He was waiting when the workers started to stream into the steel mill. "Trout?" Scat yelped, "What are you doing here?" He looked around nervously before gripping Trout's arm and dragging him around the corner, away from the front door. "You shouldn't be here, Kid." FIfteen year old Trout started to back away, but Scat grabbed him by his shirtfront. "What is it that you want?"

'Help,' he signed, but after so long, Scat didn't understand so he swallowed his pride and grunted, "H'lp."

"Kid, you can't be here and I can't help you!"

Trout grunted again and motioned at his arm. The broken bones were the whole reason he was in this mess, and they were broken because of Scat.

Scat's eyes rested on the sling that still supported the weak arm for a few seconds before he peered back around the building. "You got about a minute to spill and then I gotta go before they come looking."

Trout came prepared and readily handed over a note to the man. My girl is missing. Told her mother that she and I were running away together, never made it to me. You know people who can help me find her. You owe me.

Scat snorted derisively. "How do you know she didn't just leave, Trout? Girls do stuff that don't make no sense!"

Trout glared at him, not exactly sure of what happened between Kisser and him all those years ago, but knew that it was her he was talking about, not Jo. Sheltered. Doesn't do stuff like that!

"But you get that she might not want to be found?"

He nodded and signed 'please.'

Scat sighed and took his hat off, running his fingers through his eternally tousled hair. "Look, I don't really want you associating with my people. I don't want them getting no ideas about you. Come back at seven thirty, wait here, out of sight and I'll take you to meet someone."

Around the corner they both heard someone bellow, "Painten! Let's go!" They stiffened and waited to see if the voice's owner was going to follow, but he didn't.

He put his hat on and steeled his face. "Seven thirty sharp, I ain't waiting around for you. You get one favor, after that, I don't ever want to see your face round these parts again. You got me?" Trout nodded and thanked Scat frantically. "Don't thank me, just get out of here."

That night, he and Scat moved silently through the streets together, picking their way along Washington Avenue. It took an hour or so, but true to Scat's word, Carlos found them. He jumped down from a fire escape landing right in front of them and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He was tall and still a bit lanky with arms and legs that were too big for the rest of him. It was so foreign to Trout to be snuck up on that he nearly wet himself when Carlos' feet gracefully hit the street. With an amused sort of smile on his face, he began to circle them. "Painten," he greeted quietly, "I told Mick that I wasn't messing with his shit anymore."

"How's it rolling, Carlos?" Scat asked, ignoring the question. "Think I got something here that you'll like."

Carlos looked Trout up and down, smirking. "I dunno, Ted, he don't look like my type." His keen, blue eyes roamed over both of them, never stopping for long. Trout watched him carefully. His hair and skin were dark, but his eyes glowed an eerie blue out of his dark complexion. Carlos stood straight and proud, giving Trout the impression that he used the gangs and their connections to benefit him, more than he let the gangs use him. That was something that Trout could respect. "You got a name?"

"This here's T…"

"Eli," Trout interrupted, not looking at either of them. He'd carefully picked that name not so long ago, because unlike the name his mother gave him when he was born and his Newsie name that Spot gave him at seven, he could say it without getting stuck nearly every time he tried and he only tried because of her.

Scat looked at Trout, he could feel the surprised look on his face even though he couldn't make himself look up at them. "Like I told you," Scat said, covering his shock with charm, "Carlos is the best. Trained by the best to find what don't want to be found." He pounced on the kid, locking him under his arm in a headlock and roughing up his hair. "With this puss, people is practically begging him to let them spill their guts to him." Breaking free from Scat's grip, Carlos straightened his clothes, grumbling to himself in Spanish and shooting Scat dirty looks.

"I ain't interested in whatever Mick wants."

"Relax. This is personal, making good on a favor I owe," Scat assured. "You got somewhere we can go to talk?"

"I was having a drink when I got word that you were looking for me. I've got a table back at Moriarty's. You can come, if you can stand the heat." Scat blanched, his jovial buddy-buddy charisma dropping and leaving him to stare wide eyed between the two younger boys.

Trout raised an eyebrow at Scat and tilted his head towards Carlos. The man's green eyes dropped to the sling that held his arm, and Trout watched him struggle. He swallowed loudly and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "All right," he conceded. "Lets go." They followed Carlos to a tavern and slid into a booth. Scat tipped his bowler hat low over his eyes, slumping down low in the booth.

Carlos lounged, as comfortable as could be, that same amused look on his face as he watched Scat's discomfort. "A Brooklyn Newsie and a Dockside Boy walk into a bar…Jesus, there's so many directions I could take that, and all of them are funny. Here I thought I'd seen everything." Trout chuckled into his glass, nearly snorting ale up his nose, but Scat just hunkered down further, grumbling something about piping down.

The two younger ones watched each other across the table, and something about the intelligence inherent in Carlos' face and a sense of familiarity he carried with him made Trout forget himself. 'Will you help me find her?' he signed.

Carlos sat forward, watching intently, but his brow furrowed and he looked to Scat. "What did he say?"

"Hell if I know," Scat said flatly, sitting back and draining his beer.

Carlos raised an eyebrow at Trout who jerked his head subtly towards the door. Carlos smirked and nodded. "I think we got this, Ted. Thanks for hooking us up." He offered a hand to Scat who took it while looking questioningly at Trout. Scat wasn't what he needed right then. He needed someone willing to listen.

'Fine,' he signed, and Scat seemed to recognize the simple gesture. 'Go.' The man stood to leave but Trout reached out to stop him, signing 'thank you.'

Scat smiled sadly, "Ain't nothing worse than losing the girl that don't seem to see the stuff that ain't so great about you." He nodded at Carlos pointing a thick finger in the skip trace's face, "I hear back that anything happens to him and you better hope you're as good at hiding as you is at finding."

"He's grown, he can take care of himself," Carlos assured. They waited for Scat to clear out before continuing their discussion.

"Tell me who we're looking for and I'll do my best." Carlos said, leaning forward in his seat, no long lounging about just to make Scat more uncomfortable. He was ready to work. Trout pulled a paper he wrote earlier in the day out of his pocket and slid it across the table. On it he had written every detail he could think of about JoAnna, her habits, her likes, where her parents lived, where she lived at the school, what she was wearing the last time he saw her, everything. He even included the picture she gave him. The string that she said was tied to each of their hearts, connecting them forever, tugged as Carlos' hand covered her and pulled her towards him. "Knowing Painten and all of his…lady issues, he must have already tried to tell you that odds are in favor of her being shacked up somewhere living her life, right?" Trout nodded soberly and picked up his pencil. He didn't bother with grammar, Carlos saw him for what he was.

Special. Innocent. Wanted me to run away. I needed money. Left her family a note. Sounded like she was coming for me. She said that she was a bird in love with a fish and we would live where we please. They call me Trout, who else would be the fish? There's something missing.

Carlos took the paper, the photograph and ripped the sheet they were writing on out of the notepad. "Like I said, I'll see what I can do." He shuffled the paper some more, looking through the information, seemingly committing at least some part to memory. Trout knocked on the table, and rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. "I don't want your money, not today. If I need resources to follow a lead on her, I'll find you."

'Why?' Trout signed, cursing himself a bit because he kept forgetting that no one understood the gestures now. "W-w-why?" he stammered.

Carlos smiled, "Call it a hunch, but it just feels like the right thing to do."

Seven years later, Carlos Fuentes sat in the back of Moriarty's Tavern, feeling a strong sense of deja vu as he watched the same black haired, blue eyed kid in a similar state of desperation and despair. Eli Cooper and he had struck up a strange, wary friendship over the years, each one afraid to allow the other to see too much, because they each knew that the tiniest admission would allow the other an enormous window into their very broken souls. They were both too perceptive for their own good and both had near mortal wounds on their hearts that they felt the burn of each and every day. While Carlos wanted to be back at his apartment, researching the job he was on for Barkers and hunting down the widow of one of the gang boss's debtors, he would stay until reinforcements arrived to drag Trout back to Manhattan to the farewell party they were throwing for him. Carlos would do this because it was his failure that was making Trout leave.

He'd delivered the news about a month before, showing up at the front door of St Xavier's School while Eli was teaching. He'd waited out in the street while the headmistress, the missing girl's aunt, retrieved his old friend so that he could say the words that he'd done everything in his power to not say for all these years. "The last lead dried up, Eli...It's time to put it to rest. There are no more leads to follow. They all fall apart." Eli's hands immediately dug into his pockets and pulled out his billfold, but Carlos pushed it away, "I won't take your money. She isn't coming back, Eli, you have to know that by now." The other man's dark head bowed and he nodded, his bright eyes studying the cobblestones underfoot.

JoAnna left her house that October day, claiming that she had accidentally packed something belonging to the school in her belongings and needed to return it quickly, but instead of going to the school, she went to Grand Central station and found a nearby pawn shop. There, she sold a red silk dress, a pearl necklace and earrings, a fine beaded handbag, a stereopticon and a set of slides and a pair of tortoise shell hair combs. With her money she bought a second hand carpet bag and then went to the station for two westbound train tickets leaving the next morning. Besides the items later found at the pawn shop, the only things that anyone could say were missing from her room were her clothes that she used for working at the school, a single pair of her plainest boots, a book and three stereopticon slides. But thats where everything fell apart. Who had the second ticket? Every time he thought he had some sort of a grasp on what she did between tucking herself in and the maid pulling open the curtains to reveal an empty bed, it fell through his fingers like sand. He couldn't do it anymore.

Eli shook Carlos' hand and smiled half heartedly, before going back in to work. He resigned his teaching position later that same week and made the decision to leave the city and head west. This was his last night in New York. The other former newsboys who worked at David Jacobs' grand Benjamin Hotel were throwing him a going away party in a few short hours. Instead of packing or making last minute visits to old friends he might not see again, though Trout sat at three o'clock in the afternoon, drunk off his rocker, pounding out dark, brooding songs on an out-of-tune, beer soaked piano. The owner called Carlos in and he sat watch, waiting for Racetrack to come and retrieve a very drunk Trout.

Quiet filled the room and it pulled Carlos from his brooding thoughts. The cover slammed down over the keys, nearly tipping the bottle of amber liquid sitting precariously on the music stand to the floor as Eli stood. He leaned heavily on the old upright, his eyes heavy lidded and unfocused. He listed side to side as he crossed the room and flopped down in a seat across from Carlos, the narrowly saved bottle of whiskey giving a heavy thunk as he set it on the tabletop. "Keeping that bottle all to yourself, are you?" Carlos asked quietly.

Eli raised a thick eyebrow as he brought the bottle to his lips. "Mmm-hmm," he hummed into the bottle, taking a deep swig, too far gone to even wince at the burn as the cheap liquor slid down his throat. He let it fall heavily back to the table and regarded the Spaniard carefully. "D-d-d-doing hhhhhhhere?" Between the ridiculous amount of whiskey in his system and the speech impediment that he mostly overcame after moving on from the newsboy's lodging house, he was nearly impossible to understand.

"Babysitting you until Tony gets here."

Eli glared, "D-d-d-don't nnnnnnnnneed a b-b-b-buh...b-b-b-bah..." He scrubbed his face.

Carlos chuckled a bit darkly, "You remember where you're supposed to be in a bit?" Eli groaned and laid his head down on the sticky tabletop. He was so still for a few minutes that Carlos was starting to feel relieved, thinking that his stammering friend finally gave in to the alcohol and passed out. He settled back in his seat and checked his watch. He sent for Racetrack over an hour ago.

Suddenly, Eli sat up, glowering like a child. "Wwwwwwwwanna go." He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over, and started wobbling towards the door.

"Eli, wait for Race," Carlos groaned, putting his feet up on a chair. "He'll be here soon, and you can catch a nap at the hotel and sleep some of that rotgut off."

"Nope," Eli answered from the door, "g-g-g-going. Shhhhhhhhhhhit to d-d-d-do." He started to shrug into his coat, when the door opened and Racetrack Higgins blocked his way out. The larger man grunted in frustration and clumsily gestured for Race to move.

"Sorry, Buddy, the only place you're going is back to the Ben with me," Race said soberly, nodding his thanks to Carlos. Trout swayed on his feet. Race sighed, his disapproving demeanor softening. "I got the hotel carriage outside. You can sleep it off on the ride back." Trout nodded and fought his way into his coat. Race and Carlos waited for Trout to stumble his way out to the carriage before Race looked accusingly at his old friend. "I don't even want to know why you knew he was here drunk off his ass, or that he was supposed to be at the Benjamin."

"Its my job to know," Carlos answered, masking his mild annoyance with a bit of sardonic amusement. "I thought we made that clear on the train to Chicago."

"You ain't, ya know... on the job with him, are you?"

"Well, I couldn't say if I was, but since I'm not, no. He and I have known each other awhile. Nothing for you to worry about, Tony. Eli's good people. Go get in that carriage before he forgets what he's waiting for and wanders off without you. He isn't the most patient of people, likes to take matters into his own hands if things take too long."

Race grinned, "Don't I know it." His dark eyes fell on the mostly empty bottle on the table and visibly slumped. "Please, God, tell me you two shared that."

Carlos smirked and chuckled deep in his throat, "I don't drink whiskey."