Gaetano had shown up before, and waited.
“You got the four cents?”
I turned around. Gaetano stood there. Tin Pan Alley put four cents in Gaetano's hand.
“Wait a minute,” said Gaetano. “I've got a treat in mind, and it's four cents just for the two of us. I'm not paying for this mook.”
“I don't take nothing from no shark,” said Tin Pan Alley.
I didn't know what a mook or a shark was, but I could tell they were insults. “Tin Pan Alley,” I said quickly, “meet Gaetano. He's my friend. Gaetano, meet Tin Pan Alley. He keeps his promise.”
“Oh, another good boy, like you,” said Gaetano. “A beggar, huh?”
Tin Pan Alley spat on the ground.
I moved between them. “He's a musician.”
“A musician? Not a beggar, just a really skinny musician.” Gaetano blew through his lips, making a horse noise. “Well, come on, then.” He walked and talked, pointing as we went. “This is Baxter Street. Lots of people from Napoli live here. Like on Mulberry and Mott Streets. But the people from Genova live here, too. And the best ice cream vendor in all of Five Points is here.” He led us past grocery stores with wooden barrels of dried fish—delicious
baccalà
—and up to the ice cream vendor. He put the four pennies in the man's hand.
“It's a penny a serving,” the man said in his dialect. “You want three extra-large servings for four cents?”
“No. Tw o doubles,” said Gaetano, talking in the samedialect the ice cream vendor used, “for me and the little squirt.” He jerked his elbow toward me. “Nothing for the mook.”
“One double,” I said. “And two regulars.”
The ice cream vendor raised his eyebrows at Gaetano. Gaetano gave me a look of disgust. “I had a big lunch, but I guess I can stuff down a triple serving,” he said to the man. “Give the squirt one regular serving, then.”
The man took out a bit of brown paper and put a dab of ice cream on it and handed it to me. He gave three dabs to Gaetano.
What Gaetano had done was lousy.
I ate half the ice cream as slowly as I could. It was creamy and cold and not nearly enough. “You could buy a serving,” I said to Tin Pan Alley. He had fourteen extra pennies in his pocket, after all—his nine and my five.
“It's not your business what I buy or don't buy,” said Tin Pan Alley.
There must have been days when he didn't take in eighty cents. When extra money saved from a good day could spare him a beating.
I handed the paper to Tin Pan Alley.
He ate the rest of the ice cream in one bite and licked the paper clean. Then he turned and walked down Baxter toward Park.
“Bye,” I called.
In answer, he looked back over his shoulder at me.
“Where'd you pick him up?” asked Gaetano.
I shrugged. “What's a mook?”
“An idiot.”
“He's not an idiot.”
“He's got a
padrone
, doesn't he?” asked Gaetano. “Any kid who's owned by a
padrone
is an idiot. If you weren't one to start, you become one fast.”
“What's a shark?”
“A boss.”
“It can't mean just that,” I said. “A boss isn't something bad, but a shark is.”
“Depends on how you look at it. A shark sees what there is for the taking and takes it. Sharks are smart.” Gaetano pointed at the doors we passed. “That watchmaker, he's a banker on the side. He takes in Italians' money and saves it for them until they've got enough to send for relatives back home. Or, for the really stupid ones, until they think they've made their fortune and decide to go back to Italy. But in the meantime, he gives them nothing—not a cent— and he has their money to use however he wants. He can spend it to start a business of his own. Or he can lend it to immigrants who want to start businesses. None of the real banks will lend them money. But a shark will. He does nothing—he just sits there and makes money off the hard work of the people he lends to. And he makes money off the savings of other people, see? That's a smart shark.” He pointed. “That
“You got the four cents?”
I turned around. Gaetano stood there. Tin Pan Alley put four cents in Gaetano's hand.
“Wait a minute,” said Gaetano. “I've got a treat in mind, and it's four cents just for the two of us. I'm not paying for this mook.”
“I don't take nothing from no shark,” said Tin Pan Alley.
I didn't know what a mook or a shark was, but I could tell they were insults. “Tin Pan Alley,” I said quickly, “meet Gaetano. He's my friend. Gaetano, meet Tin Pan Alley. He keeps his promise.”
“Oh, another good boy, like you,” said Gaetano. “A beggar, huh?”
Tin Pan Alley spat on the ground.
I moved between them. “He's a musician.”
“A musician? Not a beggar, just a really skinny musician.” Gaetano blew through his lips, making a horse noise. “Well, come on, then.” He walked and talked, pointing as we went. “This is Baxter Street. Lots of people from Napoli live here. Like on Mulberry and Mott Streets. But the people from Genova live here, too. And the best ice cream vendor in all of Five Points is here.” He led us past grocery stores with wooden barrels of dried fish—delicious
baccalà
—and up to the ice cream vendor. He put the four pennies in the man's hand.
“It's a penny a serving,” the man said in his dialect. “You want three extra-large servings for four cents?”
“No. Tw o doubles,” said Gaetano, talking in the samedialect the ice cream vendor used, “for me and the little squirt.” He jerked his elbow toward me. “Nothing for the mook.”
“One double,” I said. “And two regulars.”
The ice cream vendor raised his eyebrows at Gaetano. Gaetano gave me a look of disgust. “I had a big lunch, but I guess I can stuff down a triple serving,” he said to the man. “Give the squirt one regular serving, then.”
The man took out a bit of brown paper and put a dab of ice cream on it and handed it to me. He gave three dabs to Gaetano.
What Gaetano had done was lousy.
I ate half the ice cream as slowly as I could. It was creamy and cold and not nearly enough. “You could buy a serving,” I said to Tin Pan Alley. He had fourteen extra pennies in his pocket, after all—his nine and my five.
“It's not your business what I buy or don't buy,” said Tin Pan Alley.
There must have been days when he didn't take in eighty cents. When extra money saved from a good day could spare him a beating.
I handed the paper to Tin Pan Alley.
He ate the rest of the ice cream in one bite and licked the paper clean. Then he turned and walked down Baxter toward Park.
“Bye,” I called.
In answer, he looked back over his shoulder at me.
“Where'd you pick him up?” asked Gaetano.
I shrugged. “What's a mook?”
“An idiot.”
“He's not an idiot.”
“He's got a
padrone
, doesn't he?” asked Gaetano. “Any kid who's owned by a
padrone
is an idiot. If you weren't one to start, you become one fast.”
“What's a shark?”
“A boss.”
“It can't mean just that,” I said. “A boss isn't something bad, but a shark is.”
“Depends on how you look at it. A shark sees what there is for the taking and takes it. Sharks are smart.” Gaetano pointed at the doors we passed. “That watchmaker, he's a banker on the side. He takes in Italians' money and saves it for them until they've got enough to send for relatives back home. Or, for the really stupid ones, until they think they've made their fortune and decide to go back to Italy. But in the meantime, he gives them nothing—not a cent— and he has their money to use however he wants. He can spend it to start a business of his own. Or he can lend it to immigrants who want to start businesses. None of the real banks will lend them money. But a shark will. He does nothing—he just sits there and makes money off the hard work of the people he lends to. And he makes money off the savings of other people, see? That's a smart shark.” He pointed. “That
Similar Books
