Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.
Five
April 20, 1905
Like she'd done countless times before, Vanessa Jacobs woke up long before her husband. She wasn't all that surprised, either. When she finally gave up on sharing a hot supper with him last night and turned in, David still hadn't come back home yet. She vaguely remembered him kissing her cheek while she slept as he slipped under the covers; from the one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, Vanessa could see that he'd actually fallen asleep in his work clothes. Poor thing, she thought. He must've let himself in even later than she would've guessed.
There was still some time until David had to rise so Vanessa climbed out of their marriage bed slowly, careful not to wake him. It was her turn to strike a match and leave a candle burning for David. With a small smile shadowed by the candlelight, Vanessa thought of the light he left for her the morning before and wondered if he really understood why she always kept the candle on hand and the matches in reach.
She knew he had some funny idea about her time growing up in a Five Points' tenement which, in a way, was almost right. The flickering flame and the dribbles of cheap yellow tallow certainly were a touch of home, but it was more than that. For Vanessa, that simple stick of wax and wick was a sign of devotion—a devotion she never should've doubted, she thought with a pang—for her husband. As simple as that, she used the candle as a sign of the love she held for him. Vanessa may not be the type of woman who was comfortable telling him with words, but what she couldn't say with words, she hoped she said with her actions.
After lighting the candle and blowing out the match, Vanessa quickly traded her rumpled nightdress for the simple, pale frock she liked to wear when she had a full day of cooking ahead of her. She had no intention of letting David skip supper for the second night in a row. Having bought a roast off of the butcher yesterday, she planned on making a sturdy meal for her husband. Perhaps with some of his favorite food in his belly he would react more favorably to her news.
Perhaps with a full and content husband sitting opposite of her at the table Vanessa would finally find time to tell David about her trip across town on Tuesday.
Just as Vanessa reached down to pick up the worn nightdress and place it with the other washing, something on her dresser caught the flame and flashed, catching her eye. It was her treasured combs, a wedding gift from David. A pair of silver twist combs with etched edging on the end and fancy rhinestones decorating the outside, Vanessa always wondered how much they cost him and always feared that they cost too much. Still, she adored them nevertheless, though seeing them now left her with conflicted emotions.
She'd been wearing them the first afternoon she spent with Jack, back in March, when he whispered in her ear for her to let down her hair. She'd pulled the combs out then, experiencing that first familiar niggle of guilt, and stowed them away in a side drawer—where she promptly forgot them. She found them again last night while tidying Spot's room and resolved to start wearing the combs again.
Just as she resolved never to see Jack again.
With slow and deliberate care, Vanessa pinned her long hair up.
Apart from worrying about what hi-jinks Spot was involving poor David in, she had had a lot of time to think while she waited for her husband to come home. The visit to the hospital gave her plenty to mull over, as did Spot's discovery about her affair with Jack. And the more she thought about it, the stupider she felt. It was like she was a sixteen-year-old girl again, in love with the idea of being in love with Jack Kelly. Because it wasn't Vanessa Jacobs who let him into her home, into her bed, no, it was little Vanessa Sawyer who spread her legs because she thought he cared.
Now, just like then, she had to come to terms with the fact that Jack didn't really care.
Not like David cared.
God, she was a fool.
An unseasonable chill followed Vanessa past the closed door to Spot's bedroom and into the kitchen. Deciding a hot meal was in order, she grabbed a pot and started the water for porridge. Then, because David coming home so late could mean only one thing when Spot was around, she reached for the kettle next.
Whether it was from her absence in their bed, the smell of breakfast cooking or just old-fashioned guilt on his part for coming in after she went to bed, David didn't stay asleep that much longer than Vanessa had. She was just giving the porridge its final stirs when he poked his head into the kitchen hopefully and asked, "Breakfast?"
Vanessa had to allow herself a small smile. He looked like an eager little boy, the way his blue eyes were wide despite the dark circles underneath; his curly hair, flattened on side from the pillow—the side away from her since she knew he slept facing her—just added to the picture. Even if she felt she could be angry at him for staying out all night, she knew she never would.
"Hot porridge," she answered when she noticed his eyes straying to the wooden spoon in her hand. "And I saved you some chilled soup from last night for lunch."
It hadn't been her intent, but her words brought a shamed flush to his cheeks. "Vanessa, I'm so sorry—"
She cut him off with a quick tut and a wave of her spoon. "You just make sure you're home for supper tonight, hm? I'm making a roast."
He sighed. "You're wonderful."
"Breakfast will be ready in a moment," Vanessa told him, turning her back on him, turning back to the stove, hiding a pleased grin and a content happiness. The porridge was just about cooked, the steel-cut grain puffed up in the boiling water and tender. After giving it another stir, she lowered the flame on the stove and started to look through the cabinets for plates to serve the breakfast on.
David was taking his seat at the table when he noticed the fancy combs keeping Vanessa's hair up and out of her face. He made a sound of recognition in the back of her throat. "I remember those combs."
She'd just found a ceramic plate to use and was holding it loosely with her right hand when she heard David's comment. The other hand flew to up her hair, insistent fingers finding the sharp prongs of the comb's end before she let her fingertips rest lightly on the smooth side. "I love them."
"You haven't worn them in awhile," he observed innocently.
At his words, the plate slipped out of her right hand, landing with a crash on the counter where it cracked in half and splintered into a few large pieces. David started, his body jerked nervously before he realized where the sound had come from. Vanessa hurried to pick the plate up and, in her haste, grabbed one of the pieces by its sharp edge and—
"Ow!"
David stood up; he was at his wife's side before the first drops of blood started seeping out from the inch-long cut on the fleshy part of her palm. "Are you—oh," he gulped, "you're bleeding."
"I… I must've cut my hand on the plate."
It was a testament to the amount of love he had for Vanessa that, when he saw the blood, he merely turning a faint shade of green as he reached for a dishtowel. "I'll do it," he mumbled, using his trembling fingers to press the cloth to her cut.
It struck Vanessa then how alike this scene was to the other morning, the morning of Jack's visit and the sizzling bacon and the fat that spat at her hand. But with David it was different. He was awkward as he tended to her small cut, his fingers hesitant and shaky but undeniably gentle as he held the cloth to her palm. He wasn't sure of himself, he was never sure of himself where she was involved, and, still, it was an endearing trait. Just his touch, careful as it was, was enough to make her forget the pain as butterflies flapped away in the pit of her stomach.
David wasn't sure, he was never arrogant or cocky. He wasn't anything like Jack. How had she ever thought to compare them in the first place?
Such a fool…
"I'll wear them all the time now," Vanessa promised him impulsively, referring back to the combs as if her slip hadn't happened. It wasn't about the words she said anymore, she realized, it was about what they meant.
It took David a moment to understand that she was talking about the combs too; he'd forgotten all about them when Vanessa cried out. "They make you look beautiful… no," he corrected, the greenish tinge fading to an embarrassed pink as he told her, "you make them look stunning."
"Oh, David…" Suddenly, Vanessa knew that this was the perfect opportunity to talk with him. She didn't want to wait until dinner, she wanted to talk now. "David? There's something I have to tell you."
No other seven words could cause such a panic like those did. Letting go of her hand, David drew back, wary and alarmed. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Vanessa said quickly, calming him before anything else. "It's just that—"
And that's when Spot walked into the kitchen.
"You got some coffee boilin' for me, Dave?" He was rubbing his eyes as he came through the door, and when he lowered his hands and saw David and Vanessa standing tensed together by the stove, he stopped short. "Hey, uh, sorry if I'm walkin' in on something."
Vanessa patted her hair with her uninjured hand, moving swiftly away from her husband, mumbling something about breakfast almost being ready as she hurried back to tend to her pot. David watched her go, a forlorn expression dashing across his face before he turned his attention to Spot. "What's the matter, Spot?" he asked, caught off guard by the grimace Spot was sporting and the way he was shielding his eyes with his hand as if the artificial light in the kitchen was too bright.
Spot sank into his chosen chair at the table, both hands at his forehead. "What's that matter? I feel like I've been run over by a horse and the horse is still tramplin' on my brain, that's what's the matter. Gah!"
Wordlessly, Vanessa poured the boiled coffee into a mug she'd had prepared and brought it over to Spot. She sat it down quick, spinning away from the table immediately before Spot even realized what she had done. It wasn't that she was avoiding him actually, except that she was and had been trying her best to avoid him for days. Because every time he looked at her, every time she felt his cyan eyes boring straight back at her, Vanessa saw her mistakes, her indiscretions. He was a constant reminder of her foolishness and she was counting the days until he left and it was just her and David again.
When Jack would be back in New Haven again…
The clink of the mug against the tabletop caused Spot to spread his fingers so he could see. He dropped his hands and reached for the mug once he recognized the rich smell of a strong cup of coffee. "Thanks, Vanessa," he said immediately before testing the coffee and, having decided it was worth a slightly burned tongue, downing half the mug in three gulps. If he noticed how she only answered him with the quaintest of nods, he didn't say anything, leaving David to wonder what in the world happened between Spot and Vanessa when he was at the office.
There was no doubt in his mind that Spot's arrival kept Vanessa from telling him whatever it was she wanted to say.
David's expression was one of mild curiosity mixed with undeniable disapproval. It bothered him that Spot waltzed into the kitchen like that, killing any chance of Vanessa finally talking to him again, especially when it was Spot's fault that David arrived home so late last night. By the time he finally dragged Spot out of the Doctor's and managed to get him back to the apartment, Vanessa was already sleeping. It was the first time in the year they'd been married that she went to bed without him and it hurt him more than he would've expected.
But Spot, it seemed, was hurting more than the rest of them. He winced as Vanessa spooned the porridge onto the plate, his eyes closing as the breakfast plopped loudly against the ceramic center, and he held onto his mug like it was a lifeline. "I tell ya," he said out loud, breaking up the quiet in a voice that sounded rusty and tired, "I've had plenty of whiskey's in my time, and if those were straight whiskey and rye's Skittery kept slidin' me last night, then I'm Thomas Edison."
"You were acting a little strange last night," David said carefully, being drawn into the conversation against his better judgement. Unless he'd been imagining it, he could've sworn he heard a slight tsk-ing noise coming from the kitchen. Well, the cat was out of the bag, wasn't it? Good going, Spot.
Spot stopped, the mug halfway to his lips. "Strange how?"
David's eyes slid over so that it was obvious he was watching Vanessa. She had her back to them, but that didn't mean she wasn't listening to the conversation—and David wasn't quite sure he wanted to actually admit to his wife what had happened last night just yet. Not until after Friday, at least. Hoping Spot understood, he said, "Strange enough that you're going to need another cup of coffee, I think."
Groaning, Spot lifted his mug back up, drained the rest of the coffee and prayed to God that Vanessa would be an angel and bring him more. Just then he was willing to forgive her everything if only this pounding went away.
As if in answer to his silent prayer, Vanessa finished dishing out the porridge, two plates, and set them on the table, followed by two mugs of coffee, another for Spot and David's in his special blue mug. Then, because her appetite was scarce these days—and she'd been feeling quite ill these last few mornings—she rested her hand on David's shoulder, gave him a peck on the cheek and then, after throwing the stained dishtowel back to the counter, swept out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.
The door clicked shut with a finality behind her. The two men, spoons and mugs amazingly left untouched, met each other's eyes.
"And what the hell is wrong with her?" asked Spot bluntly.
David just shook his head. He certainly wished he knew—that, and that Spot had walked into the kitchen a few minutes later than he had.
It was a beautiful dress, pristine white with a high, throaty collar and lovely embroidered sleeves. It had a cinch waist and a skirt that flared out slightly at the ankles, just enough to make its wearer feel like a fairytale princess. Sarah had spent weeks gathering the material and months sewing the gown together. All that was left to do was for her to attach her lacework to the trim.
She kept it at her mother's house because that's where Sarah spent her mornings while Liam was at the factory. Even after they were married, she continued to tat lace and doilies in her spare time in order to add to his income; it was a relaxing pastime as she sat with her mother in the kitchen, Esther Jacobs tending to her washing and cooking, prattling on about grandchildren while Sarah's fingers worked. Knowing there wasn't much time left until the wedding, Sarah had brought her piecework home with her last night. Having finished it after supper, she resolved to bring the trim back to her mother's the next morning in order to finally finish Vanessa Sawyer's wedding dress.
But, it seemed, she wasn't the only one intent on visiting the dress.
Her mother was missing when Sarah arrived at the apartment, probably off to the grocer's or out taking a walk with Les before his morning lessons began. Sarah let herself in, as was her custom, only to find Vanessa sitting on the edge of the rocking chair that Sarah liked to use while she did her sewing. The dress was spread out across Vanessa's lap, her fingers ghosting over the material.
Sarah smiled as she set her bag down on the table. "Pretty, isn't it?"
Vanessa's head jerked up at the sound of Sarah's voice, guilt and surprise written all over her pale, wan face. She obviously hadn't realized that she was no longer alone in the apartment.
"I remember my dress," Sarah went on conversationally, "Mama made it for me as a gift, just like I'm doing for you. I couldn't wait to put it on, and when I took it off, I only wanted to wear it again." She paused, bending down slightly, one hand on her knee, the other reaching down to pick up the sleeve that was trailing along the floor. "Would you like to try it on again?"
"I… I can't."
Sarah's answer was as bright as Vanessa's was hesitant and gloomy. "Of course you can. David's not here to see you in it, it's just me. You can model it while I sew the finishing lace on."
"No, Sarah, you don't understand," Vanessa whispered mournfully and, for the first time, Sarah noticed the faded tracks of dried tears that ran down Vanessa's cheeks. This wasn't just an excitable bride unable to stay away from her dress—this was something else. "And it isn't that I don't appreciate all you've done for me, but I can't… I can't marry David."
"The wedding's in a week, Vanessa. You sure picked an awful time to get cold feet."
She shook her head. "I've known all along that I couldn't do it but seeing the dress today… it made it real somehow. I was fooling myself before, thinking it would work—but it won't." Vanessa was fingering the folds in the material, talking to the gown instead of Sarah, as if that made the admission easier.
And, suddenly, Sarah felt righteous anger well up in her on her younger brother's behalf. She reached out instinctively to take the gown back but Vanessa was too quick for her. Without actually touching it, she covered the bodice with her hands, silently denying Sarah. And Sarah, who had spent far too long over every stitch, couldn't bring herself to do anything to destroy it—not even out of anger. So, instead, she snapped quite unladylike: "What is it? My brother, he's not good enough for you?"
"I told you you didn't understand. Because that's not true at all. It's me."
"You?"
"Me," Vanessa agreed. "I'm not good enough for him." She sighed, anxiously pulling at a stray thread on the hem. Sarah longed to slap her hand away from the dress but something told her not to, it told her to wait. And then Vanessa murmured, "There was a boy…" and Sarah thought she might've just understood.
Adopting a kinder tone, Sarah told her, "There always is."
"I convinced myself I was in love with him… no," Vanessa corrected, "I was in love with him, but I convinced myself he was in love with me. And he wasn't," she announced vehemently, clenching her fists; luckily the dress was left alone, Vanessa's hands hanging at her side. "I don't think Jack ever cared about anyone himself."
Dread was instant, a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach at the name, but Sarah had always been a curious girl. She had to ask, "Jack?"
Vanessa spat out the name as if it were a dirty word: "Jack Kelly."
Sarah took in a sharp breath. But Vanessa, still staring at the wedding dress, unable to meet the prim and proper Sarah Conlon's eyes, acted as if she unheard it. She continued, "So, you see, I'm not fit to be any man's bride," all the while holding onto the dress. She wouldn't let go of it. And this time, Sarah didn't want to take it from her.
The women stayed in the small room together in silence, one having said too much, the other not sure what she should say at all.
Until—
"Do you love him?"
"What?"
"Do you love my brother?" Sarah asked again.
Vanessa didn't even have to think about it. "I… I do."
Sarah pursed her lips. She didn't say anything as she turned around and headed back towards the table, reaching for her bag and digging around until she had pulled out her piecework. The needle with its thread tale was looped carefully through the top of the lace and she held it delicately in her hand, motioning towards the dress. "Come now," she chided, "let's get this done. You're getting married in a week."
And, stubborn as always, Sarah Conlon left no room for argument.
Mr. Wagner was in rare form on Thursday. He had a big case coming up for one of Paul Kelly's thugs, some lowlife who was on the hook for murder, and it had fallen to Mr. Wagner to find a way to get him off. David wouldn't have even known what type of case it was except he overhead a whispered conversation between the head clerk Jensen and Madison, Mr. Wagner's assistant. It wasn't the sort of cases the firm went in for normally, and the office was in quite a state. Therefore, when six o'clock came and went without any dismissal, David wasn't surprised, just a little annoyed.
To his absolute relief, there was no sign of Spot Conlon standing outside of the office building when Mr. Wagner finally let the clerks leave for the evening. A quick peek at his pocketwatch told him that it was close to seven; willing to do just about anything not to miss Vanessa's dinner again, he very nearly ran the distance back to the apartment. He only stopped once, to buy a newspaper off of the corner newsie, and made it home within twenty minutes.
Dinner itself was also a strange affair. At first he thought that it would be just him and Vanessa and, perhaps, he could finally sit down and have a conversation with his wife. Except, once the meat had been served and Vanessa was plating the potatoes, Spot arrived and barked out a command for more coffee. It was the only words spoken since Vanessa seemed inclined to keep to herself and David didn't want to say anything to upset her. After she poured Spot's coffee out for him, they each sat down at the table and started to eat. At least Vanessa managed to eat a full meal for the first time in ages.
She was so pleased to see that David arrived just in time for her to slice the roast that she just smiled and nodded when he confessed that, yes, he'd made it home but, unfortunately, he had Spot had plans for after supper. She didn't ask any questions but that didn't stop him from promising to tell her all about their adventures afterward. He probably would've gone on and explained that he and Spot were meeting up with Skittery Daniels in order to look for Race except Spot had purposely crawled out of his bed at the start of the meal and sent warning glances across the table when David's lips started flapping much faster than they should have.
There was only one more day left, one more day to find Race, to get rid of Jack and recover a fortune. He didn't have to tell David to shut up—he knew. But on Saturday morning… well, that was another story.
David helped Vanessa clean up after the meal while Spot took a walk to clear his head. Then, when all that did was make him feel more lightheaded than before, he went and lay down until David asked him if he was ready to go. Spot rinsed his face in the washbasin, shook off the water droplets and grabbed his old newsboy cap. Then, hoping he could trust Skittery, he followed David out onto the dark New York streets and started off for Park Row.
It seemed like a good idea at the time to meet Skittery back at the same bar they were at last night. Skittery not only had something to do—someone to see—yesterday, but he wasn't free again until ten o'clock on Thursday night. Which was why, at a few minutes before ten, Spot and David stopped just outside of the Doctor's.
David nodded at the closed door but made no move to open it. "Do you think Skittery's already inside?"
Spot managed a small shrug, the tiniest of motions that didn't aggravate his headache. Even after all these hours his head was still pounding and there was a sharp, shooting pain behind his left eye whenever he dared open his lid more than a sliver. He'd asked Vanessa for another pot of coffee when the three of them sat down to supper after David got home, drinking big gulps in between bites of her succulent roast.
It had been years since he'd had a hangover this bad; he felt like a boy of sixteen again, stealing shots and a bottle of gin from back alley pubs and getting drunk with the fellas. If it wasn't for the ticking of the clock—one day more—and Skittery's promise of help, Spot would've been more than happy to crawl back into his borrowed bed and not come back out until his head was screwed on tight again.
David peeked inside but the windows were dark and smoky and he couldn't see anything. "Should we go in?"
"You can go in," Spot snapped. "I'm waitin' right here."
"Alright, then I'll wait with you."
It wasn't a surprise Spot was refusing to go inside the Doctor's again. Between sleeping it off and drinking more coffee than any man should, he'd come to the decision that there was something funny in his drink last night. He put it up to Tom Frizzell and his symbiotic partnership with Burly Bohan, the bar's owner. Maybe he shouldn't have told David about the King of the Panhandlers but, still, whatever Frizzell had put in Spot's drink was than anything Chicago's Mickey Finn could've come up with.
He barely remembered anything about last night. Well, no… he remembered Jack. He remembered the caught expression and the way he all but ran when David caught a whiff of Vanessa's perfume lingering on Jack's vest. The woman had promised it was over, and Spot wished he could believe her—but he smelled the perfume, too, and it was certainly fresh.
Damn it.
He remembered Skittery, too—why else would he be waiting there now? Right before things got a little… hazy, Spot distinctly remembered wanting to go off and find Racetrack. Every day he was missing, every day he thought of the knife, it was a day closer to accepting the inevitable. Except Spot Conlon wouldn't accept it, and if there was someone out there that was willing to help him locate his old pal, he'd take their help—even if it meant meeting Skittery at the Doctor's at ten o'clock in the hopes of finding Race before tomorrow.
But that was it. That was all he remembered about last night. Everything else was a big blank, and judging from David's queer behavior at breakfast, that was quite a bit of nothing he wasn't remembering.
And how the hell had David gotten him back to the apartment?
David was resting on the balls of his feet, nervous and antsy and watching the shady looking fellows that walked up and down this street, most of them turning to go inside the Doctor's after they'd gotten an eyeful of Spot and David. Spot was reminded of that night all those years ago—hell, of most nights when he tried to get David to do anything fun—by the way David stood by, worried and jumpy as if a cop was going to come by and ask him what he was doing.
He snorted. Yeah. Cops in this part of town? Not likely.
But his curiosity was aroused now. While they were still waiting for Skittery, Spot decided to ask, "How did we get back?" He raised his hand to his eyes, the throbbing even more intense as a terrible idea occurred to him. "Ah, hell, you didn't bring Jack back with us, did you, Dave? Vanessa—"
"No," David said, puzzled, "Jack left before we did." And then, because he always perked up whenever his wife was mentioned, he asked, "What do you mean, 'Vanessa'?"
Spot was relieved. One less thing to worry about. "Nothin'," he lied easily, "it's just that I didn't want ya gettin' in trouble on my account."
"Vanessa was already sleeping when we finally got you through the door."
"We?"
David hesitated for a moment, his one hand fiddling absently with the rim of his cap. "Did I forget to tell you that Skittery helped me walk you home?" he said, and there was something in the way he said it that told Spot that it wasn't that he forgot to tell him anything. "He offered to give me a hand before he left to see his, um, his lady friend."
"Oh. Ya know, that was pretty decent of Skittery. You gotta remind me to thank him."
"You can do that right now, Spot," David replied, pointing at a figure heading straight toward them.
It was Skittery. David glanced at his watch: ten o'clock. Right on time.
"Hey, fellas. It's good to see ya made it."
Faced with Skittery, Spot totally managed to forget wanting to say thanks. It wasn't something he was used to doing and, besides, there were more important things to worry about. Like Race. "You ready to go lookin' for Race?"
"Fact is, I think I found out where he is," Skittery said, "if you'll just follow me."
There was nothing else for them to do. They'd come out all this way to meet up with Skittery because he promised to help them find Race. If he said he had an idea where to look, well, that was a lot more than Spot and David had had ever since Oscar offered up the name of Benny. But "Benny" had turned out to be a dead end. It was nice to finally have another lead.
Neither one of them were willing to admit that maybe this was fruitless searching. At least, not yet—
—not until Skittery, after taking point and maneuvering past gangs on the corner, staking out their territory, homeless hookers calling out to them, crooked cops in the middle of taking their bribes… not until Skittery took them past all the vice on the late night streets without any worries, any concerns, any fears and led them straight to a familiar street that David had been purposely avoiding for years.
Duane Street.
He'd been thinking about this place, this stretch of wall exactly, for days now. Ever since he spied the date on the newspaper and remembered that the five year anniversary was falling on Friday night, David had been thinking about Duane Street and what was going to happen when he met up with four other men at midnight.
Why had Skittery brought them here? What did he know?
Why was he looking for Racetrack Higgins at Duane Street? Was he looking for him here or was it just a coincidence?
"Here we are," Skittery announced at last. It was dark and empty on this street, the back alley Jack had led four young boys too five years ago, and if it wasn't for all the time that had lapsed—or that there was an outsider with them—it could've been that same April night all over again.
Okay, David decided with a nervousness he couldn't quite explain, it wasn't a coincidence.
"Here? Why here?" Spot asked suspiciously, voicing the same concerns that David was struggling with. "Why the hell would Race be here?"
"Oh, he's not," Skittery admitted in a nice even tone. For all he was saying, he could've been discussing the weather and not a missing pal. "I decided it wasn't worth it to pretend no more. I know what I'm after."
"Pretend? Skittery, I don't think I understand."
"Call me Benny," he said in answer to David. "Most of my friends do… or, they used to. I don't have many friends left anymore."
"Benny? Then that means—"
"You did it," Spot interrupted. It was suddenly so clear… and maybe it would've been yesterday, too, if it wasn't for his drunken haze last night. He'd been fooling himself, thinking he could find Race after he found a knife at his place, but he'd been fooling himself even more when he thought a bummer like Skittery would every help anyone out without a price. "You got to Race."
"Killed him, ya mean? Yeah. Oscar, too."
"Oscar?" David said shrilly. Skittery's—Benny's—nonchalant confession was far too eerie, far too composed that it brought on a rush of panic inside David. A flash of Oscar's wife's big brown eyes, the little boy with his wooden blocks… Oscar's family. "When? We saw him last night!"
"We saw you last night," added Spot with a barely contained snarl.
"Did ya follow me?"
"What? No!"
Skittery shrugged again, absently reaching into his pocket. "You should've."
He pulled out a cigarette case, dented and careworn. It was bronze, two letters engraved on the bottom corner: A.K. Alfred Kloppman. David's eyebrow rose as he remembered the uproar so many years ago when Kloppman's cigarette case went missing, stolen right from the top of his supervisor's desk, and none of the boys in the lodging house knew where it went. Well, it seemed he knew where it had gone now. Somehow, following Skittery's admission, it seemed only fitting—and the least of his worries.
It was almost as if he and Spot were frozen. Neither of them moved, acting like a pair of cheap mannequins as Skittery chose a handrolled cigarette from his case, snapped it shut and made it disappear. Like a conjurer, a flame appeared from out of nowhere and he ignited the cigarette. "Ya know," he said quite conversationally, letting the cigarette settle in the corner of his mouth familiarly, "Race never could hold his gin."
Spot's fists clenched at the casual mention of Race. It hadn't hit him yet, it hadn't really sunk in what Skittery said, but it was starting to. Race… "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Don't tell me ya didn't wonder why I stopped here?"
Skittery inhaled deeply, causing the fire on the tip of his cigarette to flare a deep orangey-red; ash formed on the edge and, with a casual flick, he sent it scattered. His lips reared back, a vicious sort of smile playing on his lips as he exhaled, the smoke issuing out like a stream. "For a buck I might do anything," he confessed. "For a fortune, I would."
The morning routine inside the Newsboys' Lodging House at number 9 Duane Street was both hectic and familiar. Every morning the old supervisor, a man called Kloppman, he woke up the boys in their half-sized bunks, smacking feet and arms and any part of the body the growing boys let hang over the edge.
"Sell the papes! Sell the papes!" was his cry, an admonition, a way to rally the boys from their beds. He woke them all up with the sun, instilling a work ethic and bringing home the competition that a life on the streets was. There weren't that many papers and you had to get down to the distribution center to get your share otherwise you were out of luck and carrying the banner for the next few nights. And, while the bunks were tight and smelled something awful, it was definitely preferable to the stink of a hot, sweltering New York summer.
Skittery's bed was close to the door and he was usually one of the first woken up. He'd never been a morning person, though, and it was a running gag what he would yell out when Kloppman got him awake. That particular morning he called out, "Wha-? I didn't do it," which, considering it was Skittery talking, was pretty much a confession.
There was a row of washbasins, razors, mugs and mirrors just past the water closets at the far end of the bunkroom. Most of the younger boys argued over who got to use the tin washtub for a quick scrub, while the older boys painstakingly soaped up and shaved in an attempt to pass themselves off as a couple years younger. The smoother the skin, the better the sales, or something like that.
Not that it was all seriousness—not in a zoo like the lodging house. The orphans and runaways were like animals, laughing and joking and horsing around. They teased each other over their individual smells and their wet dreams of actually landing a dame and even flung a brush full of shaving cream at each other.
That morning the unfortunate victim of the shaving cream was Racetrack Higgins.
"Pass the towel!"
Skittery waved the towel in his hand up high, purposely out of Race's reach. The short newsboy was groping around blindly, the shaving cream stinging his eyes. Skittery was a head taller and, as he held out the towel, Race managed to walk right past him.
"For a buck I might," he offered without bothering to hide his vindictive snicker.
When he was a kid and the working boys of New York rose up against the newspaper giants, Spot was brash, reckless, a hot head. He led Brooklyn based on brains, heart and an ability to size up an opponent and fight dirtier than the other bastard. But time and a kind wife (not to mention losing his wife) had managed to mature Spot Conlon. He wanted nothing more than to lunge out, to strike, just like he had done when Jack turned scab and he felt betrayed.
But turning scab had nothing on murdering a buddy and it took every ounce of restraint not to jump Skittery and bring him down. He had to listen first, act second and maybe they could get out of this alive—all assuming that Skittery was telling the truth about Race and Oscar. And why wouldn't he? Besides, David was there, too, and Spot couldn't see another friend go. He needed to wait for the right moment to strike, to take Skittery down before he did something even crazier now.
David, on the other hand, he was stunned by Skittery's revelations. Stunned and confused at the same time. He just couldn't understand. "What? I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play dumb, Davey," Skittery scolded, "it doesn't suit you."
David turned red, indignant. Spot was eerily silent.
It was still Skittery's turn to make a move.
Because, you see, Skittery wasn't dumb. Between the two men, he knew which one was easier to manipulate. Like he thought at the bar last night, Spot was a force to be reckoned with, especially seeing as how he was actually sober for a chance. But David… David Jacobs was the sort of man who would fall to pieces if you knew which buttons to press. He'd managed to work Oscar over last night; now it was David's turn. And, like Oscar, he knew exactly who to threaten in order to get David to answer him.
"How 'bout this?" he said, turning his attention on David as if Spot wasn't even standing there. "Tell me what I want to know and I'll leave your wife out of this."
"My wife?" David gaped over at Skittery. "You don't—"
"Oh, but I do. You brought me to your home last night, Dave. You were stupid enough to let me in yourself. What? Don't think I can find my way back again?" He left his threat hanging there, unanswered. "So, ya wanna tell me now? Where's the money?"
This time there was no use denying it. There was no use pretending. And, even though the first thing both men wondered was: How did he know?, it all made sense when they thought of poor Racetrack and what too much gin inside of him could've let slip. But Skittery? Really? It was too much to believe.
It was just too much.
Skittery was impatient. He could read much into their silence and knew that David needed a little motivation, a little taste to see that he was serious. Dead serious. Reaching into his back pocket, Skittery pulled out a bundle of stained cloth. "Oscar wasn't usin' it, so I helped myself to it," he explained, slowly unwrapping the bundle. "You don't want me to use it again, do you?"
It was almost poetic, the way the moonlight managed to fall on the item that had been hidden inside the cloth. David and Spot's gazes were drawn to it, the moonlight glinting off the only part of the blade that wasn't covered in dried blood. It was the same knife that they found on Race's table—it was the knife that killed Racetrack Higgins.
They both realized it at the same time: Skittery had gone back for the knife.
The sight of the devilish blade was too much for them. "He was your friend!" Spot accused, breaking his silence at last, while David's ears caught up with his eyes. He saw the knife, finally understood what it meant and promptly hunched over and turned his head, revisiting Vanessa's dinner in a manner most unpleasant.
Skittery shrugged, ignoring the retching that came from David. He did, however, take a step back so that his shoes weren't ruined. "He didn't want to share."
"Why, I oughtta—"
"The only thing you ought to do is get me my money." It was hard to tell where he pulled it out from. One minute his hands were holding the cloth with the sickeningly familiar knife, the next he was handling a pistol with one while the knife hung in his left hand at his side. "Let's not make this any harder than it is, fellas."
When Spot saw the gun, he froze; David, having finished getting sick, was too busy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to notice it at first. But then he stood up just in time to come face to face with the barrel of Skittery's gun. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd just thrown up nearly everything there was in his stomach, the fear that overtook him at seeing the gun might've brought on a second round of heaving. As it was, he swallowed, grimaced at the foul taste in his mouth and tried his damndest to pretend he couldn't see the opening of the pistol only a few feet away from him.
"Put the gun away," David said shakily, surprised at how calm he sounded considering he was damn near shaking in his trousers, "there's no need for that. The knife, either."
"Oh, there's certainly need for this knife," Skittery replied. "You can use a knife like this for much more pleasant things, Dave. Like digging my money out from behind those bricks."
He knew everything.
Well aware that there was only one way out of this—and that he would have to do it, considering Spot was too angry and too tired to think with a clear head—he edged closer to Skittery, wary about the gun, his hand outstretched for the vile knife. His stomach was heaving anxiously and he feared he would vomit again when Skittery handed him the knife by the handle. It was work, and he only just managed to keep the bile in his belly down.
"Get me my money, Dave," Skittery repeated.
"Put the gun away," David retorted, much more bravely than he felt.
Skittery stood there for a moment, daringly meeting David's unblinking stare. Spot stood just behind David, poised to jump, poised to strike, but Skittery had only eyes for David. He could break him, and he would. But first he was going to give him the chance. "Call your dog off and I'll get rid of the gun," he countered.
Spot's harsh laugh was so much like a bark that it suited him being called David's dog. "Ha, 'fraid to take me on without your piece of metal, Benny?"
Skittery cocked the gun, aiming it right at Spot's chest. Playtime was over, and Spot was the only one of them that wasn't armed. "I'm warnin' ya, Conlon. There's five bullets in this gun now. I've only got to hit you once. You think you can dodge all five? Oscar didn't."
David held up a hand, keeping Spot from moving forward like he so desperately wanted to do, purposely standing in the way as if he were a shield. There was madness at work here; he didn't doubt for a moment that Skittery meant exactly what he said. "Spot, listen, it's just money. Stay here, I'll get it for him." He turned around. "Just, please, put the gun away first. We don't want any accidents."
Skittery thought about it for a moment. He looked from Spot's murderous gaze to David's pleading expression and finally nodded, before lowering the gun and tucking it out of sight. But it didn't go unnoticed by any of them that he never unprimed the pistol.
"Make it quick, Dave."
"Where is it, Oscar?" Benny asked suddenly as he stopped in his tracks. It was a strange spot to be sure, but chosen specifically. The less witnesses, he figured, the better.
"Where's what?"
"I think you know."
Oscar looked uneasily behind him. He could make out a couple of bodies in the shadows and he wasn't naïve enough to think they were just a couple of fellas out for a night stroll. Hell, he should've thought better than taking this walk with Benny as it was. Those were friends of his, though goons was a better name for them, and that was when he finally realized that maybe Benny wasn't as much his friend as he previously thought.
Turning back to look at Benny, Oscar nearly jumped to see that, somehow, Benny had pulled a pistol out. He wasn't aiming it anywhere in particular, instead weighing it in one hand before placing it in the other. It wasn't an out and out threat, but his meaning was clear: it could become one.
And Oscar was left to wonder how the hell Benny Daniels found out about the money.
When Oscar proceeded to ignore the question, Skittery lifted the pistol a little higher, his fingers smoothly stroking the length of the gun. "I meant to ask you," he said, sounding friendly but coming across as nothing but, "how's Junie? The kids? Maybe I should stop by and pay a visit."
It was like a knife to his gut, the mention of his family a cruel twist. Sure, he made a promise five years ago but to who? To four young men he'd never seen again. He didn't owe them anything, certainly not his loyalty. His family would always come first. "Duane Street, around the back of that damn lodging house. Your old pal, Cowboy, he carved a hole in the wall and stashed the money there. Alright?"
Benny smiled, a queer little smile that curved his lips but didn't quite meet his eyes. "See, now? Wasn't that easy?"
"I ain't after that money," Oscar told him, as if that made any difference at all.
"I understand," Benny answered absently, opening the barrel of his gun and checking on the number of bullets in the round. One… two… three… six. Six bullets, he counted with a satisfied smirk, and he flicked his wrist. The barrel rolled closed.
Oscar's eyes were narrowed on the pistol held confidently in Benny's hand. He knew Benny could be no good, he had friends in low places and friends who weren't really friends but enemies united by a single thing: money. And not only did Benny know about that found fortune, but he also knew that Oscar was involved. That's why those fellas were back there, he realized. Because could they allow Oscar to be involved?
"Fuck you, Benny," he muttered, jamming his hands in his pockets and purposely walking past Benny, walking as far away from those goons in the shadow as he could get. If he moved quick enough he could leave it all behind him, he was sure he could. Yelling at himself as he went, he refused to glance behind him, the lure of his wife and children beckoning him forward. He should've known better than to follow Benny out, to leave the safety and warmth of his home. He should've known better than to ever think a newsie—a newsie then and a grown thug now—could ever be good to him.
He should've known better than to turn his back on Benny Daniels and a gun.
"Hey, Oscar?"—
David sawed at the mortar, the same way he remembered Jack Kelly hacking away at the brick wall all those years ago. It was easier than he thought it would be, though, and in no time at all he had removed the bricks from their home, revealing a hiding place that kept a five year old secret stowed away.
He dropped the knife to the dirt and grabbed the bag, expecting it to be a lot heavier than it ended up being. There was dust and dirt and a stray spider or two clinging to the material and the clerk in him gave the bag a quick wipe before he stood up and walked back over to where Skittery and Spot were standing, facing off.
"Here," he said, thrusting the old bag at Skittery. "Take it."
Skittery weighed it in his hand, suspiciousness filling his features. "It feels kinda light."
David had been thinking the same thing himself but it had been five years, after all, and they'd all promised to leave the money alone until tomorrow night. Maybe he just remembered it being heavier. How was he supposed to know how much a fortune weighed?
Spot watched as Skittery held the bag out, a frown crossing his face. At that moment it wasn't about getting revenge; it was about getting out of there alive. "You've got your damn money, so we'll just be goin' now," he said loudly, grabbing David by the sleeve as he started to walk away.
"Not yet," Skittery snapped warningly, and both men stopped moving, "not until I see the money." And then, like a child ripping into his presents on Christmas morning, Skittery tore open the top of the bag and peered inside.
Time seemed to stand still, until—
Skittery's head snapped up with a vengeance, his eyes stormy and filled with hate. "You're jokin'. It's gotta be a joke. Where's my money, Davey?"
"What do you mean? That's all of it," David told him, an uneasiness creeping into the pit of his stomach. It was worse than the nausea. This was dread.
"This is all of it?" Skittery turned the bag over frantically, dumping the contents onto the street. A handful of crumpled bills fluttered out, forming a small pile at Skittery's feet—but it was a small pile. There was maybe a couple of hundred dollars there, that was all. "This is fucking it?" he cried, his dark eyes wild as he looked from David to Spot and back. He laughed, a high-pitched crazed squeal as he kicked the money away.
Then, as if the moment passed and Skittery—Benny—was a sane man again, he composed himself and gave the other two men a smile that made him look even madder than before. His laugh mellowed into a secretive chuckle. "What happened to my money, fellas?" he asked calmly. "Race said there was tons and tons. Does this look like tons and tons to you?"
David couldn't meet Skittery's eyes anymore; the insanity there burned too brightly, the lust and greed too much for him to take. Daring a quick glance at the money drifting along before settling back in the dirt, he calculated that that was maybe one-tenth of the amount of money that should've been stashed in that bag. He had to echo Skittery's questions: What happened to it all? He turned to look at Spot… and when he noticed the way that Spot was also staring unblinkingly at the dirt, watching the money with a strange look on his face, David had the sudden realization that, yes, he might not know what happened to it, and Skittery was willing to kill for it, but that didn't mean that no one knew where the fortune had gone.
"Spot," he murmured, trying to talk quiet enough that maybe Skittery wouldn't hear him, "do you know what happened to that money?"
It took a moment that seemed to last a lifetime but when Spot's answer came, it was spoken in defiance. "Doctors are expensive, Dave. Funerals, too."
"You mean… you took the money?"
"I'm sorry, but I needed it." Spot looked guilty but unrepentant. He jutted out his chin as if daring the two other men to say something of it. "Wouldn't you have done the same?"
And Spot was right. If it was Vanessa who was ill, he would've reached for that money in a heartbeat. He felt like a louse for never thinking to do the same for his sister. After all, it was only money—and what was money worth when a life was at stake? Lives like Race and Oscar, David thought and his stomach heaved one more time.
But Skittery, it seemed, disagreed with him. "You used my money to bury your whore of a wife?"
Spot's eyes sprang open. That was it, that was the last straw. There was nothing left for him to wait for. "You bastard! I'll kill ya for that, I'm gonna—"
"You'll never," Skittery tossed back coldly. The gun was suddenly in his hand again, lifted high and aimed before David had even recovered from Spot's admission or Skittery's slur against Sarah.
And that was when the shot rang out.
—"So long."
- stress, 09.26.10