A Bandit's Tale Page 4

  I looked more closely now. The horses stood still, their heads lowered, flanks heaving with hard breaths. I did feel sorry for them. If they worked for Giovanni Ancarola, no one would come to save them.

  Then I noticed that Henry Bergh wasn’t alone. A small, slight figure stood by the door of the vehicle, gesturing for everyone to get off. I pointed. “Who’s that?”

  “Ah, everyone knows her too!” He grinned. “That’s Meddlin’ Mary, Mick Hallanan’s daughter. Hallanan is an Irishman who’s made good for himself. They call him the Greenwich Village Blacksmith.

  “The blacksmith is somehow all tied up with Bergh,” the man went on with a shrug. “Can’t understand the fuss myself. Horses are just living machines, after all. It’s like they say, ‘Horses are cheaper than oats.’ ”

  I thought about that. If horses were cheaper than oats, was it the same with boys like me? Were street musicians cheaper than macaroni?

  Meddlin’ Mary looked about my own age. Her dark hair was pulled into a braid that hung down her back. A bright red scarf was wrapped around her neck. I could hear one of the passengers, a man dressed like a fancy gentleman, yelling at her.

  Even so, Mary kept smiling at him. She didn’t cower or seem the least bit afraid. I thought of my sister Anna, the only other girl I knew as bold as this. I thought of my promise to her. Yes, Anna would like it here in this noisy, enormous city. Calvello was too small for her.

  “Why do they call her Meddlin’ Mary?” I asked.

  “Because she meddles—interferes.” He put his finger on his nose and looked down at me. “Sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong. That’s what she does—like old man Bergh and other members of his animal-rights society. Hmph!”

  He met my eyes then. “I don’t meddle, kid. So don’t expect help from me.”

  The sausage was nearly gone.

  “I didn’t ask for anything!” I protested, unable to take my eyes off it. I knew it was the most delicious sausage in the world. (Well, except for Mama’s sausages, of course.)

  I realized he wasn’t just talking about a sausage. I wouldn’t find help here. Now that I was branded one of Signor Ancarola’s boys, no immigrant, even someone from my own region of Italy, would dare to give me a hand. The man’s next words showed me he’d been thinking along the same lines.

  “I don’t know exactly what goes on over there on Crosby Street. But let me give you some advice, greenhorn,” he went on in a softer voice, as though some part of him did feel sorry for me. “On a day like this, you’re better off with a roof over your head than being out alone. It can’t be that bad. Just do what your padrone tells you.”

  “What about another padrone?” I asked. Maybe, I thought, I could work for someone else and still make money to send home.

  The man shook his head, touched a hand to his lip, and was silent.

  My fingers closed around the cold metal of the triangle in my pocket. This stranger was probably right. Running away today—or maybe any day soon—was foolish. Where would I go? I knew nothing about this strange city. I couldn’t just leave without a way to get money. After all, Papa and Mama were depending on that contract. If I left my padrone, they’d get nothing more.

  I sighed. Then I did ask him for something. “Can you give me a dollar?”

  The man threw back his head and laughed so hard snot ran out his nose. “You’re a cocky beggar, ain’t you?”

  Reaching into his pocket, he handed me a small coin. “Here’s a dime. Get nine more of these and you’ll have your dollar. If you get a small brownish one, that’s a penny. You need a hundred of those to make a dollar. Now get lost. I don’t want any trouble with the padroni.”

  “Grazie.” I pocketed the coin. I thought of that sharp silver knife in Padrone’s hand. Who could blame this man for wanting to stay clear of trouble?

  The man opened his mouth to pop the last bit of sausage in. For a moment, I was so desperate I thought about asking for the paper the meat had been wrapped in, just so I could lick the juice from it. But, heaving a deep sigh, I walked away.

  —

  For some reason, I went toward the omnibus. I’d never seen one before. I slogged through the slush, feeling the cold wet creep through my pants where the snow was deepest. The girl called Mary Hallanan was still there, watching each passenger get off. Snowflakes patterned her hair like a piece of lace.

  She saw me and smiled. Maybe she thought I’d come to help. There must have been more dried blood on my face than I realized, because when I got close, she raised her hand to her own lip, as if she knew mine must hurt.

  It was the first time anyone had given me a friendly smile for a long time. I started to smile back. That made my lip crack open again, and I ended up scowling instead. All at once I felt a burst of anger surge inside. This strong, pretty girl was looking at me with pity—like one of the horses she was trying to save.

  I don’t really know why I did it. I marched right up to her and spat near her feet, a big glob tinged with red that spread in the snow. The girl jumped back, startled. She opened her mouth to say something, but I was already stomping off.

  I’d only gone a few steps when—smack!—something smashed into my back so hard I almost stumbled. I whirled. A mistake. A ball of snow exploded against my chest. Then another.

  “Fermati!” I yelled. Stop! I began screaming, hurling every insult I knew in Italian.

  Not that it would do any good. This Mary girl probably didn’t understand Italian any more than I understood English. She patted some snow together, pulled back her arm, and aimed. Whack! She got me again.

  I sloshed through the mud and slush as fast as I could to the side of the street. Mary wiped her hands together to shake the snow off. She raised her hand at me in a wave and then, suddenly, started to laugh.

  I could hardly believe it. So this was America. I’d been in my new home less than a day. In that short time, a thief in the night had crept up to take whatever I had, I’d been scarred with a knife, and now I’d been attacked with hard balls of snow by a girl. A girl who then laughed at me!

  I heard chuckles erupt all around me. Even the passengers who’d been forced off the omnibus seemed to find the whole incident funny. The man with the sausage hadn’t gone back inside. Grinning, he wiped his greasy hands on his pants and called out something to the girl in English.

  “What’d you say?” I wanted to know.

  “I told her she had good aim,” he said. “Now go on back to your padrone. And watch your step in this neighborhood. Pick on the wrong person and next time you could end up with more than a snowball bouncing off your back.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I meet the Prince of Bandits’ Roost

  I hope all this talk of sausages hasn’t made you as hungry as I felt right then. And even though more than anything I longed to bite into something juicy and hot to fill my empty stomach, that didn’t happen. All I got that day was more trouble.

  I wandered for what seemed like hours, bedraggled and miserable as a chicken in a hailstorm. I even began to worry a little about Marco and Luigi. I couldn’t imagine how they’d be able to push that big harp through this slush. Maybe they would look so pathetic people passing by would feel sorry for them and dribble coins into their grubby palms. Yes, perhaps Luigi would end up with two dollars, with enough extra to buy hot chestnuts from a street peddler.

  Then I remembered: This was Luigi, after all. Distracted, daydreaming Luigi. It was more likely that he’d forget about the harp completely. Even now he might be sitting in a pile of snow, playing like my little brother, Vito, used to in the autumn leaves back home.

  The colder I got, the more I started thinking about the den at 45 Crosby Street. It had a roof. There would be a little food. Oh, I know I talked a big story about making a daring escape from the knife-wielding Giovanni Ancarola. What can I tell you? He might have been a vicious padrone, and the cellar might have been smelly and grimy, but it sure beat freezing on a street corner.

  Ju
st for a few days, I told myself. I’ll leave once I learn my way around the city and find another way to make money.

  If I wanted to return to Padrone’s den that night, I had a problem. Well, two problems. First, I’d have to find Crosby Street again. Second, and more important, I had to get ninety more cents. Otherwise, I could guess what Padrone would do: beat me, or maybe leave me on the doorstep all night. That’s what I’d do if I was making the rules.

  I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. It was time to work. I found a corner where I could stand a bit protected under the overhang of a building. I pulled the little triangle and the stick from my coat pocket and stared at it for a minute. I had no idea how to play it.

  Shrugging, I began hitting the thing, making up my own little rhythm. Ting ting tingaling ting. Ting ting ting tingaling ling.

  The snow had become a light but steady rain. People walked by with heads bent, eyes glued to the ground. Who could blame them? The slush was now almost knee-deep in places. I’d already fallen twice. In the streets, piles of manure mixed with mud and melted snow to make a foul, smelly soup.

  I’d put on the socks Anna gave me, but my thin shoes were soaked through. I couldn’t feel my toes. My hands were red as tomatoes. I hit my triangle again, louder this time. Ting ting tingaling TING. Ting ting ting tingaling LING.

  Five minutes. Ten minutes. No one even looked at me. I tried pushing myself into people’s faces, using the English words the man with the sausage had taught me. “A dollar. A dime. A penny.”

  The sky grew darker, the wind whistled fiercely. I got three pennies, then a nickel. I stuck them in the pocket with the one thin dime. Then it happened.

  They came around the corner and were on me before I had a chance to cry out. There were three, all taller and broader than me. One grabbed my hands and held them behind my back, sending the triangle and stick spiraling to the ground. The other two were in and out of my pockets so fast I hardly felt my clothes rustle.

  “Grazie,” a voice hissed in my ear.

  One boy pushed my chest with his hand. My feet slipped out from under me and I fell backward. Cold, wet slush seeped through my pants. I bit my bottom lip, but that made my top lip start to bleed again. I could feel the sting of hot tears in my throat. It’s not fair! I shouldn’t even be here.

  If only I hadn’t shamed Papa. If only I could have told the truth. I swallowed the tears. I wouldn’t let myself cry. I would not.

  A minute later, a boy stopped in front of me and held out his hand. “Need some help up?”

  I dropped my eyes, my breath still coming in gasps. I didn’t want more trouble.

  “Come on. Up with you, my little friend,” he urged. He spoke an Italian that rang familiar in my ears. He might not be from Calvello itself, but he was from somewhere in the south of Italy. Just that was comforting, like hearing the music of the bells of our church back home. “I won’t hurt you. Me and Carlo here saw what those street rats did, didn’t we?”

  “We sure did, Tony.” The second boy, shorter and wider than the first, nodded vigorously and grinned. I glanced at him. He was a shadow, a follower. The boy called Tony was in charge.

  Without waiting any longer, Tony took hold of my wrist and pulled me up. I leaned over to fish my instrument out of the slush. I felt myself grow red with shame.

  “Grazie,” I mumbled.

  Tony was a head taller than me. I guessed he was fourteen or fifteen, about the same age as the thieves. He leaned over to peer at my face, then grabbed my chin hard and lifted it up to inspect my lip. He was so close I could see that his eyes were almost black.

  “Just as I thought—you’re a fresh cut,” he said. “One of Signor Ancarola’s, are you?”

  “Sì,” I admitted. “This is my first day in the city.”

  “A real greenhorn! Not having an easy time of it, are you?” He cuffed me lightly on the shoulder, as if we were old friends. “Well, don’t worry. Folks here, especially around Mulberry Bend, well, they don’t always give newcomers a warm welcome. You’ll soon figure out what’s what.”

  I looked at him closely. He sported a warm coat, a vest, and a smart bowler hat. He seemed more like a gentleman than a laborer, which, I knew, most Italian immigrants were. Tony had no scar on his lip, yet clearly he knew the neighborhood. He’d even recognized the way the padroni marked their boys. Whoever Tony was, whatever Tony did, he wasn’t under the thumb of a padrone. I could use someone like this on my side. Maybe Tony would be the key to escape, to a job, to money.

  “I almost had enough to bring my padrone the dollar I owe him,” I lied, shaking off my feelings of weakness. No need for him to know just how poorly I’d been doing.

  I rubbed my wrist where one of the other boys had twisted it. “And now I have nothing. You have fine things, and you don’t look hungry either. How do you make your money?”

  Tony flashed a sly smile. “Not so fast there. I don’t make a habit of confiding in greenhorns just off the boat.”

  “I may be just a greenhorn, but I learn fast,” I declared boldly. “I won’t be jumped again like that. I have a rule: I only make a mistake once.”

  Tony stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat, a coat so much thicker than the thin, ratty one I wore. He looked me up and down for a long minute. At last, he grinned. “I think I might like you, kid. You’ve got a spark, yet you also have a sweet, innocent face. What about you, Carlo? Does this guttersnipe have what it takes?”

  Carlo took one step forward and peered at me. He had a crooked nose, which gave his face an odd appearance, as though everything was off balance. I already knew what his answer would be. Carlo would say or do whatever Tony wanted.

  “Sweet, but awful skinny, Tony. Might be useful as a stall. Or maybe he’s quick enough to dip in and out like a flash,” said Carlo. Then he added quickly, “Of course, no one is as fast as you, Tony.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I smiled as Tony steered me by the elbow into an alley. Several sets of rickety wooden stairs led to the rear doors of tenement houses that loomed on either side. Despite the storm, someone had left clothes hanging on lines overhead. On one side, a plank rested on two barrels, making a kind of bed. The ground was littered with garbage.

  Tony and Carlo herded me into a corner, and for an instant I was afraid the two of them might decide to beat me up just for the fun of it. I certainly had nothing else on me worth stealing.

  Instead, Tony laid his arm over my shoulder and grinned, exposing one jagged bottom tooth. “Tell you what, greenhorn. Carlo and me, we admire a kid with spirit. And we think that with a face like yours, you have what we call potential.

  “So we’re prepared to do you a favor,” Tony added, giving my shoulder a friendly squeeze. “We’ll take you back to Crosby Street and fix it with Signor Ancarola so you won’t get in trouble.”

  I considered. “But…why would you do that for me?”

  “It’s like this. We call this alleyway Bandits’ Roost,” he said. “I’m the Prince, and this is my base of operations. I say what goes on here. Those alley rats were out of line to take advantage of an innocent like you. I figure it’s up to me to make it right.”

  “How about I stay here? I can work for you right away,” I suggested eagerly.

  “Hmm, well, I can’t take on an unripe fruit like you just yet,” he told me. “You need to find your feet, learn your way around. For now, the best I can do is to get you back and make sure you don’t get a beating. Right, Carlo?”

  “That’s right, Tony,” said his shadow, nodding fiercely. Carlo’s off-balance face made me feel as if I was back on the rolling decks of the Elysia again. “That Ancarola is a mean bull. You got to be careful crossing that one.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about the padrone,” I boasted. “I’m already one of his favorites.”

  Now, as you well know, that was perhaps stretching the truth just a little. But I desperately wanted to impress this Prince. I could already imagine Papa’
s neighbors gathering in the piazza to admire me if I returned to Calvello looking as successful as Tony.

  There goes Rocco Zaccaro, who made good in America, they’d say. Old man Ferri sent him away in disgrace, but it makes you wonder if there was more to that story.

  I was so caught up in my daydream I jumped a little when Tony patted me on the back. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “So what do they call you?”

  “Rocco. Rocco Zaccaro.”

  “All right, Rocco, come along with us.”

  —

  I followed Tony and Carlo through a maze of streets, like a little lamb tripping along blindly behind two shepherds. It was dark when I recognized the cobblestone street and the saloon at 45 Crosby Street.

  “It’s around back,” I said, thinking Tony would come in.

  Instead, he stopped, reached into his pocket, and dropped a few coins into my palm. “This is as far as we go. Here’s a dollar, with an extra dime to boot. This should help you get on his good side.”

  “Grazie. I’ll pay you back someday.”

  “I’ll be sure you do.” Tony reached up to adjust the brim of his smart hat. “That’s one of my rules, you see: Anyone who owes the Prince of Bandits’ Roost pays his debts.”

  He grinned like it was a joke. I smiled back. Then, holding tight to my fistful of coins, I set my shoulders and started for the door.

  —

  Padrone was in the doorway, shooing another straggler inside and grumbling about the storm. He scowled and gave me a push. “You’re the last. I thought you must’ve got lost, or done something stupid—like try to run away.”

  The room reeked even worse than it had that morning. The stench of wet coats and shoes, combined with the stale sweat of unwashed bodies, made my stomach lurch. The one coal stove was useless against the dank, chilly air.