pretzel: The last thing I did before going to bed (at 11:39 because I am a band geek and had camp all week, mumble mumble) was to give one last shot to checking my e-mail for reviews because I LOVE when people review … and nothing you could have said could have made me any happier. 'Powerful' is exactly the word I want to hear. And 'freaking awesome' isn't too shabby, either, hahaha. Honestly, my eyes just watered at that statement (blame it on band camp and my hours of sleep or lack of, mumble mumble). THANK YOU SO MUCH. You have no idea how happy that made me. THANKS!
MegabeeAthlete: Thanks once again, I am so flattered it's incredible! And especially thanks for the encouragement on Spot's character, I had a bit of a difficult time getting the perceived personality in my head down onto the paper. Again, a huge THANKS!
Arte: What to say? I left you speechless? Now THAT is something I have never seen, lol. I will say this, however: what you see is what you get -- I am Jill and Jill is me, there is no difference at all between us. She is based off of me entirely. Thanks for the review. Love yah babe!
If you manage to hold on and make it this far, please review for me and tell me how I am doing. Greatly appreciated, as always!
(The newsies are not mine, sad as that fact stands. Jill is, however, and now I even have the hat.)
Just One (New York, New York)
FIVE
It was the evening of the meeting and she sat alone in her room, looking at the hat.
The hat.
She had not touched it since throwing it at the wall that morning two days ago. But she sensed it, felt as if it was watching her with invisible eyes hidden somewhere under all its thread and wool. The fast-setting sun swept over her in this evening, but it did not warm her heart.
The hat.
But she had other things to worry about -- the sun was sinking from its perch in the sky and the meeting would kick up soonly. She had asked Mush permission to attend and see what kind of business into which Spot Conlon had been drawn. At first he had answered with a shake of his head, but when she had asked again with the giant, sad blue-green eyes that she reserved just for him, he had sighed and reluctantly agreed. He was never able to deny her anything, hungry for the companionship of an outsider and one who was willing to have simple, honest conversations. There was no doubt he loved his friends, that was for sure, but there were things he had told her -- those swiftly-spoken words that day he had taken her to listen to that beautiful music -- that she knew one guy simply did not speak to another. He was sweet, he was naïve, and he was staunchly loyal, but he was very conscious of what he perceived to be his dignity.
Mush was waiting for her under that newly-lit street lamp and she drew the curtains shut before leaving her room. Jack had refused, but at Mush's pleading voice, he had relented and agreed. "She won' hurt anyt'in', I'se can promise yah," Mush had begged. "Honest, Jack, I swear tah yah she won' make a sound." She would have jumped in to stand up for herself, but it was obvious that Jack loved the boys he led as much as Mush loved him and to speak a word would have broken the magic that passed between the friends. Jack had nodded. "Alrigh', Mush," he had said in his gentle voice. "Alrigh', but I can't promise dere won' be no fightin' goin' on. Yous gots tah know yous are comin' at yous own risk, Jill." To this she had agreed … even to watch from afar would be worth it. All the leaders from all over New York -- it would be a sight to behold. And she was very interested in Spot Conlon. To her, his character, his personality, his history, were all a mystery still.
The mysterious Spot Conlon.
He was beautiful, but seemed as cold as ice.
"Comin'?" Mush asked, putting out an arm for her to take. She linked hers through it. Usually she was in her room by now, sorting out her state of affairs. It seemed that as the sun set, everything got colder, and much more real … the dream had gone on long enough.
This was no dream.
This was real.
She shivered.
"Yous okay, Jill?" he asked, feeling her sudden chill, and he pulled her closer. "It's a cold night, an' dah warehouse ain't no warmer. Dunno wha's happenin' wid dis weddah. Guess it's dah fall settin' in."
"Yesterday was hotter than the breath of hell," she said, and tried to keep her voice from shaking. She did not succeed.
"An' yous ain't dressed fer dah changin' winds." he said sympathetically. He slid off his long-sleeved blue-green shirt, exposing the worn white top he had on underneath. "Here, dis'll be bettah fer yah."
It was his unbreakable pride and his unfailing courtesy that kept her refusing. Over her own shoulders it was too large and crumpled and did not flatter her at all, but Mush's eyes crinkled with his big friendly smile.
"Thank you," she said, touched. No one had ever offered anything of this sort before … and it felt wonderful to be treated in such an unforgivingly flattering way.
"Don' t'ink not'in of it," he smiled again as they walked along. She received several wary looks from strangers but she ignored them and walked on. He's only a newsboy, they said plainly to her, he's a street rat and he's dirty.
He's Mush, and he's my friend, she answered back with both pride and haughtiness, meeting their gazes. You'd like to find someone like him. But I have, and that's a pity for you.
"I'se only seen dis a'couple'a times before," Mush was quiet in his conversation. "But Jack said it needed tah be done."
"Do the leaders listen to him, then?"
He shrugged. "If dey know wha's good fer dem. Jack ain't no pushovah, an' now he's lookin' out fer Spot. Spot ain't had no part in dis, I'se can tell yah that wid no second t'oughts. Spot an' Jack get along real well, since dey both don't take no nonsense."
"If everyone fears Spot Conlon the way you do, that can't be a bad thing for Jack." Jill smiled at him and the look of surprise on his face.
"I dunno if I'se afraid'a Spot so much as I'se not shoah how tah givem his propah respect. Yous know what I mean?" He did not realise his strides were too long for her and she hurried to keep up. "His temper ain't no May rainshower. He's quick tah anger and den his temper can get real violent real fast. I dunno what tah t'ink'a him sometimes. Evah know anyone like dat?"
My father … then she pressed the thought from her head. Not here, not now. It's not my problem to address anymore.
She only nodded. "And you're not sure how to love him … yes, I understand." Then her voice gave way to silence.
He seemed to know every short-cut, every stone of the alleys as they dodged trashbin after trashbin and pothole after pothole. For a while there was comfortable silence, but she became more and more uneasy as the town seemed to grow shabbier around them. For Mush it may have been fine … he was big and he had muscles but for her … for her it gave an image of another place, another time. Something she for sure did not want to relive.
"Are we close yet?" she whispered.
He laughed. "About anuddah block. Don't be uneasy, dere ain't not'in' tah fear here. Ain't no one gonna hoirt yah here. All dah leaders'a got dere best guys watchin' fer dem … dey gots eyes everywhere tah tell dem wha' happens here."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Just principle, yah know? Not so shoah about Spot, dunno wha' he does but everyone else gots tah keep t'ings runnin' smooth, like."
"Yeah, I understand." she nodded. "Personal guards, kind of?"
"Yeah, 'cept dese guys double as lookouts, too." Then he pointed. "It's dat buildin' dere … see it now?"
But she wished she hadn't seen it -- it was a huge, gaping black hole in the New York City skyline and seemed almost too ugly to belong even to these shanty surroundings. It was old and dilapidated and had obviously been gutted some time ago.
She stared upwards at it. "Is it safe?"
He laughed again and although she wanted to be annoyed with him for it, she loved his laugh. "Best place tah meet in alla dis part'a New York. Solid as a rock, an' poifect fer its purpose. Come on, we don' want it tah start widout us."
They hurried across the open, deserted street and when they reached the pavement on the other side she felt a little safer. What had he said … eyes watching, watching everything in the darkness? She shivered again and he pulled her even closer.
"Don' worry, we's'll be inside an' away from dah breeze," he told her gently. "Dough I can't say it's too much warmer in dere."
"Is the meeting in the basement?" Did the building even have a basement?
"No, it's on dah second floor," he answered, pushing aside a grate of iron to reveal a window just large enough to accommodate a human figure. He had to all but fold his broad body to fit through and then extended a hand to help her in. "Don' trip now. See dah lights ahead? Dat'll be Jack an' dah rest'a dah guys. Dey have all dere best guys wid'em tah help represent dere districts."
True enough, there were packed into the room tables of boys, each dressed in slightly varying styles with signs written to declare names and districts. But one table sat almost empty. A lone figure was brooding over a cigar and a glass of warm water. The ripped, smudged poster propped up against the front spelled out in wavering, sprawling, childish letters, Brooklyn, Spot Conlon.
Spot's eyes were dark and fierce as he glanced up at them for just an instant and his hand rose slightly, making the tiniest gesture as if tipping his hat in respect to them.
"Hiya, Jill," Jack Kelly said and touched her lightly on the sides as he skirted around her in the other direction, towards the numerous other leaders. Mush put his arm delicately around her so that she might not be jostled, and Jack indicated an empty seat at a table in the corner. "Yous can sit dere, Jill. I'm warnin' yah, I'se t'inks dis ain't gonna be no propah place fer yah."
"I have no where else to go, Jack," she told him in a painfully honest way. Hard as it was to admit to Mush, or to Race, or anyone else for that matter, she was tired of spending her nights in heavy silence, alone and afraid. Anything to fend that off, anything to hold that burden at bay.
His look was still concerned. "I'se don' t'ink it's a good idea fer yous tah be here --"
"I promise yah, Jack, she won' make no trouble fer yah," Mush broke in, his chocolate eyes quivering with his pleading look. "I'se promise yah dat, Jack."
"Suit yerself," Jack shrugged. "Race's here, somewhere. Always gotta be right in dah middle'a t'ings, he does." Then he frowned. "Can't find 'im now, and it's about tah start."
"I'll take care'a everyt'ing here, Jack," Mush said and his face was all seriousness now. He seemed different somehow, Jill thought, now that the situation too was very serious and very real. Business-like, almost. This was obviously his domain, and he was unbeatable upon the floor of his arena. He knew how things worked, he was very effective in his dealings.
She realised now how resolute this situation was -- each table was packed full of boys from their respective districts, many smoking discontentedly on hand-rolled cigarettes and half-burnt cigars. There were no smiles, no glad greetings. Alone at his table Spot Conlon looked like iron. His hat was low on his head, eyes gleaming out from the shadowed brim. I was wrong to come, she thought too late. I was wrong, Jack was honest -- this is not fun and games, this is dangerous. They are very dangerous.
The familiar voice made her look up. Racetrack was talking in a low tone to Mush, who nodded occasionally. When he finished he slid behind the table and sat. Mush motioned to Jack and Jack came to stand at the head of the room.
He cleared his throat twice and the rumble of discontented noise died down. Hundreds of shifty eyes focused on the lone boy. In the dim light, standing all alone, Jack looked very impressive, very tall, very imposing now. His figure silhouetted in the dim light, silent, he looked like a great thinker. Odd, Jill thought, how a poor newsboy can look so very wise. It was now no wonder why so many followed him without a doubt, why so many loved him, held him in awe.
"Yous all got dah message tah be here," he began, looking at them. "I'm real glad yah came. We's gots tah talk."
There was a low murmur that circulated through the room like an angrily questioning whisper. Jill sensed how ill at ease the boys were, and it made her anxious. This warehouse was cold, and not just in temperature. What had happened to create this frightening, chilly atmosphere?
Jack seemed different, too, somehow. He was charismatic, of course, as he had been before, but now there seemed a new strength in his demeanour. "Dere's been a lotta talk, a lotta blamin' an' I don' like it at all. We all gots no one but eachuddah, an' now even dat ain't true."
"Dat's 'cause we's can't trust no one!" a boy yelled fiercely. To Jill he looked menacing but Jack was merely impatient.
"Dat ain't true. We's can trust eachuddah. Dere ain't no reason tah start pointin' fingahs at eachuddah. If we's breaks down an' starts fightin' again like we did before, who's tah say dere ain't anuddah Pulitzer out dere somewhere, waitin' tah hit us when we's're weak?"
A spout of noise rose into the air, angry protests, upset remarks. Jack put out his hands to quiet the unforgiving crowd.
"Pulitzer went down, dere ain't no one who'll try it again," someone yelled as the noise stopped.
"Dat ain't true," Jack said with a voice full of deadly calm. "Dat ain't true, an' yah know why? Dis is why," he said, and slammed his fist down on the table. "Dis is why, fellas. Take a look aroun', whadayah see? We don't gots no one watchin' out fer usselves 'cept eachuddah. An' when dat happens, dere're a million people out dere who don't like us just 'cause we don' fit dere lifestyle. Dey don't like us 'cause we're orphans, an' we don't got dah money tah live."
Another angry outburst. She wished she wasn't sitting on the speaking floor right now. Perhaps is she could have watched from a distance, she would not have felt as vulnerable. But around a few of the tables were newsgirls, though they looked as dirty and menacing as their male counterparts. Faces smudged with dirt, clothing worn and crumpled. She herself was still wearing Mush's blue-green overshirt and it was filled with his scent. A deep breath, and he seemed to be all around her.
"So I wanna know, fellas, I wanna know if I'se should plan tah be here next summer or if I'se should leave now 'cause I know t'ings ain't gettin' any bettah and we's're gonna be undahmined by dah cruel system dat watches ovah us." Jack looked around. "I wanna know who's gonna stand tahgeddah."
There was silence now as he sat and waited, looking at the gathering for some kind of answer. No one spoke until someone stood up and yelled, "Yous gonna tell us who dah rat is, Kelly? Yous gonna tell us who we ain't gonna trust?"
Jack stood to face the question, to give a rare personalisation to the other young man. "I'se can't tell yah that, Meeks, 'cause I don' know no rat. It happened, an' we's all sorry, but I can tell yah that whoevah claims loyalty now will be fahgiven'a dah past." he answered softly as if the former half of his reply saddened him. "So who's gonna stand wid me?"
Again a silence. Then, "Stand wid yah against what?"
"Against dah beatin's dat are gettin' dealt by dose who wanna acuse, dose who ain't got no bettah reason." Jack pointed to his temples. "Dey ain't smart enough tah know dat's a bad idea. We's gotta have bettah reasons, fellas, we's gotta use our brains. We's can't go tearin' eachuddah apart dah foirst chance we get."
"An' we can't go lettin' everyone walk aroun' on us!" yelled someone else, standing to shout. "It happens once, it happens again an' again! Yous of all people should undahstand, Jack, yous got yer boys an' dey's real close tah yah. Don' yah t'ink I'se loves my boys just as much as you love yers?"
"If it happens again we deal wid it in dah right way," Jack shouted back. His voice was full of passionate conviction. "We dunno wha' happened dat day, we can't go blamin' whoevah it's convenient tah blame! Dere ain't no proof tah justify dah soakin's dat are goin' aroun'!"
"No proof!" someone yelled furiously. "No proof? Dere's a body sittin' in dah morgue an' a leader wid one less boy. I'se'll give yah proof, Jack, an' six feet'a ground on top of it!"
This statement seemed to rouse a roomful of immediate, firm concurrence and Jill saw boys nodding and shouting encouragement to the new speaker.
The boy continued. "So yah don' t'ink dat dere ain't no reason fer dah anger, Kelly? Yous ain't evah lost a boy, have yah? Yous is always able tah sit aroun' wid yer friends an' laugh an' joke an' drink, ain't yah? Well, it ain't no good feelin' tah lose someone yah love, either. An' I say, we's gonna soak dah rat and let 'im die in dah streets! Ain't no one gonna push Harlem aroun'!"
There was noise and confusion as the speaker was congratulated and other tables joined in with their support. But one figure had not yet moved, and had not yet spoken.
She had at first expected to see Spot Conlon surrounded by an army of his best but now when he gave rise he was alone and quiet. He stood very straight and when he pushed his hat back without a conscious thought to do so, the room fell oddly silent.
His steel voice was very soft as he spoke. "So yous t'ink yah know everyt'ing, do yah, Meeks?" He paused to look at the boy. A hundred chairs shifted uncomfortable at the brutal weight of Spot's fiercely gleaming eyes. With one hand he pressed his cigar into the dirty ashtray on the table. "Yous all really t'inks yous know what happened, doncha?" But no one could dare to raise his voice against Spot Conlon. "So go ahead, den. Go ahead an' tell me dah story."
There was no one who would answer, however.
Spot was not tall but he was solid steel and he knew it, too. After a moment of very tense, very uncomfortable silence, he said, "Dat's what I t'ought. See, dere ain't one who knows. Dere ain't no one smart enough tah gimme any reasons at all. Yah miserable bastards. Yous always blamin' somebody else an' it was my turn tah be yer scapegoat, wasn' it?"
The whole room seemed to recoil from his words, except for Jack and the two Manhattan boys who listened intently.
Spot spoke again. "So dis is fer you, Jacky. Since yah have got dah sense tah keep yous head outta yous ass, I'm tellin' yah right now, right here in front'a alla New York, I'm on yer side." He pulled his cane out and it tapped ominously in a slow, creaking, ominous cadence alongside his iron-bottomed boots as he made his way toward the Manhattan table. "I say, I'm on yous side, Jacky."
Jack put an arm around Spot's slenderly muscled shoulders and looked around the room.
"Anyone who hoirts Brooklyn hits Manhattan, too. Dere ain't no one in dis room who should try tah do not'in' stupid. So Spot is a friend'a Manhattan. Who's gonna join next?" But when no one said a word, Jack's proud face showed the subtle lines of anger and worry. "Come on, doncha boys remembah a time tageddah when we's was all dere tah defend our own?" He had withdrawn the arm from Spot's shoulders now. "What's wrong wichyou? If we's don't stand tageddah den we's gonna all fall real soon. Come on." and he took a step toward the other newsboys out of frustration. "Come one, tell me yous ain't gonna do not'in' stupid."
"Step aside, Kelly, it's Brooklyn we's be wantin'!" called a menacing gruff voice and this was Jack's cue.
"Mush, you take Jill an' leave. Now." he pointed to the door. Then he thrust two fingers at Racetrack. "You an' Spot, outtah here quick. I'se'll get yah backs."
The tables of boys seemed to crawl forward eerily and before Jill had a second thought, Mush was pulling on her arm and all but dragging her from the room. She felt safe near him, felt protected, as if the room full of angry boys behind them simply did not exist. But there was an urgency to his long strides and she followed without question. She was not sure what she had just witnessed, but she could be certain of one thing: this was bad news for Jack's boys, and perhaps worse news even still for Spot Conlon.