Okay, so the lack of reviews is highly daunting in this situation. Only three reviews for two chapters? Come on now. Anyway, here is chapter three as promised, on time and complete. You're lucky I'm even up this early. I had a French test at 8 am this morning, though. If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't get out of bed. My room is like 59 degrees. It's so cold. Our heat isn't working. Bleh.
Chapter Three
The seventh of July was scorching, but there was no humidity in the air. I was in a good mood; I don't know why. There was a girl who was supposed to be dead lying on a cot in the office of my lodging house, but I was still whistling as I strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge.
I know it's silly, but to me, Brooklyn is an entirely different country. I always feel like I'm traveling somewhere grand when I come to Brooklyn. It's just as run-down as my territory, Manhattan, is, but Brooklyn has an air of mystery and lure to it.
I shouldn't have even been in Brooklyn that day. It was too hot to really be making the journey, and I needed to get back to Manhattan in time to sell the evening newspaper. But I wanted to come and tell my news to Spot Conlon, the self-proclaimed King of Brooklyn. Well, I wouldn't say the title was necessarily disputed. I don't think any sane person would ever willingly come up against Spot.
My news was that I had a living miracle residing in my Lodging House. A little girl getting almost murdered two blocks from where I live is a big deal. The fact that she was pulling through it was an even bigger deal. Spot is usually the one that has interesting stories to hold over my head, and I was going to enjoy having something fascinating to tell him for once.
My feet traveled the ever-familiar path towards the docks. I came to Brooklyn so often that my feet knew every groove in the cobblestone, every store I passed, and I didn't even live there. I found my way quickly to the docks. Because of the intense heat and the time of the day, more than half of the Brooklyn newsies were in the water of the harbor, splashing one another and trying to keep cool.
I only knew a couple of them by name, some that Spot himself had introduced me to because he thought they were actually worth something. I'd like to think that Spot and I are fairly equal as faction leaders when it comes to the world of selling newspapers. He's a better leader than I am, I can't deny that. He can just look at someone and have them quaking in their shoes. I actually have to prove myself before people take me seriously. Plus, Spot has got a damn good head on his shoulders. He's almost as smart as David. I'm convinced that if Spot had had the chance to get an education, he would have passed David long ago in that department. I'm not so smart, which is why I've got Dave to tell me what's what. The thing I've got, though, is great newsies. My boys are better than Spot's by a long shot. If you mix Spot with my newsies, you've got a pretty scary scene on your hands.
Because of the lack of outstanding newsies in Brooklyn, I knew few of their names. I picked out one whose name I had heard in passing a few months ago. "Hey, Frankie!" I called to him. He was an unfortunate-looking boy of about thirteen, and he looked up in surprise when I shouted his name. "Where's Spot Conlon?"
The boy cupped his hands around his mouth, treading water all the time. "He's at the Lodging House!" He shouted back to me.
It was strange for Spot to be found indoors during the summer, but the intense heat could be the reason. Generally, Spot was out from dawn until dusk, marking his territory, dealing with disputes, the usual things that come with being a faction leader.
I reached the Brooklyn Lodging House for boys before too long. I'd like to think the one in Manhattan is nicer, but we pay a penny more each for our beds at night. Then again, we get beds that are lice-free and restrooms that are cleaned weekly.
I pushed open the door to the Lodging House and tipped my cowboy hat to the old man behind the counter. He's a bit older than good old Kloppman, and doesn't hear or see too well. I think he was about to call out to me, perhaps asking me for my money, but I was already up the stairs and into the dormitory.
"Spot!" I called.
I found him lounging on his bed. He was the only one who had a bed that wasn't bunked. He got that one because he was the undisputed King of Brooklyn. He was staring out the window, although there was no view except that of a brick wall opposite the Lodging House. He was fiddling with that dumb key necklace he always wears around his neck. He's worn it for as long as I've known him, but I've never heard him give an explanation for why he wears it. And it's not really something you ask Spot Conlon.
"What do you want?" Was the answer I received. I was used to Spot being cool and distant when there were other people around, but I had never heard him be so harsh when it was just the two of us.
I stopped a few feet shy of his bed, not wanting to invade his personal space. That was a mistake I was too smart to make. "What's the matter with you? I ain't done nothing."
He didn't answer me for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Kelly, can you keep a secret?"
I was on my guard at once. If the famous Spot Conlon offers to tell you a secret, you don't pass up a chance like that. "Of course." I promised.
He turned his intense blue eyes upon me, and I almost shivered under that gaze. "If you tell anyone what I am about to tell you, Jack, I will kill you." And I didn't doubt for one second that he would.
"I swear on my mother's grave that I will never tell anyone." I promised, returning his serious gaze. "Now, please tell me what the hell is going on. I've never seen you like this."
Spot seemed to be battling with himself for a moment, then let out a tremendous sigh. "It's my girl." He admitted.
I was completely taken aback. As long as I'd known Spot, he'd been a womanizer. He'd never been tied down to any one person. "I didn't know you had a girl."
"Nobody does, except you." Spot dropped the key against his chest and began fiddling with the cane he wore at his belt. "And she's not my girl anymore."
From the way he said it, I got the impression that he was not the one who had ended the relationship. I didn't want to push my luck, but I had to know, so I said, "What happened?"
Spot shrugged, still staring out the window. "I don't really know. I was supposed to meet her one night, and she didn't show. I got worried," He sounded angry at himself and embarrassed that he was admitting such a weakness. "So I went to her house. She sent me away. She acted like she never wanted to see me again." He sounded confused, and I admit that I didn't understand any more about it than he did. "Now, whenever I see her, she acts like I don't exist."
"Maybe-" I started to suggest, but Spot cut me off.
"No." He said sharply. "There is no logical reason to why she would just drop me like that." He scowled at the floor, then turned his attention to me. "Now is there a reason you showed up here to interrupt my brooding, or did you just come to annoy me?"
I felt that this was perhaps not the best time to bring up my nearly-dead girl in Manhattan, so I said a hurried goodbye and left the Lodging House. I left Brooklyn quickly, torn between wishing I had never bothered to come down and exhilarated that I knew something private about Spot Conlon. That could come in very useful someday.
I arrived back at the Manhattan Lodging House with about an hour to spare before the evening edition came out, so I walked up the steps and into the building. The first thing I noticed was that four of my boys were crowded into the office, where the girl was lying in bed.
I hadn't yet seen her, and, as the unofficial leader of the Manhattan newsboy faction, I felt it was my right and duty to speak with her. I pushed my way into the room. She was popped up on her cot with pillows swiped from some of the empty bunks upstairs. She was terribly pale, but from her delicate skin I could see she had been from a wealthy upbringing. She had stitches going down the right length of her face, which was swollen and bruised. Behind the wounds, she had a healthy, pretty look about her. Of course, it was impossible to tell for sure.
Four of my newsies were sitting around her. Mush, Kid Blink, Boots, and Crutchy. I think the only reason Crutchy was there was because he felt somehow connected to her, what with him having a bum leg and her having her right leg raised up in a splint.
She looked up when I entered the room, and her black eyes fixed on me. She smiled at me, or at least tried. The side of her face with the stitches refused to move much, as if it was stiff. The other side of her mouth, with full and pouty lips that were far more lush than my girl Sarah's, turned up in an undeniable smile. "Hello there." She greeted me in a throaty voice. "And which one are you?"
I walked up and extended my hand to her, eyeing her extensive injuries. "Jack Kelly."
She took my hand and shook it. I noticed that two of her fingers were splinted when she put her small hand in my larger one. "Ah, so you're the famous one they've all been telling me about. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"The stories can't be all bad." I teased her. I was surprised by how cheerful and congenial she was. After being nearly murdered, I would have been in a pretty foul mood for several weeks, possibly months. I don't think I would have been capable of a civil conversation. "So do you have a pretty name to go along with that pretty face?"
She blushed a little; I could see it underneath the massive bruising. Even though she hadn't seen herself in a mirror or anything, I'm pretty sure she knew she wasn't in a pretty state just now. "Alas, I have no name at all."
"Well, we'll have to remedy that mistake. If you're going to be hanging around here, you need a fitting name." I told her. It was a shame about the bald spot on her head. She had a great head of hair; it put Sarah's brunette hair to shame.
"How about Princess?" Crutchy, who is sort of a princess himself, suggested. Don't get me wrong, I like Crutchy and all, but sometimes he's a little too feminine for my personal tastes. I also didn't like the nickname. I didn't think it suited the girl. Despite her obvious upscale bringing, this girl was a fighter. No princess could be nearly murdered and survive like she did.
Apparently Boots agreed with me. "No way. This munchkin ain't no princess."
Mush let out a little laugh. "Since when did she become a munchkin?" He teased, and Boots blushed crimson. "You weren't much taller than her until about two months ago when you hit a growth spurt."
All the boys were having a little laugh, but I was thinking. Munchkin. That was a fairly accurate description of the girl lying on the cot before me. She was little in stature and had a spirit that was worth something. "Hey, what do you think about being called Munchkin?" I asked her.
The other boys looked at one another. They mumbled their agreement or dissent. It didn't matter to me one way or the other whether they liked the name or not. I was the leader and the ultimate decision was left to me. And I liked the name, so long as the girl would agree to go by it.
She seemed pleased, probably just at getting something to be called instead of 'miss.' "I like it." She smiled her strange half-smile that somehow was nicer than a real smile.
I figured that I was going to like this girl.
The girl sat demurely in a finely upholstered wingback chair in the parlor of her home in Park Avenue. She sat, gowned in a fashionable blue frock, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She sat straight-backed, with perfect posture. The chair was situated in front of the enormous Victorian fireplace, a fire roaring in the hearth. Outside the ten foot parlor windows, snow was falling lightly.
Two middle-aged women were perched on the sofa, sipping steaming tea from pristine china teacups with their pinkies out. They were dressed so similarly that they could have been sisters, twins even. Their facial structure, however, suggested no relation at all. The first had high bone structure, similar to the girl herself. That was fitting, as this woman was the girl's mother. The second woman had less handsome features, but the fineness of her gown was a bit more defined than the girl's mother.
The two middle-aged women were chatting cheerfully to one another, laughing over their tea. The girl sat in her chair, her tea sitting untouched on the table beside her. She felt so calm on the outside. Her exterior was the perfect picture of a demure young lady. Inside, she was screaming. For someone who prided herself on being so smart, she couldn't think of anything to do, nothing witty to say, to get her out of this situation. And, according to the grandfather clock in the corner, she was running out of time.
The door opened and a distinguished man strode in, followed by two more gentlemen. The first bore a striking resemblance to the girl; her father. He was dressed in a fancy three-piece suit with a gold pocket watch hanging from his vest pocket. The second man was possibly a few years older than the girl's father, dressed equally well. He had black hair peppered with flecks of gray that gave him a distinguished look. But it was neither of those two men that the girl feared. It was the third.
He was perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, and handsome, she supposed, if one was into the rich, stuck-up snob type of man. He was tall, taller than she was by a good head. He had dark hair cut quite short, swept to the side, and an award-winning smile. And it was the girl he turned that smile on.
The two middle aged women rose to welcome the men into the parlor. They greeted them, and everyone resumed their seats. The young man took the seat next to the girl, flashing her a smile as their fathers engaged in political conversation. The girl tried to avoid eye contact with him, but then he engaged her in conversation.
The girl was highly educated, having spent half of her childhood in a boarding school in England, but she feigned stupidity and gave only short, one-word answers. She hoped he would lose interest. Nobody wanted a boring wife, she supposed.
She hadn't thought of the physical aspect of her impending marriage. This man sitting next to her didn't care if she could even formulate coherent sentences. He cared that she had a slim waist and even breasts that were of normal size. He cared that she had long blonde hair that he could wrap his fingers in, and that she had a full, pouty mouth that was perfect for kissing.
The man sitting next to her had nothing in mind except screwing her every night once they were pronounced man and wife. And the girl wasn't going to have that.
Okay, so there is the third chapter. I hope you enjoyed. Please leave reviews. The next chapter is scheduled to be posted on April 1 (the day Sweeny Todd comes out on DVD what what) but if I don't see more reviews, I will not be posting it then. I'm not going to post again until there are 7 reviews for this story, capiche? I'm glad we understand one another.
