It was still mid-morning, but it was already hot. It was the kind of heat that settled along the ground, cooking you from the feet up; the kind that made it difficult to draw a deep breath of air without feeling like you were drowning on it. It was the kind of day that made you drip sweat but didn't let it evaporate off you, so that all day you felt like you were swimming in your clothes. He felt the place where his red suspenders met between his shoulders sticking, wet and uncomfortable, to his back.

Spot Conlon sighed, trying not to choke on the thick air. He stopped in the middle of the street and raised his cap off his head, running the back of his forearm across his forehead. He felt sweat and the grit of dirt on both parts of his body as they made contact. He wondered vaguely what he had accomplished with his actions as he shook his dirty blond hair out of his eyes, settled his cap back on his head and walked on.

Spot rarely did anything without a reason and though it had looked like a trivial act, it wasn't. His pale blue eyes had been warily scanning the surrounding streets. He knew the heavy price that he and his three friends would pay if anyone had followed him. The abandoned, peeling and white-washed warehouse was their safe house. Finch and his boys didn't know about the place and they could not afford for him to find out. Vito still had a yellowing black eye from the latest encounter with Finch's boys, and Spot knew it was only going to get worse.

He spent a minute or two satisfying himself that there were no shadowy figures lurking in any nearby alleys following him. Then he slipped down the dock and lost himself quickly in the tangled mess of broken and rusting metal equipment, disused wooden scaffolding and torn fishing nets. He rolled open the heavy warehouse door just enough to slip through it and shut it with a bang behind him.

" Heya Spot."

He stared into the semi-darkness for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Then, amidst the empty crates and forgotten tools, the outlines of two of his friends came into focus.

"Me and Soap was jus' gonna start a game. Youse in?"

"Fuck no, Vito. Youse ain't cheatin' me outta my money."

Vito slapped his deck of cards down on the crate they were using as a card table and looked up at Spot. There was a look of surprised outrage on his face along with the yellowing bruise that had been in Spot's thoughts only a few minutes ago.

"Ya know, I resent dat. I neva cheat at cards."

Spot raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, advancing on them both. He leaned down slightly over the table and began to rifle through Vito's cards.

"So what's tha buy-in?" He asked casually.

"Two bits." Vito supplied, watching Spot count his cards. "Hey come on. It ain't a rigged deck."

"Jus' makin' sure, Vito, jus' makin' sure." He said soothingly as his right hand slipped behind Vito's head, unnoticed.

With the skill of a practiced pickpocket, Spot's fingers found the edge of Vito's hat and deftly extracted a card from beneath it. He straightened up again and flipped the card over in his fingers, staring interestedly at it.

"Huh, Ace of spades." He said casually.

Vito's hand flew to his hat and Spot smirked at him, catching him in the act.

"Where'd youse get dat, Spot?" He asked innocently, attempting to play off the motion by scratching fervently at the back of his head.

"From unda ya hat, Vito." Spot replied with the same innocent tone.

"Aw, I knew it. Fuck youse, Vito." Soap huffed, pushing his chair back from the table. "Thanks, Spot."

"Anytime." Spot grinned.

He flipped the card onto the table in front of Vito. It spun there for a moment and Vito sighed as he stared down at it.

"Man, can't get anyone ta play me for money anymore."

"Maybe youse oughta stop cheatin'." Soap said, rolling his eyes.

Spot could tell he was a little annoyed, but Soap never stayed mad at Vito for long. They were close friends.

"Yea, but den I don't win." Vito sighed.

All three of them laughed.

"Maybe Mitts'll play me." Vito mused.

"Don't count on it." Spot advised sagely. "Hey speakin' of Mitts, either a youse seen him?"

Vito shook his head and Soap leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully.

"When do youse ever see Mitts?" He asked with a grin.

"Right before he picks ya pocket." Vito answered him, beginning to shuffle his cards again.

"We thought he'd be wit' youse. I ain't seen him all day."

"Yea, me either." Spot added pacing to the small, dirty window that faced the street.

"I'm sure he's fine."

"Yea, I know, but I'ma go look for him."

"What? Ya gonna go lookin' for a single grain of sand in a haystack?"

Soap and Spot exchanged a look. Then Spot shrugged and sauntered back out of the warehouse. Spot never would have admitted it, but he was worried about Mitts. The boy's absence, the heat of the day and the fact that Finch's boys had been suspiciously quiet the last week made him uneasy. He did not like that feeling.