Artemis: Thanks again (as always) for your review. Dark, yes. Although I have to admit some of that stuff about the "Children's Crusade" was my own invention. The Children's Crusade actually took place in the Holy Land when boys from Christian countries, like the Holy Roman Empire and Frace, etc. etc., were sent to fight their enemies (having been promised land and riches in return for their "travels"). Some actually made it to war, some learned in advance of what they had been sent to do and escaped early to make homes in Italy, Frace, and what is now Germany. But because this new institution (another true but dark chapter of history) bears such similarity to the now-forgotten historic event, I decided to simplify and use the same name for it. Why not? Hahahaha, now you've learned something new in addition to reading my story. And yes, I like my boys, too. Great guys, and Shame is someone we know, hahahahaha. Hmmmmm …
Felicity Wood: Aw, my very first reviewer! Thanks a ton for reading, and I am definitely keen on writing this, so don't worry, it'll keep going!
The Blood-Red Streets of Brooklyn
TWO
He considered himself carefully in the mirror. Same dark hair, the darkest brown it looked black even in the sun. Same dark eyes, their black depths swirling with a torrent of emotion. When he had been younger, just a little child, he had thought that someday, someone would look into those eyes and be drawn forever into that whirling pool of thought and pain.
Same olive skin, same shining smile. Same muscled figure. He pulled up his shirt and felt his tightly defined abdominals, emaciated with hunger. Ah, God, what mockery was this?
He wiped the dirt from his cheeks with a damp rag. There, now he was fit to see Spot Conlon. But Jack hadn't even sent a letter in reply, or at least he hadn't sent it with Shame. Maybe a Manhattan boy would arrive later with word.
"You called?" Shame said softly to the figure seated before the window. In the light of the afternoon sun pouring in through the window, the figure was impressive, not in height but in the steel of his rigid posture. It was a slender silhouette, no less hungry or fierce than the rest of the Brooklyn Boys.
Spot turned. "Yous're back," he said. "Yah saw Jack?"
"Yeah, but he didn't send a reply." came the ready answer. Spot was … what, seventeen now? … but there was nothing but the greatest control in Spot's appearance, the boldest fearlessness. Sometimes he wondered exactly what kind of a person Spot was on the inside, where he could not put up such an iron front …
"He's helpin', dough?" Spot's brows furrowed. Green eyes, mixed with blue so that they were almost violet, shone out in the shadowed of the old, abandoned room.
Shame smiled. "He's trying to keep his boys together, too."
Spot's permanent look of skepticism softened. "Good, good. Whaddid he hafta say tah yous two?"
"Just the usual. And today he was off to see Davey since Dave's leaving for school again."
"Smoke?" Spot offered. Inwardly Shame was pleased with the consideration … Spot only offered his smokes to those close with the young leader.
The stories as to Spot's ascension to the throne of Brooklyn had come to him muddied and reluctant … he did not care to ask now.
He reached out for the cigarette even though he did not often smoke. To refuse would have looked insulting to Spot. And he loved Spot, but not Spot's ever-imminent wrath.
"How many have we lost in total, Spot?"
"We's lost a full five," the voice seemed pained, every word a softly dying breath. "Nevah came back. An' I don' treat dah boys dat bad, do I?"
"They would have come back had they been able to come back." Shame assured him. Shame was no courtier, his job was not to flatter, only to obey and to be honest.
Spot seemed angry, like a bird with its feathers ruffled. "Tell Finch I want dah best boys out lookin' fer dah ones we's lost." he said, suddenly put into motion. His cigarette was hanging forgotten between his fingers now. "I want you an' Finch listenin' everyweah yah can, tah listen der dah names'a me boys. I want dem found, dead or alive."
"There's not much of a chance, Spot. And the chance that does exist -- well, it's more likely they'll turn up dead."
"Den it happens, but I wanna know fer shoah." There was something about Spot that was never quite real, never quite definable. Even after what Shame could only figure to be more or less a year, Spot's persona, his entire being, still remained a mystery. Physically they were close to the same size, if Spot wasn't just a mere inch or so taller.
"We'll listen, Spot." Shame replied into the silence which followed. From the streets below he could hear passing carriages, laughing pedestrians. And in the far distance, Coney Island.
Always, always Coney Island.
"Ain't Finch aroun'?"
"He went to see a guy about a bet he needs to collect. Good money, too." the smaller boy answered. "It was now or never, and he wants his money."
"Wha' did Racetrack say tah yous?"
Shame mentally recounted the words. "He says that he wishes you well, and that he misses you and will visit soon."
It took a moment, but Spot smiled. Now Shame knew better, but it seemed Spot's smile was always tinged with the slightest twist of cynicism, pride, and greed. So very sly, and intimidating in a fierce way, that turn of his lips was. But at least now Shame knew Spot, he knew the leader's manners and habits and nervous ticks. And most of all, he knew that out of all the boys, it seemed Spot was the loneliest of them all.
Spot stood. It was of character for him to seem weary, but today he did. No wonder Race and Spot got on so well … they had the meanest poker faces Shame had ever seen. But today was somehow different. Today Spot wore a different face.
He looked tired.
"Can I get you something?" It was not the question of a servant to a master; it was the question of equals now.
"Nah, nah, I don' need nothin'. Nice dat Jack's willin' tah help out, dough." Spot sounded relieved, though it was very faint in his voice. "Gotta lotta convincin' tah do, Shame. Lotta districts tah help, lotta leadahs tah join in. An' I just wanna find me boys."
"This is the price of progress," Shame said bitterly. Usually around Spot, he was much more reserved, much less talkative and bold. Finch had grown up with Spot, he knew Spot on a much deeper level, but at the moment Finch was not there. It was Shame, and Spot, and a package of lifted smokes.
And unnerving silence.
"Yeah, dah uddah boys is all out," Spot said, dabbing the butt of his half-burned cigarette onto the dusty window sill. He had the most interesting trick of following a thought. Frightening, almost, the way he was able to weave conversation. He leaned against the wall, looking out the window to the harbour below. Spot chose for the Brooklyn Boys to stay close to the Bridge, close to the link between his district and that of Jack Kelly's.
Times were growing dangerous, however, and soon it was possible they would have to flee inland for protection. But Spot was proud, and while he lived Shame knew that no man and no institution could make the young leader budge from his life-long home. Was such pride damnable and foolish?
We will, Shame thought ominously, find out soon enough.
"Eat yet?"
Shame exhaled. "Yeah, this morning before I came in."
"Will yah find Finch fer me?"
"He'll be back soon. I'll tell him to see you when he shows up again."
"T'anks," Spot said but already he was detached again and the thousands of leagues of impenetrable silence had engulfed him again, leaving Shame feeling alone in the room with his young leader.
He left, knowing that Spot had retreated from him and that nothing he could say would make a difference now -- as always, Spot's brooding distance lifted him away from Shame and from the other boys as well. Silence followed him down the abandoned hallway, littered with the newsboys' trash and few meager possessions. Doorless entries led to rooms filled with blankets and cots and it felt odd to see two of them dusty now, the cheap sheets still balled up in the corner even now as if they expected their occupants to come back at any moment. It gave Shame a clenched feeling in his heart and he quickened his gait. He could not linger in such a heavy atmosphere as that.
Yesterday's storm had left the world beautiful and quiet in its wake and even the slummy streets smelled fresh and clean. The asphalt was damp still and the cobblestones felt cool on the smooth soles of his feet. He padded along for a moment, breathing in the faint smell of sea salt mixed with the apparent scent of the river mud. Even though the summer was winding down, the river had not yet cooled and usually when the boys were done selling their morning papers they played off the docks and the moored ships. None of them were rich, no where near to it, but all of New York seemed to be at their every beck and call.
Except for now, when the factories were bearing down.
In the distance, without immediate noise around him, he could hear Coney Island. He listened for a moment. It was another reason that Spot Conlon was so feared, the fact that he could maintain such an iron grip on his district as to even control the doings of that freak-show world of the bizarre. The very outskirts of Brooklyn and a fierce plot of land it was in its own right, Coney Island was. Finch had taken him there one night and more than anything Shame had been terrified by the park that boasted of such things as numerous brothels and a Little Egypt. It was an absolute world away from the ordinary, a place that was more like living in a horrible dream, a permanent, inescapable haze. Only the twisted and the sick could enjoy such a place as that, Shame thought, although when he envisioned its glowing avenues, its screaming capacity crowds, its freak shows with painted, heavy-lidded women, its alleys of sin and debauchery, a pleasantly half-sick, half-frightened feeling fluttered in his stomach.
He still had his shoulder bag with him and he trapsed out to the dock upon which he always wrote. The month's rain had swollen the river and he dangled his strong tanned legs in the luke-warm water. For a moment he chewed on his love-worn wooden pencil before the sound of familiar footfalls behind him made him pause.
"Get your money, Finch?"
"Most of it. See Spot, Shame?"
Shame nodded and smiled. "He's grateful to Jack. But I think this is too much for him, Finch. Those boys who were -- who were taken, he wants to search for them."
"Dey ain't alive no moah," Finch said softly and in the quietness that followed, Shame's pained heart was chilled by the sound of the waves lapping on the wooden dock.
"Then he wants confirmation of their deaths," he said defiantly. "And by God, Finch, I think he damn well deserves it. And we deserve it, too, don't we?" His voice was a reflection of Finch's own softness.
But Finch quietly put the back of his hand up to his mouth. As if aware it was a gesture of weakness, he pulled it away. He did not say much but his eyes did. "We'll try, Shame."
Shame nodded. "Spot also says he wants to see you. Asked me to tell you that when you finished collecting your bet."
"Lousy bastard couldn't pay the whole thing." Finch grumbled. "I'm missin' two dollahs."
"How much did you get?"
Finch smiled slyly. "Five, if it's any concern a'yours."
"You could eat for a year on that." Shame said in wonderment. "What kind of a bet did you make?"
Another sly smile. "Let's just say dat tahday every man considers 'imself an expert judge'a horse flesh."
"Ah, I see." Then, more seriously, "You'd better go see Spot. He hasn't been very happy lately, I'd say."
"Hard times fer alla us, but Spot always takes dese things dah worst. Since he's dah leadah an' all." Finch reached out a hand to touch Shame's strong little shoulder. "I'll be back, kid."
Shame touched Finch's fingers for just an instant, as if looking for confirmation that Finch was flesh and blood, a tangible, earth-bound creature who would not disappear with the slightest shift of winds. It was also a tender gesture of unspeakable affection.
He listened as the footsteps faded away again, back into the mist that was rolling in. It was just after noon, and still cool. But rain was becoming a constant thing suddenly and he wished that for just one day it would stop. He hated traversing all through the city wet and cold. But he would not refuse when Spot Conlon asked a favour of him. Especially not when he was so graciously paid by such an awe-inspiring leader. And not only was he simply paid, he was fed and housed just like Spot's beloved newsboys. Oh, they were a tough crew, what with more brutality and size to them than any other of New York's newsies, but they were all friendly with him now just as if he were one of them. Such a thing demanded help when it was needed. Clearly, help was needed now, more than ever.
There was nothing but the cry of gulls circling overhead and the water softly lapping against the wooden supports of the dock. The large sailing-ship usually moored in the slip to his right was out, presumably on a fishing trip or ferrying passengers around through nearby Sheepshead Bay where Coney Island sat. More than anything he knew Racetrack was very fond of Sheepshead Bay not only for its crowds but for its horse racing. Three tracks were open from May all through October and the little Italian was most attached to the Sheepshead Track where he was well-known and well-received as one of the regulars.
He sat, considering. Of all things that could have happened, he never expected this. Not this cruelty, not this carelessness, not this harsh reality. Sure orphans were not looked upon with the most adoring eyes or the most sympathetic hearts, but that was to be expected, of course. There were troublesome orphans but then again there were troublesome wealthy, too. Those people, however, those people came at too high a price. Orphans didn't know any better, though. They were easier to catch and no one questioned their disappearance.
Except for each other, Shame thought grimly. And maybe they weren't all so smart, but they were just as human. They felt the same warmth from the same sun, the same ground was hard beneath their feet. More than that, they shared the same human emotions -- joy, pride, anger, pain …
He turned his face away.
He was human just as much as them.
For a while he sat writing quietly before Finch returned. The tall boy did not even speak a greeting, he simply went running down the dock and leapt in the river, his shirt thrown off behind him. He laughed heartily, happily, and splashed his friend.
"Come on, come fer a swim," Finch laughed again, smoothing his hair back, treading madly.
"Don't feel like it."
"Yer mad. Dah weddah'll be changin' soon. Come on, it's nice." He splashed at Shame one last time.
Shame smiled. No matter what the situation, Finch always had the power to make him laugh, to make him so happy. He pushed his bag aside and tore his shirt over his head.
"Think you can get away with that?" he shouted with a grin as he ran and took a flying leap from the dock.
It was a cold night and he felt oddly down as he curled up next to Finch on the dirty mattress. Two cheap cotton sheets were stretched over them and in the other corners of the room he saw various boys waiting quietly to slip into their own states of rest. Finch's body still smelled like the river and his skin was warm and soft.
"I'll see yah in dah mornin', Shame," he whispered in the darkness. "Sleep well."
"You, too," Shame replied. He put his head on the pillow, dark hair just grown out enough to be ever-so-slightly mused by the dampness that still clung to it. He brushed it back with his palm. "Sweet dreams, Finch."
"G'night." the tall boy whispered. Then he was silent and still.
Shame pulled the cover closer to his chin, little hands gripping the top of the sheets. But he was tired, tired both in body and in mind. And even though he was so very uncertain, and he was frightened, when he closed his eyes he did not open them again, and his body slumped with the easy breath of deep sleep.