CITY of ORPHANS
Nineteenth-Century Novels by Avi
_________________
The Barn
Beyond the Western Sea
Book I: The Escape From Home
Book II: Lord Kirkle’s Money
Emily Upham’s Revenge: Or, How Deadwood Dick Saved
the Banker’s Niece: A Massachusetts Adventure
History of Helpless Harry: To Which Is Added a Variety of
Amusing and Entertaining Adventures
The Man Who Was Poe
Punch with Judy
The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle
Iron Thunder
Hard Gold
The Traitors’ Gate
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,
real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s
imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2011 by Avi Wortis, Inc.
Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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The text for this book is set in Scotch Roman.
The illustrations for this book are rendered in sumi ink and brush.
Manufactured in the United States of America
0711 FFG
First Edition
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Avi, 1937–
City of orphans / Avi ; illustrated by Greg Ruth. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Richard Jackson Book.”
Summary: In 1893 New York, thirteen-year-old Maks, a newsboy, teams up with
Willa, a homeless girl, to clear his older sister Emma from charges that she stole
from the brand new Waldorf Hotel, where she works. Includes historical notes.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-4169-7102-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4169-8260-9 (eBook)
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Family life—New York (State)—
New York—Fiction. 3. Homeless persons—Fiction. 4. Gangs—Fiction.
5. Immigrants—Fiction. 6. Waldorf-Astoria Hotel (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.
7. New York (N.Y.)—History—1865–1898—Fiction.]
I. Ruth, Greg, ill. II. Title.
For Dan Darigan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Author’s Note
1
Amazing things happen.
Look at someone on the street and you might never see that person again—ever. Then you bump into a stranger and your whole life changes—forever. See what I’m saying? It’s all ’bout them words: “luck,” “chance,” “coincidence,” “accident,” “quirk,” “miracle,” plus a lot of words I’m guessing I don’t even know.
But the thing is, I got a story that could use all them words. ’Bout a kid by the name of Maks Geless. That’s Maks, with a k. M-a-k-s.
Now, this Maks, he’s regular height for a thirteen-year-old, ruddy-faced, shaggy brown hair, always wearing a cloth cap, canvas jacket, and trousers, plus decent boots. He’s a newsboy—what they call a “newsie.” So he’s holding up a copy of the New York City newspaper The World, and he’s shouting, “Extra! Extra! Read all ’bout it! ‘Murder at the Waldorf. Terrible Struggle with a Crazy Man! Two Men Killed!’ Read it in The World! The world’s greatest newspaper. Just two cents!”
Now, not everything gets into the papers, right? But see, the only one who knows what really happened up at the Waldorf is . . . Maks.
You’re thinking, how could this kid—this newsie—know?
I’ll tell you.
This story starts on Monday, October 9, 1893. That’s five days before the day of that headline you just heard. It’s early evening, the night getting nippy. Electric streetlamps just starting to glow. In other words, the long workday is winking.
Not for Maks. He’s still on his regular corner, Hester Street and the Bowery. Been peddling The World for five hours and has sold thirty-nine papers. Sell one more and he’ll have bailed his whole bundle. Do that and he’ll have eighty cents in his pocket.
Now listen hard, ’cause this is important.
In 1893 newsies buy their papers and then sell ’em. So next day’s bundle is gonna cost Maks seventy-two cents. Then he sells ’em for two cents each. Means, for his five hours’ work, he’ll earn a whole eight cents. Not much, you say? Hey, these days, six cents buys you a can o
f pork and beans, enough eats for a day, which is more than some people gets.
You’re probably thinking, eight pennies—that ain’t hardly worth working all them hours. But this is 1893. These are hard times. Factories closing. Workers laid off. Not many jobs. Housing not easy to find. Fact, people are calling these days the “Great Panic of 1893.” And the thing is, Maks’s family’s rent is due this week. Fifteen bucks! For them, that’s huge.
All I’m saying is, Maks’s family needs him to earn his share, which is—you guessed it—eight cents a day.
Now, most days when Maks finishes selling his papers, he likes staying in the neighborhood to see how his newsie pals have done. Don’t forget, this is New York City. The Lower East Side. Something always happening.
This night all Maks wants to do is to get home and eat. No surprise; he’s hungry twenty-five hours a day, eight days a week. And last time he ate was breakfast—a roll and a bowl of coffee-milk.
So Maks holds up his last newspaper and gives it his best bark: “Extra! Extra! Read all ’bout it! ‘Joe Gorker, Political Boss, Accused of Stealing Millions from City! Trial Date Set! Others Arrested!’ Read it in The World! World’s greatest newspaper. Just two cents! Only two cents!”
Sure, sometimes crying headlines, Maks gets to head doodling that someday he’ll be in the paper for doing something great, like maybe making a flying machine. So The World would pop his picture on its first page, like this here mug Joe Gorker. Then Maks reminds himself that his job is selling the news, not being it. Besides, The World is always laying down lines ’bout Joe Gorker, screaming that the guy is a grifter-grafter so crooked that he could pass for a pretzel.
Anyway, Maks’s shout works ’cause next moment, a fancy gent—top hat, handlebar mustache, starched white collar, what some people call a “swell stiff”—wags a finger at him.
Maks runs over.
The guy shows a nickel. “Got change, kid?”
“Sorry, sir. No, sir.”
I know: Maks may be my hero, but he ain’t no saint. Like I told you, for him, pennies are big. Needs all he can get.
“Fine,” says the swell. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir!” Maks says as he slings his last sheet to this guy.
The guy walks off, reading the headlines.
Maks, telling himself his day is done, pops the nickel into his pocket. Except no sooner does he do that than who does he see?
He sees Bruno.
This Bruno is one serious nasty fella. Taller than Maks by a head, his face is sprinkled with peach fuzz, greasy red hair flopping over his eyes, one of which is squinty, and on his head he’s got a tipped-back brown derby, which makes his ears stick out like cute cauliflowers.
But the thing is, Bruno may be only seventeen years old, but he’s head of the Plug Ugly Gang. Lately, Bruno and his gang have been slamming World newsies, beating ’em up, stealing their money, burning their papers.
So Maks knows if Bruno is giving him the eye, things gonna be bad. And it’s not just ’bout being robbed. If Maks loses his money, he ain’t gonna be able to buy papers for next day. No papers, no more money and the family rent don’t get paid. In other words, no choice. Maks has to get home with his money.
Trouble is, his home is a three-room tenement flat over to Birmingham Street, near the East River. That’s fifteen big blocks away, which, right now, feels as far as the North Pole.
In other words, if Maks wants to keep his money, he’s gonna have to either outrun that Plug Ugly or fight him.
Don’t know ’bout you, but Maks would rather run.
2
Maks looks over his shoulder. There’s another Plug Ugly down the street. Next moment, he sees a third. Then three more. Six Plug Uglies in all, including Bruno.
Maks looks for help. He ain’t exactly alone. People like to say the Lower East Side is the busiest place in the whole world. Crowds of people buying, bargaining, begging, strolling. Kids, grown-ups, dogs scrambling for dropped food. Oh, sure, some stealing. These days, folks are really hungry.
Sidewalks packed with hundreds of curb-stalls, two-wheel handcarts, plus backpack peddlers selling anything and everything, whatever jim-jam a person should want, might want, could want, can want. Food, clothing, or furniture. On the Lower East Side you can buy bent spoons, used books, four-fingered gloves, one-eyed eyeglasses, or a shoe for your best left foot. Hey, one old beard is selling cracked eggs.
Sellers crying out their goods in English, German, Italian, Yiddish, Chinese, Spanish, Hebrew, Romanian, plus so many other languages, it’s like the cheapest boardinghouse in Babel.
Even the air is crowded. Crisscrossing telephone lines make the smoky sky look like ruled paper. Hundreds of signs posted here, there, everywhere. It’s like someone plucked a newspaper clean of words, then stuck ’em all on walls, windows, doors, and sandwich boards, telling people to buy, buy, and buy some more.
Overhead, the clattering elevated steam train—called the “El”—rains down smoke, sparks, hot ash. Every time a train rackety-racks by, Maks wishes he could ride one. Trouble is, costs a nickel to ride the El. That’s five cents Maks’s family can’t spare. If Maks wants to go somewhere, he walks.
And the neighborhood stinks too. Stinks of rotten food, sweat, smoke, plus horse dung piles. Don’t forget, this is before motor cars.
So streets are clogged wheel to wheel with wagons, trolleys (bells ting-a-linging), cabs, and carts. All hauled by horses. During rush hour, if you don’t look out, you’re gonna be mashed or rolled out dead by metal-rimmed wheels or iron horseshoes. Maks knows kids who’ve been hurt, killed even. Hey, cabbies and teamsters don’t care.
Neither do Bruno and his Plug Uglies.
You’re asking: How come Maks don’t cry for a cop? ’Cause coppers don’t like newsies. Call ’em “street rats,” “guttersnipes.” Besides, these times, city police are hardly better than crooks. Fact, lots of those cops are crooks, ready to be bribed if you have the clink. Don’t forget: This is before Commissioner Teddy Roosevelt started bending things straight.
Anyway, Maks ain’t supposed to call for help. Kids’ doings—good or bad—are just for kids. Keep that in mind.
Not that it matters. ’Cause right now, when Maks looks around, ain’t a cop in sight.
In other words, Maks is gonna have to get home on his own.
Closer.
Maks yanks his cap down tight and shoots the only way open to him, right down the middle of Hester Street. But the crowds are so thick, he can’t keep from knocking folks.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Sorry, sir.”
At Chrystie Street, Maks halts and looks back.
Plug Uglies are coming hard.
Maks keeps shooting south. Gets to Canal Street and races ’cross in front of two horse trolleys. One horse shies, causing the driver to scream curses.
Still pounding down Chrystie Street, Maks searches for a hiding place along the walls of brick tenement buildings. Can’t find one. Now his side is starting to ache. Getting hard to breathe. Worse luck: An ice-block wagon and four fat drays pull in front of him. He tries to get round, only to squeeze up ’gainst a stall where an old Chinese lady is selling baskets. Wiggles free, but the Plug Uglies are gaining on him.
That’s when Maks remembers that up ahead is an alleyway, a shortcut to Forsyth Street. If he can get through without the gang seeing, he might be safe.
Galloping like a runaway horse, Maks reaches the alley. Gives it a quick check. It’s four feet wide, dismal, gloomy, with grimy brick walls on either side, garbage on the ground.
Maks dives in.
Trouble is, halfway through the alley, a high wooden fence blocks his way. The fence is smack against the bricks, making it impossible to get round. He tries jumping but can’t reach eight feet, not with one hand in his pocket clutching pennies.
As Maks tries to think what to do, he sees, right there on the ground, along the base of the wall, a body. The body’s so tangled in rags, he can’t tell
if it’s a he, a she, someone sleeping, drunk, maybe even dead.
Next second, he swings round just in time to see the Plug Uglies—Bruno in the lead—coming down the alley. In other words, Maks has to fight.
3
Maks takes another look at Bruno, shoves a hand into his pocket, makes a fist over his pennies, checks to see where the other gang guys are.
4
Maks wedges himself into the corner where the wood fence butts ’gainst the brick wall. Figures that way, the gang won’t be able to get behind him.
Then he taps up his cap (so he can see), licks his knuckles (wet knuckles sting your enemy), and sets his fists the way he’s seen that heavyweight champ Bobby Fitzsimmons do on the sports pages of The World.
Bruno comes to a halt right in front of Maks. Stands so close, Maks feels his heat and smells his beery breath.
The mug plants his feet wide, hooks his thumbs into pockets, rocks back on his heels like some hotshot ward heeler. His nasty grin—some teeth missing—reminds Maks what people say ’bout Bruno: The guy is crazy, crazy mean.
The rest of the Plug Uglies squeeze in right behind Bruno, leering, laughing.
“Good run, kid,” says Bruno, holding out a dirty hand, palm up. “Let’s see your brass.”
Maks is pressing against the wooden fence, hoping it gives way. Same time, his heart is going bump-bump, bump-bump, like a fire wagon bucking to a blaze. “I . . . need . . . it,” he says, the words squeezing out between gasps. “To buy . . . papers . . . tomorrow. And our rent is due this week. And . . . and times are hard,” he adds, something his papa is always saying.
“Right,” Bruno sneers. “Hard times for everyone. And that includes me. So just tell all your dumb newsie pals at The World, greetin’s from their new boss. I’m gonna take care of yous fine.
“So give!” he shouts into Maks’s face. His other hand is balled into a fist.
Though Maks’s legs are shaking, his eyes blinking, he keeps his dukes up.
“Don’t be a wind-sucker!” yells Bruno. “Hand over your money or your nose gets clocked.” To prove it, Bruno slaps Maks so hard, the kid’s cap falls to the ground.
Maks manages to throw a putty punch. Misses.
Bruno gives a phony laugh. “Warned yous!” he says, and conks Maks’s nose. It not only hurts god-awful, he starts bleeding enough blood that he’s tasting it.