CHAPTER SIX
Butterfly James's ears were invaded with loud yelling and shouting when Racetrack pushed open the door to the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. Racetrack purposly let the door slam shut with a bang. This caught the attention of most the newsies.
"Hey, Race, where have ya been?"
"Who's da goil?"
"No wondah 'e's been late!"
Random greetings to Race filled the air. The newsie that Butterfly had seen earlier that day when she had been in the Manhattan lodging house stood up and waved Racetrack over. "Hey, Race, come join in a hand!"
Race nodded his head and rubbed his hands together as a smile crept over his face. He started over to the poker game, when he realized that he had left Canada standing alone in the middle of the parlor. He went back over to her and grabbed her elbow, leaning in to whisper to her, "I only need ta make a shoaht apperance here and den we can go back to ya spot."
Butterfly forced a smile. Her gaze followed him as Racetrack slid into a chair and immediatly picked up a hand of cards. She sighed and sat in one of the wooden chairs that lined the wall. Looking around, Butterfly felt lonlier than ever. The majority of the newsies--Butterfly figured they were newsboys--were crowded around the warped, circular wooden table that served as center for the poker game. Other newsies were sitting on random chairs that lined the walls. And she realized that she was the only girl in the whole room.
Just then, Butterfly despretly wished that she had her black cloak so that she could slip her hood over her head. But she couldn't. Her level of uncomfortability rose and the room seemed to become stifling. She had to get out of there. She rose from the chair and exited the lodging house, where she relished the fresh air.
Butterfly sat down on the steps. Resting her chin in her palm, she looked up at the sky. The sun was already beginning to set. Racetrack was going to break his promise....Racetrack. Butterfly finally realized how stupid he must think she is. Showing up looking like sin and on the edge of a nervous breakdown asking for a place to stay. Why, he didn't even know her. Why should she be a burden on him--on all the other newsies of the lodging house--when she had to take care of herself. But Skiddy's words had haunted her, as they still did. She needed a place to stay. She knew that when Rylie Lyner wanted someone dead, basically that person was never seen alive again. And she wanted to live.
Because Racetrack wasn't that common of a name, she had found out easily where his residence was. Butterfly found it hard to stomach that he was a newsie--she still feared that he would recognize her in some silly way as Jimmy Sprites's little sister. But he hadn't--yet. But he most likely would. She had acted like a stupidass in front of him, giving away her first name in almost sputtering the name 'Queens.' But saving herself by using the lame story of the Quebec restaurant.
Butterfly's thoughts ultiamatly brought her back to the harsh truth she couldn't shake: her brother's murderers were looking for her. And how much she missed her brother. She buried her face in her knees and silently cried.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Annie, stop!" Spot Conlon, cried, pushing Annie Murphy off him.
Annie brushed her red tangles of curls off her face and a sly smile crossed her red lips. "Spot, honey, why are ya pushin' lil' ole me off?"
"You'se bein' too loud, honey!" he whispered.
Annie giggled. "Oh, Spot, you'se so silly. D'ya really t'ink dat dey can hear us? Dey are so involved with dere damn poker game dey probably don't even realize dat ya missin!"
Spot shrugged. "Yeah, ya prob'ly right."
Spot pressed his lips to Annie's and kissed her passionatly. Annie responded by running her hands in Spot's already messed up hair. The pair fell back onto the bed.
"RACETRACK! How did ya win again?" A voice from the parlor found its way into Spot's room.
Annie immediatly sat up.
"What is it, Annie?" Spot asked, kissing her neck.
Annie pushed him off and jumped out of bed. "Racetrack!" she hissed. "Ya said dat 'e wasn't here yet."
He cast her a sly expression from the bed. "Yeah, dat's what Whitie tol' me an hour ago. He could be here now."
"Shit!" Annie screeched, a expression of panic crossing her face. She stumbled around the room, making an effort to pick up her cloths that lay strewn on the ground.
Spot swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'se don't see why ya panicin', Ann. I mean, Race already knows dat ya screwin' every guy in New Yawk 'cept him!"
Annie pulled on the last of her articles of clothing and narrowed her eyes at Spot. "Go screw yaself, Conlon!" she spat.
"No, honey, I'se like ya ta do dat instead!" he hollered back.
Annie harshly sighed and clasped her hand on the door knob, preparing to swing the door open when Spot spat, "No, Annie, know! Go t'rough da window!"
Annie spun around to glare at him, her hands on her hips. "And why shoahd I do dat, Conlon?"
"D'ya really want Race ta know what ya doin'?"
She sighed and stormed over to the window, unclasping the lock and pushing it open. "Have a fun pahty, Conlon!"
Spot watched as the last of Annie's red tendrils disappeared out the window, before he got out of bed and slammed it behind her.
"Stupid bitch," he muttered.
Spot started the task of picking up his cloths that lay strewn about the floor. While he slid into his garmets once again, his mind wandered to Annie Murphy.
Annie Murphy. Better known as Anytime Annie. Before she had been courted by Racetrack, she had been one of the best known tramps around New York. But Racetrack had taken a chance. Spot thought that his friend was a total moron for dating such a girl. Racetrack probably knew that Annie was sleeping with anything on four legs (or without), including Spot. Spot knew it was wrong to be double crossing his buddy, but, hell, he thought, the girl just was so damn good....
Spot sighed and finished clasping the last button on his collar shirt. He knew he probably had Annie's red lipstick all over his body and his hair probably looked like hell, but who cares? All the guys knew Spot was a skirt-chaser and the reason he was so fashionably late to his own party was because he had had a girl shacked up in his room.
He opened the door to his room and walked to the parlor, where large group of newsies were crowded around the makeshift poker table. Looks of anticipation lined there faces.
Spot became angry when no one adknowledged his appearance. He set his jaw and furrowed his brow as he stalked over to the table to see what was the big deal. Spot wasn't surprised by what he saw. Racetrack Higgins and Whitie Wilson sat facing each other at the warped table, sly expressions on their faces and their cards held in front of their faces. Race and Whitie were the two best card players in New York, as most newsies deemed.
Racetrack locked eyes with Whitie. "Well, Wilson, whaddya have?"
A smirk crossed Whitie's face as he lay his cards on the table. "Full house, Higgins. And you?"
A pained look crossed Race's face. "Ooh, Wilson, looks like ya got me..."
Whitie raised his fist in the air as Brooklyn broke up into cheers.
"...but, not dis time," he finished.
Whitie brought his fist slowly down, the smile wiped from his face. Brooklyn's cheers died.
Racetrack's smile only got wider as he lay down his cards in one quick sweep. "Look at dis boys! Some one must be usin' da toilet 'cause I'se hear a flush!"
Now it was Manhattan's turn to break into cheers. Racetrack cast Whitie a large grin as he collected his chips with one slow gesture.
Whitie had to smile. "You'se good, Race, you'se good."
"I know, Wilson, I know, ya don't have to remind me," Race replied.
Spot shook his head and backed away from the table. He wasn't in the mood for poker. He spun on his heels and walked out of the lodging house.
The muggy June twilight greeted him. "Jesus Christ, it's hot out," Spot said out loud, dropping down on the stairs.
"Ya shouldn't take da Lord's name in vain."
A quiet voice behind Spot made him jump out of his skin. He quickly turned around. In the shadows he saw the dim features of a girl huddled up on one of the benches propped up against the facade of the lodging house.
"Jesus Christ!" Spot excalim, his voice cracking. "Ya scared da hell outta me, goil!"
She rolled her eyes in response at him.
Spot stood up and sat on the bench next to the mysterious girl. "Do I know you?" he asked, trying to match her face to a name.
She slowly shook her head and snorted. "Probably not."
"Did ya come here wit someone?"
"Racetrack," she murmured.
Racetrack? Spot thought.
"You 'is goil or something?"
The girl looked Spot straight in the eye for the first time. Her bizarre eyes--one green and one blue--blazed. "Why da fuck do ya care?"
Spot was taken aback by her out burst. "Whoa, da language foah a little goil!"
"I ain't no little goil!" she snapped, jumping off the bench and stalking away. But Spot grabbed her wrist and held her back.
"Let me go!" she hissed.
Now her was intrigued by her. "Tell me who ya are and I will."
The girl rolled her eyes. "Why ain't dis deja-vous!"
"What?"
"Nuttin'."
"Well, who are ya?" Spot pressed, determined to get this gorgeous creature's name.
She yanked harder on his hand, but Spot wouldn't let her go. "Buttahfly!" she exasperly said at last.
Spot looked pleased. "Well, Buttahfly, I'se Spot. Pleashah ta meet ya." He took her captured hand and kissed it.
While his lips were still on it, Butterfly, in one quick motion, jerked her hand out of his grasp. "Da pleashah's not retoined!"
Butterfly bounded down the steps and into the fledgling darkness, leaving Spot alone, and with a craving to see the mysterious girl again that wouldn't go away.
"Heya, Race, ya almost ready ta go home?" Jack yawned, streching his hands over his head.
"Yeah, Cowboy," Racetrack replied, shoving his winnings of the night into his pockets.
Race joined his friend near the door to the lodging house and surveyed the room. None of Manhattan remained, save Jack and Race. A few of Spot Conlon's newsies littered the tired parlor, some draped over chairs fast asleep and a brave few carrying on a late poker game.
"Well, let's go," Jack said.
"Alright, Jack, let's go," Race replied, a yawn overtaking him.
Both newsies turned to the door to leave when a voice called out behind them. "Hey, Higgins, where ya goin'?"
The duo spun around. Whitie Wilson approached them, a tired smile on his face. "Hey, ya goin' wit out sayin' g'bye?"
"Now would we do dat?" Race laughed.
Whtie nodded his head. "Probably."
After they had said their goodnights, Jack piped in, "Hey, Whitie, where's Spot? 'e missed 'is own damn pahty?"
Whitie shook his head and laughed. "I know, Cowboy, I know. Probably in 'is room wit some goil."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, most likely. Well, g'night."
"Night, Cowboy, Race," Whitie yawned again, spinning around and disappearing from the parlor.
Jack and Racetrack finally departed the Brooklyn lodging house. They hadn't gone but ten paces when Race cried out, "Canada!"
That woke Jack from his sleeplike stupor. "Who is Canada, Race?"
Race's eyes widened. "Buttahfly."
Jack still didn't respond.
"Ya know, da goil who wants ta live in da lodgin' house?"
"Oh...right. What 'bout 'er, Race?"
"I forgot 'er!" he cried, turning around and running back to the lodging house, leaving Jack standing half asleep in the middle of the road.
"Right," Jack groggily said. "I'se jist walk home by meself."
Racetrack reached the lodging house and yanked the door open, startling the newsies that were still awake in the parlor.
"Hey, Racetrack."
"Hey, Race."
"Hey, guys. Have any of you'se seen a goil wit long blonde 'air and diff'rint color eyes?"
The two Broklyn newsies exchanged glances. "No, Race we haven't."
"Ya sure?"
"Yeah, Race, haven't seen no goil here all night."
Race sighed. "Alright, it don't mattah. See ya."
"Bye, Race!" the two newsies called after him.
Racetrack slid his hands into his pockets (which were filled with money) and shuffled out of the lodging house. Suprisingly, he was very disappointed that Canada had disappeared. Even though he knew nothing of her, he still wished she would have stayed long enough for him to have unraveled her mystery.
"Canada," he whispered in the night air, a smile touching his lips.
Racetrack found himself whistling the same tune that Butterfly had been singing in the washroom that afternoon.
Streetlights became to sleepily flicker on as Race passed under their pale yellow beams. But something caught his eye, a silhouette that lay slumped on a bench. He let his gaze linger on the figure (thinking it was some hobo) as he passed it.
Racetrack halted suddenly in his tracks and did a double take on the heap. It couldn't be.
"Canada!" he cried, rushing back to the bench.
It was Butterfly.
Race suddenly felt a rush of happiness--she hadn't gone, after all. He squatted next to her and shook her shoulder, whispering her name. She still didn't wake.
"Ah, Canada, don't make me carry ya all da way back ta Manhattan!" Race whispered.
Butterfly responded with her rhythmic sleeping.
Racetrack sighed and, slipping his arms under her knees and back, lifted her. Butterfly softly exhaled inher sleep and fidgited in his hold, before curling herself up against his chest.
Race walked for sometime before he reached the Brooklyn Bridge. He halted and looked out at the full moon and it's wavering reflection on the waters below. This scene reminded him of a promise he had made earlier.
If we can git ta Spot's pahty in da next cent'ry jist so I can play a few hands of pokah and win, I'll come back wit ya to dis spot ya said 'bout during da sun set.
He suddenly felt ashamed and looked down at her. Her multi colored eyes were closed in a peaceful sleep as the moonlight reflected on her tangles of pale yellow hair.
He looked to the waters again. "A promise is a promise, Canada. And Racetrack Higgins don't break 'is promises. I'll go ta ya spot during da sunset befoah I die."
And with that Racetrack Higgins carried a sleeping Butterfly James home in his arms, not thinking of it as a burden at all, no, quite the contrary, it wasn't a burden at all. And the name Anytime Annie Murphy didn't enter his mind at all.
********
"Dere she is."
"Are ya sure dat's 'er?"
"Yeah, I'se shoah. Let's go."
The blonde girl's piercing scream cut through the air and the sound of a short struggle was heard, then nothing more.
Butterfly James's ears were invaded with loud yelling and shouting when Racetrack pushed open the door to the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. Racetrack purposly let the door slam shut with a bang. This caught the attention of most the newsies.
"Hey, Race, where have ya been?"
"Who's da goil?"
"No wondah 'e's been late!"
Random greetings to Race filled the air. The newsie that Butterfly had seen earlier that day when she had been in the Manhattan lodging house stood up and waved Racetrack over. "Hey, Race, come join in a hand!"
Race nodded his head and rubbed his hands together as a smile crept over his face. He started over to the poker game, when he realized that he had left Canada standing alone in the middle of the parlor. He went back over to her and grabbed her elbow, leaning in to whisper to her, "I only need ta make a shoaht apperance here and den we can go back to ya spot."
Butterfly forced a smile. Her gaze followed him as Racetrack slid into a chair and immediatly picked up a hand of cards. She sighed and sat in one of the wooden chairs that lined the wall. Looking around, Butterfly felt lonlier than ever. The majority of the newsies--Butterfly figured they were newsboys--were crowded around the warped, circular wooden table that served as center for the poker game. Other newsies were sitting on random chairs that lined the walls. And she realized that she was the only girl in the whole room.
Just then, Butterfly despretly wished that she had her black cloak so that she could slip her hood over her head. But she couldn't. Her level of uncomfortability rose and the room seemed to become stifling. She had to get out of there. She rose from the chair and exited the lodging house, where she relished the fresh air.
Butterfly sat down on the steps. Resting her chin in her palm, she looked up at the sky. The sun was already beginning to set. Racetrack was going to break his promise....Racetrack. Butterfly finally realized how stupid he must think she is. Showing up looking like sin and on the edge of a nervous breakdown asking for a place to stay. Why, he didn't even know her. Why should she be a burden on him--on all the other newsies of the lodging house--when she had to take care of herself. But Skiddy's words had haunted her, as they still did. She needed a place to stay. She knew that when Rylie Lyner wanted someone dead, basically that person was never seen alive again. And she wanted to live.
Because Racetrack wasn't that common of a name, she had found out easily where his residence was. Butterfly found it hard to stomach that he was a newsie--she still feared that he would recognize her in some silly way as Jimmy Sprites's little sister. But he hadn't--yet. But he most likely would. She had acted like a stupidass in front of him, giving away her first name in almost sputtering the name 'Queens.' But saving herself by using the lame story of the Quebec restaurant.
Butterfly's thoughts ultiamatly brought her back to the harsh truth she couldn't shake: her brother's murderers were looking for her. And how much she missed her brother. She buried her face in her knees and silently cried.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Annie, stop!" Spot Conlon, cried, pushing Annie Murphy off him.
Annie brushed her red tangles of curls off her face and a sly smile crossed her red lips. "Spot, honey, why are ya pushin' lil' ole me off?"
"You'se bein' too loud, honey!" he whispered.
Annie giggled. "Oh, Spot, you'se so silly. D'ya really t'ink dat dey can hear us? Dey are so involved with dere damn poker game dey probably don't even realize dat ya missin!"
Spot shrugged. "Yeah, ya prob'ly right."
Spot pressed his lips to Annie's and kissed her passionatly. Annie responded by running her hands in Spot's already messed up hair. The pair fell back onto the bed.
"RACETRACK! How did ya win again?" A voice from the parlor found its way into Spot's room.
Annie immediatly sat up.
"What is it, Annie?" Spot asked, kissing her neck.
Annie pushed him off and jumped out of bed. "Racetrack!" she hissed. "Ya said dat 'e wasn't here yet."
He cast her a sly expression from the bed. "Yeah, dat's what Whitie tol' me an hour ago. He could be here now."
"Shit!" Annie screeched, a expression of panic crossing her face. She stumbled around the room, making an effort to pick up her cloths that lay strewn on the ground.
Spot swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'se don't see why ya panicin', Ann. I mean, Race already knows dat ya screwin' every guy in New Yawk 'cept him!"
Annie pulled on the last of her articles of clothing and narrowed her eyes at Spot. "Go screw yaself, Conlon!" she spat.
"No, honey, I'se like ya ta do dat instead!" he hollered back.
Annie harshly sighed and clasped her hand on the door knob, preparing to swing the door open when Spot spat, "No, Annie, know! Go t'rough da window!"
Annie spun around to glare at him, her hands on her hips. "And why shoahd I do dat, Conlon?"
"D'ya really want Race ta know what ya doin'?"
She sighed and stormed over to the window, unclasping the lock and pushing it open. "Have a fun pahty, Conlon!"
Spot watched as the last of Annie's red tendrils disappeared out the window, before he got out of bed and slammed it behind her.
"Stupid bitch," he muttered.
Spot started the task of picking up his cloths that lay strewn about the floor. While he slid into his garmets once again, his mind wandered to Annie Murphy.
Annie Murphy. Better known as Anytime Annie. Before she had been courted by Racetrack, she had been one of the best known tramps around New York. But Racetrack had taken a chance. Spot thought that his friend was a total moron for dating such a girl. Racetrack probably knew that Annie was sleeping with anything on four legs (or without), including Spot. Spot knew it was wrong to be double crossing his buddy, but, hell, he thought, the girl just was so damn good....
Spot sighed and finished clasping the last button on his collar shirt. He knew he probably had Annie's red lipstick all over his body and his hair probably looked like hell, but who cares? All the guys knew Spot was a skirt-chaser and the reason he was so fashionably late to his own party was because he had had a girl shacked up in his room.
He opened the door to his room and walked to the parlor, where large group of newsies were crowded around the makeshift poker table. Looks of anticipation lined there faces.
Spot became angry when no one adknowledged his appearance. He set his jaw and furrowed his brow as he stalked over to the table to see what was the big deal. Spot wasn't surprised by what he saw. Racetrack Higgins and Whitie Wilson sat facing each other at the warped table, sly expressions on their faces and their cards held in front of their faces. Race and Whitie were the two best card players in New York, as most newsies deemed.
Racetrack locked eyes with Whitie. "Well, Wilson, whaddya have?"
A smirk crossed Whitie's face as he lay his cards on the table. "Full house, Higgins. And you?"
A pained look crossed Race's face. "Ooh, Wilson, looks like ya got me..."
Whitie raised his fist in the air as Brooklyn broke up into cheers.
"...but, not dis time," he finished.
Whitie brought his fist slowly down, the smile wiped from his face. Brooklyn's cheers died.
Racetrack's smile only got wider as he lay down his cards in one quick sweep. "Look at dis boys! Some one must be usin' da toilet 'cause I'se hear a flush!"
Now it was Manhattan's turn to break into cheers. Racetrack cast Whitie a large grin as he collected his chips with one slow gesture.
Whitie had to smile. "You'se good, Race, you'se good."
"I know, Wilson, I know, ya don't have to remind me," Race replied.
Spot shook his head and backed away from the table. He wasn't in the mood for poker. He spun on his heels and walked out of the lodging house.
The muggy June twilight greeted him. "Jesus Christ, it's hot out," Spot said out loud, dropping down on the stairs.
"Ya shouldn't take da Lord's name in vain."
A quiet voice behind Spot made him jump out of his skin. He quickly turned around. In the shadows he saw the dim features of a girl huddled up on one of the benches propped up against the facade of the lodging house.
"Jesus Christ!" Spot excalim, his voice cracking. "Ya scared da hell outta me, goil!"
She rolled her eyes in response at him.
Spot stood up and sat on the bench next to the mysterious girl. "Do I know you?" he asked, trying to match her face to a name.
She slowly shook her head and snorted. "Probably not."
"Did ya come here wit someone?"
"Racetrack," she murmured.
Racetrack? Spot thought.
"You 'is goil or something?"
The girl looked Spot straight in the eye for the first time. Her bizarre eyes--one green and one blue--blazed. "Why da fuck do ya care?"
Spot was taken aback by her out burst. "Whoa, da language foah a little goil!"
"I ain't no little goil!" she snapped, jumping off the bench and stalking away. But Spot grabbed her wrist and held her back.
"Let me go!" she hissed.
Now her was intrigued by her. "Tell me who ya are and I will."
The girl rolled her eyes. "Why ain't dis deja-vous!"
"What?"
"Nuttin'."
"Well, who are ya?" Spot pressed, determined to get this gorgeous creature's name.
She yanked harder on his hand, but Spot wouldn't let her go. "Buttahfly!" she exasperly said at last.
Spot looked pleased. "Well, Buttahfly, I'se Spot. Pleashah ta meet ya." He took her captured hand and kissed it.
While his lips were still on it, Butterfly, in one quick motion, jerked her hand out of his grasp. "Da pleashah's not retoined!"
Butterfly bounded down the steps and into the fledgling darkness, leaving Spot alone, and with a craving to see the mysterious girl again that wouldn't go away.
"Heya, Race, ya almost ready ta go home?" Jack yawned, streching his hands over his head.
"Yeah, Cowboy," Racetrack replied, shoving his winnings of the night into his pockets.
Race joined his friend near the door to the lodging house and surveyed the room. None of Manhattan remained, save Jack and Race. A few of Spot Conlon's newsies littered the tired parlor, some draped over chairs fast asleep and a brave few carrying on a late poker game.
"Well, let's go," Jack said.
"Alright, Jack, let's go," Race replied, a yawn overtaking him.
Both newsies turned to the door to leave when a voice called out behind them. "Hey, Higgins, where ya goin'?"
The duo spun around. Whitie Wilson approached them, a tired smile on his face. "Hey, ya goin' wit out sayin' g'bye?"
"Now would we do dat?" Race laughed.
Whtie nodded his head. "Probably."
After they had said their goodnights, Jack piped in, "Hey, Whitie, where's Spot? 'e missed 'is own damn pahty?"
Whitie shook his head and laughed. "I know, Cowboy, I know. Probably in 'is room wit some goil."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, most likely. Well, g'night."
"Night, Cowboy, Race," Whitie yawned again, spinning around and disappearing from the parlor.
Jack and Racetrack finally departed the Brooklyn lodging house. They hadn't gone but ten paces when Race cried out, "Canada!"
That woke Jack from his sleeplike stupor. "Who is Canada, Race?"
Race's eyes widened. "Buttahfly."
Jack still didn't respond.
"Ya know, da goil who wants ta live in da lodgin' house?"
"Oh...right. What 'bout 'er, Race?"
"I forgot 'er!" he cried, turning around and running back to the lodging house, leaving Jack standing half asleep in the middle of the road.
"Right," Jack groggily said. "I'se jist walk home by meself."
Racetrack reached the lodging house and yanked the door open, startling the newsies that were still awake in the parlor.
"Hey, Racetrack."
"Hey, Race."
"Hey, guys. Have any of you'se seen a goil wit long blonde 'air and diff'rint color eyes?"
The two Broklyn newsies exchanged glances. "No, Race we haven't."
"Ya sure?"
"Yeah, Race, haven't seen no goil here all night."
Race sighed. "Alright, it don't mattah. See ya."
"Bye, Race!" the two newsies called after him.
Racetrack slid his hands into his pockets (which were filled with money) and shuffled out of the lodging house. Suprisingly, he was very disappointed that Canada had disappeared. Even though he knew nothing of her, he still wished she would have stayed long enough for him to have unraveled her mystery.
"Canada," he whispered in the night air, a smile touching his lips.
Racetrack found himself whistling the same tune that Butterfly had been singing in the washroom that afternoon.
Streetlights became to sleepily flicker on as Race passed under their pale yellow beams. But something caught his eye, a silhouette that lay slumped on a bench. He let his gaze linger on the figure (thinking it was some hobo) as he passed it.
Racetrack halted suddenly in his tracks and did a double take on the heap. It couldn't be.
"Canada!" he cried, rushing back to the bench.
It was Butterfly.
Race suddenly felt a rush of happiness--she hadn't gone, after all. He squatted next to her and shook her shoulder, whispering her name. She still didn't wake.
"Ah, Canada, don't make me carry ya all da way back ta Manhattan!" Race whispered.
Butterfly responded with her rhythmic sleeping.
Racetrack sighed and, slipping his arms under her knees and back, lifted her. Butterfly softly exhaled inher sleep and fidgited in his hold, before curling herself up against his chest.
Race walked for sometime before he reached the Brooklyn Bridge. He halted and looked out at the full moon and it's wavering reflection on the waters below. This scene reminded him of a promise he had made earlier.
If we can git ta Spot's pahty in da next cent'ry jist so I can play a few hands of pokah and win, I'll come back wit ya to dis spot ya said 'bout during da sun set.
He suddenly felt ashamed and looked down at her. Her multi colored eyes were closed in a peaceful sleep as the moonlight reflected on her tangles of pale yellow hair.
He looked to the waters again. "A promise is a promise, Canada. And Racetrack Higgins don't break 'is promises. I'll go ta ya spot during da sunset befoah I die."
And with that Racetrack Higgins carried a sleeping Butterfly James home in his arms, not thinking of it as a burden at all, no, quite the contrary, it wasn't a burden at all. And the name Anytime Annie Murphy didn't enter his mind at all.
********
"Dere she is."
"Are ya sure dat's 'er?"
"Yeah, I'se shoah. Let's go."
The blonde girl's piercing scream cut through the air and the sound of a short struggle was heard, then nothing more.