Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes
Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
Disclaimer: Don't own.
II.
"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. I mean, Kid Blink. Jesus…"
It had been a week since Kid Blink was found on the Lodging House steps. Mush would never forget the strangled cry Kloppman issued as the contents of the sack was revealed. The cops were called, and detectives were scouring the borough top to bottom, but it didn't matter. Stuff like this happened all the time to no-name newsies: Blink had no identification, and his folks were long gone. These streets weren't exactly safe for an orphan kid on their own. Still. Mush thought Blink had a bit more fight in him.
"Yeah, I know. Right through his fuckin' cheek…"
Racetrack lit a match; within seconds the tip of his thick cigar was aflame. He watched morosely has the cop from the precinct interviewed their friends. Snoddy was stuttering through a tearful story when Mush spoke again.
"I mean, who would wanna do this? To us? To kids?"
Racetrack chuckled.
"Why not? We're little orphan kids workin' like adults. We're easy targets."
"No, Race, that's not what I mean…" Mush looked around, as if afraid of being heard. Then, he lowered his voice: "This is the work of a fellow newsie. One of us. Why would they go after Blink? And what was up with the note?"
Mush only knew about the note when Kloppman first dragged the sack into his office. The note had come undone and Mush scooped it up, sharing significant looks with Race and Swifty. Those two words were burned into his brain.
Racetrack laughed grimly. "Stop tryin' ta make sense of it," he said sourly. "These t'ings happen. And nothin's gonna change the fact that he's gone, alright?"
"I'm just sayin', Race. 'Happy Anniversary'? Do you know what day it is today?"
Race didn't want to think about that; thinking about that made his blood run cold. But there was no denying it: today was the one-year anniversary of the newsies strike. He didn't want to think about the connection to his mutilated friend.
"Ya need ta get more sleep, that's what ya need. Stop thinkin' about cloaked strangers supposedly from our past." Race inhaled the thick, gray smoke.
"Can't. Detectives swarmin' the place."
Race flicked a bit of ash from the end of his cigar.
"How's Matches?"
Mush frowned at the sudden change in conversation.
"She's doin' fine. Worried about me, though."
"She's right. You need some sleep, and try ta get it outta ya head. Go on." Race gently shoved the younger newsie's shoulder. Mush looked at him, eyes shining, and, just once, laid his head on Race's shoulder. Race sighed and patted him on the back. Poor kid. It's hard for everyone, this life.
QCiC
"Didja do it?"
"Yeah. Poor bastards' still reelin'."
Laughter all around the room. Their leader, Mike Stark, was presiding. He glanced imperiously over one of the young men grinning widely at him.
"Byrne. You make a clean job of it?"
Byrne let out that bloodcurdling laugh.
"Mikey, boy… have I ever wanted to do it clean?"
Hyena-like cackles filled the basement as the three perpetrators of the crime laughed together.
"You leave the message like I asked?"
Byrne tipped his dusty fedora. "Yeah. Just like you asked."
Stark's lips peeled back to reveal two rows of crooked, yellow teeth grinning at the young criminal. "Good."
One of the onlookers surreptitiously nudged the one next to him.
"Dice…hey, Dice…d'ya think this is gonna be war with the "Hattans?"
Dice whispered back to Sam.
"Prob'ly. If their faggot boss got any balls, then yeah, there damn well will be a war. You gotta smoke?"
Sam, who had cringed silently at the word 'faggot', recovered quickly enough to produce a dirty, hand-rolled cigarette and press it into Dice's hand.
"last one I got."
In a flash, Dice struck his match against the grimy, cement wall and lit the cigarette. Sam scanned the room at his fellow gangmembers.
"So, whaddya think the boss's next move is gonna be?"
Dice grimaced at the rancid smoke filling his lungs. He blew it out of his nostrils all the same.
"We already got their pawn. We just gotta meet their queen."
QCiC
After the meeting, Stark retired to his apartment, paid off just for him. If the great Spot Conlon can have his own place, Michael Stark could do him one better.
Sitting on the bed was an envelope with an intricate wax seal on it, just like always. Stark opened it up and recognized the curly script, just like always. His lip curled as he took in the words:
Stark,
You've fulfilled your part of the task, and for that I am grateful. Your goons could have made a neater job of it, but I digress.
Enclosed is your payment, but don't think your job is over. I appreciate your concealing of my identity—
Stark flashed a full grin now. Of course he wasn't going to reveal the little fact that he wasn't the brains of this outfit. Those idiots were eating out of his hands.
--But there are many steps left to this project and I need your full cooperation. The stakes are growing higher, and I will be very displeased if you were ever to disobey me.
Stark's attention was waning; he had heard all this before. The letter fluttered to the floor as he pulled out another expensive cigar, purchased at the same shop frequented by a small, Italian Manhattan newsie. He looked out his window at his slowly growing empire, and lit his cigar.
QCiC
Later that evening, a solemn meeting was commencing midtown. Two kings of New York, Spot and Jack, were standing outside a restaurant, looking for all the world like two friends enjoying the evening air. But Jack had something on his mind.
"Blink."
Just the sound of the word made Spot bow his head in shame and grief.
"I'm so sorry, Jack. I…"
He trailed off. He got a grip on himself and spoke to his friend briskly, the only way he knew how.
"This is why you gotta arm yourself."
Jack, who had been pensively studying the glint of Spot's cane, looked up in surprise.
"What?"
Spot turned and looked gravely at his friend.
"You ain't takin' no chances, Jack. No one'll mess wit' a 'Hattan if he had a knife on him or…"
Jack just stared at him blankly, for he was a child inside. He couldn't wrap his head around Kid Blink's death. He thought he'd seen it all; kids running away, starving, everyday tragedies. But stabbings only happened in dime novels, or in far-off lands. They were newsies; kids forever, and dealing with the everyday hardships of taking care of themselves.
"Armed? You mean, like…weapons?"
"Yeah."
"But…knives? That's just so…"
Grown-up? Dangerous?
"That's not what we do. Dammit, this doesn't happen! Not to us!"
"Wake up, Jacky-Boy," Spot said coldly. "It just did."
They stood in silence.
"That's what you gotta do. I'll help you, I've got connections. Brookies and 'Hattans stick together. Even if it means a war."
He clapped a hand on Jack's cold shoulder.
"It'll help."
He meant with his grief.
Spot turned away, signaling his departure.
"You know where to find me."
Spot turned on his heel, and disappeared into the darkness. Jack remained, watching the rats skitter toward the sewers, casting long shadows.