A girl of seventeen stood on a street corner in New York City. She held a stack of newspapers under her left arm and held one of them up in the air with her other hand. She hawked a headline to passers-by.
"Corpse found in alley!" she yelled. "Presumed moidered by da mob!" A few people bought papers from her. She called the headline out again.
A cultured gentleman of eighteen approached her. "I'd like a newspaper, please," he requested, offering her a penny.
The girl traded him her paper for his penny. "Thanks, Mistah," she replied and turned away from him again. She began calling out headlines again. The man walked away, satisfied with his paper.
After a minute, the man walked back to her. He tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, what you said is a lie. A corpse was not found in an alley," he declared.
"Look, Mistah. I reads what I reads, 'n' I says what I reads. I knows what I knows, 'n' you knows what chu knows. I jist sell what I knows. I gotta sells all dese heh' papes sos I'se kin eat tanight, but chu wouldn't know nuthin' 'bout woikin' ta eat. I ain't got da time ta be explainin' all da stories ta ever' Joe dat come along. Jist read da pape 'n' be on yer way. Now, if you'se'll excuse me, I gotta git back ta woik," she replied sharply. She turned and walked away from him a little.
The man was about to say something else, but he couldn1t think of anything. He shrugged and continued on his way. The girl continued doing her job, selling her stack of newspapers, for the next several hours. She only took a break once when someone stopped to talk to her.
"You'se in trouble again, Maggie," a scruffy boy said as he stood next to her.
"What 'bout it?" she asked the boy, turning to face him.
"Well, it ain't good dis time. Dey say you been messin' wit' da wrong kind a folks. Dat true?"
"No, Ducky, it ain't. I ain't been messin' wit' nobody. 'Sides, I ain't even had da time ta be messin' wit' no kind a folks, not since what 'appened in da Bronx."
"But, dey say-"
"Dey's wrong!"
"Maggie, listen ta me!" Maggie shut up and looked at him. "Da normal Joe ain't mad at cha dis time. You gots Brooklyn mad at cha," he informed.
"Brooklyn?" she laughed. "Aw, he's nevah mad at me-"
"He is dis time. What'd ju do?"
"I awready tol' ja; I din't do nuthin'. I ain't done nuthin' in ferevah. Brooklyn don't got no reason ta be mad at me," she reasoned.
"I wouldn't say dat, Mags. I'se talkin' ta Stone eoiliah. He says dat 'e's awful mad at cha," Ducky warned.
Maggie looked at him. "What- What's Stone say I done?" she asked, lowering her eyes to the ground.
"He says dat ya was messin' wit' da little kids a Brooklyn."
"Stone's full a it. I ain't been messin' wit' none a dose kids. You'se da foist kid I even talked ta in two days. Stone's got it all mixed up."
"Ya shoah?"
"Yeah, I'se shoah. I gotta git back ta woik. I'd say nice seein' ya, but it ain't been nice," she said and returned to selling her newspapers.
"But, Maggie-"
"I said scram," she stated, a bit miffed with him.
Ducky stepped away from her and turned. He continued on down the street to his next destination, dinner. He grumbled something as he walked away, something about her being a jerk.
Later that night, around eight o'clock, Maggie had finished selling her newspapers and was walking to her favorite restaurant. She walked into the restaurant nonchalantly. One of the waiters instantly walked up to her.
"Maggie, if the boss sees ya heh', he's gonna fire me. Ya can't be in heh'," he explained quickly, trying to shoo her out.
"Don't worry none 'bout it. I'se good fer it," she began.
"Maggie, please. Yer tabs so high. If da boss finds out I let ya git another free meal, I'm gonna lose me job. Please, Maggie, jist git outta heh'," he pleaded.
"I gots money tanight, Joey. I cain't pay ya in full, but I kin pay ya some a it, 'n' fer me dinnah tanight," she argued.
Joey sighed. "Only if yer good fer it, Margaret Halpern," he agreed.
"I'se good fer it tanight. I 'ad a good sellin' day taday. I'll pay ya soons I kin," she thanked.
"Fine, Maggie. Siddown at yer table. I'll be wit' cha in a minute. I gots someone dats awways good fer it ta tend to first," he said condescendingly and walked to another table.
Maggie walked to her own table and watched Joey take the order or some well-dressed gentlemen. She recognized one of the men from earlier that day. The man was in a blue three-piece suit with a black bow tie. He looked to be an Italian by blood. His rich, dark brown hair was parted down the center neatly and combed back toward his ears. His dark brown eyes were warm and entrancing. His skin was dark and tanned. He was glancing over at Maggie while she was watching him. Maggie suddenly noticed it and looked away quickly.
Joey walked back over to her table to take her order. "Now, what can I git for ya, Maggie?" he asked, getting ready to write on his notepad.
"Foist, how's 'bout da name a dat fella ya was jist takin' da ordah a," she said.
"Which one?" he asked, looking at her.
"Da one starin' at me," she replied, folding her napkin on the table.
"Him?" he asked, nodding over his shoulder. She nodded. "I dunno. All I know is that dey come in heh" a couple a times a month. Now, what kin I git for ya, Mags?"
"I feel like havin' somethin' differnt. How's 'bout some potatahs, some bread, 'n' a corn dog," she answered.
"Got it," Joey mumbled and scribbled her order down. "It'll be a few minutes." He walked back to the kitchen.
Maggie turned back to her napkin, which was fast becoming a swan. The Italian man walked over to her and took a seat across from her. Maggie looked up and nearly jumped when she saw him.
"Look, Mistah, 'bout dis mornin'. I'se sorry. I din't mean ta show no disrespect. I jist likes ta eat at night. I ain't got ta do it lately. I 'ad a good take taday, so I git ta eat tanight," she apologized, folding another napkin.
"It's all right; I understand. My name's Antonio Papperelli," he introduced.
"Margaret Halpern, Maggie," she mumbled.
"You can look up at me, Maggie," he said with a warm smile.
Maggie raised her eyes to his. They sparkled a little. She breathed. Antonio looked her over. She was a little dirty, but dirt can be washed away easily. She had long, messy, stringy, dark brown hair pulled back with a short string; half of it had fallen out. She had olive green eyes and tanned peach skin. She was quite thin, mostly on account that she didn't eat often. Although she was quite muscular, it didn't show through her clothes very well. Even though she looked like a little waif in her black slacks, dingy gray shirt, and black suspenders, she was a very spirited and very passionate person. Antonio thought she was quite lovely.
"I'se sorry," she apologized again.
"Don't worry about it, Maggie. It's forgotten. Say, would you like to come to dinner with me tomorrow night?"
Maggie was speechless. "A classy fella like ya wants ta 'ave dinnah wit' a street rat like me? I ain't tryin' ta be disrepectin' heh', but, who are ya?" she stammered.
"A man who can do what he wants with whom he wants. I'd really like it if you'd go to dinner with me tomorrow."
"I'se'll go wit' cha, but, ya see, diss da only thing I own. I don't got no nice clothes er nuthin'."
"That's fine. Just be at this address tomorrow at five," he said and handed her a card with a handwritten address on it.
Maggie looked at it. "I'se'll be dere," she said as she looked at the address.
Antonio nodded and returned to his own table. Maggie breathed. A few minutes later, Joey brought a plate with Maggie's dinner on it. He set it down in front of her, along with a glass of water. Maggie looked up at him.
"Thanks," she said with a smile.
"Ya looked thirsty. Besides, water don't cost anything. I gotta git back. Have a good meal," he replied and returned to the kitchen.
Maggie began eating her dinner. She was about half-way through when someone came to sit across from her. She looked up, expecting Antonio. She jumped when she saw who it was.
"Conlon, hey," she stammered after a second.
"Evenin', Maggie," he returned the greeting.
"What cha doin' up heh'?" she asked with a nervous gulp.
"Jist checkin' up on me investments," he answered ambiguously.
"I ain't done what Stone says I done, Spot. Ya don't gotta hoit me er nuthin'," she stuttered, a little nervous.
"I ain't gonna hoit ya, Maggie. Stone ain't been tellin' much a da truth lately. He ain't too reliable no more."
"Den ya ain't mad at me?"
"Naw, I kin nevah be mad at cha, kid."
Maggie sighed with relief. "I'se glad ya ain't mad at me, Conlon. I dunno what I'd do if ya was mad at me. If ya was, da whole a New Yawk'd be mad at me, too, 'n' dat ain't too good. I awready got da Bronx mad at me," she explained.
"Aw, don't worry none, Maggie. Jist stay clear a da Bronx, 'n' you'se'll be fine. If dey comes aftah ya, jist hide out in Brooklyn. We won't let no one hoit da best singah in New Yawk," he answered with a smirk.
< > "Ya know I don't sing no more, Spot," she reminded seriously.
"I'se awways wondahed; how comes ya don't sing no more?" he inquired, curious.
"I jist don't, ah'ight," she answered sharply, not wanting to get into it.
"Awright, Maggie, I got it, but I'se'll find out 'ventually," he commented.
Maggie said nothing; she just finished eating quickly. Once she was done, she set a dollar and a half in various coins on the table and stood. She took a last sip of her water and started out the door. Spot jumped up and ran after her.
"Dere's a bunk fer ya in Brooklyn if ya want it, Mags," he informed her.
"No, thanks, Spot. Dere's a bench in Central Pawk wit' me name on it," she replied, trying to evade him.
"Da weathah's toinin' cold, Maggie. Ya really should git cherself a roof 'n' a warm place ta sleep nights."
"I ain't got da money fer it, Spot. I ain't da newsie you is. I cain't sell two er t'ree hunnerd papes a day. I ain't even got da money ta buy dat many papes, even at two fer a penny. It took me a week ta save dat twelve bits on da table in dere. I don't got da money ta have no luxuries like a warm place ta sleep in da winah," she explained passionately as the two of them walked down the street.
"Ya don't gotta worry 'bout it, Maggie. I'se'll pay fer ya-"
"I ain't nevah took no charity from no one, 'n' I sure as hell ain't gonna stawt now," she declared and ran off.
"Maggie!" Spot yelled after her.
Maggie ignored him and continued running as fast as she could. She ran for as long as she could.
"Dat goyl sure gots some speed in dose legs a 'ers. She gots some real talent."
"Too bad, dough, Spot," someone said as he walked up to Spot.
Spot turned to the sound of his voice. "What 'bout it, Frankie?" he asked.
"She's talented, shoah, but she's all full a pride. She don't let no one help 'er. I tried ta help 'er a couple a weeks ago. She declined violent-like. She don't like no help from nobody 'less she ass fer it, 'n' she ain't nevah gonna ass fer it," Frankie explained.
"I know it, but I'se hopin' dat she'd reconsidah, ya know. I think she's warmin' up ta all a us boys."
"Whatta ya mean?"
"Well, from what I hear, she ain't been too hostile lately. Sure, she been yellin' 'n' all dat, but she ain't soaked nobody in a couple a days. She gots one hell uv a tempah, but she don't act on it much no more."
"I think dat's backwoods, Spot. She ain't wahmin' up ta us; we'se wahmin' up ta 'er. None a us boys heah1s been messin' wit' 'er. She gots one powahful tempah dat none a us wanna deal wit'."
Spot laughed. "Yeah, dat's true, Frankie. She does got one hot tempah. Even dough she's got dat tempah, she needs help. She ain't gonna want it, but we gotta do somethin'. I ain't pullin' 'er outta da guttah like I done las' year," he explained.
Frankie sighed. "I agree wit' ya, Spot, but she still ain't gonna want it. I cain't even think a how we could git 'er ta take it. She ain't da kin' a poisson ya wanna be trickin', ya know. Jist keep dat in mind, Spot. I'll help ya if ya need it, but I ain1t gonna take pawt in it if you'se gonna trick 'er," he said.
"I'll remembah dat, Frankie," Spot answered.
Frankie nodded and said his good-byes. He walked off back toward his own sleeping quarters, a newsboys lodging house. Spot stayed where he was for a few more minutes. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it quickly. He took a long, slow drag on it and started back to Brooklyn.
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