City of Orphans Read online

“Okay with me,” says Maks. “Listen. Didn’t want to tell Mama, but Willa and me, we went and saw that detective—Donck—again. Guess what? In the morning I’m going to the Waldorf.”

  Agnes looks up. “Why?”

  “Sleuthing. Looking for evidence. Clues. Gonna work there.”

  “How’d you fix that?”

  “The detective did.”

  “What do you expect to find?”

  “Stuff to prove Emma didn’t steal.”

  “What about your newspapers?”

  “Willa can sell ’em. The other newsies met her. Jacob can go too. They knows him.”

  Agnes says, “Why don’t you tell Mama and Papa what you’re doing? Show them you’re doing something.” She turns to Willa. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

  “I think he should tell them,” says Willa.

  Maks shakes his head. “What if they say no? Let’s see what happens first.”

  “Will it be dangerous?” asks Agnes.

  “At the Waldorf? Naw.”

  Later, Willa is under her blanket. Maks is sitting on a chair. They hear the storm outside rattling the front windows, beating on the roof overhead. From the back room comes the sound of Papa singing in his deep voice. They listen.

  Vi drog fra Hjemmets Egne

  Til ukjendte Strand,

  Og snart vi os nu naerme

  Til det fremmede Lans.

  Hvad Tiden os vil Skikke

  Der, Sorrig Eller Fred

  Det Kjender vi jo ikke,

  Det Gud alene ved.

  “What’s he singing?” Willa whispers.

  “Danish song. It’s the only song he ever sings. ’Bout coming to America.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “I don’t hardly speak Danish. But Emma once told me the words. Something like: ‘We’re traveling from our home to an unknown land. What will be there, sadness or peace, we don’t know. Only God knows.’ ”

  49

  Thursday morning.

  By the time Maks gets himself up and steps into the kitchen, Willa has already got water from the yard. Mama is making coffee.

  Maks grabs the ash and milk cans and heads down the steps. At the front door he peeks out. No Plug Uglies.

  It’s a relief, but looking reminds him what the gang shouted at Willa when he was in The Tombs: “We’ll get you soon.” And what Bruno told them in the alley: “We’re gonna soak the street with your blood.”

  He shivers, and it got nothing to do with the early-morning chill.

  After dumping the ashes, Maks, wanting to look decent at the hotel, gives himself a face wash in the backyard with cold water. As he does, he looks up and sees blue sky. Least he won’t have to walk to the hotel in rain.

  When he gets the milk, Mrs. Vograd reminds him ’bout the family account that’s due.

  Maks feels like the whole world is pounding on them.

  Back in the kitchen Papa and Agnes are getting ready to go to work. As they leave, Agnes gives Maks a look. He’s sure she’s telling him to tell Mama what he’s doing.

  He still don’t want to.

  It’s when he and Willa are walking the boys to school that he says to Jacob, “Willa’s gonna do my papers today. I need you to go with her.”

  “What you doin’?”

  “Something for Emma.”

  “What?” asks Eric.

  Maks gives him a punch on his shoulder. “Just do what I’m saying, okay?”

  “Did you tell Mama?”

  “Hey, I’m telling you.”

  “How come Willa only needs Jacob?” Ryker wants to know.

  “ ‘Cause she does, that’s all. So be outside school ’bout one thirty.”

  “Got class,” Jacob says.

  “Teacher won’t care. Willa be waiting.”

  “You gonna bring Emma home?” Eric asks.

  “I’m trying. Now shut up.”

  The boys know Maks well enough to know he ain’t gonna answer no more questions.

  Maks and Willa leave the boys at the school gate.

  “Should I go with you to the hotel?” Willa says when they’ve gone a block. She hefts her stick.

  “Be okay,” says Maks. “Anyway, you gotta take Mama to The Tombs. And you need to see Emma. Remember? Donck’s question.”

  “The room number?”

  “Yeah. And you’re living with us, right? So now on, Emma’s your sister.” He starts walking north.

  “Maks,” Willa calls, “if your mother asks me where you are, I don’t want to lie.”

  Maks looks round. “Say what you want. Just don’t forget: My paper money is in the cigar box. Make sure Jacob goes with you when you do the papers, okay? And take your stick.”

  Willa nods.

  “Hope you find something!” she calls after him.

  “Keep a look out!” he shouts back.

  50

  Maks heads uptown, moving at a steady pace, hands in pockets, his slightly damp cap on his head. It’s something like three miles to the hotel.

  Streets are crammed full of people going to work: women in long dark skirts, big hats. Men in rough clothing, carrying tools, lunch pails, derbies or caps on their heads. Kids everywhere, running, walking, scooting in between the adults. He sees one kid steal an apple from a stand, then eat it on the run, like he never ate before. A couple of kids are sleeping in a deep doorway.

  Horses and mules hauling wagons. Hansom cabs crowding one another. Pushcarts on streets and sidewalks. It’s early, but mugs are standing in front of stores calling people to come in, look round, and buy. Sidewalks spilling open baskets, barrels, crates, boxes full of food, shirts, dishes—you name it, it’s there. To hear the calls, ain’t nothing but bargains.

  Maks makes his way through it all, walking so fast that it ain’t too long ’fore he’s moving the most direct way, which is under the Second Avenue El. As he’s going, he’s thinking mostly ’bout this Packwood mug he’s supposed to meet, going over the questions Donck told him to ask. Keeps hoping he can find the clues Emma needs.

  Maks is thinking so hard that when he looks up, he’s surprised to find himself near the same place where he and Willa saw Bruno and the Plug Uglies the night before.

  Since the last thing Maks wants is a tangle with them guys, he crosses over to the other side of the street. Same time, he can’t help being curious ’bout the place where the gang went. So he keeps going under the El, up Second Avenue.

  He reaches the Rivington Street station steps and stands behind a couple of pillars and looks over the buildings ’cross the way.

  Being early, the Shirt Tail saloon ain’t open yet. As for the house next door, downtown side, Maks sees now it’s wooden, which means it’s old. They don’t build ’em that way anymore ’cause wood burns easy. And there are lots of fires in the city.

  As Maks studies the old building, he realizes it’s been abandoned. Which is to say, the windows as well as the front door are covered with boards. Peeling reddish paint on sagging walls. A buckled roof with just a few torn shingles left and a big hole that won’t keep out much rain. A brick chimney—soot black at the top and without much chinking—seems ’bout to tumble.

  The downtown side of this old building is set against a newer brick tenement. Right in front of it—on the sidewalk—there’s a streetlamp with a fire-alarm box attached, its red light faded in the morning sun.

  It’s between the old house and the saloon that Maks notices a gap. The space ain’t much bigger than two feet ’cross. Can’t hardly even call it an alley. But Maks figures it must have been where the gang disappeared the night before.

  Gazing at it, Maks wonders what’s at the far end, where the gang was heading.

  Sure, Maks knows he’s got to get to the Waldorf, but he figures he’s got some extra time. Least, that’s his excuse for taking a closer look at that gap.

  A bit nervous, he checks the street, uptown and downtown, but don’t see nothing or nobody worth a nod.

  Maks crosses the st
reet, stands on the sidewalk, and peers into the little alley. Since the day is bright and sunny, the space dark, he don’t see much.

  Telling himself he’ll be safe, he squeezes in. As his eyes adjust to the gloom, he’s seeing a well-worn path. Gradually, he makes out a wall at the far end. Looks to be the back wall of another building. A tenement, he supposes. But he don’t see no door or window. Nothing but wall. Makes him think there’s another way out of this gap—which ain’t the end.

  The more he stares, the more Maks is sure that the gang probably didn’t go out the far end of the narrow alley. Used the alley to go into the old house.

  He can’t resist checking.

  Though it’s dingy in there, he keeps telling himself to be careful, that this is the worst place for him, that he’s doing something risky, dangerous, even stupid, that he needs to get uptown. But what’s he do? He goes farther in.

  Inching forward, he moves slowly, hands on opposite walls to steady himself, as if he’s walking a tightrope. With every step he takes, he’s telling himself, Get ready to run.

  Then he spots what he thought he’d find—on the side of the old wooden house. Ain’t a door or a window, but a large, jagged, door-size hole big enough to let someone pass through. What’s more, Maks can see that it’s covered— on the inside—by a curtain of splotchy yellow color. Just hanging there.

  Though Maks’s head is screaming at him that he’s seen enough, that he needs to get out of there, his legs keep creeping forward till he’s right outside that hole.

  Carefully, he eases the curtain aside—it makes a squeaky sound—and peeks in.

  It’s dark inside the house, save for rods of light poking through chinks in the boarded-up windows. So it takes Maks a few moments to see that on the floor is an unlit oil lamp.

  And right behind it, a body.

  Maks gawks. But even as he looks, the person rolls over.

  It’s Bruno.

  And Bruno’s eyes are wide open.

  “Hey!” he yells. “You!”

  51

  Maks whirls round and busts out of the alley. He don’t stop, either, but keeps racing, looking back every few seconds to see if Bruno is coming.

  Only when he’s gone seven uptown blocks does he slow down. He’s breathing hard, heart pounding, telling himself what a busted brain he’s got. Creeping up that way, spying on Bruno, was no better than poking an angry dog in the eye. If he’d been caught, he’d have been chewed.

  All the same, Maks keeps wondering, Did Bruno see me? If he did, what’ll he do about it? Maybe waking up that way—suddenly—meant Bruno thought Maks was only a dream.

  The notion calms Maks down.

  Still, he keeps walking fast, getting farther away, always checking back over his shoulder.

  No Bruno.

  After a while Maks tells himself, I’m safe. He didn’t really see me. Naw, he won’t do nothing.

  52

  It’s just before nine thirty when Maks gets to Thirty-third Street and Fifth Avenue: the Waldorf Hotel. He stands ’cross the street and stares at it.

  With thirteen stories, it’s a lot taller than most nearby buildings. Maybe not as big as The World building, but big enough—so tall that Maks wonders how long it’d take to walk steps to the top.

  The first two levels are stone, the rest brick. As for windows, there are huge ones down low, smaller ones higher, far too many for Maks to count. Poking out here and there are large balconies. At the top, lots of small roofs with pointy tops and chimneys. One corner of the building is rounded off, like a fortress.

  Along the Fifth Avenue side, there’s a two-story entryway that sticks over the street. Has a metal awning complete with fancy, curly ironwork. Under it stands a doorman who looks like a guard.

  This guy is wearing a long blue coat with double rows of bright brass buttons, glossy black top hat, white gloves on his hands, and spats on his boots. Maks wonders if this guard is there to help folks in or keep them out. Hardly seems big enough to do either.

  As Maks stands there trying to get his courage up to go ’cross the street, good-looking horses hauling fancy carriages trot up to the entry. People spill out of the carriages: pale ladies with fine long skirts, furs over their shoulders, big hats with feathers on their heads, lace hiding their eyes. There are gents, too, with dark suits, shiny black hats, cigars in hand, side-whiskers and mustaches—what they call “muck-a-mucks.” And servants buzzing ’bout ’em like flies round old meat.

  Though Maks sometimes walked with Emma to her job here, knowing he’s going inside this time makes it all different. He don’t see one newsie, flower girl, or shoeblack. Nobody like himself. Truth is, Maks never felt so small in his life. Everything so far above him, he might as well be jumping the moon. How’s he gonna find clues?

  From those times he’s been with Emma, he knows that people who work in the hotel ain’t allowed to go in through the main doors. Got a servants’ entrance over on Thirty-third, the one Donck told him to use.

  Maks walks round the corner to a driveway. It leads to an open court and the service entrance. Men are unloading food wagons. Other wagons are waiting with piles of trunks.

  Then there’s the servants’ entry and, next to it, a small, high table with another mug in green uniform with a shiny cap. He’s checking goods and people going in.

  To Maks, the folks here look a lot more regular than the ones going in on Fifth Avenue. Except he notices that none of the men have whiskers or mustaches.

  There’s a short line of people going in, so Maks tags on the end. When he reaches the guard, the man looks down at him. “What you want, kid?”

  “I need to see Mr. Packwood.”

  The man stares at Maks as if he don’t believe him. “He expecting you?”

  “Guess,” Maks says.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Maks. Maks . . . Brown.”

  The guard pulls out papers, flips through them. Maks thinks, Like The Tombs.

  “All right, fine,” the man says, and touches what looks to be a button on the wall behind him. He yanks the door open. “Go inside and sit down.”

  Maks does what he’s told, stepping into a long hallway— so long, he can’t see its end. It’s wide, with fancy polished wood on the floor, as if no one is supposed to step on it. Walls painted dark red. Electric lights hanging from the ceiling.

  There’s a wooden bench over which is a sign: JOB SEEKERS SIT HERE. Maks figures that’s him, so he sits, remembering to snatch off his hat. Hopes he’s not making the bench dirty.

  As he’s sitting there, the outside door keeps opening. People passing in and out, but they don’t pay no mind to Maks.

  On the wall opposite where he’s sitting there’s a large painting with a wooden frame. It’s nice to look at, with its hills, trees, flowers, and a river. If this is a picture of Heaven—and Maks thinks it just might be—he’s thinking Willa’s alley was the other place.

  As he gazes at it, Maks can’t help thinking ’bout where he lives, down on the East Side, their flat on Birmingham Street. The painting makes him think how dirty and run-down it is. Gives him a bad feeling.

  Maks sits on that bench long enough to begin worrying that nothing will happen—that being here is a mistake—but then a man comes rushing up to him.

  He’s young, clean-shaven, neatly dressed, with a smooth jacket and blue tie. “Maks Brown?” he says.

  Maks grabs his hat and jumps up. “Yes, sir.”

  “Here to see Mr. Packwood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This way.”

  The man walks down the hallway so fast that Maks skips to keep up.

  The guy opens a door. Gesturing, he tells Maks to go on.

  He steps into a big room with cubbyholes against the walls, low benches in the middle. What looks to be a closet in the back. Couple of men changing their clothes.

  The guy who brought Maks into the room points to the back of the room, to that closet.

  “Go tak
e a shower.”

  “Take what?”

  “A shower. To get clean. Don’t you know what I’m talking about?”

  Maks shakes his head.

  “Go into that little room. Shut the door. Stand under what looks like a pail and pull the cord that’s hanging there. Water will come down. Use soap to clean yourself. Rinse yourself off with more water.”

  Maks stands there, eyeing the mug. Donck didn’t say nothing ’bout this.

  “Please do as you’re asked.”

  Maks goes into the little room. It’s paneled in wood, with a hook on one wall over a little bench. On the hook a cloth hangs.

  He pulls the door shut. Not sure what to do, he looks up and sees what that guy told him would be there: something hanging over his head that looks like a pail with holes in it. Near it a rope hangs down. Maks reaches up and pulls the rope. Cold water pours down.

  Shocked, Maks jumps to one side. Now that his clothes are soaked, he peels ’em off, hangs ’em on the hook. Using a chunk of yellow soap that’s there, he scrubs himself. Mutters to himself, “It ain’t even Saturday.”

  Then he reaches up and pulls the rope again. More cold water pours down, washing soap away. Shivering, not knowing what else to do, he gets back into his damp clothing. Steps out into the large room.

  The mug who brought him eyes him. “Your clothing is wet,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  The guy smirks and, as if measuring his size, leads Maks to one of the cubbyholes. A suit of dry clothes is hanging on a peg.

  “Change into this uniform,” the man says. “Leave your own clothing.” He walks away but stands by the door, waiting.

  Maks does what he’s told fast as he can, getting into a uniform. It’s dark red, the trousers having a blue streak down the legs and the jacket with shiny metal buttons up front. It’s a little big for him, itches, and the collar is tight. But it’s clean, smells nice, and is dry. Except for his boots.

  He goes back to the man who’s waiting for him. The guy looks him over—like he might examine a bug —adjusts one of Maks’s buttons, smooths down his hair, then says, “Follow me.”

  Maks heads out of the room and goes along huge, wide halls. The place is nothing like he’s ever seen before. Rugs with pictures hanging on walls. Paintings in fancy frames. Wood carvings everywhere. White stone statues, mostly—Maks don’t know what to think—of naked people. There are fancy chairs, huge tables, clusters of electric lights hanging from ceilings, plants in pots. It’s all smooth, thick, lush.