"He came to 'hattan one mornin' sometime after tha fire. Wanted to know all about Luis." Racetrack said.

"Yea, we told him everythin' we knew at tha time." Mush agreed.

"Wasn't much." Blink added.

"Was plenty for Mitts, I'm sure." Spot grinned.

* * *

The sun, coming up over the horizon lit the sky and woke Mitts like someone tapping on his eyelids. Surprisingly enough, Meg was still curled in the bottom of his hammock with him, down by his feet. He grinned a little as he removed a half-empty bottle of Dewar's from her arm. She stirred a little as he shifted out of the hammock, but merely rolled into the center of it and slept on. He wanted to go back to sleep too, but today he had work to do.

It was a long walk to Manhattan, but he had made the trip many times. The worst part was the bridge. It felt like an eternity when you crossed it on foot. He made it to Park Row in time to hear the circulation bell. The Manhattan Newsies were there in full force, but he only desired the company of a few of them so he hung back and found a nearby building to lean against and wait.

They left the gates in a group, which was lucky. Mitts spied the familiar backs of Mush, Blink and Race, each with a stack of papers. He gave a long, low whistle. It was not a signal they were used to hearing like Mitts was, but Racetrack looked around just the same. He punched Blink on the shoulder and turned around to head towards Mitts. Blink backhanded Mush and they followed.

"Heya Mitts. What'chu doin' on dis side a tha Bridge?" Race asked cheerfully as they joined him under the awning of the building.

"Need a lead, 'Track." Mitts said matter-of-factly. "Dere's five goils in Spot's warehouse and no reason why yet."

All three of the boys faces in front of him hardened.

" 'fraid we ain't got much, Mitts." Mush said politely with a grin. It was clear that he felt bad for shoving Mitts to the ground the other night. Mitts didn't blame him. He spit in his hand and held it out to Mush who copied him.

"Well, I know less den youse. So tell me anythin' youse know."

"The blonds are me sistas." Blink piped up at once. "Didn't know dey was livin' hea 'til-" He paused, thinking, " 'bout a month ago."

"Yea, dat's how we met Concha and Angie." Race added, waving his cigar.

"Dey're fatha owned tha joint. Tha Chapparo Tenement. Well, youse was dere." Mush said. Mitts nodded and Mush continued. "He had five boarders plus his daughters. Meg, her brother and a man named Joshua."

Mitts blinked. He remembered their faces vividly in death, but none of it answered any questions yet.

"Who'd wanna bump off a tenement filled with kids though?" Mitts asked, coming straight to the heart of the matter. Race backhanded Mush.

"We was talkin' 'bout dat last night. Whoever did it musta had some beef wit' Luis, tha father. Only thing we could think of was he said he had a distillery in tha basement. He let us try some a his rum. Good shit, dat."

"Yea, and Bowery and Pell, it's right on tha border, ya know?" Mush said.

Mitts stared at them.

"The Five Points?"

They nodded solemnly. The Five Points gang were one of the biggest in New York. They thrived off gambling, prostitution and murder. Mitts did not fancy his chances if that was truly what he was up against.

"Whoa, hold on." Blink put in. "Luis, didn't seem tha type, ya know, he wasn't no gangster."

Race and Mush nodded. Mitts saw the truth of Blink's affirmation in their eyes. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a lead. He spit shook with each of the three boys and disappeared.

"Youse guys really think Luis was a Five Pointa?" Blink asked, scratching his head and watching Mitts go. Race merely shrugged and clapped Blink on the shoulder as he turned back to the streets.

"I dunno." Mush said to Blink. "Maybe, maybe not. I mean, we really didn't know him, did we?"

Mitts found himself drawn to tenement itself. Someone had, indeed, shown up to put the fire out. It was a broken mess of charred support beams and burned and broken objects that had once been a home. Mitts did not hang around to look. It, once again, struck a chord to close to his heart.

On the corner of Pell and Bowery there was a butcher shop. Mitts shrugged and rolled the dice. Inside was small and smelled strongly of meat, but the place was clean and respectable. A short Italian man was behind the counter. Mitts strode up to it and the man turned, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Mornin'." He said genially. "Got beef and pork ten cents a pound. Bacon for twelve."

Mitts smiled. This was the part he really loved. He was a newsie, sure, and he hawked the occasional headline, but what he was really good at was relieving people of things. Information, wallets, pocket watches; he was a good thief and scout. Spot always said he was the best and it was true. He was a chameleon, brown hair and eyes, a handsome face, but not one that was remarkable. He could blend in when he wanted to, stand out when he wanted, make himself seem older or younger. It all came from watching people closely. He knew how to make them give him what he wanted. Now, he drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders.

"Actually, I'm lookin' for a guy named Chapparo. I was at dis huge blow-out tha otha night and a pal a mine gave me dis stuff. Blew my mind. Said a guy named Chapparo made it and sold it, somewhere around hea."

"Yea, I heard a him." The man answered, "Lived just down Pell. He was a good man."

"Was?" Mitts faked surprised interest.

"Place a his burned down four or five nights ago. Rumor has it, he's dead."

Mitts put on a disappointed frown.

"Shame. Was hopin' to get me hands on some more a his rum. Good shit, dat."

The shop owner laughed a gut-shaking chuckle, then leaned forward across his counter. Mitts grinned. The last bit of information he needed was coming. People always held it for last and Mitts was good as coaxing it out.

"Well, listen, I neva touch the stuff meself, but I know the guy up at Riven's stuss hall, ya know, just up on Bowery. He used ta buy that stuff in bulk from Chapparo. Prolly still has some, but it'll cost ya."

Mitts' face lit up with true enthusiasm. He had his next lead. He thanked the man generously and ordered a pound of bacon from him. Mitts had no idea what he was going to do with it, but thought Amy might cook something up. While the butcher wrapped the meat up, he dropped one more kernel Mitts had not been expecting.

"I heard the owner of that Riven's place, name's Simmonds. Heard he's a Five Pointa. Heard tha man himself, Paul Kelly, ya know. He frequents that place. So, you just be careful son. Get'cha rum and get'cha self back outta there. You don't wanna be mixed up with them Five Pointas."

Mitts nodded, thanked the man again and left the shop, bacon under his arm. It was too early in the day for anything or anyone important to be at a stuss hall, but he strolled away along Bowery to find it anyways. It was a two-story, sprawling building. It looked dirty and cheap. A place to drink, play cards and meet prostitutes. He did not really want to go in, but knew he'd have to eventually. He decided to put it off for now and head back toward Brooklyn. He'd come back at night. There was nothing to do but wait it out, plus he thought he might look odd with a pound of bacon under his arm.

A carriage had just pulled up to the hall and a conservatively dressed men stepped out onto the pavement. Pretending he hadn't noticed, Mitts turned swiftly in an about face and collided directly with the man. His bacon, still wrapped in butcher paper, fell to the ground. Mitts had put up a hand just at the last second to keep him from knocking heads with the man and he clung to the lapel of the man's suit jacket to keep from falling over.

"I'm sorry, sir, really." Mitts made his voice a little higher pitched and he slumped his shoulders and his back, making himself seem slightly smaller. He let go of the man at once and backed away a few paces, retrieving his bacon from the ground. The man huffed a little with a slight frown, but nodded to Mitts and smoothed the front of his suit jacket with both hands.

"Sorry, sir." Mitts called after the man's retreating back as he entered the hall.

As Mitts set off down the pavement he chuckled to himself. It was almost too easy. The man had kept his wallet in the front breast pocket of his jacket. It was always a little riskier to steal from literally under a man's nose. The target always got a decent look at a thief that dared to try it and it was difficult to keep their focus from their jacket. Mitts found it useful to have something in his hands to drop when he did it. A trick he had actually picked up from Spot. Mitts thanked himself, mentally, for buying the bacon. He had probably tripled what it had cost him, at least. His stomach grumbled and he quickened his pace, heading home.