Note From Author: I know that this Chapter was really short, but I didn't
want to combine this one with any others. The next chapter will take place
in Brooklyn and then after that things will come to a head and then
hopefully I should finish this story!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The day was glaringly white and breathless; the bright flaxen sun hazy in appearance, sitting in its sky like a king on his throne. One iota of movement caused a flood of perspiration, leaving the streets barren, as through tumbleweed should come skittering down the main drag.
Racetrack Higgins found semi-relief from the staggering, smoldering heat at Tibby's: seated near one of the tables in the front, chair pushed out, elbow leaning on scratched hardwood table, soda flat. Jack Kelly's blinking subsided for a moment, as he watched in a trace-like state as the fellow newsie lazily used his straw to stir circles in his drink.
"But da way she kissed me back, Cowboy, in da way she kissed me back. So much fiah and passion."
Jack blinked and jumped, his gaze falling to Racetrack who still stared at his glass. "Yeah, Race. Dat's why dere's dat sayin': Can't live with goils and can't live witout 'em." Every word was painful to utter in the scorching heat.
Race let out a deep rumble of a sigh and removed his straw from his soda, droplets permeating the table. "I don't undahstand it, I jist don't. I really, really liked her and I don't know what da hell kind of signals I was givin' out or what.But, Jesus, I never expected her to kiss me back."
Jack stared into his friend's deep brown eyes, eyes that begged for an answer. Jack elicited a sigh as he pushed his cowboy hat over his brown, making makeshift shade. "I'se dunno, Race, I'se dunno. Didn't really follow dat goil's story from da beginnin'. I mean, why da hell did she want to stay here anyhow? You didn't know her at all, and yet she came to you. Sounded fishy. But ya fall for her. Now, I'se could say dat ya were t'inkin wit your dick or that old proverb love at first sight came true. Knowing you, I'd say it was a little bit of both."
This didn't evoke the comical reaction that Jack had hoped for. Instead, Racetrack wore an even more sorrowful expression as his chair scratched the floor as he pushed it back, stretching out his right arm on the table and laying his head on it. "I jist don't see why she left. She was actin' strange, dough. Got all scared when she saw da pape about da moidahed goil. Said dey knew she was here and had ta git out. Ramblin', I guess. But what da hell does it all mean? Den oilier something slipped dat her bruddah was a newsie. Dat I wouldn't have known him. Made me think. She could sell a pape poitty damn good." A solemn grin lit up his face as his eyes shifted to Jack. "But when she saw dat pape, it made me think. Think about Queens. And Jimmy."
Jack half-heartedly pulled the hat somewhat off his eyes, letting out a snort. Queens. Jimmy. Obviously, Racetrack hadn't heard the word that Rylie had put a bounty on Sarah Sprite's head, be she alive or be she dead. The comical thing being she could be some rotting cadaver infested with parasites and decay. And he also musn't have heard about the rumors that Hornace Lyner was in Manhattan. Searching desperately and with a vengeance for a girl, a girl with long blonde hair and one green eye and one blue eye. Jimmy's sister: Sarah Sprites. Odd enough that just before word had gotten to him that Rylie had put a bounty of Sarah's head, along comes some mysterious girl with the first name of Butterfly, the name Jimmy used to call Sarah, and the last name of James, Jimmy's name, with blonde hair and one blue eye and one green eye.
A thin smile formed across his shaded lips as he stare down at Racetrack. No, Racetrack must be too damn stricken for this Butterfly James not to realize how perfectly the pieces fit into place. Of course, it made sense why she had run away. She knew Queens was in Manhattan, searching her out like prey. They had killed and tasted blood and that would not stop Rylie from killing again. When Sarah Sprites was dead, the remainder of Jimmy's Lyner converts would be too full of shock and utter disbelief that he had killed Sarah to argue or revolt anymore. No, she was hiding to save her skin.
Yet, Jack only wished that he had figured this out before she left. Then of course he could have kept her quiet and hidden her. But now, she was gone, dodging Lyner like a sickening, grotesque game of cat and mouse, not knowing when he was going to strike.
The chair let out a high-pitched awful screech as the chair scraped the ground. Racetrack wearily stood, his joints creaking, clothing sticking to him. Groaning he said in a husky voice, "I'se gotta go pay foah dis," motioning to his drink.
Jack wistfully nodded as he watched his friend make his way through the masses of downtrodden, exhausted patrons, cracking his joints and relieving his muscles along the way.
Jack straightened in his chair, pushing his hat off his brow. He knew Race was suffering fantastically from not knowing where in the heavens Butterfly James was cashed. Stretching his arms over his head, his exhausted joints creaking he snorted again. He had stayed at Brooklyn last night after an exclusive poker game with Spot went too seep into the muggy summer night. He had slept in the mate bunk of the Spot's and had been there when the girl arrived in early morning, not quite the time when the cold stars reigned and not quite when the sun shown its glorious face. He had seen her face and recognized her as Butterfly. Yet he had slipped away before she could take notice of him.
Butterfly James was in Brooklyn. How she knew Spot was beyond her.
"Sarah, what are ya doin' in Brooklyn?" he muttered softly to himself, standing and pushing in his chair, dropping a few coins on the table.
Race joined him, perspiration staining his tired face. "Let's go, Cowboy," he murmured listlessly, ambling easily and heavily out of Tibby's.
Jack paused a moment, pondering whether or not to include Racetrack in the knowledge of Sarah Sprites whereabouts. He shook his head. Race would only go to Brooklyn, spilling more spotlight on her as there already was. This was something that Race couldn't keep quiet about; let him figure it out on his own.
With a lazy sigh, Jack joined Racetrack outside in the crackling heat, the bell tinkling as the door closed behind him.
With the chirping of the bell, the patron residing at the table adjacent to the newsies slowly laid down the paper that he once held in front of his face. His face dripped perspiration and his garments clung to his muscular, bulging physique.
A hand absent-mindedly went to his back pocket, clasping around the hilt of a blade stained with dark maroon. His piercing blue eyes were a macedoine of glassy emotions. He dropped the paper and raised himself, striding through the café and through the door, inhaling in the smoldering scent.
A sardonic smile slithered its way up his lips. "I got her Rylie. I got her. She's in Brooklyn."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The day was glaringly white and breathless; the bright flaxen sun hazy in appearance, sitting in its sky like a king on his throne. One iota of movement caused a flood of perspiration, leaving the streets barren, as through tumbleweed should come skittering down the main drag.
Racetrack Higgins found semi-relief from the staggering, smoldering heat at Tibby's: seated near one of the tables in the front, chair pushed out, elbow leaning on scratched hardwood table, soda flat. Jack Kelly's blinking subsided for a moment, as he watched in a trace-like state as the fellow newsie lazily used his straw to stir circles in his drink.
"But da way she kissed me back, Cowboy, in da way she kissed me back. So much fiah and passion."
Jack blinked and jumped, his gaze falling to Racetrack who still stared at his glass. "Yeah, Race. Dat's why dere's dat sayin': Can't live with goils and can't live witout 'em." Every word was painful to utter in the scorching heat.
Race let out a deep rumble of a sigh and removed his straw from his soda, droplets permeating the table. "I don't undahstand it, I jist don't. I really, really liked her and I don't know what da hell kind of signals I was givin' out or what.But, Jesus, I never expected her to kiss me back."
Jack stared into his friend's deep brown eyes, eyes that begged for an answer. Jack elicited a sigh as he pushed his cowboy hat over his brown, making makeshift shade. "I'se dunno, Race, I'se dunno. Didn't really follow dat goil's story from da beginnin'. I mean, why da hell did she want to stay here anyhow? You didn't know her at all, and yet she came to you. Sounded fishy. But ya fall for her. Now, I'se could say dat ya were t'inkin wit your dick or that old proverb love at first sight came true. Knowing you, I'd say it was a little bit of both."
This didn't evoke the comical reaction that Jack had hoped for. Instead, Racetrack wore an even more sorrowful expression as his chair scratched the floor as he pushed it back, stretching out his right arm on the table and laying his head on it. "I jist don't see why she left. She was actin' strange, dough. Got all scared when she saw da pape about da moidahed goil. Said dey knew she was here and had ta git out. Ramblin', I guess. But what da hell does it all mean? Den oilier something slipped dat her bruddah was a newsie. Dat I wouldn't have known him. Made me think. She could sell a pape poitty damn good." A solemn grin lit up his face as his eyes shifted to Jack. "But when she saw dat pape, it made me think. Think about Queens. And Jimmy."
Jack half-heartedly pulled the hat somewhat off his eyes, letting out a snort. Queens. Jimmy. Obviously, Racetrack hadn't heard the word that Rylie had put a bounty on Sarah Sprite's head, be she alive or be she dead. The comical thing being she could be some rotting cadaver infested with parasites and decay. And he also musn't have heard about the rumors that Hornace Lyner was in Manhattan. Searching desperately and with a vengeance for a girl, a girl with long blonde hair and one green eye and one blue eye. Jimmy's sister: Sarah Sprites. Odd enough that just before word had gotten to him that Rylie had put a bounty of Sarah's head, along comes some mysterious girl with the first name of Butterfly, the name Jimmy used to call Sarah, and the last name of James, Jimmy's name, with blonde hair and one blue eye and one green eye.
A thin smile formed across his shaded lips as he stare down at Racetrack. No, Racetrack must be too damn stricken for this Butterfly James not to realize how perfectly the pieces fit into place. Of course, it made sense why she had run away. She knew Queens was in Manhattan, searching her out like prey. They had killed and tasted blood and that would not stop Rylie from killing again. When Sarah Sprites was dead, the remainder of Jimmy's Lyner converts would be too full of shock and utter disbelief that he had killed Sarah to argue or revolt anymore. No, she was hiding to save her skin.
Yet, Jack only wished that he had figured this out before she left. Then of course he could have kept her quiet and hidden her. But now, she was gone, dodging Lyner like a sickening, grotesque game of cat and mouse, not knowing when he was going to strike.
The chair let out a high-pitched awful screech as the chair scraped the ground. Racetrack wearily stood, his joints creaking, clothing sticking to him. Groaning he said in a husky voice, "I'se gotta go pay foah dis," motioning to his drink.
Jack wistfully nodded as he watched his friend make his way through the masses of downtrodden, exhausted patrons, cracking his joints and relieving his muscles along the way.
Jack straightened in his chair, pushing his hat off his brow. He knew Race was suffering fantastically from not knowing where in the heavens Butterfly James was cashed. Stretching his arms over his head, his exhausted joints creaking he snorted again. He had stayed at Brooklyn last night after an exclusive poker game with Spot went too seep into the muggy summer night. He had slept in the mate bunk of the Spot's and had been there when the girl arrived in early morning, not quite the time when the cold stars reigned and not quite when the sun shown its glorious face. He had seen her face and recognized her as Butterfly. Yet he had slipped away before she could take notice of him.
Butterfly James was in Brooklyn. How she knew Spot was beyond her.
"Sarah, what are ya doin' in Brooklyn?" he muttered softly to himself, standing and pushing in his chair, dropping a few coins on the table.
Race joined him, perspiration staining his tired face. "Let's go, Cowboy," he murmured listlessly, ambling easily and heavily out of Tibby's.
Jack paused a moment, pondering whether or not to include Racetrack in the knowledge of Sarah Sprites whereabouts. He shook his head. Race would only go to Brooklyn, spilling more spotlight on her as there already was. This was something that Race couldn't keep quiet about; let him figure it out on his own.
With a lazy sigh, Jack joined Racetrack outside in the crackling heat, the bell tinkling as the door closed behind him.
With the chirping of the bell, the patron residing at the table adjacent to the newsies slowly laid down the paper that he once held in front of his face. His face dripped perspiration and his garments clung to his muscular, bulging physique.
A hand absent-mindedly went to his back pocket, clasping around the hilt of a blade stained with dark maroon. His piercing blue eyes were a macedoine of glassy emotions. He dropped the paper and raised himself, striding through the café and through the door, inhaling in the smoldering scent.
A sardonic smile slithered its way up his lips. "I got her Rylie. I got her. She's in Brooklyn."