“Where?”
“I don’t know. I really tried—”
“Which direction they going?”
“Uptown.”
“Why would they do such a thing?” says Mama.
Maks can’t begin to answer. Besides, he’s trying to decide what to do. That’s when he notices Willa’s stick standing in a corner.
Jacob reaches over and tugs on Maks’s jacket. “Maks,” he says, “that redheaded guy shouted at me, said—”
“What?”
“Said, ‘Tell Maks to come and get her. He knows where.’ That’s all he said. I’m sorry.”
“What will they do with her?” Agnes asks.
“Should we go to the police?” says Mama.
But from what Jacob just said, Maks knows exactly where they took Willa: to the house, that old house, where the Plug Uglies live. Where he saw Bruno that morning. Where Bruno saw him. Where he should never have gone. ’Cause Maks knows, sure as anything, that’s why Bruno done what he did.
Maks stands up. Everybody’s looking at him, waiting for him to say something. But Maks—furious, upset, scared for Willa—is trying to think what to do. It don’t take him long.
He snatches up Willa’s stick. Even as he does, he hears the jingling of coins in his pocket—the tips from the Waldorf. Knowing there’s too much to lose, he runs over, grabs his cigar box.
Opening the box, he flips in the coins. When he does, he sees Willa’s blue tin. Don’t matter what’s happening. He has to know ’bout that man he saw.
He snaps the tin open. There are two things inside: a gold ring and that picture. Maks snatches up the picture and stares at it.
The guy he saw at the Waldorf: It’s Willa’s father.
69
Maks flips the picture back, puts the cigar box back on the shelf.
“I’m gonna get her,” he says, and he’s out the door ’fore anyone can say anything.
But clattering down the steps, he hears Papa calling, “Maks! Wait! Where you going? Don’t go alone.”
Maks don’t stop.
He gets to the front door and almost opens it, when he suddenly remembers: Plug Uglies are out there. Now he understands what they’re doing: want to drag him off to where Willa’s at. Only that ain’t the way he’s going.
He spins ’bout, races back up the stairs to the top floor. Goes farther, tearing up the extra steps to the roof. In seconds he’s there, popping out of the small shed that covers the roof steps. Rushes over to the low, front wall of his building, leans out, and peers down. Plug Uglies still there.
Backing away, Maks stuffs his cap into a pocket, grips Willa’s stick tight, then scrambles from rooftop to rooftop, the buildings being pretty much at the same level, with no gaps ’tween them. The last one has a fire escape.
After twelve, thirteen buildings, Maks reaches the last roof, the corner house. He looks for the fire escape, finds it, climbs over the low wall. He’s on the topmost part of an escape.
Feet planted on the rusty iron ladder rungs, he starts climbing down, going floor level to floor level, fast as he can. When he reaches the final, bottom ladder, he’s eight feet off the ground.
Maks peers down, trying to see where he’ll land, not wanting to be seen or heard.
Checks the street. Plug Uglies ain’t looking in his direction.
Maks lets himself drop.
The second he hits the ground, he slaps on his cap, grips Willa’s stick, starts running. And he knows exactly where he’s going.
70
It’s close to ten thirty when Maks reaches Newspaper Row, the back of The World building. When he gets there, he finds—what?—sixty, seventy newsies under the feeble yard night-light. Some are sleeping. Others sitting round talking. A few playing cards, dice. Someone is tooting a tin whistle. All dull drowsy till he roars in.
“Hey, mugs!” he shouts. “You gotta listen! My friend Willa—you met her, right? Who beat off the Plug Uglies. She was doing my papers this afternoon. With my brother, Jacob. Bruno and his gang grabbed her, stole her money, dumped her papers. Kidnapped her!”
The newsies, his buddies, his pals, they wake up, pop up, sit up, stand up. And if they’re not up on their own, Maks pulls ’em up.
“That you, Maks? What you say? They got who? What’s happened?”
Maks jumps on the table where they dump the newspaper bundles.
“Listen!” he cries. “I’m pretty sure they got Willa in a house up under the Second Avenue El. Near the Rivington station. It’s where Bruno’s gang lives. If we get there fast, we can fix ’em good. Won’t be able to bully us no more. Only we gotta move right now!”
Maybe the newsies were bored. Maybe they got nothing better to do. Maybe they just needed someone to flash their fire. But the newsies get excited. “Yeah! Show us where! Let’s go! We can get ’em.”
Maks barely finishes hawking when he’s heading uptown. Only this time he’s leading an army of newsies. Moving fast, a parade on the run. As they go, guys find sticks, rocks, cobblestones. Anything they can lug.
On the street, people stop to watch ’em pass. Some even follow. Maks don’t care. Only thing he don’t want is the police showing up making ’em halt. Mostly, though, what he’s thinking is, Bruno better not hurt Willa.
Not that he exactly knows what they’re gonna do when they get there. Just knows they’re going to do it. And by now they’re racing under the Second Avenue El, going faster than before.
And pretty soon there they are. Bruno’s place.
71
It’s dark under the El. The single streetlamp throws out as much light as a fading firefly. Overhead, a train clatters by, dropping spits of sparks. The Shirt Tail is still open, but just a couple of people are at the bar. Some window light comes from that newer tenement building.
’Tween the saloon and the tenement is the old boarded-up house, the place where Maks is sure the gang’s staying. Where they have Willa.
Maks remembers: In the morning when he saw Bruno in the old house, there was an oil lamp. Since he’s seeing a little fluffing light coming through chinks in the building’s old walls, he figures the gang must be inside.
Maks is glad for the light. Not just ’cause it’s telling him the Plug Uglies are probably in there, but it’s hard fighting in the dark. Anyway, he has to find Willa.
“This is it!” he yells. “Here!”
The newsies, like riled rats, are milling round the front of the old building, sticks and stones in hand. The bricks weigh nine pounds. Cobblestones—which are granite—heavier.
Soon as Maks tells ’em this is the place, the guys don’t wait. “Get ’em! Smash ’em! Collar ’em!” they’re yelling, shouting, screaming.
The ones with sticks start beating on the old house like it’s a drum. The ones with stones and bricks start hurling ’em ’gainst the building. The booming sounds like General Grant’s cannons: Thump! Slam! Crack!
“Watch that little alley!” Maks shouts. “They may try getting out.” Maks don’t know if they will, but he’s hoping some of his guys squeeze that way.
Meanwhile, a bunch of the newsies—and that includes Maks—are attacking the boarded-up front door. Others go after the first level of blocked windows.
The flying cobblestones and bricks crush and splinter the old wood. With the stones’ weight, it don’t take long ’fore holes are punched right through the building. One of the window boardings splinters. The front door caves. Soon as it does, the newsies pour inside, Maks right up front, Willa’s stick in hand.
Inside, as Maks figured, there’s that oil lamp burning, so he can see a bit. What’s he see? That first floor, which once must have had two, maybe three rooms, is now one big space. Walls busted out. Floorboards bulging. The ceiling bowed, looking like it’s ready to drop. There’s a staircase going up, but steps are missing.
Maks don’t see Willa. But the Plug Uglies are there. They’re backed up—Bruno in the middle—into a corner, as far from the invasion as they
can get. They’re looking scared, shocked, and muddled, with eyes like slices of cold potatoes.
The newsies are screaming and swearing, cursing and calling, wanting revenge for what the gang done to them. In they go, slamming and smashing with fists, sticks, stones.
The Plug Uglies fight back. There’s pushing, punching, kicking, tumbling, everyone yelling and screaming, with enough cursing to peel off whatever paint is left on the walls. It’s a bursting bedlam in there.
The fight ain’t one-sided neither. Some of the good guys get smacked, hard. Mostly, though, the Plug Uglies—that includes Bruno—are just trying to get out and away. It’s the alley fight all over again. Only bigger.
And with everyone running all over the place, the burning oil lamp crashes over. Flaming oil splashes the floor. The old, dry wood bursts into flame as if it’s been waiting to burn for ten million years. Within seconds, flames are roaring and crackling, filling the space with billowing smoke.
People start shouting. “Fire! Fire! Get out! Get out!”
That kills the brawl. Everybody—newsies and Plug Uglies both—frantic to reach safety, are bolting through doors, windows, any way they can get out.
Maks still hasn’t seen Willa. But with the flames spreading, only one place to go. He races for the steps, heads up, watching where he’s going ’cause not all the steps are there. All he’s thinking is, Where’s Willa?
72
Bruno, seeing right away it’s a losing fight, knows he has to run. Course, he’s got to knock down three newsies just to get out the hole in the side of the house and into the gap. Once there, he dashes toward the street. Reaching the entryway, he sticks out his head only to see a tangle of pushing, shoving guys.
The second he takes a step out, someone spots him.
“Bruno!” comes a shout. “There he is! Get him!”
Ducking a brick, Bruno charges back down the alley. Avoiding the house, he races to the far end of the alley. There, separating that tenement building from the saloon building, is a very narrow opening. Desperate, Bruno squeezes into the space.
Shouts of “Fire! Fire!” come from behind him.
Startled, he steps out and peers around. Sees flame and smoke pouring out of the wood building. Frightened, he jumps back into the gap. Moving sideways—barely room for even that—he squeezes himself ’tween the rough walls, scraping elbows and face, till he comes out the other side of the tenement.
He gives a quick look back to be sure he’s not being chased. Then he races ’long the side of the building till he reaches the Bowery. Heading uptown fast as he can, he’s moving farther and farther away from fight and fire.
73
Maks gets to the second floor. Soon as he does, he sees Willa. They lashed her hands together, tied her to the remains of a busted bed.
“Maks!” she cries, laughing and crying at the same time.
Maks runs over to her. Using teeth and fingers, he works to get the rope knots undone.
“How did you know I was here?” Willa’s saying. “What’s happening? Is the whole building on fire?”
By now the smoke is creeping up through the stairwell, up through the cracks in the floor. It’s hot, getting hotter. Becoming hard to breathe.
Maks frees one of Willa’s hands so she can work the other knot. He darts back to the steps to see if they can get down that way. The lower steps are burning. Nothing but flames.
Willa pulls the last knot loose.
Maks races to one of the front windows, tries to yank out the boards that cover it. When he can’t do it that way, he starts whacking at them with Willa’s stick, then kicking at them, till he finally knocks the boards out.
But when he does that, he causes a fierce, chimneylike wind. Flames roar up the steps. The floor starts to burn.
“Come on!” Maks yells to Willa.
Willa runs to the window. She and Maks look out and down to the street. His newsie pals are there, plus lots of gawkers. Maks is trying to decide if they can safely jump to the ground. Seems awful far.
Even as he’s trying to decide what to do, firemen come down the street. First to arrive is a hook and ladder wagon, hauled by three galloping horses. Then a pump steamer comes—steel and nickel-plated iron, loaded with rubber hose—smoke chuffing from the steam engine that works the pumps, bells clanging. Firemen—in leather hats, rubber coats and boots—running right alongside.
Willa and Maks are yelling and calling from the window. “Hey! Help! We’re up here! Here!”
Flames are moving ’cross the floor toward them. The air is all but burning. People below are pointing up at them, yelling, “Jump! Jump! Get out! The building’s ’bout to go!”
Though Maks is scared, it seems too far to go.
Then he sees five firemen running toward the house. They get right below and spread a net, leaning back so it shapes itself into a big circle.
“Jump!” people are screaming. “Jump!”
Willa grabs Maks’s hand, looks at him, and he looks at her, and then . . . they jump.
74
Bruno crosses Houston Street. Wanting to get as far from the burning house as he can, he keeps heading uptown and don’t slow till he reaches Fourth Street. Once he gets there, certain he’s not being followed, he sits on the curb to catch his breath, calm down. His favorite hat, the brown derby, is gone. His squinty eye stings. His heart is thumping. He’s finding it hard to think.
He never thought anybody but Maks—brought by his Plug Uglies—would show up to get the girl. Hadn’t even planned what he’d do when the kid appeared, ’cept beat him. If he broke some of his bones, well, fine. Serve him and that girl right, trying to show him up, spying on him. . . .
Bruno does wonder what happened to his gang. If they got away. If they were hurt. Arrested. That alley fight was bad enough. This was worse. He’s sure of one thing: The gang won’t follow him no more.
But most of all, he’s trying to figure what’s gonna happen to him. The attack on the house didn’t just take him by surprise, it shocked him.
Sitting there, rubbing his bruises, wiping blood from scratches, Bruno tells himself he should have known better. Should have posted guards on the street as lookouts to give warning.
He hardly can sort out what he’s feeling. It’s all anger, humiliation, fury. Some of it’s directed at himself. Some at Maks. Some of it at the whole stupid city of New York.
Realizing he was dumb disgusts him, makes him feel desperate. That makes him feel weak. He hates the feeling. In moments he’s full of rage. Nothing works for him. It’s their fault. He has to live, don’t he?
But I’m not weak, he tells himself. Haven’t I spent my whole life on the streets? Haven’t I survived? With a few friends.
He don’t even have a memory of his parents, who they were, where they came from, where they went. All he is, is Bruno. Him, alone. Bruno can’t remember when he wasn’t by himself, finding ways to live on his own. Now, like always, he’ll have to take care of himself.
As Bruno sits there, thinking how he came to be where he is, he curses the time he ever tried to mug that Brunswick. That guy, he’s the real cause of all this.
The mug looked like easy prey. How was he to know the guy carried a gun? That he was a part of some gang? That he worked for some big-city boss?
How could he let Brunswick force him to take that picture? Steal his face? But then, people are always forcing him to do things.
Bruno tells himself he needs to get out of New York. Away from everything. But first he’s gotta get hold of Brunswick’s gun. And that picture that the mug keeps holding over him.
“Hey, you!” Bruno feels a sharp smack on his shoulder.
Bruno jumps up. A policeman is standing over him, billy stick in his hand.
“Can’t sit there, buster. Get moving.”
Bruno glares at the copper but decides this ain’t his fight. Muttering to himself, he heads uptown.
75
Maks and Willa hit the firemen’s net at
the same time. Maks bounces up, gets caught by one of the firemen, who sets him on the ground.
Just as that happens, he hears a great whoosh, then crunch. A chorus of voices saying, “Ahhh!”
Willa, dazed, lies in the net, catching her breath, till a fireman helps her set her feet on the ground.
Maks goes right over. “You all right?”
She nods but holds on to his arm to steady herself.
“Hey, kid,” one of the firemen says to Maks, “anyone else in there?”
“Don’t know.”
“Got out nick-time. Lucky yous weren’t roasted.”
Maks looks round and can barely believe what he’s seeing. Or don’t see. The building is gone. Those sounds he heard—it was the old house collapsing into a pile of black-gray, smoldering wood, the heap spiked by small cat-tongues of flames, the ground covered with muddy puddles crusted with ash. The air stinking of wet smoke.
The street is crowded with fire wagons, firemen, horses, snaking hoses. There’s even an ambulance wagon. Police are holding back a gawking crowd.
Once Willa and Maks are safe on their feet, the firemen no longer care ’bout them. Maks grabs Willa’s hand—she’s still unsteady—and when he spots a bunch of newsie pals, they go over to them.
“Everybody get out?” Maks asks.
“Think so.”
“What ’bout the gang?”
“Don’t know.”
“Bruno?”
“Somebody says they saw him trying to duck out of that little alley. But he ran back in.”
“Into the house?”
“Nowhere else he could have gone.” The kid looks at Maks. They hate Bruno, but even so. . . .
Maks feels sick. “Was he trapped? Killed?”
“Probably.”
Maks turns to look at the smoking ruins. No one could have survived in that. In his head he hears that fireman’s word—“Roasted.” He feels like throwing up.