There were no angels in Manhattan's Lower East Side. No celestial fire lit the dirty corners of the tenement building on the east end of Dawson Street. At least, that was Christopher's conviction. For what member of the heavenly host could bear to look on a woman's flea-infested, fever-ridden death bed and not ache to ease her suffering? What kind of God could allow her to become so broken by life that she had to leave it this way? So when his mother begged for her rosary and a priest for the Last Rites, it was all Christopher could do not to scream. When the priest told him she was dead, he kicked over the room's single chair, threw the icon of the Virgin Mary into the fire, sat down on the hall steps and cried.

No one came out to ask what the noise was about. A few thumps on the wall told him to quiet down, and Mrs. Batella almost paused when she passed him on her way up the stairs, but that was all. No one came to the funeral either. Anabella Pacino was buried at state expense with only her son in attendance. If they'd had money for a funeral, they'd have had money for a doctor.

"Would you like to say a few words?" they asked him.

"No."

The landlord met him in the door when he returned home. "I've waited until after the funeral, Chris, but I'm going to need to see the week's rent soon. I know your mother just-"

"I'll be out tamorra," he replied shortly. "An' it's Christopher." God, ya'd t'ink dey'd have a liddle decency- Then he remembered he didn't believe in God anymore.

The night's grace gave him the time to burn every scrap of paper left in the apartment, the bundle of love letters from his father to his mother, the newspaper articles chronicling the Pacinos' engagement, marriage, the birth of their son, and the death of father and husband. He hesitated a moment before adding the family Bible to the conflagration, but in the end, he threw it in as well.

The next morning he pawned his mother's rosary for the rent money. The landlord took all he earned, but at least he was out of debt. The week he'd spent at his mother's side had cost him his job, so he spent the rest of the day in a search for employment. Surely someone had work for a strong, willing fourteen year old boy. Or maybe not. Every factory he tried already had its quota of laborers. He tried to find work in a restaurant, but the headwaiter took one supercilious look at his dirty face and hands and turned him away. Midday found him filching rolls off a bakery counter to feed himself, and evening, cadging a drink from the tavern goers. His mother deplored both stealing and drinking as the worst of sins, but he was thirsty and God had obviously forgotten New York long ago.

An hour past sunset, he had found neither a job nor a place to sleep. He supposed the orphanage would welcome him, but he didn't intend to go there until he became truly desperate. He dropped down on a doorstep to rest -

"Hey! Hey! Ya aw right?" - And didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up to find someone standing over him. The boy leaned on a wooden crutch and sported a head of extremely curly brown hair. He smiled when he saw Christopher open his eyes and turn toward him. "Good, ya ain't hoit. Ya know, ya'll prob'ly sleep betta inside."

The steps were not the most comfortable bed; Christopher awoke stiff, tired, and not at all pleased. "Yeah, well, if I had da money dat's where I'd be," he grumbled.

"Oh, don't worry about dat. Kloppman always gives a new kid his foist night free," the boy replied cheerfully. "Den tamorra one a us'll spot ya enough fer some papes, an' ya can pay yer own way afta dat."

"Spot me? Papes? Whaddaya tawkin' about?" Christopher did not think well this close to midnight.

"I'se a newsie. We sell da Woild, heah. Ya's blockin' da doorway a me home. Come on. Da beds ain't da best in da woild, but dey's betta den da streets."

Christopher continued to peer blearily at the boy while the concept of a bed and an actual job registered. Well, I got nothin' ta lose. "Aw right." He got to his feet and preceded the boy in.

"Crutchy, you're late!" The old man behind the front desk failed miserably at looking stern.

"Sorry, Mr. Kloppman." Christopher's host handed the man two cents and scrawled something in a brown book. "I had a lot ta sell taday."

"And who's gonna buy them at eleven thirty at night?!" the man huffed. He nodded at Christopher. "You new?"

"Yeah," the crippled boy answered for him. "He was warmin' da doorstep so I invited him in." He slid the book along the desk. "Sign in heah."

Christopher signed on the first open line. The line before that read 'Crutchy Morris,' so he assumed that was his benefactor's name.

"All right! The sun ain't gonna wait! You got work tomorrow! Upstairs!" Kloppman shooed them away, then disappeared into a room off the lobby. Christopher caught a glimpse of a bed and a nightstand through the open door and realized the man must have been waiting up.

At the top of the stairs, Crutchy directed him through the door on the right into a room full of bunkbeds. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering what lay through the left door. "Heya, fellas!" Twenty-some boys were undressing for the night and climbing into bed. "Da goils leave awready?"

There were a few tired greetings from the boys. "Heya, Crutchy," a tall, blond boy in a nightshirt called. "Yeah. Wheah ya been?"

"Heah an' dere. Hey, Jack, we gots any beds free? We'se got a new kid."

The boy scanned the room. "I dunno."

"Yeah, we do. Blackbird left, rememba, Jack?" a boy called from one of the corners. He looked about Christopher's age. "He can bunk wit me." To Christopher, he added "Take da top. I walks in me sleep."

Christopher nodded, as the others laughed. "Yeah, rememba da time he walked right into the girls' room? Queen decked him! T'ought he was awake!"

"Wasn't he dat time?" Another raised an eyebrow. The boy took the teasing in good humor.

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, I'se beat."

"G'night!"

"G'night!"

Christopher stripped down to his undershirt, and turned towards the wall, listening. Within minutes he was asleep. If he hadn't stopped believing in them, he would have recognized Crutchy as his first angel.

******************* "Wake up! Wake up! Outta bed! The papers won't sell themselves! The presses are rolling! Snoddy! Snaps! Snitch!" Get out there! Carry the banner! Racetrack!" A jab in the ribs and a stentorian voice woke Christopher far too early the next morning.

"Hey!" He rolled over, sat up and rubbed his eyes. The landlord swept through the bunkroom, brandishing a broom and shouting at the yawning boys. "Get up! Sell the papers! Sell the papers! Whaddaya dreamin' about? Come on! Come on!" Christopher followed the other boys to the washroom. A boy whose name he did not catch lent him some supplies, and he washed his face, combed his hair and shaved what little he had to shave to the sound of their yawns and good-natured complaints. Then he followed them downstairs and out the door.

******************* "Heya!" Christopher turned at the voice from behind him. He waited uncertainly on line to get his papers. The brown haired boy smiled at him. "I'se yer bunkmate - Snoddy." He held out a hand.

"Christopher." He shook. "What kinda name is Snoddy?"

"Mine." Snoddy replied without visible offense. "It's a nickname, aw right? Ya t'ink Crutchy's parents named him dat - or Racetrack's?"

"Don't know him."

Snoddy nodded further up the line. "Short, Italian kid - da one wit da cigar. Loves da horse races, so he got da name from sellin' at da track." Christopher located the boy in question - it would be difficult not to. Besides the outstanding characteristics Snoddy had mentioned, the boy wore a set of mismatched clothes that surely constituted a sartorial crime.

"Love his sense a style," he commented.

Snoddy laughed. "Don't go sayin' dat aroun' Race! He's proud a dose clothes. Crutchy - well, dat's pretty obvious."

"So how do ya get a name like Snoddy?" Christopher grinned.

Snoddy grinned back. "Actually, it's me last name. Jack couldn't let it go once he hoid it, though. An' I like it betta den Bryan, anyways."

"If you say so." He glanced forward impatiently. "Why ain't dis line movin'?"

"Weasel always takes his time." Snoddy replied. At that moment a bell began to ring stridently. Christopher winced and covered his ears at the harsh sound. He thought bells were supposed to be melodious. "Speak a da devil. Hey, Chris - do ya need money fer papes? Crutchy said ya might need somebody ta spot ya."

He stiffened and turned around. "It's Christopher!" "You bear a saint's name. Be proud of it!" Not that he had much use for saints, but his mother had loved the name.

Snoddy held up his hands in defense. "Christopher den. Sorry. Ya need any money? It's two fer a penny - ya sell dem fer twice as much."

"Uh, t'anks, yeah. I'll pay ya back-"

"I wouldn't be spottin' ya, if I din't t'ink so!" Snoddy replied. "Ya can sell wit me. I'll show ya da ropes."

******************* It soon became clear to Christopher that the job was not going to be the sinecure he'd half expected when he took Crutchy's offer. Selling newspapers took far more work than he'd ever thought - when he'd ever bothered to think about it. The newsies passed almost unnoticed in the city. They were such fixtures - like the stones in the street and the beggars on the corner.

"You-" Snoddy finally laughed near noon. "-is hopeless!"

Christopher shrugged defensively. "I ain't dat bad."

"Not sellin' all yer papes by lunch I can unnerstand." Snoddy continued laughing, despite him. "But not sellin' any a dem?"

"So how do you manage it?" He asked Snoddy who had only half his original number of papers. His partner had a sanguine disposition. He smiled often at everyone and everything, though Christopher noticed he went silent whenever a pretty girl approached to buy a paper.

"Just a second." Snoddy paused to collect two succulent peaches off a fruit stand while the vendor's back was turned. He handed one to Christopher. "First of all," he advised, "don't go by da front page story. Dere's a lot more, prob'ly betta stories latah on, an' ya can get away wit exaggeratin' dose a liddle. By da time somebody reads dem, you'll be long gone."

The peach could not satiate the hunger of a few days, but the sweet juice was wonderful. He ate as slowly as possible, savoring the taste, before answering.

"Exaggeratin' how?"

Snoddy tossed the peach pit aside. "Like da headline I'se callin' earlier."

Christopher remembered. "'Police Chief Implicated in Harlem Fire?' What about it?"

His partner nodded at the stack of papers he carried. "It's da one on page three." Puzzled, Christopher opened one of his papers and searched for the article. "Bottom left." Snoddy added.

He located it. "'In da round a his duties a Harlem police officer was kind enough ta stop an' repair a young couple's stove. Da lady was expectin', an' in light a dis an' da recent cold snap, Officer Galway's assistance was appreciated . . .'" He looked up.

"Not what ya expected?" Snoddy grinned. "Dat's one a da reasons we don't give out page numbers. If somebody asks, ya don't rememba."

They moved on after eating. With Snoddy's help, Christopher managed to sell a few newspapers in the new area. They passed a dilapidated church building almost hidden between two larger neighbors.

"Dat's sad." Snoddy commented.

"Fills on Sundays," Christopher replied unthinkingly. He had recognized the street as one near his old home. "I din't go dere, though," he added quickly.

"You from aroun' heah?" Snoddy asked.

He shrugged. "It ain't no secret."

"Why'd ya leave?"

"Nothin' ta stay for." At a sudden thought, he glanced back at the church. "I wanna look at somet'in."

******************* Christopher stared down at the dirt mound. It bore no headstone, and was only marked by a small wooden cross at one end of the grave. Had his mother really been that small a woman? She'd crossed over on the boat from Italy at fifteen, lived for three years in a settlement house, then at 18, calmly announced to Ferigo Pacino that she was going to marry him. Surely that five foot long grave could not contain such a personality. "Please, Christopher. Please, God!" What help had He been? Chrisopher wanted to tear the wooden cross out of the dirt and fling it as far as he could.

"Who is it?" Snoddy stood at his elbow.

"Me mudda." His partner asked nothing more, simply waiting until Christopher was ready to leave.

He didn't recognize his second angel any more than he had the first.

******************* "Full house." Truth won her third straight poker game with an angelic smile.

"Ya shoa ya ain't got some kind of hidden advantage?" Swifty complained.

Truth's eyes widened in wounded innocence. "Swifty! Ya really t'ink dat I would cheat?"

"Yes!" everyone chorused. Christopher had met the girls when he and Snoddy returned to the lodging house that evening. There was Truth, genius at poker and former con artist - not to be trusted if she swore she was lying. He'd also met sisters, Pounce and Pen. Pounce had volunteered to teach him the game, while Pen scribbled away in a brown book. Clouds and Pips had brothers among the newsies. Clouds and her twin Itey were both thirteen, and Pipsqueak was five.

"Dat's it!" Blink gave up. "I ain't playin' wit you no more. If you ain't takin' me money, he is." He pointed at Racetrack who had somehow managed to scrounge up enough money to bet, even after a discouraging day at the tracks.

"It's gettin' late, anyways," Dutchy said. "Kloppman'll be up soon, an' we might as well get ta sleep."

"Evenin', ladies." The boys stood up like gentlemen as the girls left. Christopher smiled at Pounce in particular, and winked at Pips who grinned back and stuck out her tongue. When they'd gone, he turned to Snoddy. "Ya shoa yer sleepwalkin' ain't a excuse?"

Snoddy rolled his eyes. "Very funny."

"T'ink it's contagious? I might catch it, an' wander ovah dere later." Several boys overheard and laughed.

At that moment Kloppman entered the room. He stopped in the doorway with a hand over his heart in shock. "You boys are actually going to sleep without me dragging you into bed?" he asked wide-eyed. "Cowboy, you'd better call the doctor. I'm hallucinating!" While the landlord bantered with Jack, Christopher climbed into bed. He heard Snoddy whispering something below him, but didn't quite catch the words, and - unexpectedly tired - fell asleep before he could ask.

******************* Snoddy closed every night with those few muttered words. After two weeks at the lodging house, Christopher finally gave in to curiosity and asked what he was doing.

"I'se-" He pictured his friend blushing during the pause. In those two weeks, he'd come to know his partner well. "Don't tell da guys - I'se prayin'."

"Prayin'!" A picture of his mother on her deathbed flashed through his mind. "Dere's a laugh!" A bitter sound that could not resemble laughter any less, no matter what he claimed, escaped his mouth. "Prayin'. I ain't laughed like dat in a long time." He turned toward the wall with one last laugh, but didn't fall asleep until much later.

******************* The afternoon visit to the cemetery also became a regular routine. Snoddy remained as silent and sympathetic a friend as ever, saying no words when none were needed. Christopher settled into a routine of selling papers, visiting the graveyard, playing poker, and mocking Snoddy's 'devotions' as he called them, when yet another change upset the established order.

A new boy appeared in the square one morning in May. Christopher first caught sight of him talking to Cowboy. He cut a far from imposing figure at first glance - a head shorter than Christopher, thin and wiry - not to mention the ridiculous conceit of the gold-handled cane he wore at his side.

"Jack, who's da new guy?" he called. Both boys turned to look at him.

"Oh, Christopher, dis is-"

The boy waved silent any introduction and gave Christopher a measuring look. "Yeah." He nodded. "Yeah, Jack, he'll do." He spat in his hand and held it out. "Chris."

"It's Christopher," he replied, annoyed both by the familiar address and by the boy's superior manner. "An' who're you ta say I'll do?"

He vaguely noticed everyone step back. "Christopher-" Snoddy whispered warningly.

The boy straightened in surprise, and narrowed his eyes. "Ya know who ya's tawkin' to?" His voice held a touch of menace and a touch of disbelief.

"A small kid wit a big head." Christopher replied with amused condescension.

"Been nice knowin' ya, kid," he thought he heard someone whisper. He didn't have a chance to see who because by then he was too busy defending himself. The second punch bloodied his nose before he could react to the first which had split his lip. Once he had rallied enough to fight back, he found the battle no easier. His opponent never seemed to stay still. While Christopher's fist passed through the air where he should have been, the boy hit him from the other side. He was sprawled on his face with an arm twisted behind him within minutes.

A knee on his back pinned him to the ground, and the boy leaned over him. "Ya tired a eatin' doit?"

Christopher nodded slightly. "Uncle." The weight left his back, and he rolled over to spit the dust out of his mouth. The boy stood over him, smirking. He held out a hand, but Christopher got to his feet on his own, regarding him with new respect. He brushed the sweaty hair out of his eyes and wiped his nose on his bandanna. "D-n!" He smiled. "Wheah'd you loin ta fight like dat?!"

In reply, he got another smirk. "We ain't finished da innerductions, yet. Youse Chris." The boy spat in his hand and offered it in a gesture of peace. "Spot Conlon."

Christopher could hardly have failed to know the name. Boys spoke it with respect, fear, and just a little superstition all over New York. He smiled wider in reply and shook. "Den I don't feel so bad about gettin' soaked - an' it's still Christopher."

******************* "Whaddaya got against a nickname, anyways?" Snoddy asked curiously. "EXTRY! EXTRY! PRICELESS JEWEL STOLEN!!! REWARD FER RETURN!"

Christopher was surprised. "Nothin'! Oh, ya mean - I jist don't like bein' called Chris dat's all."

"Well, anyways, ya's passed da test." Snoddy grinned.

He called out a headline. "What test would dat be?"

"Spot." Snoddy replied. "Ya gots guts, speakin' up like dat, even afta he soaked ya. 'Sides, most people don't come outta a fight wit Spot wit less den two black eyes! Goin' a liddle far jist ta impress Pounce, though, don't'cha t'ink?" he added slyly.

"Why would I be tryin' ta impress 'er?" Christopher returned. He smiled, though. Pounce was becoming a friend, and he had no objections to that friendship becoming something more.

"How's yer lady, Bowler? Youse two enjoy yer evenin'?" Christopher's tone said far more.

"Ya wanna say dat where I can soak ya for it?" The older boy, just back from a visit to his fiancee, only half-joked back.

Christopher smiled at the ceiling. "No, t'anks. I'll pass."

Race made a note on his scratch-sheet, dropped it on the night stand and rolled into bed. "Youse some kinda mudpie eater or somet'in? Cuz I swear, I ain't nevah met nobody wit a dirtier mouth."

"Livin' wit you jist rubbed off, Race." He leaned over the side of his bunk to look down at Snoddy. "Finished yer devotions?"

"Ya's a real joik, ya know dat?" Snoddy replied sharply.

Surprised at the outburst, Christopher lay back on his elbows. He covered his confusion with a joke. "So den why do ya put up wit me?"

Snoddy sighed, but Christopher could hear the exasperated smile in his voice. "I'se jist got da woist taste in best friends."

Christopher mystified his best friend. He joked, teased the girls, flirted with Pounce and played poker like the world was about to end. But on those visits to the graveyard, he came far closer to crying that he would ever admit. And Snoddy was sure his bitter mockery of anything related to religion must have some cause.

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