Spot was perched at the end of his favorite pier in Brooklyn. He found
that sometimes going somewhere familiar cleared his head. He'd been
drinking since the night before, and slowly sloshed the warm beer in the
bottom of his last bottle around, trying to keep it just a few minutes
longer. The day was hot, the seagulls flew in lazy circles over his head.
Young newsies splashed in the water below. To his surprise, none of the
new generation recognized him, but he smiled to himself thinking that maybe
they thought Spot Conlon was just a legend. Yup, he was a legend.
A legend like Mush might have been if he had made it out of the barber shop last night, he thought as he downed the rest of his drink. He doubted that Mush was still alive. And for once he was at a loss for what to do. When he was the head of the Brooklyn newsies, he always knew what to do to get a friend out of a rut, he could always swing a jail bust, or get some gambling addict out of his debt. But this, maybe he had gone too far. Spot briefly thought about leaving New York altogether, maybe go to another city like Chicago or Washington D.C., but his thoughts were interrupted when he felt someone sit down next to him with an exhaustive thud.
Spot nodded and took a hit off his cigarette. "Hey Race."
Race didn't answer. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his clothes soaken through from the heat. Together they stared out at the East River and said nothing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Count Jacob Castellane descended the stairs of his townhouse, and put on his top hat. It is a hot day, he thought. He had some last minute business with his partner in crime, Peter Gould. Jacob and Peter had scraped 2 millon dollars off the stock market under their alias, and Jacob had already spent his share. Now that the bills were coming in, Jacob was forced to try and squeeze the money from that tightwad Peter. As always, Peter was not in his office, not at home, not at the apartment he kept with his mistress, but at the racetrack. Jacob felt a bolt of fear run through him as he thought that Peter may have lost their money on a horse. He quickened his pace, and found Peter lounging in his box seats, very prissily eating finger sandwiches.
"Why good day Mounsier Castellane!" Peter greeted him.
"Good day, Peter."
"Would you care for some cakes and tea?"
"No, but I do have a business matter I'd like to speak with you over."
Peter looked concerned for a second, but then waved it away. "Not today Castellane. Not today. I am taking a day off today. Maybe we can set something up tomorrow. Do you know my secretary Carol?"
Jacob walked off hastily. He wasn't used to being put off, especially by arrogant Americans.
*~*~*~*~*~*
It was late afternoon when Sadie finally escaped her interviewer. When she stepped out of Pullitzer's office, she took a deep breath. She was really nervous that she might have said the wrong thing.
Timmy had left hours ago, on a "business" call no doubt. Thank God though, now Sadie had a chance to wander the streets alone, maybe do something she wanted to do. And she wanted to see Mush.
Had he won the fight? Was her boyfriend the champion boxer of New York City? Where was he now? Would he be celebrating or would he be needing some comforting? And where should she go to find him?
*~*~*~*~*~*
"What do ye mean ya donno where 'e is?!"
"Listen Timmy."
"No, you listen ta me kid! You ain't nothin' but a snivelin' little bookie who cain't even do dat right!" Timmy spit.
"Me? An' you'se da one who put 'im out dere ta git killed 'cause you want his pretty lil' girl," Spot stared at Timmy straight in the eye.
Timmy swung at this comment, but Spot avoided the punch and caught the back of Timmy's knee with his foot. This move brought Timmy to his knees, but he was quick to his feet. "Ya little.."
Spot brought up his trusty cane, ready to swing it like a baseball bat. "I ain't said nothin' dat ain't true. Mush was one o' me boys! I don't give a fuck 'bout you an' your 'family'"
"Good, 'cause dey ain't gonna care 'bout ya no more either." Timmy threatened, but kept his distance due to the metal handle on Spot's cane. "Watch yaself boy. Might be smart ta leave town tonight. An' ya go near de lass, and I will kill you."
*~*~*~*~*~*
Race came home at dusk. He couldn't speak, he didn't want to drink, the only thing he could take into his body were the two bags of tobacco he bought earlier. He climbed to his bunk while his other roommates argued or gambled around him.
One roommate noticed him. "Opie's gone. She borrowed some black clothes an' went out like a hour ago," he didn't take his eyes off his playing cards.
"Opie? In my clothes?"
"Yup."
Wonder what she's up to, he thought. But fatigue took him over before he could think anymore and he drifted to sleep without even taking off his shoes.
A legend like Mush might have been if he had made it out of the barber shop last night, he thought as he downed the rest of his drink. He doubted that Mush was still alive. And for once he was at a loss for what to do. When he was the head of the Brooklyn newsies, he always knew what to do to get a friend out of a rut, he could always swing a jail bust, or get some gambling addict out of his debt. But this, maybe he had gone too far. Spot briefly thought about leaving New York altogether, maybe go to another city like Chicago or Washington D.C., but his thoughts were interrupted when he felt someone sit down next to him with an exhaustive thud.
Spot nodded and took a hit off his cigarette. "Hey Race."
Race didn't answer. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his clothes soaken through from the heat. Together they stared out at the East River and said nothing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Count Jacob Castellane descended the stairs of his townhouse, and put on his top hat. It is a hot day, he thought. He had some last minute business with his partner in crime, Peter Gould. Jacob and Peter had scraped 2 millon dollars off the stock market under their alias, and Jacob had already spent his share. Now that the bills were coming in, Jacob was forced to try and squeeze the money from that tightwad Peter. As always, Peter was not in his office, not at home, not at the apartment he kept with his mistress, but at the racetrack. Jacob felt a bolt of fear run through him as he thought that Peter may have lost their money on a horse. He quickened his pace, and found Peter lounging in his box seats, very prissily eating finger sandwiches.
"Why good day Mounsier Castellane!" Peter greeted him.
"Good day, Peter."
"Would you care for some cakes and tea?"
"No, but I do have a business matter I'd like to speak with you over."
Peter looked concerned for a second, but then waved it away. "Not today Castellane. Not today. I am taking a day off today. Maybe we can set something up tomorrow. Do you know my secretary Carol?"
Jacob walked off hastily. He wasn't used to being put off, especially by arrogant Americans.
*~*~*~*~*~*
It was late afternoon when Sadie finally escaped her interviewer. When she stepped out of Pullitzer's office, she took a deep breath. She was really nervous that she might have said the wrong thing.
Timmy had left hours ago, on a "business" call no doubt. Thank God though, now Sadie had a chance to wander the streets alone, maybe do something she wanted to do. And she wanted to see Mush.
Had he won the fight? Was her boyfriend the champion boxer of New York City? Where was he now? Would he be celebrating or would he be needing some comforting? And where should she go to find him?
*~*~*~*~*~*
"What do ye mean ya donno where 'e is?!"
"Listen Timmy."
"No, you listen ta me kid! You ain't nothin' but a snivelin' little bookie who cain't even do dat right!" Timmy spit.
"Me? An' you'se da one who put 'im out dere ta git killed 'cause you want his pretty lil' girl," Spot stared at Timmy straight in the eye.
Timmy swung at this comment, but Spot avoided the punch and caught the back of Timmy's knee with his foot. This move brought Timmy to his knees, but he was quick to his feet. "Ya little.."
Spot brought up his trusty cane, ready to swing it like a baseball bat. "I ain't said nothin' dat ain't true. Mush was one o' me boys! I don't give a fuck 'bout you an' your 'family'"
"Good, 'cause dey ain't gonna care 'bout ya no more either." Timmy threatened, but kept his distance due to the metal handle on Spot's cane. "Watch yaself boy. Might be smart ta leave town tonight. An' ya go near de lass, and I will kill you."
*~*~*~*~*~*
Race came home at dusk. He couldn't speak, he didn't want to drink, the only thing he could take into his body were the two bags of tobacco he bought earlier. He climbed to his bunk while his other roommates argued or gambled around him.
One roommate noticed him. "Opie's gone. She borrowed some black clothes an' went out like a hour ago," he didn't take his eyes off his playing cards.
"Opie? In my clothes?"
"Yup."
Wonder what she's up to, he thought. But fatigue took him over before he could think anymore and he drifted to sleep without even taking off his shoes.