daily in front of RW & Sons, packed with crates of bruised turnips, quinine tonic, walnuts, flour, smoked oysters, chicory coffee, oleomargarine, and powdered soap. Violet was not up for another run-byâshe had nowhere to stow whatever she might be able to grabâbut she did see a cigar box on one of the driverâs buckboards. It was shiny black, and on its lid was an image of a girl holding a rose blossom. Her friend Nino had admired one just like it in a shop window: a place to put his things that wasnât his pockets. She pretended to play alongside the wagon, whistling and hopping on one leg, before she snatched the box and set off to find him.
She reached Slaughter Alley and peered into the darkness.
âNino!â she called. âHey, Nino!â
âShut up!â a man yelled back.
Ninoâs Italian parents rode a mule-led wagon through the surrounding neighborhoods sharpening knives. Their apartment was so crowded that when the weather was fair, Nino slept in a rusted straw-padded boiler at the base of one of the bridge supports.
Nino leaped over a puddle into the light of the street. âYou look like a boy in a dress,â he said, frowning at her chopped-off hair.
âYou donât exactly look like the King of England,â she said.
He pretended to straighten a tie against the neck of his ratty flannel shirt. His knuckles were swollen and scarred from street fights, and around his eye was a fading yellow bruise.
Violet was warmed by the sight of him but tried not to give herself away.
âWhere you been?â he asked.
âShe put me in the Home,â she said, âbut I escaped.â
Nino shifted his coal eyes sidelong to her. He shook his head, not swayed by her bravado.
âYou should have stayed in as long as you could.â
She held the box out to him.
âWhat do you got there?â He took it and looked it over, opening and closing the hinged lid.
He didnât say anything, but she knew he was pleased.
He walked away, and Violet ran to catch up, stepping over the putrescent frothy blood running in a crooked stream from the slaughterhouse. The drainage line to the river was always getting clogged.
She was struck by how Nino looked older, his shoulders broad, his arms long and muscled. Gangs didnât bother with the boys until they were old enough to be valuable, but Nino had already been approached by the Batavia Boys on account of his size. He didnât want to be a gang runner, but he didnât have any illusions that he wouldnât be one. Newsboys graduated to be criminals. Violet knew what her options were. She could be a sewing girl, a paper-flower seller, or a prostitute. She didnât like to think about the future; none of the kids did. They feared growing up because, when they became adults, they would no longer be invisible. They would live in flophouses or sagging tenements and drink and gamble away what little they had. They would fight. They would be picked over by kids as they slept off their hangovers on the sidewalk. Or they would be dead.
âWhatâd I miss?â Violet asked.
âSame old garbage,â Nino said. âSome lady jumped off the bridge. Filled her stockings with sand. But she lived, I guess.â
Nino couldnât read, but Ollie, the newsboy captain, read them the headlines before they headed out with their papers.
âYour grandmaâam still sick?â she asked.
âCoughs and rattles the whole place. Sheâll be dead by fall, my papa says. Not soon enough, he says.â
âMy motherâs gone again.â
âSo?â
âI canât go up there alone.â
Nino shook his head. âOllieâs giving me Cherry Street. Evening edition.â
âYouâll be back in time,â she said.
Nino crossed his arms and clamped his hands into his armpits.
âI got to do something on the way,â he said.
They walked. Nino kicked a stone along
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