"This is a lot worse, you mook. When those scugnizzi tell all the other scugnizzi we're easy targets, we'll be mobbed every morning."

"So let's just tell the scugnizzi about your big brother."

"You think they don't know? Those kids listen to everything. But, you see, big brothers don't beat up scugnizzi. They're too little."

"My padrone doesn't care how old someone is," said Tin Pan Alley. "He beats anyone."

"Exactly," said Gaetano. "A padrone is the lowest of the low. My big brother is honorable."

His big brother. Who didn't even exist.

Gaetano stomped off, scowling, to patrol the area, while Tin Pan Alley and I waited for the lunch crowd to come trickling out of the buildings.

But today they rushed, and they didn't give us a second glance. A woman who'd been our customer twice before scurried past with a cloth sack full of small banners on sticks.

"What's going on?" I asked Tin Pan Alley.

He ran after the woman and they talked.

When Gaetano realized something was wrong, he joined me at the cart.

Tin Pan Alley came back, his face striken. "It's Flag Day."

"Never heard of it," said Gaetano.

"It's celebrating the country."

"You mook, Independence Day's not till July."

"You're the mook. It's Flag Day. Some new thing. The woman said so. Everyone's going to the public schools to see their kids march in a parade holding little flags."

"Do you know where the schools are?" I asked Gaetano.

Gaetano smirked. "Around here? What do you think?"

"It doesn't matter, anyway," said Tin Pan Alley. "Lunch is part of the celebration."

We watched as more customers went on by.

Gaetano kicked the sidewalk. "So what are we supposed to do with all this food?"

"Not everyone has kids." I took the handles and pushed the cart a few steps. "Let's go door-to-door to the little businesses. I pass tons of them on the way to Central Park every night."

"No one's going to pay what Wall Street pays," said Tin Pan Alley. "The rest of the world is poor."

"So let them pay less," said Gaetano. "Otherwise, the whole day is a flop. And since you"-he pointed at me- "and you"-he pointed at Tin Pan Alley-"wouldn't let us keep back any of yesterday's profits, that means good-bye, business." He grabbed the cart handles from me and rolled back toward Five Points. "Come on," he called over his shoulder.

"I can't leave," said Tin Pan Alley. "My padrone."

Gaetano stopped and turned around with a bulldog face. "We need you to speak English. Get over here."

Tin Pan Alley didn't move.

"Sandwiches," I said in English. "The best in town."

"Please," Tin Pan Alley said to me in English.

"What's that mean?"

"It's a good word. When you walk into a store, begin with please. And end with thank you."

I knew what thank you meant. "Please," I said. "Thank you." I gave Tin Pan Alley two sandwiches-one for lunch, one for dinner-but I didn't have any coins to put in his cup.

Gaetano and I rolled up the street. We stopped in every little store we passed, all the way to Chatham Square. Then we went around the edge of Five Points, to avoid the scugnizzi, and back along Canal Street. Then north along the route I took to the train station. It was well past lunchtime when we stopped to eat. We'd sold all but ten sandwiches. Most for ten cents. But sometimes we were lucky and got fifteen.

I chewed on a cheese sandwich and looked over at the last ones on the cart. My heart fell. "What'll we do with the rest?"

"If I have to eat another of these sandwiches for dinner," said Gaetano, "I'll puke." He jammed the rest of his in his mouth. "I dreamed of sandwiches last night."

I believed him; I had, too. "We could give them away."

"No one would take them. They'd figure there was something wrong with them."

We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

So we kept hawking, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. We sold two more. Then I told Gaetano about what Tin Pan Alley had done with the soggy sandwiches the Wednesday before, and we walked around putting sandwiches in the cups of beggar boys.

Once we finally counted our money, we had five dollars and fifteen cents.

Gaetano moved close to me and hunched over so no one could see what was in his hands. He counted the money again. Then he stuck it in his pocket. "I can't believe it. I couldn't believe it yesterday when it grew so fast. But today-with everything that went wrong-it should have gone down to nothing."

"We started the morning with a ton of sandwiches, Gae-tano. We couldn't wind up empty-handed."

"But this isn't how money works." Gaetano shook his head. "I know what you said yesterday. All that stuff about quadrupling. But that isn't how money works, really. If you make a dollar one day, you make another dollar the next, not five." He patted the outside of his pocket. "You really think this will keep up?" he whispered.

"If we buy more sandwiches each day, we'll make more money than the day before. Lots more."

"We can't sell more sandwiches. There aren't enough customers at Tin Pan Alley's corner on a regular day."

"You're right. Pretty soon we can save some of our money."

"Or spend it."

Right. We'd sell one thousand sandwiches in no time. The money was coming in. And I'd spend mine on documents and a ticket before long.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Signora Esposito.

We crossed the street in stunned silence. Even though I understood the numbers ... Five dollars and fifteen cents. Wow. "We need a bank," I said finally. "We need Grandinetti."

We went up Mulberry to Grandinetti's without another word. There were a couple of women in the store, and Grandinetti looked at us through the window and shook his head. So we waited out on the sidewalk.

When the customers finally left, I rolled the handcart into the storeroom. I picked loose produce off the floor and arranged it into piles. I jerked my chin toward the corner where the broom stood. Gae-tano took the broom and swept. Neither of us said anything.

Grandinetti scratched the back of his neck andwatched us. Then he took out a pencil and walked around the store, making a check of inventory. Finally, he brushed his hands off and put them on his hips. "Okay, I get it. You're trying to make up, but it won't work."

Make up? And suddenly I realized. "I'm sorry we were late."

"And where's my towel?"

"Some kids stole it."

"That's it," said Grandinetti. "I can't lend you my things anymore. They're too important to me."

"How much does the handcart cost?" asked Gaetano.

"I traded for it-used. But to replace it, I'd have to pay two dollars and fifty cents."

"Let us keep it," said Gaetano. He put two dollars and fifty cents on the counter. "Buy a new cart. It's a good deal for you."

I gulped.

Gaetano reached in his pocket again. "And, hey, here's ten more cents for the towel."

Grandinetti blinked. "How'd you get so much money?"

"The sandwich business is good," said Gaetano.

"That good?"

Gaetano emptied his pockets onto the counter.

"Will you keep our money for us at night?" I said.

Grandinetti slowly counted it. "Give it to your mother."

"He can't," said Gaetano. "She's not here."

"You told me you don't have a father." Grandinetti wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Now is Gaetano saying you don't have a mother, either?"

"Sure I have a mother," I said. "In Napoli."

Grandinetti threw up his hands. "I'm not getting mixedup with a padrone. If you don't want to give the money to your padrone, you'll have to find some other solution."

"I don't have a padrone."

Grandinetti stared at me. "You're alone?"

"I've got Gaetano," I said. "And Tin Pan Alley."

"Who?"

"Another kid," said Gaetano.

"Where's your father?" Grandinetti asked Gaetano.

"Dead."

I winced.

"And your mother?"

"She died when I was born."

I clenched my teeth to keep from making a noise. Poor Gaetano. Had he come to America with his father, and then had his father died on him? But I could never ask him. I stared at the floor.

"Let me get this straight. You boys are on your own? Neither one of you has family or a padrone here?"

We didn't say anything.

"Where do you sleep?"

"I used to have a barrel," I said. "But now I sleep in the park."

Grandinetti looked at Gaetano. "And you?"

"I take care of myself."

Grandinetti shook his head in disgust. "There's too much of this going on. Too many kids on their own." He put the money back in Gaetano's hand. "Here's what you do. Cross the street and go to number forty-four, one flight up. Rent a room from Signora Esposito."

"How much does a room cost?" I asked.

"It's not a real boardinghouse. She has one extra room.Tiny. Offer her two dollars a week per person, with dinner included."

"We can't afford that," said Gaetano.

"Did you really earn this money?"

"Yes."