Chapter 10

"Conlon, we need to talk about the last few weeks."

Spot's alcohol addled brain hadn't been able to stop the laugh that so easily erupted from within him, even after noting Rummy's grave face and severe tone.

"Fuck off, Rummy," Spot slurred, giving his second in command an unimpressed eye roll as he turned back to hazily peer at the setting sun from his stance on the Brooklyn docks.

He lifted the bottle of whiskey he had stolen earlier to his mouth, taking another hefty swig. However, he felt himself almost choking on his mouthful as Rummy aggressively snatched the bottle out of his grasp in one swift movement.

"I will fuckin' soak ya til ya can't walk!" Spot shouted, making a move to swing at Rummy but only succeeding in stumbling over his own feet and falling to his knees.

"You ain't soakin' nobody in the state you're in, Conlon. You're a fuckin' mess," Rummy said, a hint of disgust in his tone. He had deftly stepped away from Spot's clumsy attempt at an attack and now stared down at him shaking his head.

"Well, when I sober up in a few hours, you'll be sorry ya fuckin' challenged me," Spot mumbled irritably, falling back on his bottom to regain some balance before he attempted to stand again.

Rummy's scoff echoed across the empty docks. "You ain't been sober in two weeks, Conlon. I ain't gonna hold my breath," he said harshly.

Spot glared up at his second in command but made no move to deny his allegation. He knew sobriety had eluded him for the past few weeks but he cared little about it. If anything, he felt he was functioning far better drunk than he would be with no alcohol in his system. After his visit to Jack Kelly, Spot had found himself spewing forth a plethora of confusing emotions with no rhyme or reason to them and no warning for when they would begin or end. He had lost complete control of himself and had no remedy for regaining it. So, upon finding out that the steady consumption of alcohol caused complete numbness to fill him, quieting every emotion he had into coldness, he welcomed it with open arms.

"What's it to you, Rummy?" Spot mumbled, again glaring harshly up at the tall, dark-haired boy standing defiantly before him.

Rummy glowered unabashedly back at his leader while angrily saying, "You are one selfish sonovabitch, Conlon. You're drownin' and you ain't even looked around ta see that you're takin' the lot of us with you!"

Rummy was only about a year younger than Spot, but had easily surpassed Spot's height and weight several summers before. Spot was by no means a scrawny man. Though tall and slim, he possessed a strength and agility that could easily overtake anyone that dared to test him. But Rummy was far beyond the average when it came to brawn. He was a tall, solid tree of a man who surprisingly also possessed a softness about him that endeared even the smallest of children. But, Spot knew better than to be fooled by the benign air that exuded from Rummy. From the many years they had spent in each other's company and confidence, Spot was well aware that when pushed, Rummy was anything but harmless. The boy could possess a savageness that even made Spot wary from time to time, and also utterly thankful that Rummy took his loyalty to him very seriously.

He sometimes found himself wondering why it had been he and not Rummy that had acquired the title of "king" in Brooklyn, but these moments of insecurity were always fleeting. He saw the blatant respect that had clouded Rummy's eyes from the t ime they were kids. Although Spot sometimes rued the fact that Rummy had been privy to his pre-leader days in Brooklyn, if only because he had seen Spot at his weakest, he also felt grateful that there was still someone around him that knew him without his armor on. If anything, this rare knowledge that Rummy possessed seemed to only heighten his respect for Spot as leader. And the boys of Brooklyn mirrored this respect. New ones, not knowing Spot well, often would only adhere to Rummy's demands merely from fear of his intimidating size, but soon, they too were aware of the reason that Rummy always deferred to Spot no matter what. Spot might not have been the gargantuan man that Rummy was, but in spirit, fairness and cunning Spot far outshined all of his peers.

Spot hadn't come by this respect easily, either, and so he took great pride in his leadership of Brooklyn and in the faith that his boys, Rummy included, put in him. It was because of this that he fought so hard for them, but it was also why he carefully crafted his steely exterior. The hard veil he wrapped about himself was not only utilized as his shield of safety, but also as a protection for those that put the most trust in him. The only difficulty arose when he was unable to distinguish from the times that it was far better to drop his barriers than to keep them up.

After that final night with Kate nearly five weeks ago, he had closed off completely to everyone around him, but instead of the innocuous stoicism that usually took hold, his behaviors had become erratic and dangerous. He began drinking heftily, even going so far as to steal bottles from Mrs. O' Connel, the fiery widow who ran the boarding house. Spot was almost certain that if Mary O' Connel hadn't been such a close friend of Spot's parents prior to their death, she would have cut Spot loose long ago for the various inconveniences that Spot had caused her, including this newest offense.

And if it weren't for his absolute drunkenness, Spot would have felt shame fill him not only from his recent series of thefts, but also at the disgusted look Rummy wasn't even trying to hide from his face at the moment. But, the fact that an unhealthy amount of alcohol was surging through Spot's veins made that tiny bit of disgrace crumble in the face of the absolute fury he felt as Rummy's words sank in fully. He haphazardly pushed himself up and into Rummy's face screeching, "I oughta kick your ass outa Brooklyn for even thinkin' that, you ungrateful piece of shit!"

Rummy merely stared into Spot's eyes completely unmoved by the threat and whispered, "If ya did that, Conlon, ya damn well know you wouldn't have no one left that's got your back."

Spot felt his body involuntarily cower from the blow Rummy had dealt him as he backed out of his aggressive stance and away from Rummy's unwavering stare. He gripped the closest wooden beam of the docks, attempting to steady himself.

"Listen, Spot," he heard Rummy say softly, "I ain't here ta challenge yer leadership, but I am here to knock some fuckin' sense inta ya. You're leavin' yourself open to a mutiny with the loony way you been actin' lately. You're lucky it's made most a' the boys scared shitless of ya instead of seein' you as the easy target ya are."

Spot winced at the truth in Rummy's words. Although he knew most of his boys would take a bullet for him if given the opportunity, he also was aware that there were always a few snakes in the grass waiting for the right time to strike. Spot had never been particularly concerned about defending himself against any potential overthrows before, mostly because he had been blessed with a finely honed ability of picking out disingenuous people and toxic situations. But he was also realistic enough to know that if anyone among his ranks had even an inkling of ambition, the easiest way to rally his boys away from him would be to convince them that he was no longer a capable leader.

And his behavior over the last several weeks could easily be classified as such. He had been absent, searching on his own for any signs of Katherine whenever he could, but more importantly he had been unconcerned with his boys. He had soaked a few of them in his alcohol addled daze for no reason at all, and he had thrown his weight around with chores and other tasks in completely demeaning ways. While this was probably a leadership tactic used by some, Spot had never been known for unjust or degrading behavior. He had never demanded anything of his boys that he would not feel completely comfortable doing himself.

And though all of these thoughts ran through Spot's mind convincingly, he only managed to murmur, "I hafta find her, Rummy."

"Conlon, you gotta understand somethin'," Rummy replied while walking towards Spot. "You runnin' around killin' yourself tryin' ta find this girl don't make no sense to the boys. She ain't ever been your girl an' you ain't ever breathed a word of importance about her to anyone here. You can't blame them for thinkin' ya lost it. We all see Julia an' the other girls ya take ta your bed on the regular, but Katherine Moore ain't ever been one of 'em. What reason do the boys have to rally behind you in finding this broad?"

"I haven't asked them to do anything about findin' her," Spot snapped as he angrily glanced at Rummy.

"That's the thing, Conlon. It ain't about askin' them to look for her, it's about you shirkin your duties here 'cause you are. You ain't been here more than a few hours a day, an' when you do show up you're a useless drunk. Ya leave us all with fuckin' instructions but then don't come back to follow through," Rummy almost shouted, irritation clear in his voice.

Spot shot a harsh glare back to his second in command but made no move to disagree with him. He heard Rummy approach him as he continued quietly, "Conlon, it's as simple as this. You're the leader and you owe it to us to fuckin' act like one. And as far as Kate's concerned, the boys wouldn't feel so unsure about all the crap you've been doing lately if they understood what the hell she is to you. But I'm pretty sure you ain't got a clue how to answer that for yourself," Rummy said, a touch of irritation returning to his voice as he almost spat the last sentiment.

"I'm guessin' you do," Spot said snidely. "Never woulda taken you for a gypsy, Rummy. You gonna make me pay up for a palm readin' next?"

Rummy's slow chuckle surprised Spot, and he turned to face his Brooklyn peer in curiosity. "You can keep bein' in denial about Kate all you want, but for the rest of our sakes wouldja at the very least cut down on the drinkin' an' let me know where the hell you're goin' so I can spin it some sorta way to the boys. You ain't a lone wolf, Spot, an' you have a responsibility to your pack here. You need to start showin' up everyday an' at least pretend that you give a shit," Rummy said matter-of-factly.

"I don't have the first fuckin' idea of what you think I'm in denial about," Spot murmured petulantly as he stumbled slightly away from Rummy to face the setting sun once more. "But you do gotta point about bein' here more."

He heard Rummy's heavy sigh and felt his hand clap him on the back somewhat genially. "We all needja clear-headed an' together, Spot. Otherwise you could leave us open to any kind of attack an' maybe even get yourself killed or locked up. Ya gotta put on a good face, especially when you're out and about. You gotta maintain your reputation."

Rummy came to stand in front of Spot, making eye contact meaningfully with him as he continued, "If it gets round that you've lost your edge, you know ain't nobody's gonna feel the need ta answer those called in favors either, 'specially if they think you ain't able to enforce nothin' anymore. Without your reputation, you ain't gonna get nowhere nearer ta gettin' her, Conlon. It's the only thing that'll keep your boys safe an' it's the only thing that could help find Kate. You know that."

Spot nodded his assent. Of course he knew that. He had spent years meticulously perfecting this image from which the fate of himself, his boys and now perhaps even Kate hinged. But, in a number of weeks he had managed to nearly destroy everything he had built. Spot felt his inebriation seeping out of his pores as he realized how childish and stupid he had been. How far he had gotten away from himself.

"I bet ol' Mary will be looking for this."

Spot turned to see Rummy holding out the half-drunk bottle of whiskey and he couldn't help but smirk, utterly grateful to Rummy in that moment for his humor alone. "Yeah, I bet she is," he quipped, taking hold of the bottle. "I'll hafta let her know I caught one a' the boys with it an' thought she might want it back."

Rummy chuckled good-naturedly as they began making their way back to the lodging house, Spot's haze finally fully lifting. He laughed himself at the thought of the scathing look that he was sure to receive from Mary when he returned the bottle from whence it came. No matter what story he told her, she would easily see through it to the truth of the matter, as she had so many times before. As a younger boy, Spot had continually pushed his limits with the vulgar widow, mostly due to the anger and confusion that filled him from being orphaned so suddenly. But as he had aged into the young man that he now was, Spot rarely pulled the punches with Mary that he had attempted so frequently before, the stolen bottle he now held being a very exceptional occurrence. He had developed somewhat of a fondness for the uncouth, boorish woman who had without question taken him in as a boy. Although he never dared to utter these sentiments aloud, he felt it his responsibility to illustrate his appreciation by keeping the boys in line and making sure the lodging house was somewhat presentable on a weekly basis. The small, uncouth woman had a soft heart beneath it all, and despite all of Spot's bravado, he despised taking advantage of any kindness bestowed upon him.

As the boys walked up to the pier, Rummy pointed to a small darting shadow in the distance, saying confusedly, "Is that Skip and—"

"Flit," Spot finished just as perplexed.

In the newly settling dusk, he saw the younger boy running at top speed towards the docks while the older boy trailed about ten yards behind him at a much slower pace. As Skip quickly came within shouting distance of the Brooklyn leaders, Spot was able to make out some of what the six-year-old was saying.

"Spot…Rummy…. Flit…. hurt…. angel…"

The boys' eyes met for a brief moment before they were running toward Skip and Flit. Although Spot's face donned its usual mask, he felt his heart skip a beat in terror as he was finally able to make out Flit fully in the dimness, a limp to his step and his arms full of a substantial but unidentifiable load.