The thick, heady scent of smoke clung almost protectively to her scant
clothing, and she aimlessly wished that the cigarette had been able to warm
her body and what was left of her spirit- if there was anything left at
all. Sometimes, when she lay awake in the dark and stared out into the
shadows, she wondered what her inner self looked like; not her entrails and
spleen and heart- well, perhaps her heart- but her soul. There were certain
kinds of torture that didn't simply rip apart your skin or burn your flesh
so that you could smell yourself cooking or bring an exodus of hot, pained
tears. There were kinds of torture that reduced tears, reduced you. Lucia
felt as empty as a moonless, starless sky the color of a smudge on a
newspaper.
"Get up!" Lou shouted, his voice rough and snakelike and made Lucia's stomach turn every time she heard it. He was a strong man, although his slightly obese appearance made most people think otherwise. He kicked her leg, and the girl lifted her head up from where she had been resting on the staircase.
"Whadda ya want?" she asked. Her eyes were two pieces of coal, embers that had been burned out long ago.
"You got a job. With some important big shot. Some politician out at his summer house."
She rolled her eyes and recalled that she hadn't really slept in weeks. "Get one of da oddah goils ta do it. I ain't goin' out tahnight." She gazed around the room. Tacky, worn furniture that always carried a certain, sickening stench filled the room. Women who weren't exactly attractive though attempted to appear as such with the aid of much makeup and who were all clad in little more than underwear, sat talking or strolled around with burning cigarettes in their hands. "Get Gracie, she'd be willin' ta go."
With ferocious speed, Lou seized Lucia's arm and yanked the girl savagely to his face. She could smell alcohol and cheap cigars on his breath, and stared at his rotting yellow teeth and his bloodshot eyes. "YOU'LL DO WHATEVER I TELL YOU TO DO!" he screamed, voice causing all the empty liquor bottles to quake. "AND IF THAT MEANS SLEEPING WITH EVERY DAMN GUY WHO EVER WALKED THE EARTH, THEN THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE GONNA DO!"
Lucia stared at the man detachedly, as though she hadn't heard a word he had said. A though nothing had happened at all. If Lou hadn't known her better or if he had been slightly more intoxicated, he would have imagined the girl had somehow turned into a shadow incapable of producing emotion.
"YOU GET ME?!" he barked, furious that his explosion hadn't seemed to make any impression on the girl.
She nodded without emotion. "I get ya."
With a swift movement, he tossed her back to the floor and glowered viciously. For a moment, Lucia wondered if he were going to attack her again. But then Lou spat into a corner and marched off, undoubtedly to find another bottle of scotch or someone else on whom he could take his anger out.
She slowly lifted herself up and did not allow the other girls to witness her pain. She winced silently, clenching her teeth so no noise would be emitted, as she marched down the staircase. Dumb of him ta do dat, really, she commented as she tried not to focus on the soreness but on the vast stupidity of Lou. I'm gonna get a bruise for shoah, and what guy wants ta sleep wid a goil who's covahed in black and blue?
"Why'd some big shot wanna hire you?" demanded one of the girls, a tall woman named Nina who was currently narrowing her hazel eyes at Lucia. "You ain't old enough to cross the street by yourself."
"Maybe he didn't want some old hag, like you'se."
Nina slammed her glass of vodka onto a nearby, rickety table which threatened to explode into thousands of tiny splinters. With blazing fire lighting her eyes, she strode over to Lucia and slapped her across the face, leaving a red handprint on the younger girl's countenance. "Never call me that again, you hear?! Never!"
Glancing at Nina's long red nails (which seemed as threatening as razor blades at that point in time) and her clenched fists, Lucia wondered if the woman were about to slash her throat. Then she gazed up into the older girl's eyes and caught sight of something hidden safely behind a veil of simple rage- sheer terror. Lucia was still young, but she realized that she couldn't do this forever. What would happen after she turned thirty...sixty? She had always supposed she would be dead by then, but who really knew? It would be back to living on the streets, begging for food, and sleeping with one eye opened in case anyone should approach her during the night.
She didn't say anything and backed away from Nina- who was really so much older than Lucia, in so much danger of being thrown onto the streets- with wide, petrified eyes. Lucia grabbed her purse and bolted through the front door and into the streets of Chicago, rushed passed the mirror hanging by the door so she couldn't see how her own eyes mirrored Nina's.
*****
Lucia didn't particularly enjoy the taste of brandy, but she accepted the flask filled with the fiery liquid anyway when Senator Bainsworth offered it to her. She mumbled a swift, "T'anks," and took a short sip before he could make any remark as to how she had become familiar with such a drink during her short fourteen years. The liquid (if one could even call it that) burned her throat and she longed to spit out the rest onto the fine, Persian carpet. But, she gathered, the senator's wife might not be too thrilled about the appearance of such a stain when she and the rest of the senator's family journeyed here during the summer months.
What the girl didn't know was that the senator's wife knew perfectly well about her husband's activities. She knew her husband, the praised politician, used their summer home as practically a brothel. But she also knew better than to make such an accusation. Who would have believed her, anyway?
It'd make a nice headline for da papes, Lucia thought. Senatah caught in horrible scandal. Dat always attracts crowds. Of coise, da newsies don't exactly tell da truth about da articles, anyway, so what difference does it make what da headlines are?
He found it highly amusing that Lucia was staring with interest at his myriads of books lining the walls of the parlor. "See anything you enjoy?" he inquired, and the mocking undertone was not lost on the girl.
"Maybe," she answered impassively and took another sip. "Look, I really don't got al night, so if ya don't mind-"
"I'm paying; this will go just as I desire." Besides, the senator continued silently, you don't have anywhere to go to afterwards.
Lucia studied the man's intense eyes, which weren't too dissimilar from Lou's, really. There was something hiding behind them. Her heartbeat quickened slightly as she felt the panic set in. Somet'ing ain't right head. Who else has been wid dis senatah guy; he's obviously been wid prostitutes befoah. Nobody from Lou has gone ta him. Nobody's even mentioned him....
Her eyes unconsciously widened with horror, but thankfully the senator's back had been turned as he poured himself yet another glass of brandy. She caught sight of a pistol lying on a nearby coffee table as thought it were that evening's paper. Swiftly, Lucia attempted to gain control of herself Senator Bainsworth turned around again.
"Would you-" he began to ask, but the girl couldn't control herself any longer.
"What happened ta da oddah goils who were wid ya?" she demanded frantically. "What happened ta dem?"
She had expected the man to fly into a fit, to attack her and threaten her life. Instead, a slow smile spread across his lips and a laugh was emitted from his amused mouth. "Clever girl, aren't you? The others didn't realize what was happening to them until it was far too late. Of course, it's too late for you as well; but I see no point in lying to you now, when there's absolutely nothing for you to do about it." He paused for a moment, his features as calm and amiable as if he were giving a speech in front of the Elderly Nuns Retirement Home in hopes of gaining votes. "I'm going to have sex with you, and then I'm going to kill you."
"Ya...ya can't," she stammered stubbornly, clutching to that thought as if it were a life preserver and she were about to drown in a tumultuous ocean. "Lou, da oddah goils, dey'll realize I'm missin'. Dey'll get da bulls ta come out heah and-"
His highly entertained laughter interjected into her unsteady declaration. "Do you honestly believe that anyone would take their word over mine? Take your word over mine? Please continue my dear, you're the most amusing prostitute I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. And trust me, I've known more than a few in my time."
"Did ya kill dem, too?" she wanted to know. She tried to conceal the fear in her tone as she thought, Nobody cared when dey nevah showed up again. He made shoah ta choose people nobody'd care about. Gracie couldn't go, da oddah goils like her; he had ta choose me.
"Don't be foolish, naturally I killed them. I have my career, my image to think about. Now"- he placed his glass of brandy on the table-"be sensible and give in. There's nothing you can do anyway, and even if there were, no one would believe you. No one even cares about you, so if you don't turn up again, there will be no search parties, no huge funeral procession, no single tear shed in sadness. I, on the other hand-"
Without stopping to even consider her action, Lucia hurled her glass directly at his forehead, thankful that she had learned how to play stickball all those years ago in her native New York City. It hit its mark and shattered, shards of glass cutting his forehead. He shouted pained obscenities as he clutched his head, blood dripping onto his palms.
But she wasted no time in watching the senator in pain. She swiftly grabbed for the gun while he was distracted and raised the weapon, pointing at his head.
Bainsworth noticed her movement and mentally cursed himself for not foreseeing this. No matter, he thought calmly, the most distressing thought on his mind being the sharp pain of tiny pieces of glass cutting into his skin and not the gun he was staring down. She was a woman, and either did not have the conviction to actually shoot or such a poor marksman that she would miss her target by five feet.
"I told you to stop being so foolish," he chastised her as though he were her father. That concept made Lucia sick to her stomach and she clutched the gun tighter. "Put that thing down before you hurt yourself."
"Get da hell away from me or I'll shoot. Nevah come neah me again, or so help me God I'll blow your brains out," she swore in a solemn but terrified tone.
The senator glared at her, deeply upset with how the evening had progressed. "This has gone far enough," he stated and grasped a large shard of glass that was as sharp as any razor blade and glimmering in the candlelight. He took a slow step towards her, his pace mocking the girl's threat. "I suppose I'll have to put an end to this early, but-"
Lucia aimed the gun at the center of his face and closed her eyes tightly as she pulled the trigger.
Shadow awoke with the apparition of a single gunshot blasting in her ears, the memory of brandy on her mouth, the sight of a man falling to a Persian carpet behind her eyelids, and a scream caught in a spider's web of fear in her throat. She clutched her heart, which seemed to be pounding a hole through her skin, and gasped for breath.
She sat up straight in bed and breathed very deeply, hoping to calm herself before anyone noticed her frenzied state. She began wondering about her dream. She had only dreamed about that night a few times, and never had it been so vivid as that. It was as though she had relived those moments down to the very last detail. Gazing around the room, she found that the other newsgirls were fast asleep. Moonlight poured over the bunkroom floors.
She sighed with heavy relief and slowly leaned back against her pillow. But thoughts still clouded her head. She hadn't dreamed about that night in years; it was a memory safely tucked away in the back of her mind. Why were those memories- such strikingly graphic ones which, even after awakening, still caused her to visibly quake- making themselves apparent now?
Bet dat means not'ing. T'ings have jus' been weird lately, and dat's making my dreams crazy. It ain't not'ing, Shadow reassured herself (although deep down she never actually believed her lies) and leaned back against her pillow. She found herself unable to fall asleep for the rest of the night, and could only stare into the darkness that promised to envelop her.
*****
Others, who were far nearer than Shadow and the other newsies would have liked, were also still awake on that particular evening. Detective Sarmons strolled calmly through the streets of New York, the glow emitted from the gaslights being especially kind to his features. Every so often denizens of the city would pass him- a woman in drab garb on her way home from hours of work at a factory, a group of men who were near severe intoxication, two young boys racing home to be chastised by their mother, a well-dressed man returning to his mansion after a long day at his law firm, which his father and grandfather had owned before him- and each time the detective would cast a suspicious glance at them. One could never be too careful; who knew if a mass murderer or petty thief were under one's nose? But if he had noticed even the most obvious of villains on that evening, he would have ignored them until another time. Tonight, his pulse quickened at the thought that soon justice would be served.
He glanced down at the address written in careful script on a scrap of paper he had been carrying for an hour now. 45 34th Street. He stared up to find the exact number carved into a small, tarnished plaque gracing the building before him. It seemed to be a tiny establishment when compared with the monstrous buildings the detective had seen that afternoon, and far less well kept. The bricks were slowly turning a dull shade of gray as a result of thick layers of dust and grim. One of the windowpanes had been shattered. Unlike some of the other buildings nearby, where residents had attempted to brighten the environment, no flowers grew from window boxes, no child's high-pitched laughter issued from the area. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a brown mouse scurrying into the building by means of a very obvious hole.
The detective entered without experiencing even the slightest discomfort at the unwelcoming manner of the building. He climbed up several creaky, darkened staircases before stepping in front of a severely plain door, tarnished brass numbers nailed to the wood. Apartment #21. He knocked, the noise shattering the former silence of the empty hallway.
Confident footsteps approached the door, which opened with a faint, high- pitched screech. An older man with gray hair and unamused eyes stood on the opposite side of the doorframe, his countenance solemn. He was clad in black clothing that was well kept despite its poor nature. Staring at the detective, he inquired, "May I help you?" in a slightly scratchy voice that held the power to unnerve hundreds of children in the city.
"Mr. Snyder, I presume?" Sarmons asked.
"That's correct. And you are...?"
Without offering his hand, the detective replied, "Detective Joseph Sarmons of the Chicago police department. I was hoping you would be able to provide me with some assistance concerning a murder."
Snyder nodded complaisantly, though was somewhat uncertain of the situation. "Yes, of course. Won't you come in?"
Sarmons offered a small smile of gratitude, although the statement seemed completely out of place on his features. He stepped into the apartment, which was plain and shabby at best. The majority of the furniture appeared to have undergone years of misuse, and this fact was more than evident to even the most oblivious of observers. Tables were noticeably marked; the couch had once been a vivid vermilion, but had now turned a shade of dark, sickening pink and patches of clashing colors were scattered along the fabric; a thin layer of dust enveloped everything. The detective gazed around with mild, concealed disdain before returning his gaze to the former warden, who had closed the door with a soft click.
"What exactly can I help you with?" Snyder wanted to know, gesturing for Sarmons to sit.
"Several years ago," the detective began in a grace tome as he took a seat on the very edge of the worn couch while Snyder faced him on a wooden chair that seemed ready to fall apart under his weight, "a famed senator was murdered at his summer home- shot in the head. The killer eluded me for a period of time, but I have come to know the identity of this murderer. She is a young girl of roughly eighteen years of age, called Lucia Navar. She was born and reared in New York City before traveling to Chicago, where she later became a prostitute. After savagely killing Senator Bainsworth, she returned to New York under an alias I have yet to learn and went into hiding."
"I fail to see how I might assist you in this matter," the other man objected, confused.
A sinister grin, which looked far more at ease on his countenance than his previous smile, suffused over his lips. "Mr. Snyder, I was informed that you were the warden of the House of Refuge before you were unjustly stripped of your position as a result of that fanatical Teddy Roosevelt's interference."
"That's correct," he replied, a combination of bitterness at the memory and pride at the blandishment glimmering in his eyes.
"I also have reason to believe that you, better than anyone in the city, know the miscreants referred to as the newsies- particularly those residing in Manhattan."
Snyder made no remark, but his eyes automatically narrowed and his blood boiled at the thought of the Manhattan newsies. He recalled how he had been fired, and nearly thrown in jail merely because of the strict measures he had exercised at the Refuge. As if those worthless children deserved anything better! Thankfully, the mayor had stepped in to save Snyder from imprisonment, although he was not able to restore the former warden's position. "Wait a few years, and by then Roosevelt will either be forgotten or too busy to even consider us," the mayor had told Snyder who, by nature, was not a very patient man. He wanted power again. He wanted money. And he wanted to see the newsies suffer.
Witnessing Snyder's reaction, Sarmons continued, "Lucia has taken up selling newspapers for a living. I was hoping that you could aid me in finding her- and also to take justice against the newsies."
A slow, sly smile spread across the face of the former warden, and his blue eyes began to glimmer with unholy bliss and anticipation. "Detective Sarmons," Snyder replied as he offered his hand, "you have no idea how greatly it will please me to help you in any way possible."
To be continued…please review!
"Get up!" Lou shouted, his voice rough and snakelike and made Lucia's stomach turn every time she heard it. He was a strong man, although his slightly obese appearance made most people think otherwise. He kicked her leg, and the girl lifted her head up from where she had been resting on the staircase.
"Whadda ya want?" she asked. Her eyes were two pieces of coal, embers that had been burned out long ago.
"You got a job. With some important big shot. Some politician out at his summer house."
She rolled her eyes and recalled that she hadn't really slept in weeks. "Get one of da oddah goils ta do it. I ain't goin' out tahnight." She gazed around the room. Tacky, worn furniture that always carried a certain, sickening stench filled the room. Women who weren't exactly attractive though attempted to appear as such with the aid of much makeup and who were all clad in little more than underwear, sat talking or strolled around with burning cigarettes in their hands. "Get Gracie, she'd be willin' ta go."
With ferocious speed, Lou seized Lucia's arm and yanked the girl savagely to his face. She could smell alcohol and cheap cigars on his breath, and stared at his rotting yellow teeth and his bloodshot eyes. "YOU'LL DO WHATEVER I TELL YOU TO DO!" he screamed, voice causing all the empty liquor bottles to quake. "AND IF THAT MEANS SLEEPING WITH EVERY DAMN GUY WHO EVER WALKED THE EARTH, THEN THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE GONNA DO!"
Lucia stared at the man detachedly, as though she hadn't heard a word he had said. A though nothing had happened at all. If Lou hadn't known her better or if he had been slightly more intoxicated, he would have imagined the girl had somehow turned into a shadow incapable of producing emotion.
"YOU GET ME?!" he barked, furious that his explosion hadn't seemed to make any impression on the girl.
She nodded without emotion. "I get ya."
With a swift movement, he tossed her back to the floor and glowered viciously. For a moment, Lucia wondered if he were going to attack her again. But then Lou spat into a corner and marched off, undoubtedly to find another bottle of scotch or someone else on whom he could take his anger out.
She slowly lifted herself up and did not allow the other girls to witness her pain. She winced silently, clenching her teeth so no noise would be emitted, as she marched down the staircase. Dumb of him ta do dat, really, she commented as she tried not to focus on the soreness but on the vast stupidity of Lou. I'm gonna get a bruise for shoah, and what guy wants ta sleep wid a goil who's covahed in black and blue?
"Why'd some big shot wanna hire you?" demanded one of the girls, a tall woman named Nina who was currently narrowing her hazel eyes at Lucia. "You ain't old enough to cross the street by yourself."
"Maybe he didn't want some old hag, like you'se."
Nina slammed her glass of vodka onto a nearby, rickety table which threatened to explode into thousands of tiny splinters. With blazing fire lighting her eyes, she strode over to Lucia and slapped her across the face, leaving a red handprint on the younger girl's countenance. "Never call me that again, you hear?! Never!"
Glancing at Nina's long red nails (which seemed as threatening as razor blades at that point in time) and her clenched fists, Lucia wondered if the woman were about to slash her throat. Then she gazed up into the older girl's eyes and caught sight of something hidden safely behind a veil of simple rage- sheer terror. Lucia was still young, but she realized that she couldn't do this forever. What would happen after she turned thirty...sixty? She had always supposed she would be dead by then, but who really knew? It would be back to living on the streets, begging for food, and sleeping with one eye opened in case anyone should approach her during the night.
She didn't say anything and backed away from Nina- who was really so much older than Lucia, in so much danger of being thrown onto the streets- with wide, petrified eyes. Lucia grabbed her purse and bolted through the front door and into the streets of Chicago, rushed passed the mirror hanging by the door so she couldn't see how her own eyes mirrored Nina's.
*****
Lucia didn't particularly enjoy the taste of brandy, but she accepted the flask filled with the fiery liquid anyway when Senator Bainsworth offered it to her. She mumbled a swift, "T'anks," and took a short sip before he could make any remark as to how she had become familiar with such a drink during her short fourteen years. The liquid (if one could even call it that) burned her throat and she longed to spit out the rest onto the fine, Persian carpet. But, she gathered, the senator's wife might not be too thrilled about the appearance of such a stain when she and the rest of the senator's family journeyed here during the summer months.
What the girl didn't know was that the senator's wife knew perfectly well about her husband's activities. She knew her husband, the praised politician, used their summer home as practically a brothel. But she also knew better than to make such an accusation. Who would have believed her, anyway?
It'd make a nice headline for da papes, Lucia thought. Senatah caught in horrible scandal. Dat always attracts crowds. Of coise, da newsies don't exactly tell da truth about da articles, anyway, so what difference does it make what da headlines are?
He found it highly amusing that Lucia was staring with interest at his myriads of books lining the walls of the parlor. "See anything you enjoy?" he inquired, and the mocking undertone was not lost on the girl.
"Maybe," she answered impassively and took another sip. "Look, I really don't got al night, so if ya don't mind-"
"I'm paying; this will go just as I desire." Besides, the senator continued silently, you don't have anywhere to go to afterwards.
Lucia studied the man's intense eyes, which weren't too dissimilar from Lou's, really. There was something hiding behind them. Her heartbeat quickened slightly as she felt the panic set in. Somet'ing ain't right head. Who else has been wid dis senatah guy; he's obviously been wid prostitutes befoah. Nobody from Lou has gone ta him. Nobody's even mentioned him....
Her eyes unconsciously widened with horror, but thankfully the senator's back had been turned as he poured himself yet another glass of brandy. She caught sight of a pistol lying on a nearby coffee table as thought it were that evening's paper. Swiftly, Lucia attempted to gain control of herself Senator Bainsworth turned around again.
"Would you-" he began to ask, but the girl couldn't control herself any longer.
"What happened ta da oddah goils who were wid ya?" she demanded frantically. "What happened ta dem?"
She had expected the man to fly into a fit, to attack her and threaten her life. Instead, a slow smile spread across his lips and a laugh was emitted from his amused mouth. "Clever girl, aren't you? The others didn't realize what was happening to them until it was far too late. Of course, it's too late for you as well; but I see no point in lying to you now, when there's absolutely nothing for you to do about it." He paused for a moment, his features as calm and amiable as if he were giving a speech in front of the Elderly Nuns Retirement Home in hopes of gaining votes. "I'm going to have sex with you, and then I'm going to kill you."
"Ya...ya can't," she stammered stubbornly, clutching to that thought as if it were a life preserver and she were about to drown in a tumultuous ocean. "Lou, da oddah goils, dey'll realize I'm missin'. Dey'll get da bulls ta come out heah and-"
His highly entertained laughter interjected into her unsteady declaration. "Do you honestly believe that anyone would take their word over mine? Take your word over mine? Please continue my dear, you're the most amusing prostitute I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. And trust me, I've known more than a few in my time."
"Did ya kill dem, too?" she wanted to know. She tried to conceal the fear in her tone as she thought, Nobody cared when dey nevah showed up again. He made shoah ta choose people nobody'd care about. Gracie couldn't go, da oddah goils like her; he had ta choose me.
"Don't be foolish, naturally I killed them. I have my career, my image to think about. Now"- he placed his glass of brandy on the table-"be sensible and give in. There's nothing you can do anyway, and even if there were, no one would believe you. No one even cares about you, so if you don't turn up again, there will be no search parties, no huge funeral procession, no single tear shed in sadness. I, on the other hand-"
Without stopping to even consider her action, Lucia hurled her glass directly at his forehead, thankful that she had learned how to play stickball all those years ago in her native New York City. It hit its mark and shattered, shards of glass cutting his forehead. He shouted pained obscenities as he clutched his head, blood dripping onto his palms.
But she wasted no time in watching the senator in pain. She swiftly grabbed for the gun while he was distracted and raised the weapon, pointing at his head.
Bainsworth noticed her movement and mentally cursed himself for not foreseeing this. No matter, he thought calmly, the most distressing thought on his mind being the sharp pain of tiny pieces of glass cutting into his skin and not the gun he was staring down. She was a woman, and either did not have the conviction to actually shoot or such a poor marksman that she would miss her target by five feet.
"I told you to stop being so foolish," he chastised her as though he were her father. That concept made Lucia sick to her stomach and she clutched the gun tighter. "Put that thing down before you hurt yourself."
"Get da hell away from me or I'll shoot. Nevah come neah me again, or so help me God I'll blow your brains out," she swore in a solemn but terrified tone.
The senator glared at her, deeply upset with how the evening had progressed. "This has gone far enough," he stated and grasped a large shard of glass that was as sharp as any razor blade and glimmering in the candlelight. He took a slow step towards her, his pace mocking the girl's threat. "I suppose I'll have to put an end to this early, but-"
Lucia aimed the gun at the center of his face and closed her eyes tightly as she pulled the trigger.
Shadow awoke with the apparition of a single gunshot blasting in her ears, the memory of brandy on her mouth, the sight of a man falling to a Persian carpet behind her eyelids, and a scream caught in a spider's web of fear in her throat. She clutched her heart, which seemed to be pounding a hole through her skin, and gasped for breath.
She sat up straight in bed and breathed very deeply, hoping to calm herself before anyone noticed her frenzied state. She began wondering about her dream. She had only dreamed about that night a few times, and never had it been so vivid as that. It was as though she had relived those moments down to the very last detail. Gazing around the room, she found that the other newsgirls were fast asleep. Moonlight poured over the bunkroom floors.
She sighed with heavy relief and slowly leaned back against her pillow. But thoughts still clouded her head. She hadn't dreamed about that night in years; it was a memory safely tucked away in the back of her mind. Why were those memories- such strikingly graphic ones which, even after awakening, still caused her to visibly quake- making themselves apparent now?
Bet dat means not'ing. T'ings have jus' been weird lately, and dat's making my dreams crazy. It ain't not'ing, Shadow reassured herself (although deep down she never actually believed her lies) and leaned back against her pillow. She found herself unable to fall asleep for the rest of the night, and could only stare into the darkness that promised to envelop her.
*****
Others, who were far nearer than Shadow and the other newsies would have liked, were also still awake on that particular evening. Detective Sarmons strolled calmly through the streets of New York, the glow emitted from the gaslights being especially kind to his features. Every so often denizens of the city would pass him- a woman in drab garb on her way home from hours of work at a factory, a group of men who were near severe intoxication, two young boys racing home to be chastised by their mother, a well-dressed man returning to his mansion after a long day at his law firm, which his father and grandfather had owned before him- and each time the detective would cast a suspicious glance at them. One could never be too careful; who knew if a mass murderer or petty thief were under one's nose? But if he had noticed even the most obvious of villains on that evening, he would have ignored them until another time. Tonight, his pulse quickened at the thought that soon justice would be served.
He glanced down at the address written in careful script on a scrap of paper he had been carrying for an hour now. 45 34th Street. He stared up to find the exact number carved into a small, tarnished plaque gracing the building before him. It seemed to be a tiny establishment when compared with the monstrous buildings the detective had seen that afternoon, and far less well kept. The bricks were slowly turning a dull shade of gray as a result of thick layers of dust and grim. One of the windowpanes had been shattered. Unlike some of the other buildings nearby, where residents had attempted to brighten the environment, no flowers grew from window boxes, no child's high-pitched laughter issued from the area. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a brown mouse scurrying into the building by means of a very obvious hole.
The detective entered without experiencing even the slightest discomfort at the unwelcoming manner of the building. He climbed up several creaky, darkened staircases before stepping in front of a severely plain door, tarnished brass numbers nailed to the wood. Apartment #21. He knocked, the noise shattering the former silence of the empty hallway.
Confident footsteps approached the door, which opened with a faint, high- pitched screech. An older man with gray hair and unamused eyes stood on the opposite side of the doorframe, his countenance solemn. He was clad in black clothing that was well kept despite its poor nature. Staring at the detective, he inquired, "May I help you?" in a slightly scratchy voice that held the power to unnerve hundreds of children in the city.
"Mr. Snyder, I presume?" Sarmons asked.
"That's correct. And you are...?"
Without offering his hand, the detective replied, "Detective Joseph Sarmons of the Chicago police department. I was hoping you would be able to provide me with some assistance concerning a murder."
Snyder nodded complaisantly, though was somewhat uncertain of the situation. "Yes, of course. Won't you come in?"
Sarmons offered a small smile of gratitude, although the statement seemed completely out of place on his features. He stepped into the apartment, which was plain and shabby at best. The majority of the furniture appeared to have undergone years of misuse, and this fact was more than evident to even the most oblivious of observers. Tables were noticeably marked; the couch had once been a vivid vermilion, but had now turned a shade of dark, sickening pink and patches of clashing colors were scattered along the fabric; a thin layer of dust enveloped everything. The detective gazed around with mild, concealed disdain before returning his gaze to the former warden, who had closed the door with a soft click.
"What exactly can I help you with?" Snyder wanted to know, gesturing for Sarmons to sit.
"Several years ago," the detective began in a grace tome as he took a seat on the very edge of the worn couch while Snyder faced him on a wooden chair that seemed ready to fall apart under his weight, "a famed senator was murdered at his summer home- shot in the head. The killer eluded me for a period of time, but I have come to know the identity of this murderer. She is a young girl of roughly eighteen years of age, called Lucia Navar. She was born and reared in New York City before traveling to Chicago, where she later became a prostitute. After savagely killing Senator Bainsworth, she returned to New York under an alias I have yet to learn and went into hiding."
"I fail to see how I might assist you in this matter," the other man objected, confused.
A sinister grin, which looked far more at ease on his countenance than his previous smile, suffused over his lips. "Mr. Snyder, I was informed that you were the warden of the House of Refuge before you were unjustly stripped of your position as a result of that fanatical Teddy Roosevelt's interference."
"That's correct," he replied, a combination of bitterness at the memory and pride at the blandishment glimmering in his eyes.
"I also have reason to believe that you, better than anyone in the city, know the miscreants referred to as the newsies- particularly those residing in Manhattan."
Snyder made no remark, but his eyes automatically narrowed and his blood boiled at the thought of the Manhattan newsies. He recalled how he had been fired, and nearly thrown in jail merely because of the strict measures he had exercised at the Refuge. As if those worthless children deserved anything better! Thankfully, the mayor had stepped in to save Snyder from imprisonment, although he was not able to restore the former warden's position. "Wait a few years, and by then Roosevelt will either be forgotten or too busy to even consider us," the mayor had told Snyder who, by nature, was not a very patient man. He wanted power again. He wanted money. And he wanted to see the newsies suffer.
Witnessing Snyder's reaction, Sarmons continued, "Lucia has taken up selling newspapers for a living. I was hoping that you could aid me in finding her- and also to take justice against the newsies."
A slow, sly smile spread across the face of the former warden, and his blue eyes began to glimmer with unholy bliss and anticipation. "Detective Sarmons," Snyder replied as he offered his hand, "you have no idea how greatly it will please me to help you in any way possible."
To be continued…please review!