Tears of a Whore

Chapter One:The Note

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Heavy breathing – was it his own?

In, out, he thought, counting every time he inhaled and exhaled. Every breath was another moment alive. It was blissful, life; how had he never known this, how had he always taken it for granted? How had he never realized how wonderful it was to simply exist?

He waited for the footsteps to come to a rest on the other side of the door, waited for the betraying creak of the floorboards. He had known that this moment would come but he had never suspected that it would come so soon. He had even prepared a little speech for it. When they caught him, strung him up, he would look at them defiantly and say, For Chrissakes, officer, I'm just a boy.

He felt a warm sensation run down his leg and realized he'd pissed himself. He was more annoyed than embarrassed at his body's betrayal – how would they take him seriously if he reeked of urine?

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This story begins, and ends, with a whore.

Not just any whore, Mush will tell anyone who'll listen; a beautiful whore, a fairy-tale princess, locked in an inescapably tragic underworld. This, of course, is horrendously untrue; in the same breath, Racetrack will tell anyone who'll listen that the whore had missing teeth, sagging breasts, and that Mush never even laid eyes on the bitch, much less spoke to her.

He was the one who first had that honor, and he'll assure you that he wishes he'd never crossed paths with that woman, wished he'd never tried to sell a paper on Franklin Street. Strategically, the street seems the perfect territory for work. It's narrow but open and there is heavy traffic flow at lunch time; it's also near the races, just a hop skip and a jump away, so if business is bad, a quick tip or two can liven things considerably. The bulls rarely make their way so far to the borders of Manhattan, and even if they do, it's only to grab coffee at the next street over.

On that fateful Monday, Racetrack had been having difficulty selling his papers. This fact was distressing as the previous night had brought heavy losses due to a bad tip. He was slightly hung over, having spent his last nickel on enough alcohol to render a larger man unconscious. In fact, he looked like shit, but generally he found that this condition helped him to sell papers.

It wasn't that his voice was too soft, or that he was allowing his aching head to get in the way of his work. That would have been unprofessional, and as all the Manhattan newsboys knew, Racetrack was all business when it came to selling.

No, it was the fact that down the street, a woman was crying.

Wailing, really. Screaming in agony, doubled over on the street, pounding the cobblestones. This display would have been distressing to any passerby. Racetrack watched in frustration as potential customers simply passed Franklin Street, choosing to walk down the next to avoid this little tantrum.

Racetrack didn't give a rat's ass about what this woman was crying about. More out of concern for his own pocket than out of concern for her affairs, he sighed, lit a cigarette, and began to sidle over to where she lay, sobbing.

"Pardon me, miss," the newsboy said, tipping his hat for, after all, this was a lady, "are ya alright?"

The woman gave another heart-felt sob and looked upwards. Racetrack nearly kicked himself for failing to observe her clothing; this hangover, it seemed, was preventing him from using his head. Her dress was poorly made and pushed her breasts upwards indecently. In this compromising position, she was exposing a fair bit of ankle. Her face was streaked by tears that ran in rivers through her makeup, blending black kohl and tan together, leaving a horrendous mess behind. She might have been thirty, or maybe a bit younger. He'd never been so repulsed by a woman before.

A whore, he growled inwardly, and immediately turned to see if her pimp was nearby. Likely as not, he was going to get thrown around for bothering the whore while she was working. Might as well convince her to be quiet while the pimp was still watching, in a last ditch effort to settle this affair without bloodshed.

"No," she sniffled, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. This was a mistake because it caused her makeup to smudge further still, giving her the appearance of someone who'd been smacked around, "do I look alright, ya stupid prick?"

This seemed a remarkably unkind way to address the first person who had acknowledged her distress. After a beat, and a long drag on his cigarette, Racetrack decided to get right down to business.

"As one professional t'another, miss, you're scarin' away customers."

The prostitute glared up at him with dull hatred, which he shrugged off without apology. She gathered her skirts and stood hastily, abruptly, indignance on every line of her unpleasant face. They stood staring at each other for a moment. The whore was taller by several inches, and after a long pause, spat in Racetrack's face.

The boy was shocked. For a moment, unsuspecting, he had shown this in his expression. He would never have taken this insult from a man; no, if even his best friend had spat in his face, Racetrack would not have hesitated to swing a fist back and sock him in the mouth. But this was a woman, even if she was only a whore. He'd never had much experience with the fairer sex. He had no idea how to handle this sort of insult.

Slowly, he reached a dirty hand to his cheek and wiped off the spittle. He rubbed the saliva on his pants, and said, very softly, "What the hell was that for?"

"Doan' you act like you can tell me what ta do," the whore snarled.

Racetrack blinked. Mentally he was tallying up the circumstances; being spat at openly, in the street, would cause potential customers to think he was some sort of pervert. He'd have to find another selling spot, a right pain in the ass this close to lunch. If he moved any further south, he would be stepping on Skittery's toes, and the other boy had always been extremely territorial. Of course, every moment that he waited around here meant that he was giving this woman's pimp an open look at his face. He wouldn't go without serving some sort of retribution for attempting to be a Good Samaritan.

And this, he reminded himself sternly, was why he never did good deeds. They always came back around to bite him in the ass.

"I just wanted ta see why ya were cryin'," he said defensively, trying to smile pleasantly. It was a last ditch attempt to get on the whore's good side – maybe she could put a good word in for him with her pimp. Racetrack's head was already aching and he didn't think a new shiner would improve matters much.

The whore seemed to like this genteel approach. She reached between her breasts – Racetrack could only watch in admiration – and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it carelessly, extending the sheet outward. They both stared at the writing without comprehension.

"D'ya knows anyone named Francis Sullivan?" she asked, suddenly sweet. This change in mood immediately put the newsboy on the defensive, though he managed to make himself look pleased. Flattery, of any form, made his skin crawl.

"Francis Sullivan?" Racetrack repeated, thinking hard, "naw, doan' think so."

"He's a newsie," the whore simpered, sizing him up, "ain't you one, too?"

As he was carrying a stack of newspapers under his arm, he thought that this point had been relatively obvious. However, whores weren't known for their intelligence. He took a final drag from his cigarette and dropped it, putting it out with a definitive stamp of his shoe. The woman seemed to be awaiting some sort of answer, so he resisted the urge to roll his eyes and nodded briefly.

"Give this to 'im," she begged, thrusting the bit of paper at him. He noticed that this movement caused her breasts to bulge, "please. Find 'im. Ask around for me?"

Racetrack hid a scowl and took the piece of paper. He couldn't read, but he would never admit this fact to a whore. He put the paper in his front pocket, ready to begin naming his terms. In Manhattan, nothing came for free.

"What's in it fer me?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. His poker face had always been excellent; he held it in place, even as he heard heavy footsteps falling behind him. Racetrack turned, furious with himself for getting into this position. If he kept cool, perhaps he'd be able to walk away from this.

The man who walked towards them was heavy-set. His arms put the muscles of the Delancey brothers to shame. He had a receding hairline, a broad jaw and unsettlingly intelligent eyes. He looked familiar, for some reason, though Racetrack was sure he'd never seen the pimp before. He had never been to a whorehouse; rather than gambling on diseased love, the boy had always preferred to stick to cards. They were cleaner and gave him more pleasure.

"Please help me," The whore whispered. The request seemed so genuine that it almost made Racetrack turn and look at her; it appeared the pimp hadn't heard, for a moment later, the newsboy found himself being suspended in the air by two hands clamping his arms to his body. His newspapers fell from beneath his arm, scattering haphazardly on the cobblestones.

Well, there went any possibility of dinner.

The pimp looked him up and down, smirking. "This runt givin' you trouble, Chastity?"

Chastity? What a name. It would have been amusing if the circumstances weren't so troubling. Racetrack considered his options. He could try to kick this man in the face, aiming to break his nose, but then he was sure that this pimp would have a personal vendetta against him. Racetrack knew that these street pimps generally worked for much for powerful men, ones who waited down by the docks, preferring to keep their hands clean during the day. He didn't want to attract any such attention – it would only mean trouble.

Another option was to talk his way out of this. At the moment, dangling from the pimp's arms, it seemed a ludicrous hope. However, he'd talked himself out of far worse predicaments before.

His last option was to accept this cruel twist of fate and be beaten into a pulp.

The whore, it seemed, had an odd view of loyalty. She'd just a begged a favor from Racetrack but seemed content to save her own unworthy self. She fluttered her eyelashes at the pimp, baring her molding teeth in an unattractive smile. "Trouble? Naw. I c'n take care o' meself."

Racetrack thought that silence might be wisest at this point, though he did wriggle a bit, grimacing at the painful way that those hands dug into his flesh. He was firmly pinned.

"Ya listen ta me, runt," the pimp snarled, putting his face closer, "ya gonna pay fer your time with my girl?"

This was an absurd question, but Racetrack chose to answer honestly. "No, sir."

He found himself being shaken roughly. He was unceremoniously slammed into the nearest wall. His head caught against the bricks and he shouted out without meaning to, a cry of surprised pain. The next blow came slowly and he managed to move his head in time, though his shoulders were still pressed against the wall. He kicked out with his foot in a dirty attempt to kick the man in the balls. This wasn't a fair fight and Racetrack was no fool. He knew the odds weren't in his favor, and he knew that the best way out of a tight spot often involved a little cheating.

His foot connected. The grasp on his shoulders relaxed, just for a moment, but it was enough. He sprang free and ran wildly, arms flailing. He sped across the cobblestones, wincing as they jarred his bones, sprinting faster than he'd thought himself capable of. Racetrack didn't turn to see if the man was pursuing him, but he also didn't hear any footsteps behind him.

It was hard to justify leaving his newspapers behind. His hangover had left, blissfully, replaced by fear and a rush of adrenaline that dizzied his senses. He dodged into back alleyways, nearly knocking over passerby. As he ran, he chose his route strategically, choosing an uncommon way to get to Tibby's. It would take a while to reach the restaurant, but he was fit enough, and he wasn't about to turn and look back.

Racetrack ran as though the devil was on his heels – and, to some degree, he was right to run so quickly.

The devil took a terrifyingly physical form in New York.

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(Author's Note: Alright, I've made up my mind to write a story with many chapters, and one that I will update! I have big plans for this story – and, I swear, I really will do my best to keep the chapters coming.

Next chapter will feature Tibby's and further plot mischief. 'Til then, let me know if you have any suggestions/what you think!)