wine store, it's the Banca Italiana. It has no license, nothing. The owner did nothing but say he was running a bank, and people gave him their money. That's what I'm going to do when I get it all together. I'll open a bank.”
“And who's going to trust you with their money?” I said.
“You. And mooks like you.”
“I'm not a mook.”
“Oh, right, you're a king, the way you gave Tin PanAlley the rest of your ice cream. Listen, mook. Half-wits like you can't protect yourselves. It's either give me your money or get robbed on the street.” Gaetano tilted his head at me. “You keep surprising me, Dom. You know less than the Baxter monkeys.”
“I saw a monkey today,” I said.
“You like monkeys? That figures. Come on.” Gaetano swaggered up the street like a big man—a shark—and I followed like a mook. He stopped midblock. “Here it is. The most famous monkey-training school in the city. A smart monkey goes for thirty dollars.” He grinned at me. “You'd go for maybe twenty.”
There were curtains over the windows, so I couldn't see inside, thankfully. But I could hear monkey chatter from within. And I heard something else, too. Snaps. A whip?
It was right then that my stomach cramped. I doubled over.
Gaetano laughed. “The price of ice cream,” he said. “The Genovesi are pigs. They use dirty ingredients and dirty mixing bowls and they make dirty ice cream. But it tastes the best. If you stick around long enough, your guts'll get used to it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Church
I knew Gaetano was following me. And he knew I knew. He didn't even try to hide. Every time I'd look back over my shoulder, he'd be there, a half block behind.
I didn't go to him, though, no matter how much I wanted company. The ice cream had taught me a lesson. Anyone who would let me get that sick couldn't be trusted. Mamma was right—Eduardo was right—no one could be trusted.
Except maybe Tin Pan Alley; Tin Pan Alley was a stand-up kind of guy. But he was off somewhere with his
padrone
.
So I walked up and down alleys, relieving myself whenever the cramps from the ice cream were too great, never stopping for longer than that, trying to lose Gaetano.
After a while, I stumbled the two blocks east to Elizabeth Street, where Gaetano told me the Siciliani lived. He followed. But when I went beyond that, he stopped and turned around.
I got scared: was something awful east of Elizabeth Street? After all, Gaetano seemed to know everything. I turned back.
And there he was, waiting for me. He followed. Four blocks west of Baxter he stopped again. So I turned back.
Then I went south. Gaetano didn't cross Park. But I knew there was nothing dangerous south of Park, because I'd gone all the way to the wharves.
That meant Gaetano was like the stray dogs back in Napoli. He had a territory. If I slept outside his territory, he couldn't bother me.
But the only place I knew to sleep in was my barrel. I wandered south of Park, until I felt sure he'd given up. Then I snuck back to my barrel.
Sunday morning announced itself with church bells. For a moment I thought I was home in Napoli. Those could have been the bells of San Domenico Maggiore or Cappella San Severo or the Duomo itself.
I thought of that last morning in Napoli. Mamma's black hair, spread across my arm. The smell of meatballs and citronella candles. Sneaking out. I remembered other mornings, too. Her constant singing. Her hand on my cheek. How she lifted me to touch the
mezuzah
.
I didn't cry, though. I didn't make any noise at all,nothing to let anyone know where I was. Napoli was a dreamworld. I was here. In America. In my barrel.
I had to make sure Gaetano didn't see me getting out of the barrel. I peeked over the edge. An old woman with a sack thrown across her back rummaged at the opening of the alley, putting bones in the sack. When she saw me, she ran off.
This area was filled with ragpickers. Most were women or boys who worked for a
padrone
, picking up junk. I'd
“And who's going to trust you with their money?” I said.
“You. And mooks like you.”
“I'm not a mook.”
“Oh, right, you're a king, the way you gave Tin PanAlley the rest of your ice cream. Listen, mook. Half-wits like you can't protect yourselves. It's either give me your money or get robbed on the street.” Gaetano tilted his head at me. “You keep surprising me, Dom. You know less than the Baxter monkeys.”
“I saw a monkey today,” I said.
“You like monkeys? That figures. Come on.” Gaetano swaggered up the street like a big man—a shark—and I followed like a mook. He stopped midblock. “Here it is. The most famous monkey-training school in the city. A smart monkey goes for thirty dollars.” He grinned at me. “You'd go for maybe twenty.”
There were curtains over the windows, so I couldn't see inside, thankfully. But I could hear monkey chatter from within. And I heard something else, too. Snaps. A whip?
It was right then that my stomach cramped. I doubled over.
Gaetano laughed. “The price of ice cream,” he said. “The Genovesi are pigs. They use dirty ingredients and dirty mixing bowls and they make dirty ice cream. But it tastes the best. If you stick around long enough, your guts'll get used to it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Church
I knew Gaetano was following me. And he knew I knew. He didn't even try to hide. Every time I'd look back over my shoulder, he'd be there, a half block behind.
I didn't go to him, though, no matter how much I wanted company. The ice cream had taught me a lesson. Anyone who would let me get that sick couldn't be trusted. Mamma was right—Eduardo was right—no one could be trusted.
Except maybe Tin Pan Alley; Tin Pan Alley was a stand-up kind of guy. But he was off somewhere with his
padrone
.
So I walked up and down alleys, relieving myself whenever the cramps from the ice cream were too great, never stopping for longer than that, trying to lose Gaetano.
After a while, I stumbled the two blocks east to Elizabeth Street, where Gaetano told me the Siciliani lived. He followed. But when I went beyond that, he stopped and turned around.
I got scared: was something awful east of Elizabeth Street? After all, Gaetano seemed to know everything. I turned back.
And there he was, waiting for me. He followed. Four blocks west of Baxter he stopped again. So I turned back.
Then I went south. Gaetano didn't cross Park. But I knew there was nothing dangerous south of Park, because I'd gone all the way to the wharves.
That meant Gaetano was like the stray dogs back in Napoli. He had a territory. If I slept outside his territory, he couldn't bother me.
But the only place I knew to sleep in was my barrel. I wandered south of Park, until I felt sure he'd given up. Then I snuck back to my barrel.
Sunday morning announced itself with church bells. For a moment I thought I was home in Napoli. Those could have been the bells of San Domenico Maggiore or Cappella San Severo or the Duomo itself.
I thought of that last morning in Napoli. Mamma's black hair, spread across my arm. The smell of meatballs and citronella candles. Sneaking out. I remembered other mornings, too. Her constant singing. Her hand on my cheek. How she lifted me to touch the
mezuzah
.
I didn't cry, though. I didn't make any noise at all,nothing to let anyone know where I was. Napoli was a dreamworld. I was here. In America. In my barrel.
I had to make sure Gaetano didn't see me getting out of the barrel. I peeked over the edge. An old woman with a sack thrown across her back rummaged at the opening of the alley, putting bones in the sack. When she saw me, she ran off.
This area was filled with ragpickers. Most were women or boys who worked for a
padrone
, picking up junk. I'd
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