Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.
Author's Note: This is the new story I've been working on. It's completely different than anything I've done and, as such, I'm making sure I'm fair with explaining much of the story content up front. This piece will start out with a T rating but, considering the way I have it planned out, a switch to an M rating is possible. Much of what it will contain is no worse than what you see on prime time - but it definitely will have adult themes, whether obviously stated or implied. I have to say, I really like this, I've had a ball with the notes, the research, everything, and I'm trying to do something new. I hope that comes across, and I really hope that my readers both give it a chance and, with any luck, like it! I say this not to scare anyone off, either. I already have most of this done, and the story is planned extensively from beginning to end - a first for me, I know. I know what's going to happen and I like the idea of placing warnings up front so that I don't suddenly drop anything on anyone. Now, without further ado...
Warnings: This story will have some minor language, non-graphic violence, eventual character death, minor adult themes and gratuitous use of flashbacks as a storytelling device.
Five
April 21, 1900
It had taken months of planning to get this right. Casing the place, waiting for the opportune moment to strike, looking for the quick in, the quicker out and the route that would get them as far away from the New York bank as possible. Months of watching and months of setting this up so that they wouldn't fail. Months of picking the right team, going over and over the plan with them, making sure they weren't just in it for the chance to wave a pistol about like a fool. Far too many months.
There was to be three of them that night, three dark figures each with a gun in his hand. It started off smoothly enough, the three men loping through the back entrance of the bank. The guard stationed out back had been dispatched without any of the guns ever even needing to go off. They were safety measures more than anything, a guarantee that, no matter how easy it had been to break inside the closed bank, it would be just as easy to get out again.
Which it would've been… if there hadn't been a second guard—an armed guard—waiting just past the vault.
It was a late spring night, the type with a bit of bite to the air but still the promise of a bright tomorrow. The heavy air was as clean as you could get on the Lower East Side, not that that's saying much, and the boys were breathing it in deeply, enjoying a cool breeze that didn't burn their lungs and make them cough from the inside out.
Half past eleven and well past curfew, Jack Kelly crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the craggy bricks. As one of the older boys—and a hero in the bunkrooms—the old superintendent Kloppman was game to turn a blind eye or two whenever some of the fellas stayed out a little later than they should. And, well, you couldn't pass up a night like this for nothing.
Striking a match against the sole of his shoe, Jack cupped his free hand around the flame and lit his cigarette. He shook the match out and tossed the spent wood to the ground before taking a deep, steady drag. "Ah," he exhaled, blowing a thin stream of smoke out through his knowing smirk, "that was nice."
"Don't you think it's about time we started heading back?"
David Jacobs was huddling nervously just outside of the alley that kept three other boys shadowed. Unaccustomed to staying out too late, he kept watch for any passing coppers.
"Ah, poor Davey," teased the shorter boy across the way. Racetrack Higgins sported a crooked grin that settled familiarly around the cigar that seemed permanently stuck in the corner of his mouth. "Worried your mama is gonna fret without you home to hold her hand?"
From the other side of Jack there came a short sigh and a quick, "Watch it, Race."
Race turned to look in front of him. Spot Conlon was slouching next to Jack, his arms crossed over his chest and his newsboy cap slung low, hiding his brilliant eyes from Race's view. There was a good head difference between Cowboy and Spot—more since Spot was slouching down and Jack was just leaning back—but Race could see that, despite alliances and friendships and all the history they had, Jack was giving the other boy his space. That should've been enough of a clue for Race but, drunk on a night of freedom, he barely noticed.
"Sorry, Spot," and his oily, wise-crack of a voice made it clear that, despite his words, he wasn't done just yet, "didn't realize he was so important to ya."
"I'm warnin' ya," Spot drawled, "leave the Mouth alone."
Race chewed on the stub of his cigar and knew then that it was probably time to drop it. He did so with a click of his tongue and an exaggerated sigh. Picking on David Jacobs these days wasn't so much fun whenever Spot was around.
He couldn't understand it himself. For close to a year, ever since the strike last summer, it had been a free-for-all when it came to teasing the elder Jacobs boy, but lately Jack Kelly wasn't the only one making sure the teasing was light-hearted when it came to David. Out of nowhere, Spot had taken up the role of the Walking Mouth's protector. Jack, he understood, considering Cowboy had spent months trying to bed David's sister Sarah before he finally gave up on her. What the hell was Conlon's excuse?
David was too preoccupied to even have heard Race's comments, let alone take them to heart. Tapping his fingers against the side of his trousers, memories of dark nights, of alleyways like this one, of bad decisions, a paddy wagon and Jack in the Refuge resurfacing… well, it was no wonder he was a little apprehensive about staying out at night. Peering intently out on the street, he told the others, "I think someone's coming. We shouldn't be out here."
Hoping this would give him something to work with, some reason to keep poking fun at David without unleashing Spot's formidable temper—even more formidable considering the short fuse he had lately—Race crossed over the alleyway, absently chewing on his cigar. He joined David at the edge of the street, following the direction David was staring in and was surprised that this normally empty street—well, empty at half-past eleven, that is—actually had someone strolling alone toward them.
A second look and Race's lips curled.
It wasn't another cheap shot at David. No, it was better. Like Christmas come early, or ten to one odds proving true on a long shot, Race recognized the face of a young man the newsies hadn't seen in close to a year: Oscar Delancey, their one-time foe and an ex-employee for the New York World's Distribution Center.
"Hold your nose, fellas," he crowed, entering back into the shadowy path, approaching Jack with one hell of a grin on his face. "If I ain't mistaken, the foul stench of a Delancey is in the air."
Jack slapped Race playfully in the chest with the back of his hand. If there was anyone who missed picking on the Delancey brothers and was willing to take advantage of any opportunity to mess with one again, it was Jack. "Nah, Race, that ain't Delancey stink," he said, mirroring Race's grin, down to the smoke they kept between their lips, "that's the stink of a good for nothin' bummer."
Race's shrug was exaggerated. "But ain't that what Delancey is?"
"Ya got a point there."
Having heard their taunts and, worse, recognizing their voices, Oscar stopped in front of them, ignoring David and Spot as he glared viciously over at Jack and Race. "Don't think I forgot what you rotten newsies did to me and my family," he said lowly, referring to his brother and his uncle Weisel who had also been run out of a job when the strike ended. "We never got the revenge we deserved. You don't want to do this now."
Jack pretended to think about it for a moment. He shook his head. "No, I'm pretty sure we do."
"C'mon, Oscar, don't tell me ya missed gettin' soaked by Cowboy here?" Race teased, grateful to have the chance to blow some steam off. Oscar Delancey and his brother Morris were the sort of fellows that no one could would want to shield and protect. Fair game, they were, especially for someone who lost his lodging fare down at Sheepshead Bay that afternoon and wanted to make someone at least as small as he did.
"I ain't never—"
"Ya never beat him, that's right."
"Why, I oughtta—"
"You oughtta what?" Race asked daringly, interrupting Oscar a second time.
Oscar was sneering then, an ugly pull of his face that made him look more intimidating than Race would've expected, but before he could retaliate with his words, his fist, anything, David's strange behavior caught all of their attention.
He hadn't moved from his post since Oscar arrived, acting the part of the look-out for his own piece of mind, smartfully minding that he didn't get too close to the Delancey boy in case he started swinging. But suddenly David jumped and, in spite of Racetrack's snicker, grabbed at Jack's forearm. "Someone else is coming."
"Don't tell me it's another Delancey," Racetrack cracked first. "Ya know, it ain't like you, Oscar, goin' off without your ape of a brother. What, someone catch him and ship him off to the zoo?"
Oscar scowled, his hands curled into fist, but before he could try to take that earned swing at Racetrack—and receive a punch from Jack for his trouble—David's worried voice cut through most of the tension again. "No, it's definitely someone else. They're running this way. I can see them coming… we should really go." He pulled on Jack's arm. "Let's go."
Having just finished his smoke, and baiting Oscar not half as fun as it used to be with David chirping like a nervous chick in his ear, Jack shook him off and took the ends of the cigarette from his mouth. He threw them to the dirt, stamping them out as he tried to calm David down. "It's probably some dumbass, home late to his wife," he began, wondering to himself why he'd even bothered inviting Davey to a night out with the fellas. "Don't be so jumpy, Dave—"
His words were interrupted by a noise so loud it left their ears ringing like they'd been cuffed around the side of their head. Like a balloon being popped but so much louder, so much more piercing, it rang through the night, once, twice, three times before it stopped only to be answered by two more exploding snaps.
Jack was wide-eyed as he jerked, startled and taken aback. This time it was he who grabbed David's arm, dragging him into the darker mouth of the alley, hiding the curly-haired newsie from whoever it was out there making that loud, popping sound. "Get in here."
"What was that?" Race asked, his cigar stuffed in the corner of his mouth forgotten, a nuisance. His question came out muffled but the other boys understood. After all, they were—even if they'd never admit it—thinking the same thing themselves.
It was Oscar who answered. He looked grim; all earlier aggression was forgotten in the wake of the sudden, ear-popping noise. "Hell, I think I know what it was. Sounded like a pistol goin' off."
"A pistol?" David swallowed and moved quickly past Spot, leaving Jack and the Brooklyn boy closer to the edge of the street. "Oh, I knew I never should've left the apartment," he mumbled, placing his hands over his face as if that would hide him more efficiently than the shadow of the dead-end.
The four other boys ignored him pointedly.
After a few seconds had passed and no more shots rang out, Jack cleared his throat. "If someone was runnin' out there… and, yeah, I'd be runnin' too if someone was shootin' a pistol at me… well, where did they go?" He turned to his left and looked past Spot to meet David's wide blue eyes. "Ya sure someone was runnin' this way, Davey?"
David nodded vigorously. "I saw him coming."
"I'm gonna look."
"Jack, I don't think—"
Spot straightened up then, lifting his hat up with a quick tap of his thin fingers. His cyan eyes shone curiously in the darkness and when he said, "Let me by, Mouth," no one argued with him.
He didn't know how it all went wrong. Months spent planning, months wasted. They never knew there was a second guard waiting inside, a guard with a pistol and a whistle. When did he even find time to blow it? Quick on the trigger, the damn guard fired off two shots—two men fell—and it was only because the barrel jammed that he even got this far.
The guard blew the whistle and while he ran away from the scene, as much of the hard-earned money in his arms as he could carry, he knew that the whistle would rouse one of the city's sleeping cops to the chase. He was right. He barely made it two blocks down the street before a quick glance behind him revealed the guard and the cop, chasing after him, running him down while the guard with the pistol waved it menacingly in the night air.
The money was heavier than he ever thought. It was awkward to hold and once or twice he thought he might've dropped some. It certainly felt lighter as he rounded one corner, hoping to hell that he would get out of this. He almost wanted to let a bag fly, to lessen the weight, to make it easier to hold, but he deserved this money. With the lives of his two partners, he certainly paid for it.
Passing by an empty alleyway—a dead-end, he knew, so it was worthless to try and hide there—he shifted the bags in his arms and put on another burst of speed. The cop was older and slowing down but the guard was still keeping up. At this rate he would end up like the other two, shot in the chest and bleeding out on the floor.
That thought spurred him on even faster. And he wondered: why hadn't anyone warned him that robbing a bank could lead to such trouble?
It was then, just as Spot made to move forward, that a man came running frantically by. It was easy to see why it had taken him so long to pass the place where the five boys were waiting: weighed down by at least four sacks full of who knew what, the man was going at least fast enough not to notice the five pairs of eyes watching from inside the alley—or to notice when one of the satchels he was carrying dropped from his hold and landed with a thump just an arm's reach outside of the path.
Each one of boys watching the man fly past them recognized a man on the wrong end of a foot pursuit; having at one time or another each of them been chased on foot by a cop or—in Jack and David's case—the warden of the Refuge, they knew there was only a few seconds before one of the bulls came rushing past.
It was Spot who acted first. Crouching down low, hoping the copper was as dumb, blind and, most of all, as slow as the ones in his experience, he shot out his hand and reached for the bag. If it was worth holding onto while running like that, it had to be worth something. After his hand closed on the top, he dared a glance to his right and saw that his assumptions were right: not more than a block back, a police officer with a nightstick and a man with a pistol were running as quickly as they could after that first man.
Without another thought, Spot tucked the bag under his arm, slunk back into the darkness, hopped to his feet and ordered, "Follow me."
The others didn't have to be told twice. Though it was a dead-end, no opening on the other side of the alley, Jack, Race, Oscar and David all followed Spot as he led them to the farthest side, an even darker area that hid them completely from any prying eyes. There they waited until the two men passed, the police officer running first, the man with the pistol never even stopping to glance inside their hiding place; there they waited until the men had run by before Spot set the bag down on the ground. The five boys made a circle around it, staring at it as if they expected it to simply disappear.
"What is it?"
In response to Jack's whispered question, Spot pulled the string on the bag, opening the mouth wide until everyone could see what was inside. He left the bag on the dirt floor, moving back so that the lights from the street managed to trickle in far enough to shine feebly on the open sight: a bag stuffed to the brim with all sorts of money, bills of all sizes, crumpled as if shoved hastily inside. Money. It was a bag full of money.
"Holy shit," breathed Race. He was the first one to find the words. "We're rich."
"No we're not." David was shaking his head, his blue eyes wide as he stepped away from the spoils, his hands held up warningly as if he was warding it all away from him.
"What do you mean, we're not? Look at it, Davey. A sack full of money fell from the sky, we're stinkin' rich!"
"We can't keep it." The four others looked at David like he was crazy. Still shaking his head slowly, he continued, "No, really, we can't. How are we going to explain money like this? It's obviously stolen—"
"Yeah, but we didn't do the stealin'," interrupted Oscar, "so that's fine, right? Finders keepers."
"Yes, we did," argued David, "by taking this bag, we just about stole it ourselves."
"I'm not givin' it back," Race said stubbornly, his beady eyes still eyeing all that money greedily, "and I ain't about to let ya, either. You'd have to kill me first."
"Don't talk like that, Race," snapped Jack, anxiously rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth. His eyes never left the bag, either. "Davey doesn't want to turn the money in, does he? Do you?"
Under the heavy weight of four pairs of eyes, David found himself unable to explain that, yes, what he wanted to do was turn that money in. It was the right thing to do, it didn't belong to them but… well, his family had had it rough ever since his father was out of work last summer. Sarah and Mama deserved nicer clothes and Les was growing like a weed. And Papa… Papa shouldn't have to work so hard.
And, maybe Oscar was right. If he thought about it in a slightly skewed way, it wasn't like they were the ones who took the sack of money in the first place. All they did was… was rescue it. Right?
"No," he said, feeling guilty but also feeling the giddy excitement and relief a found fortune could deliver, "I don't think we should turn it in."
"We can split it," Race offered excitedly. You could already see the dollar signs flashing over his head, the plans he had for a pile of money, the bets he'd make, everything. "Four ways, right?"
"I think you meant five ways," Oscar said stonily, "unless ya want me chasin' after those coppers there."
Apart from David, none of the other newsboys had ever had a real education. Everything they learned, from reading, writing to arithmetic, they learned it on the streets. But they didn't need a real education to know that one-fifths of a sack of money was better than no-fifths. "Five ways," agreed Spot, and, like usual, no one argued with him.
Also, as to be expected, it was David Jacobs who got in the next word: "But not now."
Racetrack straightened; his hands, already rubbing eagerly back in forth, they fell as he dropped his arms back to his side. David was still a couple of inches taller and it was with his head tilted slightly back that he glowered at the other boy. "What do you mean, not now?" His fingers itched and twitched, eager to reach out and grab a fistful of cash.
"It's too soon," David countered. "We can't explain it how we found it, and someone's going to be missing this money. We have to wait."
"For how long?" asked Oscar suspiciously.
"I don't know… a couple of years, maybe? No more than five, I think."
"Five years!" Race exclaimed. "I could be dead in five years!"
But Spot, it seemed, saw some sense in David's plan. At the very least, he didn't say anything against it. "Yeah, but if ya ain't, then you'll be loaded."
The sight of that much money was playing havoc with Race. Without even thinking about it, he glared over at Spot. The Brooklyn boy barely even flinched, meeting Race's glare with a steely glint in his own eyes. Faltering just a bit, Race swallowed but still asked, "Alright, what should we do with it 'til then?"
It was Jack's turn to speak up. A self-assured grin splitting his face, he pointed at the bag at their feet but didn't touch it. It was like, if he had it in his hand, he'd never want to put it down again—and, considering what he was planning, that would make it pretty difficult to pull off. "Come with me," he said, nodding at the others, "I got an idea."
Oscar was the quickest. Before any of the others had the chance, he swooped down and scooped the bag up in his arms. Gripping the mouth of the sack with his fist, he jutted his chin out defiantly. "You're not goin' anywhere with this money without me."
"Yeah, Oscar," Jack said flippantly, waving his hand as he peeked out of the alley to make sure it was safe, "I guess ya gotta come, too."
"Well, okay, then. Just makin' that clear."
Spot tapped Oscar on his back with the edge of his cane. "Excuse me, Delancey, but I'll be takin' that."
It looked for a moment like he was going to argue before he must've thought better of it and changed his mind. With a small grumble under his breath and a threat he uttered loud enough to make himself feel better but low enough for Spot to ignore him, Oscar handed the bag off to Spot.
After taking a second to slip his cane back in place underneath his faded red suspender, Spot accept the weight of the bag. He pretended he didn't notice the way both Race and Oscar's eyes were glued to his every move. David, on the other hand, had joined Jack at the mouth of the alley, the two of them resuming the role of (much needed) look-out.
Clearing his throat, Spot called, "All clear?"
"All clear," Jack replied, motioning for the boys to follow him out.
With Jack in the lead, and Spot with the money cushioned on all sides by the three other boys, they all headed back up the Lower East Side, going past Newspaper Row, Duane Street an obvious destination. Sidestepping nightwalkers, avoiding drunken patrons, ducking alongside a corner shop when it looked like a copper was heading their way, Jack brought the boys to the back exit of the Newsboys' Lodging House on Duane Street.
But, rather than head inside like more than one of his companions expected of him, Jack veered left until they passed the doorway, moving to the edge of the building where chipped and ragged bricks made up the wall and there wasn't another soul in sight. It was at a stretch of wall untouched by the gas lamps along the streets where Jack stopped and, dropping to his knees, patted a few of the bricks tentatively.
When he found the one he was looking for he turned to look over his shoulder, meeting the wary gazes of those standing behind him. "Anyone here got a knife?" he asked.
Racetrack and David's eyes immediately turned toward Oscar who shrugged and reached into his back pocket. Unfolding a switchblade with a flick of his wrist, he handed it to Jack without a word.
Bending down again, Jack put the tip of the knife to the edge of that one particular brick, his tongue sticking out and his thick, greasy hair falling forward into his eyes. But he didn't start to cut; instead, he paused, letting the knife hang limply from his fingers. Glancing up and over his shoulder a second time, he said, "Race, ya got your watch on ya?"
"Uh, yeah, Cowboy. I got it right here."
"What time is it?"
Patting his pockets absently, not really sure why the time mattered now when Kloppman probably gave up on them hours ago, Race found the chain of his watch. He hooked one of his stubby fingers underneath and pulled the tarnished pocketwatch out. Flicking it open expertly, he squinted at the numbers. "It's just about midnight."
Jack nodded. "Perfect. Ya hear that, fellas?" he asked, eyeing each of the other four boys in turn. "Midnight, five years from now, we meet here, divvy up the loot? We tell no one, this'll just be our little secret. The money will be hidden inside this wall and we're gonna leave it here. Do ya understand?"
When he was met with nods and mumbled agreements, Jack placed the borrowed blade on the dirt floor and spit into his hand. Rising up, he offered the same hand out to Oscar. "We should all shake on it."
And Oscar Delancey, with three New York newsies as witness, mimicked Jack's gesture, spit into his palm and shook hands with Jack Kelly. After only a moment to make sure they had really seen what they just saw, Race spitshook with Spot and David—after trying to get away with just extending his hand—spitshook with Jack.
Finally satisfied, Jack picked up the knife again and began to saw.
It had taken months of planning for every eventuality, but it took all of five minutes for the bust to go sour.
Two of them dead.
One of them caught.
All the money recovered—
Jack pushed the brick back into place with the fleshy part of his palm, hitting it once or twice for good measure. Licking a dirty finger, he tried to make it look like none of the mortar had been chipped away by Oscar's blade.
"There," he said at last, impressed with his handiwork.
"See ya in five years," added Race, saluting the wall.
—except for one bag.
End Note: So, what did you think? I just thought I'd take the time here to note that this story is going to be a... well, an interesting marriage between some fascinating research I've been doing on the Victorian Era. I have two very good books - "Victorian America: Transformations in Everyday Life" by Thomas J Schlereth and "The Good Old Days... They Were Terrible" by Otto L. Bettman - that have really helped me with the details. I totally recommend them (even if Bettman's book is a little more down and dirty than you would think, though the title is definitely fitting). Okay, that's all I have for today. Please let me know what you think, and I should have the next part out very soon!
- stress, 06.12.10