Author's note: I'd like to thank Rae Kelly, Cyanne, Bookie, Bittah, and Shabbosbride for their wonderful feedback. You guys are awesome. I hope you enjoy this part.
Jean happily licked his fingers clean, relishing the remaining crumbs of his lunch. "Mmm…" he murmured, a contented grin stretching across his face. Imogene was reminded of a lazy cat being stroked. She felt an urge to scowl, but realized that he didn't get many opportunities to feel this way. And it's my fault, she thought as she sipped absently at her coffee.
"Delicious," he remarked.
"Maybe we should give the chef our compliments," Imogene replied with a wry grin.
"Why not? We can just call over Books, and…" He had turned his eyes towards the kitchen door, but they immediately lost their mischievous sparkle. His forehead furrowed in suspicion and his voice dropped low. "Imogene, haven't we see him before?"
Imogene blinked in surprise at her brother. We haven't been in New York long enough to really know anyone, she thought, and her stomach dropped in anxiety. She turned around in her chair and, once she saw who her brother was staring at, wished she had stayed facing Jean.
"Oh, great," she mumbled and rolled her eyes. "Just our luck."
Jack, who had been contemplating simply going back to his lunch, took a step towards Imogene and Jean once he had been spotted. He opened his mouth to speak, but the dark-haired girl had already leapt to her feet.
"What are you doin', stalkin' us?" she demanded hotly. "And if you came over here to tell us that we gotta find another restaurant, well, you're outta your mind."
The newsboy wished he had been talking with anyone- the Delancey brothers, Snyder, Pulitzer, anyone!- but this girl. No wondah Hades was about ready ta kill her when I came ovah, he thought. "Calm down already," he answered, returning her irritated glare. "I couldn't care less wheah ya eat. My sistah jus' mentioned dat ya might be able ta help me out."
Imogene swiftly glanced at her brother before turning back to Jack with a wary expression. Her body tensed. "Help you out how?" she inquired cautiously, as though preparing for a blow. "And what makes your sister think we can help you, anyway?"
"She said you'se weren't from around heah- dat you'se are street kids,' he informed them.
"Who's your sister?"
He nodded towards the kitchen. "A waitress heah- her name's Samantha, but ev'rybody calls her Books."
Jean's expression brightened considerably. "Books!" he exclaimed, as though everything was all right now. "We know her. She waited on us."
Imogene rolled her eyes, making a silent comment about how the way to her brother's heart (and memory) was through his stomach. She placed her hands impatiently on her hips. "So what do you want? And what makes Books think we can even help you?"
"You'se are street kids, right?" he asked.
"Yeah, so what? So are a thousand kids."
"So are a lotta kids who are disappearin'."
Imogene's stomach seemed to drop into her tattered boots. "What do you mean?" she wanted to know.
"Kids all ovah da city have been disappearin'," he explained solemnly. "Street kids, newsies, kids comin' home from workin' all day at a factory- kids who da police and da papes don't care about, ya know? Last night dis kid, Match, from Harlem, disappeared. So we- da Manhattan newsies- are startin' ta get really worried. Dis ain't jus' kids runnin' off. Deah's somet'ing wrong heah."
She pushed a hand through her hair. "And you think I got them all stashed away in my pocket?"
Jack wanted to throw up his hands in defeat and then march back to his table, hopefully to never see this girl again. He turned slightly and saw Les gnawing on a roast beef sandwich. Damnit, he thought and looked at the girl standing before him. "I was jus' wonderin'," he said, unable to keep a note of aggravation out of his voice, "if you'se two had seen anyt'ing unusual around heah."
"Ya'll are on the street as much as we are; and besides, we just got here. If anythin', you should know more than we do."
"But we ain't out deah at night," he responded. "We got a lodgin' house ta sleep in, so we don't see a lot of what happens later on. And we're guessin' dat's when da kids go missin'."
Kids don't just disappear, Imogene remarked to herself, imagining vicious tortures lunatics would inflict on young children. She thought of her brother suddenly missing. Her heart ached and her stomach turned at the thought that someone (or something) would try to separate them- was separating other siblings. She wondered what might have happened if he had vanished before she had left Louisiana and felt her insides quake. "We…" she murmured, her voice unusually choked. She cleared her throat before starting again. "We haven't seen anything. Look, the kids probably just ran off- kids do that all the time, especially kids with no families." The images of her own parents flashed before her mind and she shuddered, pretending it was caused by a chill in the air. "I bet nothin's wrong."
"I doubt it," Jack replied firmly.
"Well, thanks for…for the information," she said and grabbed for her brother's arm. "We'll let you know if we see anything." She pulled Jean (who was protesting being treated like baggage) to his feet and, without a backwards glance, rushed out of the restaurant.
Jack shook his head and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Out of all da street kids in New Yawk City, I had ta get stuck wid her. He resigned himself to a bad day and hoped that things would start looking up soon. With a nearly inaudible sigh, he strolled back to his table.
"Any luck?" Cyanne inquired hopefully.
"About as much luck as Race had at da track tahday." From the next table, Racetrack moaned pitifully, and Jack wondered whether he was thinking of Jack's attempt to extract more information out of the girl, or for his own losses.
*****
Jean yanked his arm away from his sister once they were on the sidewalk. His eyes became slits as he glowered at her. "What in hell did you do that for?" he demanded, his cheeks growing red with anger and humiliation. "I'm not a little kid; you don't have to drag me around."
"I just wanted to get out of there," she responded, her voice rising slightly and attracting the attention of a few pedestrians. She quieted when she caught sight of a policemen across the street. "It wasn't like I was tryin' to hurt you."
"You could have told me you wanted to leave."
"And you would have whined that you hadn't finished your coffee."
His lips tightened in a furious frown. "No I wouldn't have. It's not like I need you to guide me around or anything. I do have my own brain, you know."
"Then use it sometimes."
"I use mine more than you use yours!"
"Stop actin' like a baby already."
"I am not actin' like a baby."
Imogene vaguely remembered when her brother was born. He had been so small, so red, and so loud. Their father had held him up, his joyful laughter echoing throughout Imogene's parent's bedroom. Her mother had been lying in bed with a tired smile on her face and her rosary in her hands. Imogene imagined her brother learning to crawl and to walk. Her parents' eyes had become glazed over- her father's with alcohol and her mother's with something Imogene hadn't been able to name. She suddenly felt guilty that she had treated her brother so poorly, but she couldn't bring herself to apologize yet.
"Look, let's just get to work, all right?" she suggested.
Jean scowled and kicked a few pebbles into the gutter. He turned away from his sister, weighing his options. Finally, when the prospect of a good dinner flashed through his mind, he muttered, "Fine."
"Good." She was tempted to order him to follow her so that she could find a suitable place for fortune-telling, but felt that she should be gracious. "Where do you think we should work?" she asked him, hoping that he wouldn't name a corner outside of a bakery or restaurant. He wouldn't work; he's just press his face against the front window all day.
Still somewhat upset with his sister, Jean merely turned on his heel and marched away, only looking to see if his sister had followed once he had stopped at a corner several blocks away from Tibby's. He raised his eyebrow critically, as though he had expected her to be shouting to the crowds already. She rolled her eyes condescendingly at him before adopting a mysterious smile and calling to the people milling around her.
"Know the future!" she cried. "See what the Fates have in store for you! Palm readings, tarot cards, astrology! Special prices today!"
Some pedestrians and street vendors ceased their actions and turned to study the girl. A group of young factory workers approached cautiously, as though their interest was slowly overcoming whatever fear they had of the unknown. One of them- a girl around twelve years-old with thin, disheveled blonde hair- stepped close to Imogene.
"What…what's gonna happen ta me?" she inquired, her voice barely audible, and held out a single penny. "Can ya see?"
Imogene vaguely wondered what would cause the girl to phrase her question as such. She pocketed the coin "What hand do you use?"
The girl raised her left hand shyly. Imogene took it, turned it over, and began to intensely study the palm. "Hmm…" she murmured contemplatively, seeing a painful future for the girl. Along with most other girls like her, she thought sadly. "You have a deep curve here." She traced the girl's heart line. "You have a very passionate nature. And here, you will travel a lot, see the world. You like to think about new things, get new ideas." Her lips curled into an unconsciously sad smile. "You will have an unusually happy life."
The factory workers, interested in the palmistry but fearful of arriving at work late, urged their friend to hurry. The girl blushed and stammered her gratitude to Imogene, and rushed off with her friends.
Imogene sighed heavily as she watched the girl go. The girl's hands had been calloused and scarred, most likely due to years of work in a factory. Even without the use of her tarot cards, Imogene could tell that the girl had had a difficult life at best. She wondered if the girl, who would most likely look twice her age in a few years, would live to see the age of twenty.
Before she could ponder the girl's fate any further, Jean bolted to her side. His cheerfully flashing eyes were evidence that he was in a much better mood. When he opened his palm, she could see the cause of his joy.
"Five dollars and eighty-three cents," he whispered to avoid unnecessary attention from any nearby policemen, but he could barely contain his excitement. "And we've barely been workin'. We're gonna do really well today, Imogene. Keep yellin' like that and a lot of people will stop to look, and it'll be really easy for me to reach into their pockets without them noticin'.
Imogene was about to debate that her talent as a clairvoyant, not her vocal chords, was what gained them dinner, but Jean had already disappeared into the crowds once again. She shook her head and resumed her activities. "All your questions answered! Know what is to happen! Let the stars be your guide!"
She heard a faint, amused chuckle from behind her. Whirling around on her heel she found herself facing an elderly man, wearing a neat black suit and a charming grin. For a moment Imogene was reminded of her own father, who had always looked so dashing in his dark suits (although they had commonly been far more rumpled than this man's was). She studied the man's silver hair and wondered what her father would have looked like had he been alive.
When she realized that she was studying him with impolite closeness, she flushed furiously. "Have your fortune told?" she stammered embarrassedly as she fumbled to find her pack of tarot cards.
He laughed, as though assuring her that he hadn't been offended by her visual interrogation. "Why thank you. How much will that be?"
She appraised his clothing. "Five cents," she replied. He gave her a nickel without demur and she cursed herself for not asking for more.
"Is there anythin' you want to know?" she inquired. "Anythin' in particular?" He raised an eyebrow in curiousity, and she went on to explain, "It helps if you have somethin' you especially want to know."
He pressed his lips together thoughtfully, then replied, "I would like to know about my current business venture." He offered no further information and, slightly offended, Imogene imagined he thought she wouldn't be able to grasp the finer points of business. Instead of demanding more information- and possibly losing the man's business- Imogene smiled mysteriously and shuffled her cards.
She raised an eyebrow at the cards she spread on a nearby overturned, empty crate. Chariot. Struggle, a difficult victory, movement and change. Ten of Pentacles. Lasting fortune. The Tower. A war between truth and illusion. Shocking revelation. She mentally scowled and imagined that this man owned a score of factories where children like that girl daily risked their lives. "Things have been difficult, but you will be rewarded with long-lasting prosperity." Her eyes bore sternly into his. "Prepare to be shaken by the truth that you do not wish to see."
The man's spine went rigid. His pale blue eyes were narrowed and tinged with ice. He nodded curtly and murmured a less thank polite, "Thank you," before marching away.
So what if he's unhappy what's gonna happen, Imogene pondered and felt her pocket. At least I got his money. Deciding that her time would be better spent concentrating on future costumers, she began shouting to those around her once again.
She worked until her throat was hoarse and her eyes were practically swirling with the knowledge of the past, present, and future. The sun was just dipping beneath the buildings of Manhattan and an icy wind was darting playfully around the corners when Imogene took a seat on the sidewalk and began to count her earnings.
Ten and three is thirteen, she thought as she sifted through the coins in her lap. A quarter and a bit plus a nickel is…is… She bit the tip of her tongue as she counted, and was just about to calculate the right amount when she realized that a tall form stood over her.
"Whadda you think you're doin' here?" A policeman with features reminiscent of a particularly ugly bulldog was glaring at her.
She swiftly shoved her money into her sack and leapt to her feet. She stuck out her chin in an attempt to appear bolder than she felt. What is it with people tryin' to get me to leave the sidewalk? "Just sittin' here," she replied. "Do I need a special note from the mayor or somethin'?"
The policeman's face reddened to an unnatural shade. "Don't get smart with me, girl. Now move it along. Get home."
Imogene bit her lip, resisting the urge to tell him that she didn't have a home, at least not any that she could easily (or willingly) run to, so next time he had better think before he speaks. Who needs to get into an argument with a police officer and spent a night in some prison for juvenile delinquents? she questioned herself before casting the policeman one final glare. "Fine," she growled and, tossing her sack over her shoulder, went to look for Jean.
As she had expected, he was on the next block (asserting his independence, she imagined) examining his profits. When he glanced up and saw his sister approaching, his face split into a pleased grin.
"Guess how much I made," he said and, before she had the opportunity to even open her mouth, he continued. "Eight dollars and twelve cents, and a real nice pocketwatch." He dangled the silver timepiece and chain in the air. "I swiped it from that old guy you were readin' for. You didn't even see him."
Her eyebrows raised in impressed surprise. "Nice job," she complimented. "Maybe we can get more lunch tomorrow."
"At Tibby's?"
She rolled her eyes. "Only if we can't find somewhere else that's good but cheap. Come on; it's gettin' late so we should find a place to sleep before all the other street kids take the good spots."
The siblings managed to find an empty doorway in a secluded alley. Imogene knew that they would have to wake early so as not to be attacked by the owner of the establishment, but it was worth it to get partially out of the streets for one night. With Jean already snoozing at her side, she leaned against the doorway and was asleep before she could even consider Jack's warnings of mysterious disappearances.
*****
Match woke with a spitting headache and the feeling that his back would shatter into a thousand pieces if he dared to move an inch. When he opened his eyes, he thought for a moment that he had gone blind. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could faintly make out the vague shapes of what he supposed were people nearby.
"Hey," he croaked, as though he had not used his voice in many years. "Is anyone out deah?"
He was quickly and quietly hushed by several voices. One shape moved closer to him, and it wasn't until it was beside him that he realized the shape was a teenage girl.
"What's your name, kid?" the girl inquired in such a faint voice that Match guessed at her question rather than heard it.
"I'm Match- from Harlem."
"How are ya? Any serious injuries? Broken bones?"
He made a feeble attempt to shake his head. "Jus' hurt all ovah."
"Yeah, that'll happen." She shook her head sadly. "I don't know if bein' okay is any beddah den bein' hoit."
Suddenly Match's heart beat faster and his eyes widened. He tried to sit up, but every muscle in his body screamed in protest. "Whadda ya mean? What's goin' on? Wheah am I?"
The girl covered his mouth with her hand to silence his demands. "I don't know. None of us do. But ya beddah get used ta it and start ta like it, because, well, I t'ink what happens when ya leave is a lot woise."
"Why?" Match inquired through her hand.
"Because he seems happiah when ya leave. And nothin' dat can make him happy can be anyt'ing but terrible."
To be continued…please review!