Spot watched the girl skip down the stairs and shook his head. Dames,
he thought, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Although lately,
he'd been wishing that girls never existed. Like most of the people he knew
and grew up with, Spot Conlon had had a hard life. It wasn't easy for
anyone living in any sort of poverty in New York City, least of all
orphaned or runaway children. He found that most of the experiences he had
gone through as a young child into his teenage years had warped most of his
relationships with people. He found it hard to relate to females unless
they came from the same social class as him. The ones he did relate to were
tough, hardened girls, who requested payment by the hour. He had no need
for special attachments unless he met up with a girl who either let him get
away with whatever he wanted, or was indifferent to his shortcomings. More
often than not, he only socialized with girls when the need hit him, and
then he was on his way.
The last girl who had struck his fancy had been someone he thought was as emotionally hardened as him. It wasn't that he didn't have feelings. He did, but he didn't know how to show them. He preferred to keep them hidden inside where they didn't have the chance of getting bruised or shattered. Most girls he treated as objects of his lust, or showpieces to parade around with, giving them nothing back. But his girl Diamond had been different. She had demanded to be treated as a person, an equal. They fought tooth and nail on more than one occasion, neither giving in until she or more often than not he would admit defeat.
Diamond had softened his rough exterior and he found himself depending on her, wanting her to stick around. He could talk to her like he could talk to his best pal Jack. She didn't take his shit, and he respected that. But all that changed somehow, about a week ago. They had gotten into one of their infamous rows, Diamond's copper hair swirling around her flushed face, her blue eyes as snapping and angry as his own. She had taken off, and sick with worry after she didn't return and night had swept in, Spot had stayed up the whole evening. Sitting on the docks on an early October night, wasn't a pleasant thing when one didn't own a coat.
Whiskey, his right hand man had shown up a little after sunrise, with a grim expression on his usually un-sober face. Spot had leapt off of his throne of crates and faced Whiskey, fists clenched. Thoughts raced through his head, none of them good.
" We found her, Spot."
"Is she okay?" Whiskey cast his eyes towards the ground and scrubbed a hand through his lank brown hair wearily. Spot could barely contain himself.
"She's okay. She's in Manhattan. Apparently Jacky-boy's been her shoulder to cry on for some time now." Spot felt his guts clench and his mouth dropped. Anger struck him like a right-hook to the jaw. Whiskey shuddered to see the icy blue of his leader's eyes and the tense way he squared his shoulders.
"That rotten, no-good, thieving, son-of-a." his last remark was drowned out by the sound of him putting his fist through a crate. Whiskey let Spot rage, knowing that it was dangerous to interrupt him. After a while, Spot stopped punching crates and faced Whiskey again, sides heaving, face slicked with sweat.
"This of course means war. Not a territory war, a vendetta war. I don't want any Manhattan boys or girls in Brooklyn. If you see 'em, soak 'em. That means ANY of 'em. Got it?" Whiskey nodded mutely and Spot stalked off after telling him to inform the rest of the boys.
"Spot."
Spot shook his head and glanced around, slightly embarrassed, but it was only Whiskey. The taller boy held an open bottle in his hand that he offered to Spot. Spot took a healthy swallow and followed Whiskey into one of the bunkrooms.
Two of his boys were sitting on a bed; excitedly talking about how they had soaked two Manhattan boys earlier. Spot felt a slight twinge as he heard the names 'Racetrack' and 'Snipeshooter'. He was hoping that sooner or later Jack would get his and he could call the whole thing off. But he knew that deep down he was going to have to be the one to soak Jack.
The last girl who had struck his fancy had been someone he thought was as emotionally hardened as him. It wasn't that he didn't have feelings. He did, but he didn't know how to show them. He preferred to keep them hidden inside where they didn't have the chance of getting bruised or shattered. Most girls he treated as objects of his lust, or showpieces to parade around with, giving them nothing back. But his girl Diamond had been different. She had demanded to be treated as a person, an equal. They fought tooth and nail on more than one occasion, neither giving in until she or more often than not he would admit defeat.
Diamond had softened his rough exterior and he found himself depending on her, wanting her to stick around. He could talk to her like he could talk to his best pal Jack. She didn't take his shit, and he respected that. But all that changed somehow, about a week ago. They had gotten into one of their infamous rows, Diamond's copper hair swirling around her flushed face, her blue eyes as snapping and angry as his own. She had taken off, and sick with worry after she didn't return and night had swept in, Spot had stayed up the whole evening. Sitting on the docks on an early October night, wasn't a pleasant thing when one didn't own a coat.
Whiskey, his right hand man had shown up a little after sunrise, with a grim expression on his usually un-sober face. Spot had leapt off of his throne of crates and faced Whiskey, fists clenched. Thoughts raced through his head, none of them good.
" We found her, Spot."
"Is she okay?" Whiskey cast his eyes towards the ground and scrubbed a hand through his lank brown hair wearily. Spot could barely contain himself.
"She's okay. She's in Manhattan. Apparently Jacky-boy's been her shoulder to cry on for some time now." Spot felt his guts clench and his mouth dropped. Anger struck him like a right-hook to the jaw. Whiskey shuddered to see the icy blue of his leader's eyes and the tense way he squared his shoulders.
"That rotten, no-good, thieving, son-of-a." his last remark was drowned out by the sound of him putting his fist through a crate. Whiskey let Spot rage, knowing that it was dangerous to interrupt him. After a while, Spot stopped punching crates and faced Whiskey again, sides heaving, face slicked with sweat.
"This of course means war. Not a territory war, a vendetta war. I don't want any Manhattan boys or girls in Brooklyn. If you see 'em, soak 'em. That means ANY of 'em. Got it?" Whiskey nodded mutely and Spot stalked off after telling him to inform the rest of the boys.
"Spot."
Spot shook his head and glanced around, slightly embarrassed, but it was only Whiskey. The taller boy held an open bottle in his hand that he offered to Spot. Spot took a healthy swallow and followed Whiskey into one of the bunkrooms.
Two of his boys were sitting on a bed; excitedly talking about how they had soaked two Manhattan boys earlier. Spot felt a slight twinge as he heard the names 'Racetrack' and 'Snipeshooter'. He was hoping that sooner or later Jack would get his and he could call the whole thing off. But he knew that deep down he was going to have to be the one to soak Jack.