Now, you may be thinking that my path had become quite smooth. Thanks to Mary and her father, I might even be on my way to becoming a reformed and useful member of society.
Maybe you’re guessing that Mary’s father would give me a permanent job. I would send money home to my family, live peacefully with meddlers, and give up moll-buzzing and other nefarious pursuits. I would escape the snares of the House of Refuge, my padrone, and my old pickpocketing mob.
Well, if that’s what you’re thinking, you’re wrong.
Oh, I suppose it might have turned out that way. But late one spring afternoon, Mr. Riis sent for me, and everything that had been going right began to go wrong again.
—
By now I had been helping Mr. Riis for a couple of weeks. I’d made more speeches, and he’d been teaching me how to use his camera. He’d even let me try a few photographs on my own.
I still kept a wary eye out for coppers and my padrone when venturing out alone, but didn’t worry so much when I was with Mr. Riis. No one suspected me of being a runaway or a street musician when I was with him. People saw me as Mr. Riis’s bright, neatly dressed young assistant. Police officers gave me a friendly nod or smile.
Mr. Riis was more serious than Max, and often we walked through the tenement neighborhoods without saying a word, though his keen eyes took in everything around us. Probably, I thought, he was thinking about what he would put in his book.
But, on this particular afternoon, as we left our meeting spot by the Mulberry Street police station, he suddenly began to tell me a story.
“I had a dog die for me outside a station like this years ago,” he began.
Instantly I remembered Saint Rocco, who, to be honest, I hadn’t thought about (or prayed to) for a long time. Now I recalled how a dog had befriended him. Adjusting the flash gun on my shoulder, I looked up at Mr. Riis. “What happened, sir?”
“I arrived from Denmark when I was twenty-one. I traveled around doing odd jobs for a while, but eventually, like so many others, I found myself in this neighborhood, as homeless and dirty and grimy as everyone else,” he told me. “Sometimes I thought of ending my life.
“One night, an abandoned dog attached himself to me. I believe that had it not been for the comfort of another breathing creature next to me, I might have thrown myself in the river, my despair was so great.”
The crowds around us were thick, and Mr. Riis stepped into a doorway to continue his story. “I got a bed in a police-station lodging on Church Street, much like the one on Elizabeth Street where we took the photograph of the women.
“I had a gold locket with me, which held a lock of my future wife’s hair. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it was gone. Someone had stolen my most precious—my only—possession. That just about broke my heart.”
A locket…My thoughts whirred. The locket I’d grabbed probably meant a lot to that young woman too. Maybe it had a picture of her sweetheart, or even of her dead mother, inside. No wonder she had screamed.
“When I complained it was missing, the police officer didn’t believe someone like me could have owned anything valuable,” Mr. Riis went on. “He told the doorman to kick me out. But outside, as the man was shoving me down the steps, my four-footed friend tried to come to my aid.”
He took a breath and paused, almost as if he didn’t want to say what happened next. “The man picked up my dog and threw him to the curb, smashing his head and killing him. I was stunned. Then a blind rage rose inside me, like a building bursting into flame. I began to scream and pelt the police station with rocks or anything I could grab from the street.”
“They must have locked you up!”
“No, but they got rid of me another way. They put me on a ferry to New Jersey and told me not to come back,” he said with a wry smile. “From there, I continued my wandering ways, picking up work where I could. I already knew English, and decided I wanted to become a newspaperman. Eventually I came back and got a job as a reporter.
“But I will tell you this, Rocco. Now I am back. And I haven’t forgotten that night at the Church Street station,” Mr. Riis said. “I haven’t forgotten the outrage I felt, or the men and women I met who, like me, were just doing their best to survive.
“That’s why I do this. It could be me. It was me.”
—
We kept walking, both of us lost in thought. Mr. Riis, I felt sure, was remembering his dog. I was thinking of Signor Ancarola’s silver blade. Then Mr. Riis said, “Ah, here we are. Bandits’ Roost.”
I stopped in my tracks. I’d been so caught up in the story I hadn’t realized where we were heading. It was too late to protest. Pulling my cap low, I trailed behind Mr. Riis. In the alleyway, several young men and teenage boys stood idly chatting.
At our approach, everyone stopped talking. Mr. Riis nodded at me to begin. I’d made the speech a number of times by now, but never like this. Never in front of anyone I knew.
For I’d spotted Tony right away. He didn’t acknowledge me, though I saw his eyebrows lift in surprise. He looked dapper as usual, with a new bowler hat, a vest, and a jacket with a gold watch on a chain. No doubt lifted from a sucker, I thought.
I took a ragged breath. “Excuse me. This man with me is Signor Jacob Riis, who humbly begs your pardon for the interruption. He is here to take a picture.”
“Speak up, boy. We can’t hear you back here,” called a voice. “Did you say that stranger’s come to pass out dollar bills with pictures on them?”
Tony and the other thieves snickered. I flushed and shuffled my feet. Could I go through with this?
I spied Carlo, his elbow perched on a wooden staircase. He cocked his head at me but didn’t say a word.
“I know many of you have families to support. I know you are good sons who came here with dreams,” I went on, my voice louder now.
I turned, pointing at Jacob Riis. “Mr. Riis is an immigrant like us. He has slept in police-station lodgings. He has been homeless and without a job. Now he tells stories and takes photographs to make things better in our neighborhood, so your families can drink clean water, and so landlords will build better houses.”
Jacob Riis had finished setting up his camera. He gave me a quick nod.
“There will be a noise and a flash of light,” I announced.
We would not know it until much, much later, but the photograph Jacob Riis took that day would become one of his most famous pictures of all.
—
“Rocco, we meet again.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear Tony’s voice in my ear or to feel his touch on my elbow. I’d suspected Mr. Riis and I were being followed all the way to the office across from the Mulberry Street station that he and Max Fischel shared with other police reporters.
After Mr. Riis had thanked me and stepped inside, I didn’t have long to wait. Now I found myself being steered back into the crowds of Mulberry Bend, back toward Bandits’ Roost.
Carlo was already there, and he spouted his usual cheerful greeting. “Hallo, Rocco. Where’ve you been all these months? We heard you were on a certain island.”
At first, I thought they might leave me alone. Then Tony leaned over me, pushing me against the wall. Reluctantly, I met his gaze. My hands were damp with nervous sweat, and my heart thumped so hard in my chest I was sure he could hear its wild patter.
“That was quite a speech, Rocco. But you don’t look so happy to see us,” he said smoothly. “Why is that? I wonder. Could it have something to do with you thinking you’re better than us, now that you’re living in Greenwich Village with a rich Irishman?”
He laughed as he saw my look of surprise. “Oh yes, we know all about it.”
“How did you escape from the House of Refuge and end up there?” put in Carlo, breathing stale onion breath on me.
“It—it just happened that way. It’s only f-for a little while,” I stammered. “The blacksmith took me in during the blizzard when…when I got away from Randall’s Island.”
“That was weeks ago. You should know by now where to find us. That very first day, I told you I was the Prince of Bandits’ Roost.” Tony stepped back and folded his arms. “So, you got yourself arrested and put me and Carlo—your own mob—in danger.”
“I never told anyone your names, I swear. I never squealed!”
“Well, don’t worry, Rocco,” Tony purred. “Everything might still work out just fine. You might even have a chance to make amends for the strain you’ve caused, what with Carlo and me being so concerned about your welfare and wondering whether you’d turn us in.”
“Make amends?”
“I hear Mick Hallanan has done well for himself,” Tony went on. “Word is he’s quite a sharp businessman.”
Tony looked over my head at Carlo. “Wouldn’t you think a man like that keeps some ready money at hand, Carlo?”
“I most certainly would,” replied Carlo enthusiastically. “I expect the Greenwich Village Blacksmith gets paid every week for the horses he boards there, to say nothing of the money the shoeing operation takes in. Why, I’d guess there are quite a number of bank deposits required in an operation like that.”
Tony nodded, not taking his eyes off me. “And who is better placed for an inside job than our very own Rocco?”
I tried to smile. Tony himself had taught me that a confident grin can hide uncertainty or confusion; it can buy time to think. And I definitely had thoughts swirling around in my head as wild and furious as blizzard snowflakes.
Up to now, I’d never felt that anything, especially my own fate, was in my hands. Papa had sold me to the padrone; Tony and Carlo had offered me the only way I knew to survive. In the House of Refuge, I was told what to do by the warden and guards.
Yet, since that day I’d escaped, something had begun to shift, almost the way winter finally lets go and spring drifts in. Maybe it had been turning around to help Mary rescue the horses, meeting Max and Mr. Riis, making that first speech to the women in the police station, or just having Mr. Hallanan say quietly, “Good job, Rocco.” Maybe it had been listening to Black Beauty.
Maybe there was another path I hadn’t yet imagined. It might not take me back to Calvello, the way I’d dreamed. But maybe, just maybe, I could find another way to make Papa and Mama proud of me again.
“So, what do you say, Rocco?” said Tony, leaning close. His words were friendly enough, but his eyes told a different story. “Remember, we gave you your first dollar. We made you part of our mob and fed you sausages every day. That’s worth something to you, isn’t it?”
I gulped and nodded. It was true. And even now there was a lot I would do for a sausage. But not this. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—do what Tony wanted. I had to find another way.
Making up my mind, I took a breath.
“I do want to earn my way back and be part of the mob again if you’ll let me,” I assured him, hoping my face wouldn’t betray the lie. “But I need more time to learn when the next bank deposit will be. I think it will take place when the regular stableboy returns.
“Have no fear,” I went on. “I can find out. He trusts me more every day. His stupid, empty-headed daughter depends on me too.”
Tony wanted to believe me, I could tell. After all, there might be a lot of money to be had. He touched the tip of his hat, adjusting it to the most flattering angle. “How much longer do you need?”
“In a week, I should know when and where that deposit will take place. I will meet you here next week at this time. We’ll go over the plan to make the touch.
“I may need to lie low for a while afterward, though,” I added. “I don’t want to go back to Randall’s Island.”
“We can manage that, if you’re good as your word on the rest of the scheme,” agreed Tony. “Maybe we can get you to Boston or Philadelphia.”
“Tony knows people everywhere,” Carlo boasted, almost as if he was talking about himself.
We stood silently for a moment while Tony considered my offer. “One week,” he said finally. “Come back to Bandits’ Roost next week at this time. And we had better be able to trust you.”
CHAPTER 27
In which much is revealed and I begin to become unmuddled
I began to run as soon as I left the alley. I hadn’t gone far when I saw them.
It was unmistakably my padrone, Signor Ancarola, his black hair shining, one large hand on the shoulder of the small boy cowering before him. My heart sank. I knew that boy.
Luigi had been small, even when we left Calvello. Now his eyes looked sunken and rimmed by dark shadows. His ribs protruded from his thin shirt. His feet were bare, covered with soot and mud. The scar from Padrone’s brand marked his lip like a dark smudge of ink.
I crept closer, keeping out of sight as best I could behind a vendor’s wagon piled high with potatoes. I strained to hear what Padrone was saying. Luigi held up an arm as if to ward off a blow.
I didn’t have to hear much to guess what was happening. By now it was early evening, and more than likely Luigi hadn’t been able to earn his dollar. I noticed he held a triangle in one hand. Did this mean Marco was too weak or sick—or worse—to wheel the harp along with him now?
More than anything, I wanted to rush over and yank Luigi away from Padrone, especially when he reached out to twist Luigi’s arm.
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I began to tremble with rage. I recognized this feeling—it was the way Mary must have felt standing over the dying horse; it was how Jacob Riis described what happened when his dog was killed.
I’d felt this way before once too—on the night Old Biter got away.
—
I never would have seen a thing. Any other evening, I would have been long gone from Signor Ferri’s property, finished with chores and on my way home.
Old Biter was the last donkey to be returned that night. The peasant who’d rented him for the day probably had worked him hard. As I took the rope from the farmer, Old Biter stubbornly planted his feet, refusing to move another inch. Maybe he was waiting for a kind word or a drink of water. I don’t know.
But I was tired too. And without thinking, I tugged on his left ear to get him to move. Old Biter whirled, and nipped me hard on my left arm. The sudden pain made me cry out. I dropped the rope and grabbed my arm.
Big mistake. Tired or not, Old Biter kicked up his back heels and sprinted away. I had to chase him halfway down the hill, his hooves clattering as he bolted along the narrow, darkening streets. Signor Ferri, of course, lived at the top of the town.
I finally caught Old Biter twenty minutes later. As I approached Signor Ferri’s yard, I could make out voices. I was still out of sight when I heard Signor Ferri growl, “What do you want?”
I stopped in the shadows, Old Biter now quiet beside me.
Signor Ferri was carrying a lantern, and I saw him hang his jacket on a hook just inside the stable door. Then he turned to the girl who stood waiting, wringing her hands. It was Rosa, my sister Anna’s friend.
“Speak up, girl. What is it you want?” he repeated, annoyed. He was, after all, a rich, busy man who didn’t appreciate being interrupted when his dinner was waiting.
He thinks I’ve already finished up and gone home, I realized. He doesn’t know I’m here.
Rosa’s father had recently died of fever, leaving her mother alone to raise Rosa and her two little brothers. Mama had been baking an extra loaf of bread for them every week since it happened.
“Please, signore,” I could hear Rosa saying, “my mama begs a few more days to get you the rent. She is taking in laundry and will soon be paid.”
“A likely story.” Ferri was a tall, well-fleshed man in his late forties. He towered over the girl. “The rent is late. I have already been patient.”
Suddenly he reached down and twisted her arm violently. Rosa cried out. She was Anna’s age—thirteen. In the lantern light, she looked much younger, a sad, heartbroken girl. Couldn’t he see this?
“And now my patience is used up,” he
spat. “All my other tenants pay on time. No extension. I want the rent by the morning or your mother must find another place to live.”
The landlord dropped her arm, grabbed the lantern, and strode off to the house. Rosa darted by me, her face streaming with tears, before I could call her name.
How could he be so unjust?
I crossed the yard and led Old Biter into the shadowy shed, my hands shaking, anger bubbling inside me.
I noticed Signor Ferri’s jacket hanging from its hook. One pocket bulged, heavy with coins. Usually he emptied his pockets. Rosa’s presence had distracted him.
I settled Old Biter into his stall and gave him fresh water and hay.
That’s when I heard a noise.
—
Now, as I watched Padrone stomp off, I thrust the memory aside. I ran to where Luigi stood, tears staining his cheeks, clanging his little triangle. He gasped when I took his arm.
“Shh,” I whispered. “Come with me.”
We pushed our way through the crowds and into a narrow alleyway. Luigi reached out to take hold of my shirt with one grubby hand, almost as if he wondered if I was real. “We thought you were dead.”
His dark eyes were wide. “Padrone told us so. He said you were dead. We…we didn’t want to believe it. We hoped you had gone home.”
His clothes were little more than rags. He smelled like garbage.
“We? Is Marco still alive?”
“Sì, Marco is alive. But…but he often coughs,” Luigi told me, still holding on to the edge of my shirt. “Padrone sends him out anyway. He plays a triangle now too. Do you remember Giuseppe? He still plays the violin. I like to stand on the same street to hear his music. Padrone doesn’t like that because I…I sometimes forget to play.
“Rocco, I am not so good at playing music or getting dollars.”
I stared into his pinched little face. Poor Luigi. He still wanted to please Padrone, even now. He was trying to bear whatever happened to him the best he could.
I remembered some lines Mary had read from Black Beauty. Beauty’s friend, a spirited horse called Ginger, has been cruelly treated. When Beauty asks Ginger why she no longer stands up for herself, Ginger tells him: “Men are strongest, and if they are cruel and have no feeling, there is nothing that we can do, but just bear it—bear it on and on to the end.”
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