CHAPTER 2

Brooklyn, April, 1901

Katherine Moore was nothing but trouble.

At least that's the only thing Spot Conlon could think to say when Jack had asked him to share his thoughts on the dark-haired girl that he had brought with him to Tibby's the week before.

"Yeah, I know," Jack had responded quickly, running a hand through his hair and laughing somewhat uncomfortably as they made their way out of O'Malley's pub.

It had been a cool night in Brooklyn, and Spot had been more than happy to spend a few hours with his old friend. He had been somewhat surprised when the Manhattaner had shown up suddenly at the docks asking if he could buy Spot a drink, but nonetheless willing to oblige. If there was one thing that Spot Conlon wasn't going to turn down, it was free whiskey. But after a few hours of enjoyable, though mindless chatter, Jack had decided to bring up Katherine Moore. And that's when Spot had been ready to wrap up the evening.

Upon noting the Manhattaner's sly smile and distant stare, Spot had raised his eyebrows, asserting "And that's somethin' you're willingly signin' up for?"

Jack laughed, slapping Spot good-naturedly on the back, "Well, you know what they say about girls that've got a little spirit in 'em."

"Yeah," Spot quickly replied, pulling a half-smoked cigarette out of his breast pocket before leaning back against the brick overlay of the pub. "They ain't worth the headache."

"So, I take it you weren't that impressed by her? Was it 'cause she smarted off to ya a few times?" Jack had asked coyly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Spot lit his cigarette, taking a deep inhale. He knew Jack was playfully baiting him, but he found himself unwilling to be as forthcoming as he usually would have been. He blew the smoke out to the cool night air surrounding them, finally shrugging and saying, "You got yourself a regular broad on your arm, Sullivan. She's a looker, sure, but I know you got quite a few other nice ones stashed around 'Hattan already." Jack had chuckled, shaking his head before Spot had sighed and continued, "But if you think this one's worth addin' to that list, then I say cheers to the headache and Godspeed."

"Yeah, I figured that's what you'd say," Jack had conceded thoughtfully, looking up into the clear sky above them. "I guess I'm just gettin' tired of the same old shit, is all. I mean, don't you ever get tired of the skirt-chasin and want somethin' more?"

Spot had inhaled off his cigarette again, smirking. "I do alright as is. Don't spend too many nights on my own. Always someone willin' and ready when I am."

"Well, you ain't ever been one to really challenge yourself by goin' after a girl with somethin' to say," Jack added off-handedly.

"And you have?" Spot challenged as he flicked his cigarette butt into the darkness beyond. "If I remember correctly, the last time you got a want for somethin' more, that girl made a big fuss all over town 'cause you weren't too good at keepin' yourself outa other women's beds."

Jack scowled at Spot's incisive comment, hurt filling his dark brown eyes as he huffed, "Don't fuckin' bring up Sarah, Spot. You know I don't like talkin' about that shit."

Spot shrugged, feeling a pressing need to end the uncomfortable conversation as quickly as possible. "Look, Jack. Here's how I see it. In this world, it's a fuckin' Godsend to have women willing to warm your bed every once in a while and then busy themselves with whatever the hell else they do until you get a hankerin' again. Anything more, and you're just beggin' for trouble. And that girl, Katherine—I can already tell she's nothin' but."

"Be nice," Jack had finally replied, a wry smile touching his lips as he had begun to head in the opposite direction from Spot. "I'm thinkin' about bringin' her around more and I don't want you scarin' her off."

"If she's as spunky as you say she is, then she oughta be able to handle it," Spot had quipped back with a passive shrug. "The real question is, how much of her are you gonna be able to stomach? I'd put money on a week, maybe two, tops."

Manhattan, October, 1903

Spot couldn't help the grimace that passed through his body as the words he and Jack had shared almost two years before washed over him. A cold wind blew across the Manhattan street he now traversed, but his mind was elsewhere—in a distant time and place. A time when he had been so sure of everything surrounding him—his purpose in life, his friends, his thoughts about the world and the people in it. But a lot had changed in those two years. Almost everything had.

Especially his thoughts on Kate.

Had he really been that callous? That quick to write Kate off as nothing more than a nuisance?

Maybe that had been all he was willing to say out loud at the time. Because from almost the first moment he had met those bright green eyes of Kate's, he had been able to think of little else. Spot knew that his sudden fascination with her had been about more than just her looks though. He had had his fill of girls just as pretty as she. No, he was certain. It was something more than that—something almost intangible about her presence. He had felt it the first day he had met her in that diner with Jack, but he hadn't been able to discern what it was until much later.

That day, her company had only irked him, so much so that he had planned on avoiding both Manhattan and Jack until his friend had finally had his fill of the bothersome girl. And perhaps if he had managed to keep his distance from her as he originally intended, he really would have thought nothing more about her. But it seemed something more powerful had been at play in bringing the two of them into the same spaces, time and again. And he still wasn't sure whether he felt blessed or cursed by the outcome.

He pulled his cap lower onto his brow as he noted several well-to-do looking boys laughing and talking on a corner he passed. He huffed, somewhat jealous of the freedom they imbued, a right of passage in youth to which he had never been privy.

Being born into the slums of Irishtown had held few benefits for Spot beyond teaching him to survive. From a very early age he had been forced to become a savvy fighter and an even better predictor of people. It had been these skills, as well as his wry wit, calculating mind and quick instincts, that had allowed him to so quickly rise in the ranks of the Brooklyn newsies, becoming the youngest boy crowned their leader at twelve. And these same traits that, four years later, had pushed him to the top tier of command during the Newsie Strike of 1899.

But he had been a kid then, and things that he had once thought would open doors for him had only ended up reminding him of his place in this world. Sure, he was bright—a natural leader some had even said. But none of it meant shit unless you had the money to back it up. And Spot had learned very quickly that the people who had all the money didn't take too kindly to sharing it, regardless of what you brought to the table.

Perhaps that was where his true callousness had started, in the months following the strike. He had been a boy king, revered by his peers all over the city. People had known his name. But once he had taken that awe and tried to use it as some sort of social currency anywhere else, he found out just how little his life meant in the grand scheme of things. And that was something he had not been able to hide his bitterness about for a long time following.

That is until Kate had come on the scene.

Spot sighed as he passed a hand through his hair rounding a corner and heading toward a line of dingy tenement houses. He was just able to make out the right one in the darkness. Taking in a steadying breath, he marched up the steps purposefully, wrapping his knuckles against the closed, locked door.

The silence and stillness that pervaded for the next several moments was unnerving. He looked toward the shaded window next to the entrance for any signs of life inside. Nothing.

"Dammit," he hissed through his teeth.

He knew coming here would be a fool's errand. Another fucking dead end. So why had he even attempted it?

She's gone.

A sharp pang of hurt reverberated his insides in immediate response to the thought. The girl he had originally written off as wholly inconsequential—a passing fancy for the likes of Jack Sullivan—was now the focus of almost all his time and energy.

Good God, the irony was so blatant, he was surprised he hadn't choked on it.

Of course, his initial opinion of Kate had not remained stagnant for long. It had slowly morphed into something far more complicated in the wake of a few interactions they had shared in the months following his conversation with Jack at O'Malley's.

The first had been a late-night vaudeville show that he had attended with Jack and several other old friends from his newsie days. But when Jack had shown up with Kate on his arm, he had inwardly groaned. She had genially greeted him and the other two men there with quiet charm before they had all entered the theater together. And the evening had gone on with little more to report, until he had left his seat to get a refill from the bar. He hadn't even noticed that Kate had vacated her seat next to Jack several minutes prior to him until he saw her leaning her back against the worn wooden slab of the bar and slowly nursing a cocktail. Her eyes were distantly watching the stage beyond and a contented smile settled upon her mouth. He sighed, thinking of turning back to avoid an interaction with her, but the pull for more whiskey was always stronger than any potential discomfort he may incur.

He had sauntered up to the spot next to her, muttering, "Double whiskey, neat," to the bartender.

"So, I hear you think I'm trouble."

Spot felt his heart jump into his throat, somewhat thrown off by not only her unexpected statement, but also the matter-of-fact way she had said it. However, upon recovering, he simply raised his eyebrows, shooting her a sideways glance. Her eyes met his with humor, a smirk pulling at the side of her lips.

"Jack has a big mouth," Spot replied after several moments of silence had passed between them.

"He does," she agreed, turning back to the show. "But there are worse things to be guilty of."

"Like?" Spot had asked, somewhat intrigued.

"Idle chatter."

He found himself unable to help the chuckle that escaped his mouth. And she shot him a warm smile in turn. A somewhat comfortable silence fell over them as Spot collected his drink and turned to face the show as well.

"So are you?" he posed after several moments passed between them.

She slowly turned her head toward him, a spark in her green eyes. "Trouble?"

He nodded, intimating for her to elaborate. And after chuckling to herself she shrugged. "Undeniably. Loads of trouble. I've been kicked out of a finishing school. I drink and smoke. And, don't tell anyone, but I'm planning on journeying to the forest later tonight to conjure up potions and have congress with the devil."

"Alright, alright," Spot had said with a laugh, taking a quick swig of his drink. "No need to exaggerate. I get it. I shouldn't have made any quick assumptions about you."

She shook her head, her smirk growing. "Well, to be honest, only one of the things I said is untrue."

"Please tell me it's the forest one."

Her full laugh sounded so melodic, so lovely, that Spot found himself surprisingly wanting to make her do it again. Her eyes lit up, turning an even brighter shade of green as she squinted at him. "You are a master of deduction, I'm in awe—really. But I suppose I should have expected nothing less from the King of Brooklyn."

"Yeah? What do you want?"

The image of Kate suddenly evaporated from Spot's vision as he was jolted back to the present by a man opening the door in front of him. He had a scraggly, dark beard and shadowed eyes. "I said, what do you want?"

Spot blinked a few times, before shaking his head and asking, "You got someone named Sullivan living here?"

The man stared at Spot silently for a moment, seeming to be sizing him up. "Yeah, sure. But he ain't in right now."

The man went to quickly close the door in Spot's face, but Spot swiftly asserted, "You know where he's at? I'm an old friend."

He paused with the door still open a sliver before sighing and muttering, "I seen him takin' his lady friend out for the night. I suspect he'll drop her off before he heads back this way."

"Thanks," Spot said. The man only nodded and then shut and locked the door behind him.

And with that Spot turned to walk toward a neighborhood he knew all too well. Of course Jack would be there. And maybe, if he was quick enough, he could cut him off before he made it all the way back.

The night was dark around him, the light fog that had settled overhead making familiar streets look foreign and hostile. He too felt like a stranger in this setting, displaced and desperate, lost in an unending maze of side alleys and hazy moving forms.

Maybe it was the unsettling fog surrounding him, or the almost immobilizing need for familiarity within him that made his thoughts so easily drift to Kate again. He had never fully realized what a comfort her presence had been to him until it had been so suddenly removed from his life. And it certainly wasn't that her personality was in any way tranquil. Sure, she could have an ease about her that was almost disarming, but he had quickly found that she reserved a more challenging intensity for those that looked deeper. Her candor was off putting, but it had also drawn him in just the same, even in the beginning.

He saw her so clearly still, leaning against that bar at the show, a drink held sturdily in her hand and spark of mischief dancing in her green eyes.

He remembered her taking a sip from her drink, her eyes focused on the stage as a new act walked onto it. But for some reason he had felt a need to query her further.

"So you've heard of me?" Spot asked after several moments of silence passed between them, watching her out of the side of his eyes.

"Of course," she replied, meeting his gaze. "Spot Conlon. Brooklyn union organizer. Strike leader. Purveyor of justice, all while making most of the women in New York swoon at your good looks and charm." She shrugged, chuckling, "Yeah, I've heard of you."

"Well I'm certainly not gonna argue against any of that," Spot said smugly, a smirk appearing on his lips. "But I don't know how much justice purveying I've done lately. The strike was nearly two years ago now. And I'm pretty sure most things just went right back to the way they were."

"I'm pretty sure that's what the powers at be are hoping you'll think." She paused as Spot widened his eyes at her, but she only stared pointedly back, adding, "See, if they change the story so that we begin to forget, then they keep winning. Your job is to keep fighting. To keep making sure we don't forget. So, maybe use a little more of that charm for leading and a little less for securing attractive bedmates, will you?"

The shock on his face secured another laugh from her. She continued chuckling, obviously entertained by his surprise before saying, "Like I said, I've heard of you."

He shook his head to clear it, taking a large gulp of his drink, asking, "Do you talk to everyone like this?"

"Only those I find worthy of more than idle chatter." She shot him a genuine smile before she sighed, "Well it seems the show is wrapping up, so I better start heading home. But there's always more trouble on the agenda for tomorrow, don't you worry."

She shook her head as she pushed herself off the bar and placed her empty cup behind her, shooting a quick thanks to the bartender.

But before he could say anything in response, she had already started walking back toward where Jack had been sitting.

Spot nearly ran into a passerby as his thoughts suddenly returned to the present moment. He shook his head, clearing the fog of memories that had so easily taken over his focus before muttering a distracted, "Sorry," to the man that huffed away from him.

With any luck, Jack would be up within the next few blocks. The chances of this were slim enough that he wouldn't put money on it, but if all else failed he would just head back to the tenement and look for him there again. Spot still felt fairly confident that he'd at the very least see Jack tonight.

Now, getting him to agree to talk—well that was an entirely different story.

Spot walked swiftly, cutting corners where he could. And thankfully, within ten minutes of his hurried journey, he saw Jack walking slowly toward him about a block up.

Something was finally going right.

"Jack!" Spot called, waving him over. The Manhattaner's dark eyes widened in surprise as he made his way toward Spot.

"Spot Conlon," Jack said as he neared the Brooklynite, still maintaining a fair amount of space between them. "It's been quite a while since I've seen the likes of you in these parts. What brings ya to 'Hattan?"

There was a tension that was readily apparent as the two men stood there sizing one another up, but neither said a word about it. Spot finally forced a smile and said, "Can I buy you a drink?"

Jack hesitated for a moment before shrugging and saying, "Sure. C'mon. I know a place up around the corner."