The Shadow's Haul
Carlyle de Rocheret stood in front of the New York Herald distribution depot the following day, and once again he had run into the children from yesterday. This time, however, their numbers had swollen to six instead of four.
“Who are they?”
He frowned at Salvatore, his voice already edged with suspicion.
“They’re just neighborhood kids. Kept pestering me for newsboy jobs, so I brought them along to use as helpers.”
Salvatore gave the pair a rough shove, setting them in front of him.
“This one’s Maxim and that one’s Benjamin.”
He reached down and flicked each child’s head with two sharp taps.
Carlyle stared in disbelief, a startled laugh bubbling up before he could stop it. But the delivery time was pressing, and there was no room for idle chatter.
Following yesterday’s instructions, the children had washed their faces and now wore clothes that were clean, if slightly worn. They stood in a neat, orderly line.
“From now on, you’ll look this presentable every day. We’re selling The New York Herald on the steps of the department store, after all.”
No one quite understood the reason behind the insistence, yet they all nodded anyway.
“Among you, who can actually read?”
Salvatore scanned the group and two hands hesitantly rose—his own and Maxim’s.
“I can only manage the alphabet, but this one reads real words. He might not understand the meaning, but he gets the letters.”
Salvatore pointed straight at Maxim.
Carlyle let out a long sigh, then collected the exact number of papers each child would need and handed over the cash himself.
As soon as the first bundle of newspapers arrived at the depot, he shoved his way through the crowd with a rough elbow, using his broad, sturdy frame—thanks to the bulk inherited from his grandfather—to carve a path straight to the front.
He snatched the first crisp stack, then began handing papers to the children one by one.
“I’ll call out the headlines for you today. Listen carefully and remember every one, understand?”
All six children answered with eager nods, eyes bright.
Carlyle knew exactly which page The New York Herald opened to each morning, and he had already scanned it twice. He pointed at the two boys.
“You two shout ‘Paris is all the rage in Paul Poiret’s latest dresses.’”
“Eh? What does that even mean? It sounds weird…”
“No more questions. Just do exactly as I say.”
“You’ll say ‘The engagement news of Miss Alice Roosevelt.’”
“Who’s Miss Alice Roosevelt?”
“The president’s daughter. No time for that now—run straight to the department store!”
The children surged toward the long stretch of street known as the Ladies Mile, claiming their spots just outside the store entrance. Then Carlyle’s voice rang out again.
“Start shouting the headlines I gave you!”
That day Carlyle sold every last one of his forty papers and cleared a sixteen-cent profit. He collected five cents from the six children in total. For the brand-new Maxim and Benjamin he offered an especially generous cut of half a cent each.
In just three months the number of newsboys working under him had doubled to twelve.
Beyond The New York Herald, he began pushing the notoriously sensational The New York Evening Journal as well. That paper was sold out of the southeast corner of Union Square, right outside the gas house district’s trolley stop.
He took every opportunity to teach Maxim and Salvatore the basics of reading. Maxim learned quickly; simple arithmetic came naturally, and soon he could handle simple calculations.
Carlyle dangled the promise of a school day exemption if Maxim showed up each morning and proved he could read and add. The boy was too smart to waste.
Salvatore he kept on a tight leash with the occasional smack to the backside. “Stay in the alleys, not out here playing. And come to school sometimes.”
Benjamin, whose temper matched the name “Mad Dog,” received the same treatment—except Carlyle kept the small gangster glued to his side at all times, delivering punishing raps whenever the boy started trouble.
Carlyle decided the messenger-boy life suited him no longer. Working alone had never been as efficient as teaming up with others.
He even bought a single second-hand bike. He bribed the depot clerk to let him load the heaviest bundles first, then rode ahead of the others, delivering papers and passing along the day’s headlines to every newsboy in his zone before anyone else.
During those weeks he tangled with the law no fewer than four times.
He had never started a fight himself. Someone always tried to muscle in on the territory that was selling so well, gathering a crew of smaller boys to swarm his own. Carlyle ignored the underlings and went straight for the leader.
Even though the bigger boy usually outweighed him, Carlyle fought hard. Once he locked onto someone, he never let go until one of them was unconscious. He had dragged escapees back by the hair, torn up whatever alley they crawled into, and left the place a mess.
But when the leader fought like a cornered animal, even the watching children joined in, snarling and showing teeth. The strip outside the department store had become their livelihood.
After several such warnings, no other newsboy dared challenge “the Shadow.” The name that now clung to him was The Shadows.
Every time he heard it, a chill ran down his spine and he scratched at his arms. Yet the newsboys’ old habit of fighting alone had made the sudden bond feel almost welcome. As long as they stayed out of his hair, he was willing to let the name stick.
Within the ranks, it became the custom to give each boy a leader’s nickname based on the zone he guarded.
One afternoon a well-dressed gentleman approached, handing over a dollar while accepting the change from a one-cent paper. He wore a suit far more refined than anything the uptown crowd ever saw, yet his manner and accent were nothing like the gentlemen Carlyle knew.
“They say you’re the leader of the newsboys in this district.”
“We simply sell papers together.”
Carlyle answered cautiously. The man was almost certainly a gangster.
The stranger laughed heartily.
“Arrogant little pup. Interesting name the kids call you.”
“…Shadow.”
“Nickname?”
“Yes.”
“Shadow. Good one. If you want more than these pennies, come find me here.”
He slipped a ten-dollar bill into Carlyle’s hand along with a business card. The first time any newspaper boy had ever seen that much cash in one go.
“No change needed.”
“…Thank you.”
Carlyle bowed after taking the money and card. The man simply waved and walked away.
As soon as he was gone, Salvatore darted over, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Shadow, who was that guy? What did you talk about?”
Ever since the name had stuck, Salvatore had been glued to him like a shadow himself.
“Nothing much. Just asked my nickname.”
“You know who he is, don’t you?”
“A gangster, obviously.”
Carlyle shrugged. Salvatore clicked his tongue in exasperation.
“Damn it, you never know anything. How did you figure it out?”
“He looked like one the second I saw him. Didn’t get a name.”
“That was Johnny Torrio, boss of the Five Points Gang, Paul Kelly’s right-hand man!”
Salvatore shouted, practically vibrating.
Ever since he had started singing about joining the infamous Five Points, he had been obsessed with the Lower East Side.
“Maybe… you’re the one who invited him?”
The slick-suited gangster who terrified the neighborhood with raw violence was the envy of every poor boy. Joining a gang meant stepping into another world—up from the daily struggle of scraping by, the only real escape.
“Go sell one more paper. I’m going to catch that crazy bastard.”
Carlyle cut him off coldly and shoved Salvatore aside. He grabbed the mane of Benjamin, who was already rolling around on the ground, and delivered another sharp smack.
“Ouch! It hurts, Shadow!”
Salvatore kept chattering as he trailed after them, tiresome as ever.
“Hey hey, Shadow! It’s no good sneaking into a gang alone, right? I have to come too!”
Carlyle pretended not to hear, pinning Benjamin’s wriggling head beneath his boot and grinding it into the pavement.
“Benny, I told you not to start trouble.”
Newsboy work was honest labor, even if the small gangster kept trying to dig himself a deeper hole. Falling in with actual criminals was a whole different kind of ruin. His pride hung by a thread—half-snipped, dangling over a cliff—and he had to keep a tight grip on it, or the fall would be final.