So far that day I'd eaten only rock candy and one orange. I couldn't risk looking at the orange sections in my hand, or I might gobble them up.

Tin Pan Alley smiled. "Now and then dumb makes sense." He ate another section. "Five cents lost. But, oh ..." He ate another and another.

"Five cents is nothing compared to fifty," I said.

"Fifty?" Tin Pan Alley's eyes sharpened. His cheeks pinched, as though he was sure I was about to pull a fast one on him.

"You're going to be eating a lot of oranges from now on." I put the rest of the orange in his hand.

"What are you talking about?"

"I've got an idea." And it was a beauty, all right. I could hear Mamma in my head, telling me to be my own boss. "Come on, Gaetano, hurry."

Gaetano had been watching me this whole time as though he couldn't figure me out. But now he flinched to attention. "Why?"

I was already racing toward Five Points. "Can you get your hands on some clean paper?"

"What for?"

"That brown paper the ice cream man uses-that would do."

"Yeah. I can get some. What for?"

"And can you get a knife?"

"A knife? Whoa. Tell me what for or I don't want any part of it."

"Forget the knife. I bet Grandinetti has a knife I can use. Just get the paper."

By this time, we were at the corner of Park Street. Gae-tano grabbed my arm. "What's going on?"

"I'm going to make money, Gaetano. Lots. And Tin Pan Alley is going to help me. You can be part of it, unless you're too much of a rabbit."

"You think I'm stupid enough to do something just because you call me names?" he said. "I do what I want to do. And I don't hurt anyone. No knives."

"We won't hurt a soul. I'm going to earn enough money for a ticket home and new documents. You want something, that's for sure. You're always hungry. Except when you're eating steak. So are you in?"

"All I have to do is get brown paper?"

"Yeah. Four big pieces."

"What about that knife?" he said.

"Just get the paper and meet me at Grandinetti's."

"Where?"

"The produce store. And if I'm not there, wait for me, 'cause I'll be coming."

I ran to Grandinetti's. He was standing behind the weighing counter, reading the paper. "Please," I said.

Grandinetti looked over the edge of the paper at me. "Please what?"

The words burst out of me. "I need to borrow twenty-five cents. Only for a couple of hours."

"I'm not a bank." He clapped his hands together in front of his chest as though he was praying and shook them at me. "Small as you are, you're a good worker. You keep it up and I'll be square with you. But I'm no chump."

"Here." I took off my shoes. "You can keep them if I don't pay you back by the end of the day."

Grandinetti frowned. "Your folks will be angry if you come home without your shoes."

"I'll have my shoes at the end of the day-and you'll have your twenty-five cents. Please."

"I don't want to face your angry father."

"I don't have a father."

Grandinetti blinked. "Your shoes are worth more than twenty-five cents-but twenty-five cents is all I'll lend you."

"That's all I'm asking for."

"All right."

"And do you have a knife I can use?"

"What's this all about?"

"I'm just going to cut a sandwich with it."

"Bring the sandwich in here," he said. "I'll cut it."

I took the twenty-five cents and ran barefoot to Luigi Pierano's store on Park Street. I bought a long sandwich stuffed with salami and provolone and hot peppers and onions and tomatoes and lettuce, nodding my head yes to everything he offered.

At Grandinetti's, Gaetano was waiting with the brown paper.

Grandinetti shook his head. "Exactly how do you expect to get your shoes back?"

"I'll bring you money, I swear. Just cut the sandwich into four equal sections. Please."

"His shoes, for a picnic," said Grandinetti under his breath as he cut the sandwich.

Gaetano and I wrapped the four pieces. Then we ran back to Wall Street. We didn't have to talk; Gaetano knew what was up.

"Here." I held out the cut sandwiches to Tin Pan Alley. "Sell them. Fifty cents."

"Sandwiches?" He looked around. "I'm not a vendor. I just make music."

"You were going to sell the orange," said Gaetano.

"One orange. That's easy. But I can't sell four sandwiches. Who would buy them from me? People have to trust food vendors."

"Try," I said.

One side of Tin Pan Alley's mouth rose nervously. He held out a sandwich to a passing man. "Sandwich?" he said in English.

The man looked at the sandwich. Then he looked at me, standing behind Tin Pan Alley with three more sandwiches. I smiled at him and tried to look trustworthy. He looked at Gaetano. Gaetano smiled at him. He said something in English to Tin Pan Alley.

"Chicken," said Tin Pan Alley in English.

The man said something else in English. Then he handed Tin Pan Alley a coin, took the sandwich, and walked away.

"A quarter," said Gaetano.

"How much is a quarter worth?" I asked.

"Twenty-five cents."

"That's only half of fifty." I pointed at Tin Pan Alley. "You said they'd pay fifty cents for a sandwich."

"So what," said Tin Pan Alley. "I didn't tell the guy the price. That's just what he gave me. Don't get mad."

"Mad?" Gaetano grinned. "You're both mooks. A quarter! That crazy man just paid a whole quarter for a sandwich. Tin Pan Alley, you were right; the people here have no sense of the value of money. They'll pay anything, and we've still got three more sandwiches to sell." He slapped Tin Pan Alley on the back. "It worked! Dom's crazy plan worked!"

It did. It worked. Gaetano saw things right. I grinned at Tin Pan Alley, too. "What does chicken mean?"

"It's the English word for pollo. He asked what was in the sandwich."

"But there's no chicken in the sandwich," I said.

"It was the only English word for meat I could think of. I hope the guy likes salami."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Money.

The next three sandwiches were harder to sell. People walked by without giving us a look. But then a group of young men dressed in identical suits and ties came up. They took all three and gave Tin Pan Alley a handful of coins.

Tin Pan Alley counted. "Nine nickels."

"What's a nickel worth?" I asked.

"Five cents."

"That's only forty-five cents." I looked around for the men. They were just going through the door of a building. I ran. Spun. And fell.

Gaetano had hooked my elbow with such force that I'd been knocked off my feet. "Forget it. You can't go in there."

"They cheated us."

"And we'll get cheated again." Gaetano put his fists on his hips. "That's how it works."

"Look at it this way," said Tin Pan Alley. "We're forty-five cents ahead. Forty-five cents!"

"For once the mook is right." Gaetano grinned. "Forty-five whole cents."

And it wasn't even lunchtime yet. All right, this was okay.

Gaetano and I went back to Five Points, me racing ahead straight to Grandinetti's. I put the quarter on the counter under his nose.

"That was quick." Grandinetti reached under the counter and took out my shoes. He raised his brows in question.

I didn't want to explain. Not yet. There was still a lot to figure out. It felt like a dream, it was going so fast. If everything went the way I wanted it to, I'd be home in Napoli in no time.

So I sat on the floor and brushed off my feet and just smiled up at Grandinetti. Then I put on my shoes and rubbed them shiny with my thumbs. Gaetano waited for me out on the street. He was still grinning. I waved to him through the open door.

When I stood, I reached out to shake Grandinetti's hand.

He gave a crooked smile and hesitated. But he shook firmly.

"Keep your knife ready," I said. "We'll be right back."

"I'm not going anywhere."

The instant I stepped out the door, Gaetano grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me down the block. "Look, I've got this all worked out. Give me five cents."

"No," I said. "Let's keep buying as many long sandwiches as we have money for. The more we sell, the more we make."

"If you don't give me five, what are we going to wrap the cut sandwiches in? No one will buy a sandwich that's been sitting in our bare hands. We need paper."

"Paper costs five cents?"

"No, you mook. I got the last four pieces for a penny. So that means the business owes me a penny. And with the other four pennies I'll buy sixteen more pieces. Sixteen, 'cause we have to look ahead."

His words rang in my head: the business. We had a business already. I gave Gaetano a nickel.

He headed for Baxter Street.

I made a beeline for Pierano's and bought another sandwich. Grandinetti cut it into four pieces. Gaetano and I wrapped the pieces in the new brown paper. But when we got to the fourth sandwich, Gaetano stopped. "Could you cut this one again?" he asked Grandinetti.

I knew immediately that he was thinking of our lunch. I almost objected. But hunger held my tongue.