"For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born into Eternal Life. Amen."
As the priest completed the prayer, he bowed his ever sympathetic face for a moment of silence. He clutched the Bible within his hands as they lowered in front of him, all the while holding back a tear and keeping the lump in his throat down. These were the worst. Not but a week ago did two boys, each dressed in well-worn and dirty clothing which shouted that they were orphans, walk into his church to discuss funeral preparations. They came with pockets full of petty money that he was sure had been collected from the boys' friends, and asked if he would perform a funeral for a deceased friend, a friend that had fallen to the dangers of New York's deprived youth.
The money they had was nowhere near enough to cover the costs. It did not even come close. But the priest looked into the swollen eyes of the boys and agreed, explaining that what they had would be put to good use. There was no way he could turn down a service for them—they were just kids. They were not guilty of this life, and, in fact, it should be society to pay them. The only thing they were guilty of was their innocence.
Gabby securely linked her arm with Spot's as the wind whipped a flyaway piece of hair in front of her eyes. If she had the ability to spout tears, she would. If she could get that trembled sobbing to surface, she would. As hard as she tried, though, nothing came out. No outward sign of crying at all. But on the inside, her heart ached terribly as she scanned over the group of boys that surrounded the buried, dirt-covered casket. The weak were in the back, wiping tear tracks from their cheeks frequently.
The strong planted their feet into the cool, hard ground. Eyes fixed upon the casket. Hands placed stiffly in their pockets. There was no indication of human emotion in their faces, but they were not fooling anyone. Gabby could hear them crying inside, louder than those in the back.
The priest nodded as, slowly-but-surely, the crowd of thirty or so newsies dispersed. The breeze of May whirled around in a fashion that depicted the feelings felt by everyone; sharp, edgy, and angry. No one quite felt this emotion more, though, than Spot. His chest compressed and suffocated him. Pains in his mouth heightened from his jaws being clenched so during the service. His gaze locked itself at the mound of dirt over the rectangular wooden box that contained yet another who had been killed at Brooklyn's expense.
Gabby buried her head into Spot's shoulder with comforting attempt. He had not moved since they got there and her presence had brought him back.
"Thanks fer comin," Spot told her quietly. "Really. It means a lot." He turned to her and took his hands from his pockets to link them between Gabby's lace-covered fingers.
"I know it does," she answered sympathetically while looking up into his saddened eyes; they had gotten worse. "I'm so sorry, Spot. Truly, I am."
"Thanks…" he replied and looked around him. "It's startin' again, Gabby."
Gabby bit her lip for something to say. When her parents had died she knew exactly what she wanted to hear from other people, but now that she was here she had nothing to say. And she and Spot were always so good at talking.
Spot turned back to her. "I don't think I can go back with ya today. I gotta stay with the boys."
"I understand. Don't worry about it." Gabby moved in and embraced Spot tightly. From where she stood, she could tell she should not let go just yet. There was a sense of urgency from Spot that did not permit her to let go. She understood the importance of this simple act of a mere hug. "Everything will be okay. I promise."
Spot pulled back just his head so that he looked down at her. "I hope so." He kissed her on the lips for moments and they parted.
Blink's being murdered was more than just a deceased friend; with Tyce's note left on the body, it only opened the gates to a massive issue: another territory war. It was not just two boroughs battling it out for pride anymore. Tyce had struck Brooklyn's closest ally, Manhattan. With that strike being made, Brooklyn and Queens were not the only ones that would be fighting.
Racetrack set the note of warning at the center of the old wooden table in the bunkroom of Brooklyn. "So boys, what do we plan on doin' about this?"
They boys stared at the uncrumbled piece of paper, that had previously been smashed into a ball by Spot, as they removed their suit jackets, lit up their cigarettes, and got comfortable. It would be a long discussion.
"Clearly Tyce is playing dirty this time," David Jacobs stated as he put his brown cap upon the splintered table surface. "Killing someone's ally during peacetime doesn't exactly say 'fair'."
"No shit, Dave," Spot retorted scathingly as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest so that his well-defined biceps seemed bigger. "We already know that. He may not be as dirty as some, but he's still a shit to deal with."
David bit his tongue and fought the urge to lash out against Spot for being so short to answer. But he considered where he was at and swallowed it down.
"He didn't do this before with us," Bolt added. "Last time, we'se had a war council an' everythin'. It was respectable then. I say we strike 'em back." He threw a blown-out match to the table with frustration and exhaled a strong wips of smoke. His eyes fixed upon the note before him while his cigarette shook in between his dirty fingers.
"I second that," Jack responded with a combination of melancholy and anger in his voice. As if it was strangling him, he loosened his red bandana quickly. "That son of a bitch don't deserve to live," he added in a low voice that accentuated his point of rage.
Thompson rose up from his chair and began pacing around, something he tended to do in stressful situations. "I agree with ya, Jack, but we gotta be smart. I don't want 'im to live just as much as you do, but we can't go slaughterin' all 'a Queens. It'd be a massacre."
Jack snorted childishly and looked to the side. Under his breath he muttered, "how's about I kill on 'a your best friends and see how you'se react."
Thompson stared wide-eyed at him offensively and Spot immediately stood up, the chair being him falling back at the push of his legs. The cloud of smoke ceased to swirl around above them but simply hover with tension, as Bolt, David, and Racetrack awaited a response from Spot in disbelief that Jack Kelly dared make that comment.
Jack's guilty eyes traveled to Spot's locked and fuming features. "Spot, I didn't mean dat—"
"Damn straight ya didn't," Spot interrupted with a pointed finger. "How 'bout we stick all 'a your brothers into a battle and see who makes it out alive, hm?"
"Conlon—" Bolt tried to calm.
"Or betta yet, let's have Manhattan fight this thing entirely separate from Brooklyn! We'll fight our own battles and you'se can have yah revenge all ya want. Do me a favor, though, and tell me who survives!" he shouted angrily.
"A'right—" Jack attempted.
"No! It ain't a'right, Jack! Ya think yah so fuckin' safe in Manhattan. Don't got any enemies, leadahs to worry about er nothin'. Ovah here we gotta fight harder against guys like Tyce. Don't go sayin' things yah know nothin' about!"
Silence plagued the room once more as Jack now slowly got to his feet with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.
"I may not be used to this shit on a daily basis, Brooklyn, but ya gotta undastand my anger with this," Jack replied. "Sorry I don't know nothin' about wars or anythin' 'a that sort, but don't go bringin' down our loss just 'cause it ain't a big deal to you!"
"Ya're pushin' it, Kelly…" Spot growled. "Don't go puttin' words in my mouth. Ya're this close to fightin' this thing on yah own." Spot turned on his heel and kicked his chair out of his way, sending a loud crash to fill the room. He clenched his arm muscles and huffed over to the window.
"Hey!" David intervened and got to his feet. "Enough! If we can't even discuss this together then it's a lost cause. The last thing we need right now is to fight Queens separately."
There was hesitation as the two leaders said nothing. Spot spit to the floor and shook his head.
"Spot, get back here and talk with us about what we're going to do," said David.
Racetrack raised his eyebrows at the surprising defiance of authority David had shown. He turned his head to face Spot in anticipation as did the rest.
After moments of immature ignorance, Spot picked up his cane that sat near his bed and stomped back to David, holding the cane high on its rod and pointing it in David's face."
"Ya don't ever tell me what to do, David," he told him. He pursed his lips and grabbed the fallen down chair. Propping it back to its normal position, he sat back down forcefully.
David could have smiled to himself at how Spot followed his orders and said not to boss him around. Clearly the Brooklyn leader had denial issues.
As soon as Gabby left the safety of Spot's loving arms, she set off to her intended place to be. Her feet paced through the weeping mass of boys and girls through the cemetery as she looked to the ground the entire time.
Ace waited at the designated meeting place impatiently. He rocked back and forth between his heels and toes at the corner a block away from where they had just been. As soon as he spotted Gabby, he threw his hands up to question her whereabouts.
"Finally!" he said while she jogged towards him. "We'se gonna be late now."
Gabby rushed forward and joined Ace's side as they hurried through the crowded streets. Ace grabbed Gabby's upper arm and pulled her faster along, looking back behind to see whether or not gabby had been followed.
"Was that supposed to happen?" Gabby asked him with an unsure voice. "I mean…"
"No, I know what ya're talkin' about," Ace finished for her as he practically dragged her up the steps to the recently shut-down factory. "And I wasn't expectin' that neither."
The large, open building that had barely survived a fire and had the blackened wood to prove it, was nearly a month old as the government had yet decided what to do with its useless space and messy atmosphere. Until then, it was the perfect meeting place for the underclass of Brooklyn. They hurried up the decrepit staircase and into an empty room, panting and catching their breath. They took a seat on the dusty floorboards and waited.
Then, out of the darkened hallway came the repeated sounds of footsteps along the corridor. Gabby and Ace both got up again and dusted off their clothes. Gabby sighed as they watched him come in through the doorframe and into the light.
"Finally," said Tyce Nichols in his malicious voice. "I was beginnin' to think you two had turned against me."