Author's note: Things are going slow now that we're getting closer to the end and I apologize for my few updates. But I'm still working, so please don't forget about me. Thanks to Volcanous for her loyal reading and reviewing, and as always thanks to Bittah for her beta-reading and support. Enjoy!
The Debler Street newsies were drunk on cheap whiskey and their impending success. They sang distasteful pub tunes (or at least attempted to mumble through the verses) and danced to an unheard rhythm. Cigarette butts were dropped fecklessly on the floor while newsies competed with each other to see how many empty bottles they could break with a slingshot. The noise of the bacchanal made the walls of the lodging house tremble as though in fear of the wrath of its occupants. The person who should have been most feared did not, however, partake in the revelry. Instead he perched on the ledge of a window and stared down into the streets below.
"Hey," Jester spoke with drunken curiosity as he leaned sideways to speak to Toad and almost lost his balance, "what's wid Jackal?"
Toad shrugged and squinted at the row of half-broken bottles. "Ah, who knows? He ain't nevah one for fun. He prob'ly won't even celebrate when we get Brooklyn. Come on, I bet ya five cents I can make dis shot wid one eye closed." Jester's frown conforted with confusion as he stared at their leader for a second; then, at the sound of breaking glass, turned his attention back to the competition.
Bent slightly forward, Jackal's hunchback was more defined and thus created a greater appearance of physical weakness than usual; his thoughts were anything but. He was careful not turn to his fellow newsies so that that (even in their drunken haze) they would not see the scorn illuminating his eyes.
Ya jus' need dem for a liddle while longah, he reminded himself. Who cares what happens ta dem aftah ya get Brooklyn? It'd prob'ly be beddah if dey weren't even around; I could get some new newsies, some beddah ones. But I'll t'ink about dat when da time comes.
Now he had to think about the next step in his acquisition of Spot's—no, Wager's—territory. A snakelike smile curled slowly at the edges of his lips. Spot is gone; da Brooklyn newsies have been mostly pummeled; dey can't sell even if dey wanted ta. He chuckled maliciously under his breath, the sound as cold as the wind whistling outside. Reaching into his back pocket, he extracted the large kitchen knife he had taken great pains to keep sharpened. It gleamed coldly in the light like the physical embodiment of his laughter. Not'ing can stop me now.
With angry determination, he recalled years ago when he had first promised himself that he would take all of Brooklyn, by any means possible. Pain and death did not concern him in the slightest. Da end justifies da means, he had often told himself.
And it will be da end, he assured himself. Da end ta dis life—if ya can even call it dat—on Deblah Street, da end ta da way t'ings have always been in Brooklyn, he thought, unable contain his laughter now. The newsies halted their celebration to stare at their leader in wary confusion. And most importantly, da end ta da Brooklyn newsies.
*****
Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things. Spot could almost hear his grandfather's voice on the wind that knocked against the tenement building. He imagined his grandfather standing with such dignity before him, sighing sadly and mumbling about how he had been so wrong, so disappointed. Spot shook the thought out of his head and attempted to concentrate on fixing the rickety table, which had always wobbled threateningly under the weight of dishes. Lily sat contentedly by the furnace and sang bits of songs, often growing tired of the tune before the second verse. Spot was not sure whether she was doing so for his benefit or for her own entertainment, but he was grateful for her voice. It helped to ground him in reality.
"Oh if I was a blackboid, I could whistle and sing. I'd follow da vessel my true love sails in and in da top riggin' I would deah build my nest and I'd flutter my wings o'er her lily-white breast." Spot hid a smile at her New York accent struggling with the Irish brogue.
Becca entered from the other room and scowled at her younger sister. "Do ya gotta sing all day?" she demanded.
Lily contorted her face into one of furious rebellion and stuck out her tongue. "You'se jus' jealous," she insisted. "You'se are so off-key dat ya make da cats in da alley yowl like crazy. And I like singin', so what's wrong wid dat?"
"I got a headache and you'se makin' it woise."
"Whadda ya got a headache from?"
"From woikin' at a factory, ya moron."
"Aw, ya didn't even really woik. Ya jus' stood around all day and maybe did somet'ing wid a machine."
"It was noisy."
"It was noooisy," Lily shrilled, wagging her head mockingly.
"Shut up!"
"Make me!" Lunging for each other, they began to wrestle on the floor. Becca managed to pin her younger sister without much difficulty. Lily, not about to admit defeat, bit down on Becca's hand and would not let go, despite her sister's shrieks of pain.
"Hey!" Spot cried as he leapt up from his position by the table and rushed to tear Becca off of Lily. "Break it up! Whadda ya t'ink you're doin'? Ya wanna get whole buildin' mad at us?"
Becca narrowed her eyes venomously her sister. "She started it," she declared, spitting out the words like they were tomato seeds.
Lily gasped as though Becca had spoken utter heresy. "No I didn't!" Turning to her brother with large, pleading eyes, she was the picture of innocence "Ya saw it, right Ethan? Ya saw her start it?"
Spot was unmoved despite her resemblance to a pitiful puppy. "All I saw was two kids who outta be savin' deir energy for workin', not for fightin'. Now you stay on dis side of da room and you"—he looked at Becca—"stay on da oddah side." His solemn expression dared them to challenge his authority.
"Fine," Becca growled and rolled her eyes as she stomped over to the other side of the room.
As he went back to work, Spot recalled the myriads of time he had broken up similar fights among members of the Brooklyn Lodging House. Musta been a million times, he thought, not knowing if the knot in his stomach was caused by longing or relief. He scowled, as though hoping to expel such thoughts, and attempted to concentrate on his work. It was not long before the ghost of his grandfather's voice began to waft in his mind again.
Great t'ings, huh? he thought irately. Great like breakin' up fights between arguin' siblings and newsies, sellin' papes on a street cornah, and fixin' broken tables.
A thought forked through his brain like lightning just as he raised a hammer to nail two pieces of the table together. His forehead furrowed as he wondered why he had never asked himself this before. Why da hell does Jackal want my territory anyway? Shoah, it's beddah den Deblah Street, but why ain't he aimin' for somet'ing else? Why don't he try ta get outta Brooklyn all tahgeddah? What does he t'ink I got dat he wants?
The images came slowly, drifting lazily through his brain like smoke in a disreputable bar. Spot considered how newsies from other boroughs whispered his name in a combination of awe and fear, and how the pedestrians always seemed willing to buy a paper at the cries of vastly embellished news. Memories of playing cards with Wager late on a Sunday night; of dancing with Cardinal to a lively tune Duck played on his penny whistle; of diving off of the edge of a pier and into the jarringly cold waters of the East River. He remembered joking with Gellar after a long day of selling and having quiet conversations with Roxy about the latest book she had found in the trash behind a young men's private school. A slow chuckle issued from his lips at the memories of Imp attacking an unsuspecting newsie (for no reason anyone could guess) and of Grin flashing his smile at even the wealthy girls who traveled the streets in expensive carriages. Placing his hand over his palpitating heart, in fear that it would slip free from where it had been safely resting for so long, he thought of sitting on the roof of the lodging house and gazing at the swirling river while listening to the cheerful din of his friends.
He struggled to get hold of the vast realization that was stewing in his brain. What if Granddad was right aftah all, and I jus' didn't know what he meant?
Chortling softly under his breath at the irony of the situation, Spot shook his head sadly. Shit, ovah a decade and I finally undahstand aftah I lose everyt'ing I got. His heart gave a hopeful leap against the warm skin of his chest; his mind flitted to the memory of Roxy standing before him, her eyes filled with tears that she had not allowed to fall. But she already told me ta nevah come back. With a sigh of defeat, he leaned against the table, which creaked under the slight pressure, and wondered if it was too late to regain everything that he had lost.
*****
The air in the Brooklyn Lodging House was thick with tense silence. Everyone moved cautiously, as if they feared disturbing something as immense and powerful as the rest of the universe. Roxy was reminded of a funeral although she did not know what exactly had died. Is it our lives together? Our happiness? she wondered as she aimlessly leafed through a tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet before shoving it aside, frustrated. She could faintly hear Gellar's grandfather clock ("made by my father's own two hands; the only thing he took with him from Scotland," he always told new members of the lodging house) meticulously ticking away the seconds. Ticking away to what? What is going to become of us?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Rabbit's gentle, albeit choked, humming. Roxy's forehead furrowed in confusion as she followed the voice into the boys' bunkroom, where Rabbit sat with Grin's unresponsive hand in hers. Even from a distance Roxy could see that Rabbit's eyes were crimson. Roxy leaned carefully against the doorway and chose not to make her presence known. It was not that she wished to eavesdrop on the private moment; she simply did not want to lose the sight of beauty in the face of so much darkness.
Suddenly Rabbit's tune included words. Her voice was lyrical with the Irish accent she had lost long ago, as a child traveling to America with only her brother at her side. "And I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me, this day. Toora loora looral, toora loora lie. Toora loora looral, hush now don't you cry. Toora Loora looral, toora loora lie. Toora loora looral, it's an Irish lullaby."
Chuckling embarrassedly, Rabbit pushed a hand through her unkempt locks. "I know dat lullabies are meant ta put ya ta sleep, and you're already deah, but I like dat song anyway." She shook her head and snorted at the futility of her efforts. "Not dat ya even know I'm heah." Frowning solemnly, she paused for a moment and when she continued, tears hindered her ability to speak. "Ya know, Grin, we...we can't get along…widout ya. I can't. So ya gotta get beddah. I...I know ya prob'ly jus' t'ink I'm some kinda flirt…and I pretty much am…but ya gotta be heah, Grin." Rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, she laughed ironically. "Not dat ya'll evah know it, but I t'ought I outta say so."
Roxy felt as though her throat was being pinched by an invisible hand. She whirled around and quietly walked away from her friends, hoping that Rabbit would not turn and see her eyes grow moist and red as she thought of a life without them. Then, instead of wanting to cry, she was consumed by a sudden rage. Her fists clenched so tightly that she thought her bones would break. Her expression was as calm and determined as Spot's had ever been. Dashing down the staircase, she flew to Gellar's desk, where the man was talking in low, solemn tones to Wager. Both looked up at her in bewilderment at her soberly dogged countenance.
"What are we doing?" Roxy demanded, her eyes boring into the new leader of the Brooklyn newsies.
His eyebrows raised and he blinked once. "Whadda ya mean? We'se heah 'cause we couldn't go sellin tahday—"
"Because we're scared of the Debler Street newsies," she finished impatiently. "Yes, I know—and that's the problem. We're just taking it. We need to do something. We're Brooklyn. Isn't that worth fighting for?"
Wager was wary, despite her exclamation. "Do ya realize how many hurt people we got heah, Roxy? It ain't like it'd be a real fair fight."
"We don't have to jump up and run to Debler Street right now. Maybe we can make a plan, something that will let us fight without getting killed. But Wager, we have to do something. Of course we're hurt, in more ways than one, but does that mean we can just crawl into a fetal position and die? What are we doing now? Just waiting around to get or territory taken or destroyed, or to get ourselves killed. We're like…like lambs at the slaughter."
*****
Jackal chuckled as he thought the exact same thing. They don't even know what's gonna hit dem. Then, at the sight of his befuddled accomplices, his face distorted in a contemptuous scowl. "What?" he demanded, his tongue dripping with venom and his eyes flashing dangerously. Even Bulldog, the toughest and most favored of Jackal's newsies, took an apprehensive step back from his leader.
"Jus' keep quiet," Jackal growled and was immediately lost in his thoughts once again. Vivid mages the burning of the Brooklyn distribution center—red flames stretching towards the sky, smoke as black as the night sky choking those rushing around, cries of fear—filled his mind. Vaguely he knew that people most likely died. He shrugged impassively. If anybody died, it musta been an old workah or one of da Brooklyn newsies, he told himself. And it was deah fault anyway for not gettin' away. Then again, perhaps no one had died; he had only stayed long enough to watch the frenzy of his enemies. He laughed quietly but menacingly, recalling the crackling fire from his single match spreading to destroy the entire distribution center.
There was nothing left of the building but a few charred pieces of wood and ash. Jackal fancied himself as a phoenix, but rather rising out of the ash of his own creation than that of his own flesh.
Jackal was prepared to do anything to reach his goal. Memories of former Debler Street newsies resonated throughout his brain; some worked in factories now, under the vicious gaze of an unkind foreman. Others sat in the gutters, drowning their sorrow and dreams in malt liquor. A few were already dead, either due to hunger or accidents or in an attempt to make it out of Debler Street. The recollection of past leaders of the Debler Street newsies huddled in the streets, sobbing for what could never be obtained, enraged him. His eyes narrowed in fierce desire to make the Brooklyn newsies sob in a similar fashion.
Suddenly he leapt to his feet with the speed of a viper, whirling around to face his surprised newsies. "Come on," he ordered and moved for the door.
They hesitated. "Whadda ya mean, Jackal?" Swing asked, alcohol slurring his words.
"I mean for ya ta follow me widout question," Jackal replied. He calmly folded his hands behind his back, giving the appearance of a stern but composed schoolmaster. His voice was even, especially in contrast to Swing's. His eyes, locked with Swing's but commanding the attention of all of the other newsies as well, were the only part of his body that revealed his violent frenzy. "Now come on. We ain't waitin' any longah ta get what we desoive."
To be continued…please review!