Stolen Papers and Sharp Elbows
Carlyle had skipped the afternoon class entirely and raced west toward Union Square to claim the early edition of the evening paper that dropped at two.
The newsboys were already lined up in front of the underground distribution center when he arrived, fighting viciously for the first papers to hit the streets. An older boy snatched a copy from a younger child’s hands. Carlyle scanned the crowd, then slipped his broad shoulder between the older boys and slid in.
He paid twelve cents for the entire pile and walked away with twenty copies of The New York Herald.
The wholesaler could pocket four cents profit on every nickel he sold.
The Herald was the paper Edie read, the one she prized for its refined, high-society voice. No amount of poverty would ever dull the taste she had cultivated all her life.
Carlyle guessed at the readers by the headlines he had read, tucked the still-warm, ink-scented bundle under his arm, and sprinted the few blocks to the department store.
He stood at the entrance and sold twelve papers to women leaving shopping. Every penny came back to him.
The small boy he had passed earlier still lingered, clutching his own bundle. He looked a year or two younger than Carlyle and glared at him as though he could kill. The boy bolted the moment their eyes met; he had calculated that fighting would be pointless.
“Nothing special,” Carlyle muttered with a crooked grin.
Even if the suit beneath him was clean and properly tailored while the ragamuffin beside him wore rags, the shoppers would choose the well-dressed gentleman every time.
Now that he was thinking in terms of profit per paper instead of day’s wages, something inside him stirred awake.
At that exact moment five newsboys materialized out of nowhere and closed in around him. Carlyle’s eyes narrowed, suspicious.
One of their faces looked familiar—the same grimy child who had been the first to leave the line.
“Who the hell are you? Who gave you permission to sell papers here?”
The biggest boy demanded, voice thick with the rough Lower East Side accent.
He was roughly Carlyle’s height, face twisted, nose broken once, teeth crooked and mean.
“Who said I need permission?” Carlyle answered calmly.
The boys laughed and pointed.
“Fresh meat.”
“Thought so. He’s selling right out front without a single complaint.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Willie, you gonna teach the new kid the ropes?”
The grimy boy shot a hateful glance at Carlyle and jerked his chin at the big one.
“We’re gonna teach him all right.”
Willie snatched a paper from Carlyle’s side and slammed it into the muddy puddle on the ground.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Carlyle shoved him back to grab it, but Willie roared, “Attack!”
Five boys hit him at once.
Carlyle had never been in a real fight, never been on the receiving end. He was helpless. Fists rained down. Boots kicked. His lip split, his shirt tore.
“Yo, take the money first!”
“Boots look real nice. Maybe I’ll sell them later.”
“The jacket’s mine.”
“You didn’t pay protection so today’s sales money is ours—ouch!”
Carlyle’s wrist was seized as a hand reached for his pocket. He butted Willie in the jaw with his free head. Pure instinct.
While the others froze in shock, he twisted Willie’s arm behind his back and choked him out.
The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. His head burned red.
Everything he had in New York was slipping away. The only things left were the clothes on his back and twelve cents in his pocket. When those were taken too, terror and rage fused into something strange and dangerous.
“Uh—cough—let go—help—”
“Come near me and I’ll break every one of you!”
Carlyle twisted the arm harder. A sickening pop echoed as Willie’s shoulder dislocated. The boy screamed in agony.
Carlyle released him, shoved him to the pavement, then began kicking the writhing boy in the shoulder.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Willie’s eyes rolled back; he passed out.
Carlyle panted like an animal, head lifted. The watching children flinched and backed away.
He scanned them once, twice, then pointed at the same grimy boy.
“You. What’s your name?”
“…Me? Salvatore Romano.”
Salvatore glanced around nervously, as if trying to escape, then saw the other boys watching with interest and straightened his shoulders instead.
“Salvatore, how much protection money do you pay that bastard?”
Carlyle was startled to hear the New York accent coming out of his own mouth so naturally. He had heard it so often at school that it had simply… stuck.
“Two cents…”
“You pay me one cent every single day. In return I’ll make sure that bastard never touches you again. And I’ll teach you how to sell papers properly too.”
A voice from the side laughed.
“Stupid. Why would the new kid learn selling tricks from a rookie?”
“Shut your mouth!”
Salvatore gritted his teeth and shouted. The one who had seen Carlyle sell twelve papers in seconds while he had sold none was right there.
Salvatore glared at Carlyle with suspicion, then looked down at the groaning Willie. He pulled a single cent from his pocket and slowly offered it.
Carlyle took the coin, tucked it into his pocket, and met the eyes of every boy one by one. They paid up in turn, eyes watchful.
“Tomorrow at 1:45, meet me in front of the New York Herald distribution center. Clean yourself up. Wear your best church clothes when you go. If you show up dirty, you’ll be back under that bastard’s thumb.”
Carlyle glanced sideways at the groaning Willie, then kicked him again. Willie whimpered, clutching his ruined shoulder and crying like a child.
“You won’t sell papers in this area anymore. Get out, you goddamn bastard.”
Carlyle spat the blood from his mouth, spat on the ground too. It was the first time he had cursed, the first time he had thrown spit like that, but the feeling felt right.
Nothing of mine will ever be taken from me again.
He ground his teeth. Anyone who tried would be hunted to the ends of the earth and made to suffer exactly like Willie.
Carlyle turned to leave when a voice stopped him.
“Wait!”
He scowled and looked back. It was Salvatore.
“What’s your name?”
Carlyle hesitated.
He had no intention of telling anyone the grand-sounding Édouard-Carlisle de Châtillon-Billières.
“Doesn’t matter—”
His eyes fell on the headline of the newspaper lying in the mud.
THE WEALTH OF NEW YORK CASTS THE POOR INTO THE SHADOW
“…Shadow,”
He said it carelessly, turned, and straightened his shoulders. Limping slightly, he left the alley.
On the walk home, passersby glanced at him, but he decided not to care anymore.
Being the son of a Châtillon-Billières count ended today. From now on he would be the grandson of Douglas Lancaster, the dock worker and laundress’ son.
***
When Carlyle limped back home, his face bruised and bleeding in a dozen places, Edie fainted and collapsed onto the floor.
“Carlyle! What on earth—?”
“…I just fell.”
Edie tried to grip his jaw and examine his face with trembling hands, but Carlyle pulled away.
“It’s really nothing, Mother.”
“Tell me what happened right now!”
She had been about to say he didn’t need to get involved, but Carlyle had insisted. She had stubbornly refused until he promised to finish the school term before even considering danger.
“Édouard-Carlisle de Châtillon-Billières. Remember that name. You’re living this way now, but one day you’ll return to your rightful place. So stay away from trouble, understand?”
“Mother, status and pride don’t come from eating them.”
His calm, almost mocking reply slid out from his split lip.
Edie said nothing more, only bowed her head.