Читать книгу Faster Than Wind - Steve Pitt - Страница 6

“Paper!”

“Porcupines!”

“Paper!”

“Rabbits! Quail and porcupines!”

“Paper!”

“Grouse, wild geese, ducks, swans, quail, moose, venison, and ... porcupines!”

I lowered my newspaper and looked behind me. “Has anyone ever actually bought a Christmas porcupine?” I asked Mr. Crane.

His long nose immediately swivelled and pointed directly at me like a spear. “I’m not out here hollering for my health!” he said, nearly breaking my eardrums.

Mr. Crane must have been doing something right for his health. He had been hawking wild game from the same stall in Toronto’s St. Lawrence Market for sixty years. Barely five feet tall, he always stood ramrod straight, chest puffed out like the stuffed wild turkey perched on the roof of his stall. When he talked even to people two feet away, his voice almost knocked their hats off. His gruffness scared most of the other newspaper boys, but Mr. Crane and I got along fine. I never interfered with his customers, and at the end of the day I handed him all my unsold newspapers to wrap his meats in. Some days, in return, he gave me a small piece of meat to take home to my mother. On other days he offered good advice. Today was an advice day.

“Run, Bertie!” his voice boomed like a starting pistol.

My feet were moving even before I saw the freckle-faced tide closing in on me from three directions. It was the Kellys, a gang of East Side toughs who wanted to hurt me very much.

There were seven daily newspapers in Toronto. Each had their own army of newsboys. If you knew how to hustle and had a good location, there was money to be made. Unfortunately, if you knew how to hurt and intimidate newspaper boys, there was even more money to grab. The Kellys did the latter. If any kid tried to sell newspapers on the East Side of the city, the Kelly Gang surrounded him and demanded half his money. If he refused, they beat him up and took all his money. Although I was small for a fifteen-year-old, I figured I could beat almost any Kelly in a one-on-one fight except their leader Sean, alias “Himself,” who was huge for sixteen. But the Kellys never fought one-on-one. And as Sean always bragged with a smile, “You fight one Kelly, you’re fighting all the Kellys.”

Today it looked as if I was going to fight all of them. For the past three weeks I hadn’t been paying my “rent.” It wasn’t just a silly principle thing. I really needed the money.

I turned right and saw five Kellys surging toward me with their fists clenched. I turned left and spotted five more. Straight in front were at least ten with Himself leading the attack.

With Mr. Crane’s stall to my back, I was completely trapped. There was nothing to do but stand still and wait for the pounding to start. But then that “funny thing” happened again.

My brain liked to think it was the boss, but whenever my body got in trouble my hands and feet took over without asking. This had happened several times in my life already. For example, when I was six years old, a huge, angry dog charged me after it escaped from a dog catcher’s wagon. My mind completely froze, but my hands, without my brain having the simplest clue what they were up to, calmly raised the umbrella I was carrying for my mother and aimed it point first at the stampeding animal like a rifle. Just as the mad mutt was about to sink its teeth into me, my right thumb released the spring catch that held the umbrella shut. The contraption flew open with a loud snap, and the dog ran yelping down the street with its tail between its legs. The dog catcher managed to huff out “Quick thinking, son!” as he chased the canine. Smart thinking? My brain had nothing to do with it. It was all in the hands.

But today I was facing something much worse than a mad dog. It was Sean Kelly. With my brain “watching” in disbelief, my hands suddenly dropped my newspapers and reached behind me. I felt something soft and furry. When I glanced down, I had a dead porcupine in each hand. I was holding each one by a front leg so that their long, bushy tails nearly touched the ground by my feet. I had no idea what I was going to do with them until the first Kelly, Hammy, made his move. He was a huge, round lump of a kid who got his nickname because even in winter his face was always red and shiny like a freshly boiled ham.

“Got ’em, Sean!” Hammy roared in triumph as he lunged for me.

My left hand snapped up, and we both stood there amazed as two dozen black and white needles suddenly appeared in Hammy’s right hand and forearm. “Awwwaww-waaaw!” he keened in pain and horror.

Hughie Kelly, Sean’s brother, closed in on my right side. In an earlier era Hughie’s ancestors must have been hunted for their pelts, because he was the hairiest kid I had ever seen. Like his kin, Hughie was also dumber than a donkey cart full of doorknobs. He took one look at what I was gripping, stuck out his hand, and bellowed, “Gimme those!”

Two seconds later there were two Kellys screaming, “Aww-waww-waaaw!” The other gang members kept a wary distance, but I was still trapped.

The Kellys were well known in the market. All around me I could hear vendor stalls closing down. Doors slammed. Wooden screens rattled to the floor. Mr. Crane and the other vendors were shouting for the police, but it was unlikely the bulls would get here in time.

Judging by the relaxed smile on his face, Sean shared my opinion. “We’re gonna kill you, McCross. You should have paid your rent when you had your chance.”

Something tried to sneak up quietly on my right. Without taking my eyes off Sean, I flicked my right porcupine. A third voice joined the “Aww-wawwwaaaw!” chorus. One more and we’d have a barbershop quartet. Something moved to the left, and again I snapped a porcupine, but this time I missed. Even a Kelly could learn a new trick eventually.

At that point Sean’s massive freckled head split in a grin. “Wrap your coats around your arms!” he ordered. After half a minute or so, most of the Kellys figured out what he meant. By wrapping their heavy leather and wool winter coats around their arms, they could fend off my porcupines, which were beginning to look pretty bald, anyway.

One by one they followed Sean’s example. I watched them, feeling like one of those idiot Spartans my father had told me about — the three hundred who’d been tremendously outnumbered but who’d bravely held fast while they were annihilated by the archers of their enemies, the Persians. My father was always reading history books to me about brave people who stood their ground until they died and became famous. I preferred cheap westerns where the smart guys ran away and hid until the cavalry arrived and rescued them in the nick of time.

I didn’t hear any bugles, but without warning both of my boots were sliding straight backward.

“Watch your head, Bertie!” Mr. Crane cried as he dragged me by the seat of my trousers under the bottom half of his stall door. Ka-clunk! went the door as he kicked it shut in the faces of two Kellys trying to follow.

“Over the screens!” Sean commanded, and immediately there was a thundering din as a dozen Kelly hobnailed boots began fighting their awkward way up over the stall walls.

At the back Mr. Crane’s stall was connected to a small passageway that led to the aisle behind us. “Go out that way and run like heck!” he whispered to me. “And give me those!” He snatched back his porcupines.

I emerged out the back door just as the first Kellys came around the corner to the same aisle. Tipping over a delivery cart full of cheese wheels in their direction, I scrambled north.

My escape plan was to run down the main aisle of the market and out through the north doors to lose myself in the crowds of holiday shoppers on Front Street. It was a good scheme except for one thing. The merchants in the centre aisle were mostly bakers and confectioners. At this time of day their aisle was jammed with shoppers picking up last-minute Christmas orders.

I sidestepped a string of top-hatted carollers slowmarching through the market and singing “Deck the Halls.” It was the carollers who got decked as a flying wedge of Kellys crashed through their centre, trying to catch up to me. As carollers scattered like bowling pins, I weaved my way toward the north doors.

Sean must have guessed my plan, because he sent some of his boys dashing up the less-crowded aisles on either side to head me off before I could reach my destination, now only twenty yards away. Fortunately, a tin-eared Salvation Army cornet player was doing a fine job of driving shoppers away from his kettle near the doors. In the clear, finally, I actually thought I was going to make it. Then two women pushing massive baby buggies locked bumpers and began insisting that the other go first through the doors.

Blasted Canadians and their good manners! I thought. My exit was blocked and I was about to be killed because somebody wanted to be polite.

There was no way out — only up!

The area near the north doors was nicknamed Little Berlin because it was dominated by stalls of German sausage makers. This year, to celebrate Christmas in the German tradition, they had all chipped in and erected a huge spruce in the middle of the aisle. It was covered in flags, streamers, waxed fruit, whirligigs, and other hideous gewgaws. When I told my father about it, he said it was a “Christmas tree,” a tradition we had picked up from the British, who had gotten it from the Germans.

The tradition seemed like a really dumb idea to me. Who in his right mind wanted a dirty dead tree dragged inside his home just to hang fruit and tinsel on it until all the needles fell off and then have to haul it back out again? Some people even wired candles on them, lit them up, and then stood around with buckets of water ready to throw in case the tree caught fire. Rich people now put them up in their homes every Christmas, but I doubted the trees would ever catch on with sensible folk.

Anyway, with the Kellys closing in like a pack of freckled foxes, I did my best imitation of a Christmas squirrel. The bottom of the tree was anchored in a big wooden tub full of sand. For extra safety a piano wire was wrapped around the tree and connected to the ceiling near the top. I heard the wire go twang! like a banjo as soon as I started clawing my way up through the bottom branches.

Immediately below me I heard a whole lot of German cussing. At least I think it was cussing. It was hard to tell. Most German butchers sounded as if they were cussing even when they were just saying “Guten morgen!” to one another.

A dozen burly butchers fought to keep the Kellys from climbing up their tree after me. I heard Irish cussing mixed with the German. Fortunately, there were plenty of butchers to keep the Kellys under control. Just two of the smallest weaselly ones slipped through and scrabbled up the tree before they could be yanked down again. With three of us aboard, the tree shook violently and the wire at the top twanged higher and higher each time someone moved up a branch. Glass balls and whirligigs fell like bombs from the branches. Far below, breaking glass tinkled, and there was more German cussing. I peeked from the branches and a big greasy sausage just missed my head.

When I got near the top of the tree, a set of claws closed tightly around my right ankle. I looked down and saw a terrified freckled face peering up at me under the standard-issue Kelly mop of red hair. Using all my strength, I raised my right leg as high as I could. The Kelly grabbed my foot with one hand and started tugging. I didn’t move. Getting nowhere with one hand, the Kelly let go of the tree to pull on my leg with both hands. As I said, Kellys were as dumb as doorknobs. As he tugged mightily, I let my leg slacken, and he began dropping backward. The Kelly then panicked and tried frantically to grasp the nearest tree branch but missed.

“Happy Christmas!” I shouted as he bounced down through the branches. Thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk, kathunk, he went, causing a glass-ornament blizzard. Crash, tinkle, crunch, cuss, crash, tinkle, crunch, cuss, crash, tinkle, crunch, cuss. The next Kelly was also right below me, but all on his own he didn’t appear very brave. “Back off unless you want to join your brother on the floor,” I warned.

“He’s me cuzin,” the Kelly said as if that made a difference.

Sean’s voice growled up from below, “Get him, Pat, or I’ll break your head for certain.”

Facing a choice like that, Pat continued to climb. I still didn’t want to fight, so I kept moving up until I ran out of tree. Pat and I were now at least forty feet from the market floor. Despite the dire situation, I still noticed that the view was quite breathtaking.

The whole market spread out below me like a miniature city festooned in all its Christmas glory. Gold-and-red-ribboned holly wreaths and mistletoe garlands hung everywhere. Underneath, hundreds of people stood still and gazed up at Pat and me with mixed expressions. Most pointed and laughed. Mr. Crane looked up with concern. Sean was down there, too, pacing like a terrier waiting for a rat to come out of its hole. A small army of German butchers surrounded the tree. Nearly all of them had at least one Kelly in a headlock or by the scruff of the neck. One stunningly pretty golden-haired girl my own age stood beside a suit of armour at a chocolate truffle stall. The beautiful girl was actually smiling at me. I was on the verge of tipping my hat to her when I heard an ominous noise three feet above my head.

Biiiwoinnnnng!

The wire holding the tree was starting to unravel. A couple of loose strands had popped out on the outside. As the wire strained under our weight, the strands gently whirled like the legs of a ballet dancer. Pat began climbing the tree again, and the ballet turned into a jig as more “legs” appeared until the wire bounced and whirled like a dance-crazed octopus.

“Hey, stupid, stop it!” I yelled at Pat. “The wire’s breaking.”

“You get him, Pat, or else!” Sean growled from far below.

Reluctantly, Pat raised himself one more branch.

Boinnnnnnnnnnng-whaaack! went the wire as it finally snapped.

I clamped my legs and arms as tightly as I could around the treetop. With its roots firmly buried in the sand container below, and all our weight at the top, the tree flexed sideways like a gigantic fishing rod. We plunged toward Frau Dunkle’s Famous Tripe, Tails, und Trotters stand. Our descent stopped abruptly as the tree reached the limit of its flex. Too dumb to hang on properly, Pat tumbled forward and landed face first in a bathtub-size vat of pickled pig parts. With him gone the tree snapped itself upright again, and I whipped backward in the other direction. The force of the reaction nearly hurled me off, and I thought I was going to plunge through the tent roof of Mrs. Dee’s Fish and Chips, but the sight of a massive cauldron of bubbling hot grease helped my hands and legs to find the strength to hang on. Like a piano teacher’s metronome, the tree rocked me back and forth several times between the gut tubs and hot grease, but gradually momentum was lost and I came to a halt.

Heaving a long sigh of relief, my whole body trembling from nerves and the physical strain, I was aware enough to be amazed that the golden-haired girl was still standing there, her mouth gaping. I no longer had a hat to tip, so I gave her a wink and raised my hand to salute. As soon as my hand reached my head, there was a loud snap and the tree trunk broke, pitching me off.

My fall wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be. Each branch broke or gave way enough to slow me down, and my heavy winter clothes absorbed most of the shock. Of course, when I hit the floor it would be a different story. The floor was solid hardwood. I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and prepared for a spine-cracking impact.

Whummmph! I smacked the floor, but something else broke my fall. Two teenagers had locked arms and caught me in their arms. They deliberately collapsed under my weight, and we slumped to the floor in a tangle.

“Nice catch, Tommy,” the shorter one said.

“Good idea, Ed,” the other answered. Then they began laughing because we were covered head to foot with sawdust from the butcher stalls.

I didn’t laugh. More Kellys were coming straight at me, with Sean leading the pack, his fist raised.

“Where you goin’, Pumpkin Head?” the teen called Tommy said, stepping between Sean and me, still smiling as if he had just heard the best joke of the year.

Sean came to a dead stop. No one had ever dared call him Pumpkin Head to his face. “Out of my way. I’m going to kill that little pug.”

“I don’t think so,” Tommy said. “We just saved him, and that would make Ed and me look like chumps, seeing how we just took a sawdust bath for our trouble. Right, Ed?”

“Ppppah! I even got some in my mouth,” Ed agreed, spitting and making a big show of whacking the sawdust off my coat with his tattered cap.

“This isn’t your business,” Sean snarled, trying to look menacing.

“I’m making it my business, Carrot Top,” Tommy said without the least bit of menace in his voice, but even Sean had enough sense to be wary.

Ed and Tommy were familiar sights around the market. Tommy lived on one of the islands in Toronto’s harbour and made his living from fishing and sailing with his father. Although he was still only sixteen, he already had a prizefighter’s build from a lifetime of rowing and hauling sails seven days a week.

Milwaukee Ed, as he was known, was pretty formidable himself. No one knew his exact age because he was an orphan. In 1891 Grand Trunk Railway workers found him as a tiny baby in a boxcar nestled in a crate marked MILWAUKEE EDGED TOOL MANUFACTORY, with just a handwritten note that said “Please take care of him.” Because there was no name in the note, the dock-wallopers dubbed him Milwaukee Ed after the crate they discovered him in.

Ed grew up sleeping on a shelf in a railway tool shed and unloaded crates in return for leftovers from workmen’s lunch pails. When he was twelve or so, Ed found a steady job on the market docks, which was where he met Tommy. The two became fast friends, and when they weren’t working, they were always seen together.

Sean made one more move to go around Tommy, who said, “Back off — hey, Ed, I need another orange vegetable.”

Ed shrugged. “Beats me.”

“How about yam?” I offered.

“Yam?” Ed, Tommy, and Sean echoed, staring at me in puzzlement.

“You know, a sweet potato.”

Tommy flashed me an impressed smile, then looked Sean in the eye. “Oh, sure, perfect. Back off there ... Sweet ... Potato.”

The crowd around us erupted in laughter.

Sean’s skull nearly exploded as he struggled to contain his rage. As a gang leader, he had a reputation to maintain, but he hadn’t become the East Side’s top hooligan by picking fights he couldn’t win. Tommy knew that, too. He even turned his back on Sean to pick some imaginary sawdust off my coat. “Sweet potato. I’ll be —” he started to say to me.

Then someone shouted, “The bulls are coming!” And suddenly the market was filled with the thunder of heavy boots.

“We’ll get you, McCross,” Sean snarled at me as he melted into the crowd. “Count on it!”