A/N: My profile has been updated with the addition of links to some absolutely stunning fan-art by ArtyChick of scenes from my recent romance fic, Leonardo's Angel. Pop on over to DA and show this extremely talented artist some love!
Heard you cussed out momma, pushed daddy around…
You tore off in his car
Chapter 2 ~Carl~
Carl Robinson eased his truck down the congested street. He glanced uneasily at the buildings, searching. He nearly missed seeing the tarnished brass numbers against the graffiti marring the scarred brick front of the apartment building, but Carl had spent much of his young life learning to spot the dull brown flash of a deer's coat amongst the trees. The number was obscured but visible.
Carl let out a sigh of relief as he rolled into the only available spot. He hopped out, narrowly avoiding annihilation by a yellow cab whose horn blared as it skimmed past the open truck door. Carl swore under his breath and slammed the door, moving hastily off the pavement to the relative safety of the sidewalk.
Shaking his head, he headed for the building, his nose wrinkling at the stale, sour odor that seemed to cling to the door. He reached for the knob, frowning when he found it firmly locked. He shook the doorknob, but it refused to budge. Carl eyed the heavy wooden door, considering his options. He noticed a row of buttons beside the door, each marked with a stained, faded label.
Smith… Chang… Dietres… Jones! Carl pushed the button next to the familiar black handwriting, smiling as he did so.
"Yeah? Whatdaya want?"
The voice took Carl back ten years. He couldn't keep the chuckle down as he answered. "Jones, you old greenhorn, open this damned fortress and let me in!"
"Carl? Carl Robinson, is dat yous?"
Carl grinned at the way his friend's vowels ran together. His accent always did get thicker when he was excited, he thought fondly.
"Yeah, it's me. Now let me in, before the bears get me!"
Carl heard the bark of laughter through the tinny speaker before a buzz and click drowned it out. He turned the knob, giving it a shove, and the door relented with an almost audible sigh of defeat. He stepped into a narrow, smelly alcove leading to a narrow, smelly stairway. He started up, reaching for the railing but thinking the better of touching it, when a figure appeared from one of the row of doors at the top of the stairs.
"Carl? Is dat really yous?"
"Casey Jones! You city boy!" Carl thundered up the last few steps, rushing to clasp the offered hand.
On impulse, he reached further, grabbing Casey's wrist and twisting the man's arm into a submission hold they'd used on one another as boys. He saw the shocked spark in Casey's blue eyes an instant too late, and before he had time to regret playing a joke on his old friend, he found himself flying through the air. The floor came up too fast, knocking the wind from his lungs. Almost immediately, Casey was on his knees next to him.
"Are you ok? Geez, Carl, I'm sorry, man…"
"Casey, you damn fool!" Carl laughed, and coughed as his tortured lungs struggled to draw in sufficient air. "You learned some new tricks, you old dog!"
"Yeah, sorry 'bout dat." Casey was sheepish now. "Didn't mean ta throw ya like dat. Guess I don't know my own strength."
Carl got to his feet, grinning widely. "Guess you've grown a little since you were a scrawny Fresh Air Fund city kid spending summers on our farm," he teased. He held out his hand again, and this time Casey grasped it firmly, pumping it for all it was worth. Carl leaned in, slapping him on the back. "Look at you. All grown up. And you've been working out." He gave Casey a friendly punch to a solidly muscular shoulder.
"Uh, yeah, kinda." Casey chuckled a shade uneasily. "Ya sure yer ok, Carl? I didn't mean ta throw ya like dat…"
"Oh hell, you can't hurt an old farm boy like me," Carl retorted. "I been kicked by tougher cows than you, Casey Jones."
"I doubt it." Casey shook his head. "Come on. Da place ain't much but I got a couple beers in da fridge."
"I heard that."
Carl followed his old friend into a dingy little apartment, rolling his shoulder to take out the stiffness where he'd hit the floor. He didn't comment on the shabby state of the faded couch or the bent antenna on the television that looked like it'd been snapped off and reattached with ductape. His own furnishings at home were no more elegant. A small pile of wires and odd-shaped plastic bits lay on the table.
"What'd you break?" he asked curiously, pointing.
"Oh! Uh, not'in. Dat's my buddy Don's stuff. Guess he left it here." Casey's laugh sounded forced. Carl glanced at him, but the man was already turning to an ancient, dented refrigerator and pulling out two brown bottles. He handed one to Carl, who accepted it gratefully. Carl twisted off the cap and took a swig before looking around his friend's meager apartment.
"You're still playing hockey?" he asked, surprised to see what looked like a golf bag stuffed with athletic equipment propped in a corner. A battered hockey mask hung untidily from the strap.
Casey shook his head. "Nope. Not since I busted up my leg," he said. He took a pull from his beer.
"This stuff's just for old time's sake then?" Carl studied the man. He saw the slight color that was creeping up his neck, the way Casey's gaze flicked around the apartment, assessing, as if he were trying to see it through someone else's eyes.
"Uh, yeah. Old time's sake." Casey coughed slightly, shifting.
You always were a bad liar, Casey Jones, thought Carl affectionately. Well, if you don't want to explain why you've got a bag of beat up old sports equipment, I won't keep asking. Knowing you, you're teaching the neighborhood kids to play or something and don't want me to know. Got to keep that reputation, right?
A slight frown creased his brow at the thought. John wanted a reputation, too. Always was tryin' ta impress people.
"So, what brung ya ta da city, anyway?"
Casey was watching him, curious, but there was something new in his eyes, a new maturity, a wariness that Carl didn't remember being there before.
I guess Johnny's not the only one who's changed, thought Carl. A heavy sadness threatened to weigh on his chest, and suddenly he was uncertain of his errand.
"Well, to be honest Case, now that I'm here, I wonder if this was a good idea," he confessed slowly, taking another pull on his beer.
"Carl." Casey Jones sank down on the ancient couch and patted the cushion next to his. "Sit down. Relax. Have another beer. Tell me what's goin' on."
Carl did as he was bid, sinking into the seat. Something jabbed his thigh sharply enough that he stood up again quite suddenly. The offending object clattered to the floor. Carl felt cautiously where he'd been poked and was startled to find a finger-tip sized hole in the leg of his pants.
"Are ya ok? What happened?" Casey was staring as if he'd lost his mind.
"I think… I sat on something." Carl sank down again, cautiously this time. He leaned over, searching, and spotted a blade, just visible where it had slid partway under the couch. Cautiously, he took the tip and slid it out. "Is this… a throwing star?"
"Aw damn… Leo said he lost a shuriken before… I didn't t'ink it was in da couch," grumbled Casey. He took the deadly-looking object carefully from Carl. "Sorry 'bout dat."
"It's uh, ok," said Carl, shaking his head. His friends carry throwing stars? Casey Jones, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? I know the City is different from home but throwing stars?… Still. I did ask for your help, and I do need it.
"Carl." Casey broke into his thoughts, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I know ya didn't come all dis way jus' ta sit on my couch an' drink beer. What's goin' on?"
Carl studied his friend's face. There were a couple new scars, and he'd grown, changed. Hardened, Carl realized with a jolt. The wariness he'd seen was set into the lines on Casey's face. When he met the blue eyes, though, the old Casey was looking back at him with the same guileless honesty he'd always had.
He's grown up, thought Carl, and yeah, maybe he has some secrets he's not telling me, but he's still my friend. I did come here looking for help, and it wouldn't be fair to turn away now that he's offering it.
"Well, it's kind of complicated, Case."
"Complicated how?" Casey's gaze never wavered, though his frown deepened. "'Cause if it's da farm, ya know I don't know not'in about cows an' stuff, 'cept dat one end bites an' da other kicks an' craps on ya."
Carl laughed, he couldn't help it. He remembered Casey's first, and last, disastrous attempt at milking a cow very clearly. He remembered his younger brother, John, falling over himself laughing at the city boy who managed to tick ol' Jess, the milk cow, off to the point she actually did try to bite him.
Carl frowned and let out a deep, heavy breath. "It's John, Casey."
"Little Johnny?" Casey blinked. "Yer brother? The little twerp…" He grinned. "How's he doin'? What's goin' on wit' him?"
"Well, that's the thing, Case. I don't rightly know what Johnny's doing these days," said Carl. The words felt like lead, weighing down his tongue, but letting them out was a relief. "He came to the city about a year ago. You know how he was, always looking for new ways to make money…"
"New ways ta avoid workin'." Casey snorted. "Kid was a little weasel. No offense."
Carl laughed. It felt good to laugh, to let go of some of the tension that had been weighing him down for so long.
"You remember that other Fresh Air Fund kid, the one John always hung around with? Dan?"
"Yeah." Casey's eyes narrowed. "He was trouble, dat one."
Carl nodded, but Casey wasn't done. "Served him right, gettin' busted."
"Busted? For what? I didn't know you kept in touch with him."
"I didn't," said Casey. White teeth flashed in a slightly feral smile, and it sent a shiver chasing down Carl's spine. "Not socially 'r anyt'in. He was runnin' wit' a local gang, da Purple Dragons, an' he got busted las' week. Once he gets outta da hospital, he'll be spendin' a long time in jail fer B&E."
"Out of the… how do you know all that?" Carl studied his friend.
"Uh, read it in da paper. I guess he busted in on da wrong people," said Casey a little too quickly. He stood up, stretching. "Listen, tell Johnny ta stay away from dat guy an' his crew. They're not'in but trouble. Them Purple Dragons, they're a gang. Bunch a scum-suckin…" Casey trailed off. He paced to the golf bag and snatched up the mask. Carl saw him finger the edge, as if testing a knife blade. "They're trouble, Carl. Jus' keep Johnny away from 'em."
Carl sighed. "I'm afraid it might be too late for that, Casey."
