City of Orphans

by Avi

  That gets the other Plug Uglies howling. “Lop him, Bruno! Lay him out! Collar him!”

  Bruno slugs Maks on the side of his head so hard, it makes the kid dizzy. The only thing keeping Maks up is being wedged into that corner. And though he knows he’s gonna be turned into dog meat, he manages another jab.

  “Stupid mug!” Bruno yells, and cocks his arm, ready to sling his slammer.

  That’s the moment Maks does what he never done before in his whole life: He cries, “Help!”

  And that’s when the body on the ground jumps up. Rises so fast and unexpected, all Maks can see is that whoever it is has this big stick and is swinging it like a whirligig gone wild, smacking Bruno on his shoulder, arm, face—thwhack-thwhack-thwhack!

  Bruno—taken by surprise—yelps and stumbles back, colliding into the Plug Uglies behind him. Those guys tumble, causing two more to crash. The others, shouting and yowling, try to duck out of the way.

  But the alley, being narrow, and the stick-swinger swinging a storm, first one Plug Ugly then another gets whacked: arms, heads, and backs. Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The gang breaks and runs, chased all the way out of the alley by the stick. In moments the Plug Uglies are gone.

  Maks, hardly believing what’s happened but having no idea who saved him, leans back into his corner, awful glad he’s still got his money.

  All the same, his legs are shaky, his chest hurts, his eyes are foggy with tears, plus his nose hasn’t stopped dripping blood.

  Meanwhile, up at the alley entryway, the stick-whacker is looking out onto the street.

  Maks bends over to scoop his hat. As he wipes blood and tears from his face, he looks up. That’s when he sees that the one who saved him has turned round and is coming back, stick in hand—as if the work ain’t done.

  Which is when Maks sees who it is.

  Only thing, he don’t believe what he’s seeing.

  5

  The one who saved him is a girl.

  She’s taller than Maks. Skinnier, too. So he’s looking up at her, she down, with a face smeared with grime. Her hair is dirty, long, snarled, and twisted into greasy knots. She’s wearing a faded green shirt, which must have been some lady’s ’cause bits of lace, like a tattered spider’s web, are curled round the collar.

  As for the girl’s skirt, it’s brown, long, filthy, ripped at the hem. Don’t even reach her ankles, so Maks can see her bare, bruised feet with their nasty, scabby toes. And in that narrow space she smells like sauerkraut gone south.

  Truth is, the girl makes Maks think of an alley cat, one of them howlers nobody wants. Except most cats try to clean themselves, but Maks is thinking, Nothing clean ’bout this girl.

  And that stick of hers, it’s still in her hands. Maks can see it’s some tree branch, looking hard and nubbly.

  Course, Maks got no idea who she is or why she was sleeping in the alley. His best guess is, she probably just arrived in America, one of them immigrants pouring off that new Ellis Island—what Maks and his pals call “green-horns.” Fact, Maks wonders if he’ll even be able to understand whatever crack-jaw language she speaks.

  As for the girl, she’s just standing there, stick twitching in her hands, staring at him, saying nothing, but blocking his way.

  6

  Now, the thing is, Maks don’t have no more fight left, not against this girl, not with that stick, not after seeing what she done with it. But deciding he better say something, he says, “Hey, thanks.”

  “What for?” the girl says, a hard voice, with a scowl that seems to be stuck on her as much as the dirt on her face.

  “For . . . for getting rid of them guys,” says Maks, glad she can at least talk American. “They was gonna bust me bad.”

  “I guess you called ‘help’ loud enough,” she says.

  To Maks, that sounds as if she’s making fun. “Yeah,” he says, “but you got ’em pretty good.” Soon as he says that, the thought pops into his head: This girl don’t hear “pretty” too often.

  The girl lowers her stick, hitches her skirt, and fiddles with her shirt. Wipes her nose with the back of her hand, using the same hand to push hair from her face. That’s when Maks sees her eyes, which look as if she’s expecting something sneaky coming every next moment from ten different ways. Same time, she’s still leaning ’gainst the alley wall studying Maks, the way a cat might mark a mouse.

  “That your nose bleeding?” she says. “It doesn’t look too good.”

  Maks feels like saying she don’t look so good neither. But since she ain’t beating on him—not yet, anyway—he wipes some nosebleed away. “I’m okay,” he says.

  “What did you do to them?” she asks.

  “Nothing. They like slamming newsies.”

  “Don’t look like you have anything worth robbing.”

  “Just sold my papers,” says Maks, patting his pocket. “Still got my money.”

  Course, soon as he says that, Maks realizes he just gave the girl a reason to rob him.

  All the girl says, though, is, “Lucky you.”

  Wanting to stall so he can get strength enough to run by her, he says, “What’s your name?”

  “Willa.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “In German it’s Waddah. You know how people change names here.”

  “Yeah. My name is Maks. With a ‘k.’ Danish. Didn’t get changed.”

  “Where’s Danish?”

  “’Cross the ocean. We live over to Birmingham Street now. Where you live?”

  “Here.”

  “This alley?”

  “Other side of the fence.”

  Maks glances at it. “How come?”

  “In case you didn’t know, it costs twenty-five cents a night in a flophouse for cot, locker, and screen. Fifteen cents for just cot and locker. Even a cot costs ten cents. A nickel only buys a piece of floor. That’s all too rich for me. It’s free here.”

  As she talks, Maks notices that this girl, unlike most street kids, has an uptown way of talking.

  He says, “If you live round the other side of the fence, how come you was sleeping here?”

  “Too tired to climb.”

  Maks eyes the high wooden fence.

  Willa hefts her stick. “You doubting I can climb it?”

  “Maybe,” he says, hoping that if she starts to climb, he’ll have a chance to get away.

  The girl, looking annoyed, goes to the fence, feels round its surface. Finding some chinks, she hoists herself up, keeping her stick with her.

  Maks gets so interested in her climbing, he forgets to escape. Then, once on top, Willa straddles the fence, one filthy bare leg dangling, stick across her knees. “See,” she says, looking down. “Easy.”

  Maks feels challenged. “I can do it,” he says.

  “Try.”

  Maks searches the wooden fence for grips, finds some, climbs—though a lot slower than Willa. Loses his cap too.

  Maks peers over to the other side. There’s another fence four feet on. Between the two is a three-foot gap. Though mostly dark below, Maks can make out an old blanket and a wooden crate with some things—he can’t see what—in it.

  “You really live down there?” he says.

  “Isn’t that bad,” she says. “Has a sewer grate that lets up some warm air. I suppose that’s why they built the fences. It’s so narrow, not much weather comes down either. Don’t mind the smell. And when people come along, they can only do it single file—like just happened. Long as I have my stick, I can handle them.”

  “Where’s your family?”

  She scowls. “What about them?”

  “They live here too?”

  “None of your business.”

  Her words make Maks study Willa. In the dim light he don’t see much of anything. No sadness. No gladness. No nothing.

  Maks drops to the ground. Plucks up his cap, dusts it off, sets it on his head. “Hey,” he calls up to Willa, “thanks for helping.”

  “S
ure.”

  Relieved that Willa ain’t gonna hold him, Maks heads down the alley trying to act easy. But then he starts thinking: What if them Plug Uglies are waiting to ambush me when I step onto the street?

  Maks turns round and sees Willa’s up on her fence, watching him. He can’t help asking himself if she—and that stick—might be willing to defend him a second time.

  He starts to say something, but it ain’t easy asking a girl for help. Just did, and though it worked, he’s not sure he likes it. Sure, he knows this girl can be fierce, but he ain’t sure what he feels ’bout her, who and what she is, living in rubbish. Truth is, Maks thinks her something strange.

  Next moment, he reminds himself he knows plenty of okay mugs who live on the streets. Besides, this girl saved him. According to kids’ rules, he owes. Shout “Help!” and get it, you gotta give back.

  Not sure what to do, he pokes his head out of the alley, onto Chrystie Street. It’s dark. The dark might give some protection. Then again, it could make things worse. ’Cause the thing is, Maks is pretty certain Bruno’s gonna want revenge. ’Specially since a girl beat him out. And unless Bruno does something, news like that got more legs than a centipede.

  Still, Maks ain’t sure how he should ask Willa for help again. Thinking how skinny she is, he turns and shouts: “Hey, if you walk home with me, my mama will give you something to eat.”

  Willa don’t reply.

  “Mean it!” says Maks. The more he asks, the more he feels he needs her.

  “You asking for my help?” she calls.

  Maks, admitting nothing, says, “You coming or not?”

  After a minute Willa says, “You mean it?”

  “Said it, didn’t I?”

  “I guess I can always eat,” Willa says, and climbs down.

  “Hey,” Maks says, “just bring your stick. In case.”

  7

  When Willa gets close, Maks peers up and down Chrystie Street again. “Guess they’re gone,” he says. “Let’s go.” He starts off.

  Though Willa is barefoot, she follows close, saying, “They really make you nervous, don’t they?”

  “Hey,” he says, “them guys are mean. People say that Bruno—he’s the redhead, the gang’s leader—is crazy six ways. How’d you like to be attacked like that?”

  “People leave me alone.”

  Maks can guess why, but he don’t say.

  “Who are they?” she asks.

  “Call themselves the Plug Ugly Gang. Been busting World newsies. Trying to take us over.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. ’Cept everybody says Bruno’s getting protection from somewhere.”

  “What kind of protection?”

  “Someone greasing someone to let him do what he does.”

  “Who?”

  “No idea. But if you sees any of ’em Plug Uglies, keep away. They’ll be wanting to get you now. And lemme tell you, they’re poison in a pistol.”

  Willa holds up her stick as if to say, Long as I have this, they won’t bother me.

  Walking fast, they go for a while without talking, Maks keeping his eyes skunked for the gang ’cause, like always, the neighborhood is crawling with crowds.

  See, these days, people live on streets and sidewalks as much as in their small rooms. Men gather in groups, standing under streetlights, talking, laughing, spreading the day’s news. Women doing the same, laughing, talking, shopping. Food pushcarts doing good business. Lot of small saloons, too—what people call “drums,” which are open and crowded. Midst it all, plenty of beggars.

  If it’s music you want, there’s an Italian music grinder, with these little kids dancing round and laughing. But then there’s always more kids on the streets than anyone. Thick as summer flies, playing, fooling, watching, waiting on the world. Take away kids, you ain’t hardly got city in the city.

  Maks, starting to relax, keeps taking half looks at Willa, trying to sort her out.

  But it’s she who says, “You make a lot of money selling papers?”

  “Don’t go home ’less I make my eight cents.”

  “I’m lucky,” she says, “if I make a dime a week.”

  “Where you work?”

  “Pick rags at the East River dumps.”

  “Get enough?”

  Willa shrugs. “Ten cents a week. And there’s a mid-night breadline at St. Peter’s Church on Fulton.”

  “Where your parents?” Maks asks again.

  She don’t answer. Then, realizing Maks is waiting on her, she says, “Gone.”

  “Where?”

  Shakes her head.

  “No idea?”

  This time she gives him nothing.

  “Hey,” says Maks, “this city, people disappear all the time. Fathers. Kids. Mothers. Yours gone long?”

  “While.”

  “You look for ’em?”

  “Can’t go everywhere.”

  “Got this newsie friend,” Maks says. “Irish kid. We calls him Chimmie. Told me ’bout a mug who’s got a business hunting missing people. A private detective.”

  “What’s private about him?”

  “Beats me. You got any sisters or brothers?”

  Willa stops. “You know what you sound like?” she says. “The Children’s Mission Society. I don’t like all the questions.”

  “Sorry.”

  Maks, not speaking, pokes up the pace, going back to keeping watch for Bruno.

  After a while, as if sorry for sounding so pout-mouthed, Willa says, “Your father around?”

  “Oh, sure,” Maks says, glad she’s willing to talk again. “Papa works in a shoe factory over on Stanton Street. Back where we came from, he used to make small boats. Got one on the East River. Loves fishing. Sometimes I go with him. You been on your own since your family left?”

  She nods.

  “That okay?”

  “I do what I want.”

  Maks says, “I got a big family.”

  “How big?”

  “Papa. Mama. Three younger brothers. Two older sisters.”

  “You like them?”

  “Sure. ’Specially my big sister Emma. She’s a lot of fun. Works at that fancy uptown hotel that just opened. You know, the Waldorf? Up at Thirty-third Street.”

  “I don’t go past Fourteenth,” Willa says. “Cops run me off.”

  “Papa says Emma got the job ’cause she’s pretty,” Maks goes on. “Mama says it’s ’cause she’s so clean. She gets a uniform—all blue—and two dollars every other week. Plus tips. More than Papa makes, sometimes. Most nights she sleeps in the hotel dormitory. They feed her too. Comes home every other Monday afternoon and gives Mama her pay. You’ll see her when we get home. Oh, yeah. Mama does laundry—a few shirts—for Bothwell’s store.

  “Agnes, my other sister,” Maks continues, “she’s our smart one. Goes to night classes. Does sums in her head. Reads books. Works daytime in the factory with Papa.” Maks grins. “Only thing, when the labor inspector comes, she’s got to hide in the bathroom ’cause she’s just fourteen.”

  Willa says, “You like to talk, don’t you?”

  “In my family you got to. Anyway, Agnes says it’s being American. Have three younger brothers. Goofs. Tighter than sardines in a can. When’d you come to America?”

  “Born here.”

  “If you was a boy, you could be president. I got here when I was two. So I’m not gonna be president neither. How old are you?”

  She stops. “I told you, I don’t like questions.”

  “Just asking,” says Maks, but he switches his mouth to shut.

  They keep walking awhile without talking. But after a few minutes Willa says, “I’m not sure how old I am. You?”

  “Twelve. No, wait, turned thirteen two weeks ago. You go to school?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Used to,” says Maks. “Too old. You know. Get to be thirteen, fourteen, got to work. Only work’s hard to find nowadays. But when I went to school, learned to read.
That’s something.”

  Willa says nothing.

  They come to a crowd, and Maks wants to see what’s happening. Turns out people are just looking at a dead horse on the street, so Maks and Willa start up again. Hey, these days, you can see dead horses on the streets most anytime. People work ’em that hard.

  As they go on, Maks glances back and stops short. It’s Bruno! Or is it? ’Cause when he stares at the spot, no one’s there.

  Willa, sensing something happened, says, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” says Maks, deciding being nervous is making him see things. Even so, he walks faster.

  Few minutes later they pass two boys who know Maks. “Hey, Maks mug,” one of ’em cries. “Find yer girlfriend in the dump?”

  Embarrassed, Maks shouts back, “Buzzers!” Still, he steals a look at Willa. She don’t give no reaction, but Maks ain’t too happy being seen with this dirty girl. Trying to be less jumpy, he starts talking again.

  “This building where we live,” he says, “got twenty apartments. Agnes—my smart sister—she once added up all the people who live there. Hundred and eighty-one. Families come and go faster than the El. The land-lord’s never put in water. No gas, electricity, neither. My younger brothers born there. All eight of us been living there eight years. Papa says it’s decent and cheap. Sometimes I think I’d rather live on my own. Plenty of mugs do.”

  Willa says, “Try it.”

  Maks steals another look at her, telling himself, Something’s bothering this girl.

  8

  As the kids keep going, Maks don’t see no sign of Bruno. But thinking ’bout what those mugs said ’bout Willa, he starts worrying what his parents are gonna do when they see her.

  Point is, Maks knows Mama is always trying to keep their flat—and her kids—clean. Sure, Maks has invited plenty of kids home, but nothing like this girl, who’s so filthy. Besides, his parents are always asking questions of the mugs he brings home, wanting to know who and what. Willa already told him she don’t like neither.

  So Maks reminds himself that he’s the one who called for help, and since she gave it, he promised her food. Which means he’s gotta keep going, first over Division Street, then down Pike, until they reach his street, Birmingham.