Feeling bad, he starts for home, going slowly. His head is filled with images of Emma, Mama, Agnes, Willa, Bruno. Papa’s word—“expensive”—keeps beating inside his head like a dull drum.
He’s struggling with his thoughts, staring at his feet, not paying attention to where he’s going, when someone suddenly slams him. The jolt sends him spinning so hard, he falls to the sidewalk. When he whips round to see who hit him, the guy who did it looks back and grins.
One of Bruno’s gang.
Maks jumps up and searches the crowds to see if other Plug Uglies are close. He don’t see none. All the same, it’s scary thinking those mugs are watching and waiting to get him. Standing up just seems a way of being knocked down.
Rattled, Maks tries to tell himself that being hit by that guy was just bad luck. Trouble is, he can’t be sure.
But the shock of being hit makes one thing clear: There ain’t time to wait for Papa. Or Mama. If Emma’s gonna get out of jail, he’s the one who got to do something—fast.
Maks hurries home, watching all which ways so he don’t get into no more trouble. By the time he hits Birmingham Street, he’s running, half expecting to see Bruno, or one of his pals, waiting for him on his front stoop. By then he’s ready to fight them all. Almost wants to.
Still, he’s glad no one is waiting, least no one from the gang. Only a bunch of neighborhood kids and their sister-minders, all of whom he knows by name.
“Hey, Maks. Whatcha doin’? Wanna play?”
Looking at them, Maks has this sudden longing to be like them again—young, not knowing enough to worry. Same time, he feels sorry for ’em ’cause they don’t know nothing ’bout anything, not like he does. But they’re gonna learn, he thinks. Oh, boy, they gonna learn how bad things are.
“Gotta hurry!” he calls, just wanting to be home. Gasping for breath, he races up the steps—all five flights—flying into the flat.
Mama ain’t there, but sitting at the table is Willa.
31
“Whatcha doing here?” Maks cries, not sure if he’s glad or mad.
“I wanted to get clean,” says an embarrassed Willa. “Your mama gave me a bath.”
“She did?”
“Can’t . . . you tell?”
Maks looks. Willa is a lot cleaner. Even her hair been washed.
Willa shrugs. “Didn’t have one for a long time.”
“Could have told me you were coming,” Maks says. “I was worried.”
Willa, wanting to change the subject, says, “Did you see your sister? She all right?”
“I saw her. And she ain’t okay. It’s an awful place. Where’s Mama?”
“Went to the privies. Can you get Emma out?”
Maks slumps against the door frame. Gestures to the picture on the wall. “Yeah. Me, Lincoln, and Queen Louise.”
“Maks . . . did . . . did she steal anything?”
“I told you, no.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not sure.” He glances at the clock. “I gotta get my papers.”
He takes up his cigar box, dumps the coins on the table, and shovels them into his pocket. “Just now, when I was coming home,” he says as he works, “one of them Plug Uglies knocked me on the street. Can’t tell if they was waiting and watching or just happened to see me.”
Willa glances away. Maks follows her look. Her stick is leaning against the wall.
“Maks . . .”
“What?”
“Sorry I didn’t wait for you.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Mama appears at the doorway. Soon as she sees Maks, she says, “Did you see Emma?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
Maks repeats what he told Papa and Agnes. When he’s done, Mama sits down on one of the kitchen chairs. Stares at her hands. No one speaks. She looks up. “Emma . . . Emma didn’t steal that watch . . . did she?”
Maks shakes his head.
“Is it awful there?”
“Yeah.
“She miserable?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going to happen to her?”
“A trial.”
“Dear God! When?”
“Soon. Not sure.”
“What did Papa say?”
“Not much.”
The grief on Mama’s face is too much for Maks. He wants to leave. Says, “Agnes is trying to find a lawyer. Costs a lot, probably. And we need to bring Emma money, for food. They don’t feed her. And she really wants to see you. Anyway, I gotta do my papers.”
Mama nods.
Maks turns to Willa, says, “You coming?”
Willa gets up and grabs her stick.
“Be back,” Maks calls to his mother.
Mama is still staring at her hands. “Maks!”
“What?”
Mama gives him a pleading look. “I’m sure Papa’s trying as best he can.”
“I know,” Maks says, not believing. He shuts the apartment door behind them.
Soon as he does, Willa says, “I’m sorry about your sister.”
All Maks can say is, “Come on. Can’t be late.”
They start down the steps, Maks first. Halfway down, he stops, lets out a big breath as if he’s been holding it a long time. Turns to Willa and says, “You gonna stay?”
She gives a quick nod, then says, “Your mama is very kind. Do you know what she said about you?”
“No.”
Willa says, “That you’re the hope of the family.”
All of a sudden, Maks feels like crying. “Wanna know why she says that?”
“Why?” Willa asks.
“ ‘Cause she and Papa don’t know how to help Emma.”
Willa waits a second and then says, “Do you?”
“Have to.”
“How?”
Maks shrugs. “Got an idea, but I need to sell my papers first. Come on.”
32
By the time Willa and Maks get behind The World building, newsies are waiting for the papers to be dished, lined up in twelve restless, ragged, chattering, and fooling rows.
What you need to understand here is, the faster you get your newspaper bundle and reach your corner and start selling, the better the sales. Being quick makes a big difference ’cause there’s tons of competition. City has something like thirty newspapers—and that’s not even counting all them papers not in English. Still, The World has the bloodiest headlines, so it sells best.
Anyway, Maks and Willa get on what looks like the shortest line, behind a kid named Rory. Few minutes later a bell clangs. The back doors of the newspaper building swing open. Burly men start lugging out tied-up copies of The World, forty copies a bundle. Soon as they dump them on long tables, the lines of newsies surge forward.
“What’s the headline?” Maks asks Rory as they edge closer.
“ ‘Bodies Burned to Ashes.’ ”
“That’ll work,” says Maks.
Rory looks at him. “Somebody told me the Plug Uglies tried to get you.”
“Got away okay.”
Rory eyes Willa—and her stick. He says, “Last night some guys didn’t. Lost their papers and their money. Got beat up, bad.”
Maks says, “I hate Bruno.”
“Rumor going round that he’s doing all this stuff so the paper will stop headlining that Gorker guy.”
“That true?”
Rory shrugs.
With the newsies in such a hurry, the line moves fast. When Maks and Willa reach the front, the newspapers are still piled high.
The way this works, a man is standing behind the spot Maks has come to. Next to the papers is a copper bowl hanging from a weight scale. Maks dumps his pennies into the empty bowl. The man bends over to look at the weight, rakes his fingers through the coins.
Maks says to Willa, “If he finds a slug, they kick you off the lines.”
With Maks checking out okay, the man pours his pennies from the scale bowl into a big wooden bucket. “Take ’
em!” he says.
Maks grabs a bundle, hefts it under his arm, turns to Willa, and says, “Let’s go.”
Going fast as they can—sometimes running—Maks leads the way to his spot, Hester Street and the Bowery.
Now, the rule among newsies is, you don’t hustle your sheets till you reach your own corner. See, you’re not supposed to go ’gainst your own guys, either, which in Maks’s case are World newsies. Course, you don’t care if it’s some kid peddling another sheet, like The Post.
As Maks and Willa run, they don’t talk much. Maks is too busy scanning the front pages, figuring his shout. Same time, both of ’em are watching for the Plug Uglies. They don’t see none.
When they get to Maks’s corner, Willa sits down on some steps just outside a small pickle shop, stick ’cross her knees. Maks goes to his selling spot, holds up a paper, and starts his cry: “Hey, read all ’bout it! Latest news! ‘Bodies Burned to Ashes!’ Terrible horror! Up in Canada. Blood! Bones! Awful news! Right here in The World. Just two cents! The world’s greatest newspaper.”
Whenever Maks sees someone looking his way, he runs and shoves a paper at him. “Here, sir. Here, ma’am! All the hot news!”
Being near the El station, lots of people come by, ’specially during evening rush hour. Sometimes Maks makes his sale, sometimes not. Hard work making a sell, but it’s great having Willa there ’cause Maks don’t have to lug his whole bundle every which way.
He does have to be louder than the elevated train that’s rumbling overhead. And the yelling teamsters. And the street sellers’ cries. And the fire wagon, which goes racing by, bells clanging, horses charging, pumper pouring smoke, firemen in helmets and rubber jackets running alongside. If Maks wasn’t selling papers, he would chase ’em. The city is full of fires, and he loves to watch.
After two hours Maks has only four newspapers left. That’s fast. Hands Willa three of the papers and says, “Put these behind your back.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
When she does, he goes back to his corner.
“ ‘Bodies Burned to Ashes!’ ” Maks yells. “Hey, lady. This is my last paper. Buy it and I can go home and take care of my sick mother! Honest. Come on, give a helpin’ hand. Awful horror up in Canada! My very last paper! Only two cents. . . . Sir, I really need to get home ’cause of my sick ma. Yes, sir. My sick mama will bless you!”
Soon as he sells that paper, he runs back to Willa, grabs another. Does the same thing again with the same “sick mother” shout. In twenty minutes he hustles his last sheet.
“See,” he says, “I just can’t do it too much.”
“Does it always work?”
“If it don’t, I can go into a drum and sell to drunks. But they give you too little or too much. You get arguments either way. Anyway,” he says, patting his pocket, “made my eight. You ready to go?”
“Where?”
“Gonna see that detective Chimmie told me ’bout.”
“You serious?”
“Got a better idea?”
“Won’t he be expensive?”
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
33
They run all the way to Delancey Street. By the time they get there, it’s pretty dark. Even so, crowds are thick, the street swarming with carts, trolleys, wagons, the usual people selling and buying. Kids all over the place, dodging whatever moves, playing as if they might never play tomorrow.
As for house number 624, when Maks sees it’s a tenement, he’s disappointed. Then he reminds himself—he don’t need rich.
On the building’s lower level someone has put a hand-lettered sign inside the right side window. Knowing Willa can’t read, Maks says it aloud:
LOST HUSBANDS FOUND!
Bartleby Donck, Lawyer—Private Detective
Helpful if Paid
“Are we looking for husbands?” asks Willa.
“All we need is the ‘helpful’ part. Come on.” They go in. The building’s entryway is like Maks’s house: dim, narrow, smelly, little kids playing jacks on the steps. On the right side, a warped door, with a sign tacked to it: DETECTIVE—KNOCK LOUDLY!!!
Maks knocks but gets no answer. Knocks again, louder. No one comes. Presses his ear to the door. “Someone’s there,” he says.
Willa says, “Try the door.”
Maks looks, but there’s no doorknob—just a hole—so he puts his shoulder to the door and shoves. With a pop, the door opens.
They’re looking into a murky kitchen laid out like Maks’s house. Some light leaks in from the up-front room.
What they see is all junk and jumble with roaches scrambling away from a half-eaten loaf of bread on the floor. There’s a small table but no chairs. On the table, moldy dishes, dirty glasses, a blackened pot. Tipped-over bottles and papers. No stove. Open books on the floor near a full spittoon. The place reeks of mold.
Wheezing noises come from the front room.
“Snoring,” Maks whispers.
Trying not to step on anything, which ain’t easy, they go up to the front room doorway. Look in.
The room’s like most tenements, with two windows in front. Against one sidewall is a large rolltop desk, with square compartments—what people call “pigeonholes.” The holes are stuffed with enough papers to look like wasted weeds.
’Gainst the opposite wall is a bookcase crammed with dried-out leather-bound books turned every which way, some of ’em tumbled to the floor.
In front of the desk there’s a high-backed chair, with leaky stuffing. And in the chair, slumped over the desk and papers, there’s a man.
34
The guy’s bald head—like a moon that’s fallen from the sky—is half buried in his arms. At his elbow an oil lamp is burning a small blue flame, a curl of black smoke spiraling up into the gloom. On the desk there’s something that looks like a thick rope lying near a pot of ink, from which a pen is sticking out. Looks as if the guy was writing, ’cause in front of him sheets of paper are covered with scraggly script and inky blots.
Maks and Willa wait. The man snorts and snores.
“Mr. Donck!” Maks calls.
The man rumbles, making his whole body shake. All the same, he stays drooped over his desk, over his papers.
“Mr. Donck!” Maks shouts louder.
With a jerk, the man sits up and swivels round. He peers at Willa and Maks with bloodshot eyes through small, wire-framed eyeglasses perched like butterfly wings on the tip of his fat, vein-lined nose. Side-whiskers give him the look of a bristly chimney brush.
When the man breathes, there’s a rattle deep in his throat. His chins go wobbly. Then he makes a couple of hacking coughs that cause his entire body to shudder.
Maks recognizes him. He’s the guy that kid at The Tombs pointed out as a lawyer.
The man reaches out a dirty hand—fingers shaking—plucks up that thick rope. It’s a rubber tube with wood bits at each end. One wood end is three inches wide, the other end narrower. The guy sticks the narrow end into one ear, holds the fat end toward Willa and Maks.
“What do you want?” he demands, his voice loud, thick, and gravelly. “Talk to the tube. I’m mostly deaf.”
“Please, sir,” yells Maks. “Are you Mr. Donck, the detective?”
“What do you want?”
“Advice.”
“About what?”
“My sister.”
Donck glares at Maks. Clearing his throat, he bellows: “Have you any idea how many children come to my door, wanting me to find fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, all of whom have abandoned them? Or who want my legal help when their relations are arrested, evicted, dead? Have you?”
“No, sir,” says Maks.
“Hundreds! Thousands! I don’t—can’t—won’t give advice to children.” He yanks the tube from his ear, turns away, and lurches forward, his head sinking back into his arms.
“Sir,” shouts Maks, “it’s my sister! She’s been arrested. She’s in The Tombs.” br />
Donck, not stirring, yells, “What did she do?”
“Nothing!”
The man jerks back up, coughs, snatches up a filthy, spotted handkerchief, wipes away bloody spittle that’s bubbled to his lips. Adjusts his eyeglasses, turns and sticks the tube back into his ear.
“The hopefulness of children,” he yells, “is equaled only by their naïveté! Do you have any idea what I just said?”
“No, sir.”
“I said, children hope for the best and get the worst. Now get out!” He coughs and falls back into his arms.
But Maks steps forward and shouts, “She didn’t steal nothing! And they say she’ll go to prison.”
“They spoke the truth!”
“Didn’t!” says Maks angrily.
Donck groans, leans back in his chair, shoves his eye-glasses up to his smudged, bald forehead, rubs his red eyes with dirty thumbs. When he moves, lint leaps from his whiskers like from a dust mop.
“Our Constitution,” proclaims Donck, wheezing between words, “proclaims that a person is innocent until proven guilty. But . . . in this city, innocence costs. Justice costs more. A bribe is what really works but costs the most.” He puts the tube back in his ear. “Have you any money? Speak into my tube.”
Maks leans forward. “No, sir.”
“All statues of Justice show that sainted lady to be blindfolded. Do you know why?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking ’bout.”
“So she can’t see how our law actually works!” shouts Donck. “No money. No justice.”
“Please, sir,” Maks yells, “my sister needs help!”
“Everybody needs help!” Donck roars, only to cough so badly that he gags and has to struggle to clear his throat. “What the devil is your name?”
“Maks, sir.”
“Maks what?”
“Maks Geless.”
“You?” he says to Willa, shifting the tube toward her.
“Willa.”
“Willa, Maks,” says Donck—and it sounds as if he’s pleading—“I’m poor because I help people who can’t help themselves. If I use my time helping your sister, I’ll starve. Ergo, I am starving.”