. That's easy. But I can't sell four sandwiches. Who would buy them from me? People have to trust food vendors.”

“Try,” I said.

One side of Tin Pan Alley's mouth rose nervously. He held out a sandwich to a passing man. “Sandwich?” he said in English.

The man looked at the sandwich. Then he looked at me, standing behind Tin Pan Alley with three more sandwiches. I smiled at him and tried to look trustworthy. He looked at Gaetano. Gaetano smiled at him. He said something in English to Tin Pan Alley.

“Chicken,” said Tin Pan Alley in English.

The man said something else in English. Then he handed Tin Pan Alley a coin, took the sandwich, and walked away.

“A quarter,” said Gaetano.

“How much is a quarter worth?” I asked.

“Twenty-five cents.”

“That's only half of fifty.” I pointed at Tin Pan Alley. “You said they'd pay fifty cents for a sandwich.”

“So what,” said Tin Pan Alley. “I didn't tell the guy the price. That's just what he gave me. Don't get mad.”

“Mad?” Gaetano grinned. “You're both mooks. A quarter! That crazy man just paid a whole quarter for a sandwich. Tin Pan Alley, you were right; the people here have no sense of the value of money. They'll pay anything, and we've still got three more sandwiches to sell.” He slapped Tin Pan Alley on the back. “It worked! Dom's crazy plan worked!”

It did. It worked. Gaetano saw things right. I grinned at Tin Pan Alley, too. “What does
chicken
mean?”

“It's the English word for
pollo
. He asked what was in the sandwich.”

“But there's no chicken in the sandwich,” I said.

“It was the only English word for meat I could think of. I hope the guy likes salami.”

The next three sandwiches were harder to sell. People walked by without giving us a look. But then a group of young men dressed in identical suits and ties came up. They took all three and gave Tin Pan Alley a handful of coins.

Tin Pan Alley counted. “Nine nickels.”

“What's a nickel worth?” I asked.

“Five cents.”

“That's only forty-five cents.” I looked around for the men. They were just going through the door of a building. I ran. Spun. And fell.

Gaetano had hooked my elbow with such force that I'd been knocked off my feet. “Forget it. You can't go in there.”

“They cheated us.”

“And we'll get cheated again.” Gaetano put his fists on his hips. “That's how it works.”

“Look at it this way,” said Tin Pan Alley. “We're forty-five cents ahead. Forty-five cents!”

“For once the mook is right.” Gaetano grinned. “Forty-five whole cents.”

And it wasn't even lunchtime yet. All right, this was okay.

Gaetano and I went back to Five Points, me racing ahead straight to Grandinetti's. I put the quarter on the counter under his nose.

“That was quick.” Grandinetti reached under the counter and took out my shoes. He raised his brows in question.

I didn't want to explain. Not yet. There was still a lot to figure out. It felt like a dream, it was going so fast. If everything went the way I wanted it to, I'd be home in Napoli in no time.

So I sat on the floor and brushed off my feet and just smiled up at Grandinetti. Then I put on my shoes and rubbed them shiny with my thumbs. Gaetano waited for me out on the street. He was still grinning. I waved to him through the open door.

When I stood, I reached out to shake Grandinetti's hand.

He gave a crooked smile and hesitated. But he shook firmly.

“Keep your knife ready,” I said. “We'll be right back.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

The instant I stepped out the door, Gaetano grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me down the block. “Look, I've got this all worked out. Give me five cents.”

“No,” I said. “Let's keep buying as many long sandwiches as we have money for. The more we sell, the more we make.”

“If you don't give me five, what are we going to wrap the cut sandwiches in? No one will buy a sandwich that's been sitting in our bare hands. We need paper.”

“Paper costs five cents?”

“No, you mook. I got the last four pieces for a penny. So that means the business owes me a penny. And with the other four pennies I'll buy sixteen more pieces. Sixteen, 'cause we have to look ahead.”

His words rang in my head:
the business
. We had a business already. I gave Gaetano a nickel.

He headed for Baxter Street.

I made a beeline for Pierano's and bought another sandwich. Grandinetti cut it into four pieces. Gaetano and I wrapped the pieces in the new brown paper. But when we got to the fourth sandwich, Gaetano stopped. “Could you cut this one again?” he asked Grandinetti.

I knew immediately that he was thinking of our lunch. I almost objected. But hunger held my tongue.

Grandinetti nodded in approval. “Halves, huh?”

“Thirds,” said Gaetano.

“Fourths,” I said.

I wrapped the three parts of sandwich for Gaetano and Tin Pan Alley and me in a single sheet of brown paper and left the last part on the counter.

“What's this?” asked Grandinetti, surprised.

“Thank you for cutting the sandwiches,” I said.

“You didn't have to do that.”

When Gaetano and I were out on the street, Gaetano hissed, “He's right; you didn't have to do that.”

“He helped us,” I said.

“Yeah, but no one's going to see him eating. It's no advertisement for us.”

Advertisement. Gaetano had a head for business. We found Tin Pan Alley back at his corner. I stood there beside him like a statue, holding the three wrapped sandwiches. Tin Pan Alley was the hawker, and when anyone would show a little interest, he'd point at Gaetano, who would take a big bite from one of the smaller pieces of sandwich that were for us, making loud
yum
noises. It worked; a man bought a sandwich. And for a whole quarter. Then it was Tin Pan Alley's turn to eat a small section of sandwich—but neither Gaetano nor I could hawk because we didn't speak English, so that didn't work so well. Still, we sold another sandwich. Only one to go.

Now it was my turn to eat that little section of sandwich. The sandwiches had meat and cheese mixed together. Plus, the meat was salami—probably made of pig. I picked out a piece of salami, but then I didn't know where to put it.

“What are you doing?” said Gaetano.

“I don't like salami,” I said.

“Eat it anyway. When you mess up the sandwich like that, you make it look bad.”

A potential customer was watching us.

“Make a game of it,” said Tin Pan Alley. “Act like a dog, Gaetano.”

“I'm no dog!”

“No, a dog's smarter than you,” said Tin Pan Alley. He got on his knees and barked.

I fed him the salami. Then I took a bite of my piece of sandwich, careful to eat only cheese and lettuce.

The man bought the last wrapped sandwich.

Lunchtime was over. It had taken more than an hour to sell three sandwiches. But who cared? We had seventy-five cents to add to the fifteen already in my pocket.

“See you tomorrow,” I said to Tin Pan Alley.

Gaetano and I headed back toward Five Points.

“Wait,” called Tin Pan Alley. “Where's my share?”

“You got something to eat,” said Gaetano. “Woof, woof. Remember?”

“No fair. The whole time we were selling, I wasn't making music. So no one put money in my cup. And lunch is one of my best times. What did you give up? Nothing.”

“Are you saying my time's worth nothing?” Gaetano's hands balled into fists.

“The only thing I saw you do was eat,” said Tin Pan Alley. “I'm the one who actually sold the sandwiches. Without me, you couldn't say a word. You need me.”

Gaetano thrust his chin forward. “You need me, too, you little mook.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Let's put together what we have till the end of the week. The more long sandwiches we buy, the more small ones we sell. We'll make real money this way.”

Gaetano put his face in mine. “I want my share now. That's what we agreed on.”

I moved my face even closer to Gaetano's. “Lots and lots of money. And we still have twelve pieces of brown paper. We can start the day tomorrow with three long sandwiches.” I cleared my throat. “One week, that's all I'm asking.”

Gaetano looked away. When he looked back, he nodded. “One week.”

“No,” said Tin Pan Alley. “If I don't bring in eighty cents today, I'll get a beating.”

I dropped ten cents in Tin Pan Alley's cup.

“I would have made double that.”

“We only earned ninety cents. And we need seventy-five for the three sandwiches tomorrow morning. How about I give you fifteen?” I put another nickel in Tin Pan Alley's cup.

Tin Pan Alley just looked at it.

“Come on, mook.” Gaetano picked salami from his teeth. “Money makes money. Beg harder this afternoon.”

Tin Pan Alley glared at him.

“Oh, I forgot. You don't beg. Well, play your stupid triangle harder.”

“He whistles, too,” I said. “He whistles good.”

“Come on,” said Gaetano. “We're partners.”

I remembered the welts on the boy with the harp in Chatham Square. Did it really matter whether we started the next day with two sandwiches instead of three?

“Get out of here,” Tin Pan Alley spat. He turned his back and played the triangle.

“Wait,” I said. “Here's another nickel. …”

“Go!” Tin Pan Alley was swaying back and forth, he played that triangle so hard.

Gaetano dragged me off. “Shut up. And open your stupid eyes.”

I looked over my shoulder. A big man in a wide-brimmed hat stood near the lamppost with his arms crossed on his chest. His feet were spread far apart and his stomach pushed forward. His eyes were on Tin Pan Alley. Now he glanced at us.

I looked straight ahead and practically ran to keep up with Gaetano. “Is that … ?”

“His
padrone
. Of course.”

Goose bumps went up my arms and neck. “How'd you know?”

“You can always tell a
padrone
.”

“How?”

“From the stink.”

We didn't slow down till we got to Chatham Square. “Is Tin Pan Alley in trouble?”

He looked away. “We'll find out tomorrow.”

“He didn't do anything bad,” I said.

“
Padroni
don't need a reason. Forget about it till tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Our business. “See you in the morning, right? Same deal?”

“Not exactly.” Gaetano folded his arms across his chest. For a second he looked a little like the padrone. “We can improve.”

“How?”

“Follow me and learn.”

So we went to a paper mill. Inside, the clanking of the machines was so loud, I put my fingers in my ears. The workers didn't seem to be bothered by it, though. They hollered to one another above the din. Gaetano hollered to the manager; then the two of us went back out to the sidewalk and sat on the curb.

“For twenty-five cents we could buy a roll of paper long enough to wrap a thousand sandwiches at least,” yelled Gaetano.

“Why are you shouting?” I yelled back.

Gaetano laughed. So did I. And I remembered those girls talking loud that morning as they walked past my alley. They probably worked in a noisy factory. The city must be full of near-deaf factory workers.

“You're the one who's good with numbers,” said Gae-tano. “But anyone can figure out that buying from the mill is cheaper than paying the ice cream man a penny for four sheets.”

“I don't know,” I said.

“What's to know?”

“Let's be careful. Spend just a little to start.”

“And you're the one who wants to buy a boat ticket.” Gaetano looked disgusted. “Besides,
chi poco spenne assai spenne
.”

He who spends little winds up spending much more in the end—it had the sound of a proverb, one I hadn't heard before. But Gaetano couldn't win the argument just because he knew proverbs. “You really think we're going to have to sell a thousand sandwiches before I have enough money to get back home?”

“For a ticket and fake documents, you bet, 'cause we're going to share the money equally and we have to stay alive in the meantime.”

“But if we spend twenty-five cents now,” I said, “that's four fewer sandwiches we can sell tomorrow.”

“You're talking like a mook again. Think about it. Think about how many sandwiches we can sell tomorrow. Think how much money we'll make if we sell them all. Come on, Dom.”

Twenty-five cents for paper. That left enough money for two long sandwiches at Pierano's. Each sandwich got cut into
four pieces. Even if we shared one of them for our own lunch, like we had that day, that left seven to sell, which meant … Wow. “A dollar and seventy-five cents!” I shouted.

Gaetano shook his head in amazement. “That's almost double what a grown man makes a day.”

“Well, really only a dollar and fifty cents, after we put money in Tin Pan Alley's cup.”

“Whoa. He asked for twenty cents, not twenty-five.”

“Yeah, but today we only gave him fifteen. And we can afford twenty-five, easy.” I spoke fast, before he could object. “How long do you think it'll take us to sell seven sandwiches?”