The King of Mulberry Street (18 page)

“A buck and twenty cents each,” said Tin Pan Alley, putting out his hand, too.

“Hold on.” I clamped my hands down on both pockets. “We need something to start next week with.”

“A quarter,” said Gaetano. “That's what we started this week with.”

“Just listen,” I said. “If we each take only twenty cents now, we can eat okay Saturday and Sunday, and we'll still have three whole dollars to start Monday with. There's no telling how much money we can make next week if we start with that much.” I was already counting the sandwiches we could sell. Why, Monday alone, if luck was on our side, we could eat, and still sell forty-four sandwiches. That couldn't be so. I did the numbers again.

Tin Pan Alley was staring off into the distance. When he turned to me, he nodded and I knew he'd done the numbers, too.

“This is just good business,” I said reasonably.

“And you're both out of your minds,” said Gaetano. “What's the point of working all the time and never having any fun? Give me my money.”

“You'll make a lot more by the end of next week,” said Tin Pan Alley almost in a whisper.

“How much more?”

“Tons,” I said.

“Aw, come on, guys.” Gaetano crossed his arms. “Twenty cents is too little to have any real fun. We have to take at least fifty each.” His feet were spread; he was ready for battle.

I thought about it. “Okay, that'll leave us two dollars and ten cents. The extra ten cents won't buy a sandwich. We can put it in Tin Pan Alley's cup.”

Tin Pan Alley's eyes shot open wide. “I didn't ask for it.”

“You have to work this weekend. We don't.”

The first thing I did with my money was pay back Gae-tano the three cents I'd borrowed to check my shoes. Then I set aside seven more cents to pay for my shoes for the next week.

I spent the weekend in Central Park, eating popcorn and meat on sticks. Forty cents went a long way.

Monday we discovered the problem with buying two dollars' worth of sandwiches: once we cut them and wrapped them up nice, the basket couldn't hold them all. So Gaetano carried the basket with most of them, and I carried an armful.

When we got to the bottom of Mulberry Street, I dropped one. Gaetano was already crossing the street, and he didn't see. I could pick it up fast and wipe off the paper and no one would know the difference.

I shifted the others to one arm, reached down with my free hand, and dropped two more. A dog appeared out of nowhere and ran off with one. Then something knocked
me from behind, and my chin smacked hard on the sidewalk. I rolled over in time to see the two thieves make off with the rest of my sandwiches.

By the time I caught up to Gaetano, he was halfway down the next block.

“What happened? Where are the sandwiches?”

“A dog got one. And the two thieves got the others. I guess your big brother isn't protecting you anymore.”

“Sure he is. He's just not protecting you. You have to stay by my side or they can get you.” He cocked his head at me. “Cheer up. We've still got a basketful to sell. Find some paper in that pile of trash and wipe off your chin. No one's going to buy from a bleeding kid.”

While Gaetano patrolled the area, Tin Pan Alley and I sold twenty-three sandwiches, clearing four dollars and sixty cents after putting twenty-five in Tin Pan Alley's cup. A great day.

Gaetano put out his hand. “A dollar. Right now.”

“We agreed to go another week.”

“We doubled our money in one day. I want my dollar.”

I threw up my hands and let them slap to my sides. “If everything went just right—if everyone paid us twenty-five cents and if we sold every sandwich—our money wouldn't just double in a day, it would grow by …” I thought. “Four times!” The numbers were staring me in the face. “We've got to keep the money in there till the end of the week.” That was the fastest way to get to a thousand sandwiches.

“Oh, all right.” Gaetano crossed his arms. “Give me twenty cents.”

On Tuesday we bought sixteen long sandwiches. Pier-ano's eyes practically popped out of his head. He gave me
a breakfast pastry, and one for Gaetano, too, who was out on the sidewalk looking in through the window. When I dared to mention we worked with a third guy, Pierano dropped another pastry in the bag.

Once we cut the sandwiches, we were way past what the bushel basket could hold. We begged Grandinetti to lend us his one-wheeled handcart. He wasn't happy about it, but so long as we got it back to him by three o'clock, with the towel, it was okay. And he smiled when we gave him a sandwich.

Gaetano pushed the cart and I walked beside him. The mound of sandwiches under the towel was impressive— more than sixty. I watched it proudly. Mamma, here I come.

At the bottom of Mulberry Street, I was on the lookout for that dog and the two thieves. They weren't around. But four little boys—the oldest couldn't have been more than six—came up begging. They had on nothing but short pants. I tried to shoo them away. Gaetano bumped the cart down the curb and crossed the street as though they weren't there.

As he was maneuvering the cart up the other curb, one of the urchins pulled off the towel and they all grabbed sandwiches with both hands and ran back through the traffic across the street. I raced after them, but they split up. I ran back to Gaetano.

“You didn't catch any of them?” he practically shouted.

“I didn't want to leave you alone, with no one to help you guard the cart.”

“Yeah, like you're some big help.” Gaetano pushed the cart fast, his bottom lip thrust forward.

“We've still got gobs to sell,” I said.

But he fumed all the way to Wall Street.

Tin Pan Alley ate the pastry from Pierano's while Gae-tano went on and on about what a mess I'd made of things, his temples pulsing.

“Why are you so mad?” I finally said. “You didn't act like this when the thieves jumped me yesterday.”

“This is a lot worse, you mook. When those scugnizzi tell all the other
scugnizzi
we're easy targets, we'll be mobbed every morning.”

“So let's just tell the
scugnizzi
about your big brother.”

“You think they don't know? Those kids listen to everything. But, you see, big brothers don't beat up
scugnizzi
. They're too little.”

“My
padrone
doesn't care how old someone is,” said Tin Pan Alley. “He beats anyone.”

“Exactly,” said Gaetano. “A
padrone
is the lowest of the low. My big brother is honorable.”

His big brother. Who didn't even exist.

Gaetano stomped off, scowling, to patrol the area, while Tin Pan Alley and I waited for the lunch crowd to come trickling out of the buildings.

But today they rushed, and they didn't give us a second glance. A woman who'd been our customer twice before scurried past with a cloth sack full of small banners on sticks.

“What's going on?” I asked Tin Pan Alley.

He ran after the woman and they talked.

When Gaetano realized something was wrong, he joined me at the cart.

Tin Pan Alley came back, his face striken. “It's Flag Day.”

“Never heard of it,” said Gaetano.

“It's celebrating the country.”

“You mook, Independence Day's not till July.”

“You're the mook. It's Flag Day. Some new thing. The woman said so. Everyone's going to the public schools to see their kids march in a parade holding little flags.”

“Do you know where the schools are?” I asked Gaetano.

Gaetano smirked. “Around here? What do you think?”

“It doesn't matter, anyway,” said Tin Pan Alley. “Lunch is part of the celebration.”

We watched as more customers went on by.

Gaetano kicked the sidewalk. “So what are we supposed to do with all this food?”

“Not everyone has kids.” I took the handles and pushed the cart a few steps. “Let's go door-to-door to the little businesses. I pass tons of them on the way to Central Park every night.”

“No one's going to pay what Wall Street pays,” said Tin Pan Alley. “The rest of the world is poor.”

“So let them pay less,” said Gaetano. “Otherwise, the whole day is a flop. And since you”—he pointed at me— “and you”—he pointed at Tin Pan Alley—“wouldn't let us keep back any of yesterday's profits, that means good-bye, business.” He grabbed the cart handles from me and rolled back toward Five Points. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder.

“I can't leave,” said Tin Pan Alley. “My padrone.”

Gaetano stopped and turned around with a bulldog face. “We need you to speak English. Get over here.”

Tin Pan Alley didn't move.

“Sandwiches,” I said in English. “The best in town.”

“Please,” Tin Pan Alley said to me in English.

“What's that mean?”

“It's a good word. When you walk into a store, begin with
please
. And end with
thank you
.”

I knew what
thank you
meant. “Please,” I said. “Thank you.” I gave Tin Pan Alley two sandwiches—one for lunch, one for dinner—but I didn't have any coins to put in his cup.

Gaetano and I rolled up the street. We stopped in every little store we passed, all the way to Chatham Square. Then we went around the edge of Five Points, to avoid the
scugnizzi
, and back along Canal Street. Then north along the route I took to the train station. It was well past lunchtime when we stopped to eat. We'd sold all but ten sandwiches. Most for ten cents. But sometimes we were lucky and got fifteen.

I chewed on a cheese sandwich and looked over at the last ones on the cart. My heart fell. “What'll we do with the rest?”

“If I have to eat another of these sandwiches for dinner,” said Gaetano, “I'll puke.” He jammed the rest of his in his mouth. “I dreamed of sandwiches last night.”

I believed him; I had, too. “We could give them away.”

“No one would take them. They'd figure there was something wrong with them.”

We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

So we kept hawking, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. We sold two more. Then I told Gaetano about what Tin Pan Alley had done with the soggy sandwiches the Wednesday before, and we walked around putting sandwiches in the cups of beggar boys.

Once we finally counted our money, we had five dollars and fifteen cents.

Gaetano moved close to me and hunched over so no one could see what was in his hands. He counted the money again. Then he stuck it in his pocket. “I can't believe it. I couldn't believe it yesterday when it grew so fast. But today—with everything that went wrong—it should have gone down to nothing.”

“We started the morning with a ton of sandwiches, Gae-tano. We couldn't wind up empty-handed.”

“But this isn't how money works.” Gaetano shook his head. “I know what you said yesterday. All that stuff about quadrupling. But that isn't how money works, really. If you make a dollar one day, you make another dollar the next, not five.” He patted the outside of his pocket. “You really think this will keep up?” he whispered.

“If we buy more sandwiches each day, we'll make more money than the day before. Lots more.”

“We can't sell more sandwiches. There aren't enough customers at Tin Pan Alley's corner on a regular day.”

“You're right. Pretty soon we can save some of our money.”

“Or spend it.”

Right. We'd sell one thousand sandwiches in no time. The money was coming in. And I'd spend mine on documents and a ticket before long.

We crossed the street in stunned silence. Even though I understood the numbers … Five dollars and fifteen cents. Wow. “We need a bank,” I said finally. “We need Grandinetti.”

We went up Mulberry to Grandinetti's without another word. There were a couple of women in the store, and Grandinetti looked at us through the window and shook his head. So we waited out on the sidewalk.

When the customers finally left, I rolled the handcart into the storeroom. I picked loose produce off the floor and arranged it into piles. I jerked my chin toward the corner where the broom stood. Gae-tano took the broom and swept. Neither of us said anything.

Grandinetti scratched the back of his neck and
watched us. Then he took out a pencil and walked around the store, making a check of inventory. Finally, he brushed his hands off and put them on his hips. “Okay, I get it. You're trying to make up, but it won't work.”

Make up? And suddenly I realized. “I'm sorry we were late.”

“And where's my towel?”

“Some kids stole it.”

“That's it,” said Grandinetti. “I can't lend you my things anymore. They're too important to me.”

“How much does the handcart cost?” asked Gaetano.

“I traded for it—used. But to replace it, I'd have to pay two dollars and fifty cents.”

“Let us keep it,” said Gaetano. He put two dollars and fifty cents on the counter. “Buy a new cart. It's a good deal for you.”

I gulped.

Gaetano reached in his pocket again. “And, hey, here's ten more cents for the towel.”

Grandinetti blinked. “How'd you get so much money?”

“The sandwich business is good,” said Gaetano.

“That good?”

Gaetano emptied his pockets onto the counter.

“Will you keep our money for us at night?” I said.

Grandinetti slowly counted it. “Give it to your mother.”

“He can't,” said Gaetano. “She's not here.”

“You told me you don't have a father.” Grandinetti wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Now is Gaetano saying you don't have a mother, either?”

“Sure I have a mother,” I said. “In Napoli.”

Grandinetti threw up his hands. “I'm not getting mixed
up with a
padrone
. If you don't want to give the money to your
padrone
, you'll have to find some other solution.”

“I don't have a
padrone
.”

Grandinetti stared at me. “You're alone?”

“I've got Gaetano,” I said. “And Tin Pan Alley.”

“Who?”

“Another kid,” said Gaetano.

“Where's your father?” Grandinetti asked Gaetano.

“Dead.”

I winced.

“And your mother?”

“She died when I was born.”