Manhattan – March 1905
The city had changed little by little. The streets seemed dirtier. Jack didn't recognize a handful of buildings. A lot of his fellow newsies had scattered and moved away from the city, seeking more residential neighborhoods on the outskirts. There was a new generation of newsies to replace them, none of whom looked familiar to Jack. Tenements were renovated, boarding houses were rebuilt with new money. Even Duane Street looked a little different.
The streets he'd left behind seemed more dangerous to Jack, especially now that he had a kid of his own. He couldn't imagine Jacob living the life he'd known in New York. The very idea of Jacob wandering the street like a lost dog, itching with lice, and begging for bread made him dizzy with fear. Heroin had replaced opium and laudanum in terms of popularity, though the two sedatives weren't completely out of business. The police presence had grown in Jack's absence. There were new gangs to contend with, Jewish and Italian outfits, with sophisticated crime bosses and considerable control over their territories.
Kloppman had retired from the lodging house, opting to live quietly in a modest apartment with his wife. Though he kept his foot in the lodging house door, making sure the place was running smoothly under the new superintendent. He had gotten frailer in his old age, but still sharp and witty as ever. The younger newsboys still respected him.
Mrs. Kloppman was getting on in years, too. She stayed connected with her former charges, remembering birthdays and anniversaries.
Dives and dens remained in the seedier parts of town, some old and some new. Tibby's stayed where it was, despite having switched owners multiple times. The name never changed. It still served the best breakfast omelets Jack had ever known. It was a constant – it was stability. Jack could recognize old friends there, order his favorite dishes, and even enjoy a drink or two. It was safe.
That Friday night, Tibby's was slightly empty – which was strange for the start of the weekend. Jack strolled in, having spent the day with Sophie and said goodnight, now searching for an evening pint. His shirt was wrinkled and his suspenders were at his sides as he sat at the end of a wooden bar at the front of the restaurant, nursing his whiskey, listening to three businessmen at the center of the bar talk about the stock market.
Situated beside windows and illuminated by lamps dangling above were several tables next to the bar. A few fancier tables with red and white gingham tablecloths were arranged at the opposite end. Mounted pictures of hunting hounds, their parties, and dead foxes draped the wall at the front, alongside serene English countryside portraits and an old photograph of the first proprietor, a scowling woman from London, Tabitha Seifert.
Jack observed an elderly pair at one of the tables, oblivious to his gaze, speaking quietly. Another party of two, this time much younger, sat near the door, laughing about one thing or another.
A waiter about Jack's age, dressed in a crisp white button down and black trousers, polished glasses behind the counter, talking to the chef in the kitchen through the small window. They seemed to be talking about baseball.
Jack looked around the restaurant again, searching for a familiar face, shaking his head as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. Usually, he could find an old friend, but this night felt sort of…well, Jack wasn't sure. Perhaps 'off' was the right word.
He knew he shouldn't drink too much, as he had to be up early the next morning to catch the train back to Santa Fe. Sarah and Jacob were expecting him.
Tiredly, his eyes landed on one other patron in the back of the restaurant, huddled in the shadows and shrouded in mystery.
It was a pudgy man, older, perhaps in his fifties or sixties, if Jack were to wager. He was drinking a cocktail of some sort and smoking a cigar, staring at his steak dinner before him. The steak came with a side of butternut squash and a dark green salad. It looked like he'd also gotten an additional order of vegetable soup with a few bread rolls.
This figure had cropped, thin whitish hair that stood out in sharp contrast against his black overcoat. His face was doughy and creased with wrinkles, his eyes ferret-like and faraway. A tiny wedding band encircled his left ring finger.
As he continued to eat, scanning over the newspaper before him, he snubbed out the cigar against one of the empty plates.
A chilly winter storm raged against the restaurant walls. The sky was dark and starless.
Jack drummed his fingers against the bar top as he watched the man. He quickly threw back the rest of his whiskey and pushed away his sudden need for laudanum. He hadn't felt such a strong craving for it in a long time. But something about this man made his body beg for a drop. His stomach growled, though he couldn't bring himself to eat anything.
In a spine-chilling moment, Jack realized the man had caught his eye and was now looking at him. They stared at each other for a few beats, with Jack getting a sinking feeling in his stomach. The man gave him a look of irritated confusion.
"Is there a problem, son?" The man called from the back, chasing those words with a swig from his glass.
"No, sir, no problem," Jack replied, looking away. The response was automatic, pre-programmed. He shook his head and masked his fear, watching the man go back to his newspaper out of the corner of his eye.
Jack watched the bartender refill his pint, staring down at his liquid reflection in the newly poured whiskey. Did he really look that different? It had only been six years. And everyone always said he had a youthful face. He rubbed his wrists, feeling his skin prickle at the memory of rope burns and sharp handcuffs.
He kept the man in his peripheral vision. With another furtive glance, Jack analyzed the man's face. He kept his expression neutral, though his blood ran cold and his mouth went dry, as if he'd just seen Satan himself.
Downing his new pint in one go, Jack got up from the barstool and made his way to the man's table in the shadows, his anxiety growing with every step.