I let out a whoop when I saw the headline.
"Eyh, guys! Lookit dis!" 'Attempted Murderer Thought To Be In New York' stared up at me in large print from the front page. The article gave details about a man, Michael O'Donan, who'd tried to kill the president of the United States. I took a hundred papers and sold them all, easily. You could've sold by sitting in an alley and not saying anything, with that kind of a story. We all ate like kings at Tibby's.
"So, Race, ya scared a' dat guy from da papes?" Blink clambered up to his bunk, managing to step on me although I was on the other side of my bed.
"Ya kiddin'? Dere's so many moiderah's round heah, he's just da only one dat got any fame. 'Sides, didja read da rest? 'E's probably da only oddah guy in dis city who knows what it's like ta be five feet tree inches." He laughed at me and called goodnights to the others.
At one o'clock I crept out of bed and wrote my note by the dim light from the window. At 1:03, I was gone. In the middle of the floor lay a note, held down by the carved wooden horse my mother had given me. It was the last thing I had to remind me of my family, and I never had let it go before. My Italian family, that is. My mother, Rosa Higgins, had made it for me.
I learned that my sister Bianca is alive and in danger.
I've gone to look for her. If I find her, I'll come back.
If I don't come back, keep this somewhere to remember me by.
Racetrack