Author's note: First of all, I'm sorry for taking so long to post; the muse just isn't working properly on this one. Second, I'd like to thank Rhapsody, Melika, Friend of Door, and Stage for their reviews of the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one as well.
Only the daring and those who didn't mind the cold leapt into the waters of the East River that morning. Blaze and Bumlets shivered at the thought of swimming and rubbed their palms together for warmth as they hurried along the docks. The sky was a shade of seagull gray and the wind played restlessly in the scrawny, nearly bare trees. Occasionally the sound of shattered glass pierced the air. They neared a group of newsies gathered at the end of the pier, all cheering noisily and shouting compliments. "Nice one, Aki!"
At the sight of familiar faces, Bumlets and Blaze quickened their steps. Soon the Brooklyn newsies caught sight of them approaching and their compliments turned into shouts of greeting.
"Hey!" Frizz called cheerfully as she pushed a hand through her curly auburn locks. "What're ya doin heah?"
"Pretty early for a visit," JB remarked thoughtfully.
Blaze shook her head. "Sorry, not jus' a visit," she informed them solemnly. "We were wonderin' if Spot was around. We need ta talk ta him."
Quipster raised her eyebrow, her green eyes flashing with curiosity. "Anyt'ing specifc ya wanna talk ta him about?" she questioned
Blaze and Bumlets cast a quick glance at each other, wondering if they should divulge such information before speaking to Spot. Bumlets shrugged and turned to the Brooklyn newsies, who had all fallen silent in anticipation of the response. "It's about da missin' kids," he informed them. "Anuddah kid went missin' from Harlem da oddah night. We don't t'ink it's jus' a bunch of kids dat ran away; it's gotta be somet'ing more."
Bookie rolled her eyes and laughed lightly. "Ah, come on. I can't believe da Manhattan newsies are afraid of da dark."
Blaze narrowed her eyes challengingly. "We ain't makin' dis stuff up. Why would all dese newsies jus' up and run away widout givin' da slightest hint dat dey'se leavin'? Somet'ing's going on." She paused for a moment, glowering at the Brooklyn newsies who stared back with stoic expressions. For a moment she considered further lecturing them about taking these events seriously, but, thinking better, gathered all the calm she could muster. "Now, wheah's Spot?"
"He's not heah," Emu admitted, and the Manhattan newsies scowled in frustration. The Brooklyn newsgirl frowned sympathetically; she was friendly with most of them, and was currently dating Kid Blink. "He went sellin' wid Bittah earliah tahday, and den dey were headed ta Queens. Do ya wanna leave a message for him?"
"Yeah," Bumlets said, a piercing irritation in his tone. "Tell him ta come ta Manhattan whenevah you'se are ready ta admit dat someone—or somet'ing—is makin' dese kids disappeah."
The Brooklyn newsies merely shook their heads condescendingly as they watched Bumlets and Blaze march into the pedestrian traffic of the docks.
*****
"Can ya believe it?" Blaze demanded of her fellow Manhattan newsies as she glowered at her sausage as though it was the physical embodiment of the events that occurred in Brooklyn. "Dey didn't even seem ta care; dey t'ink we're crazy for t'inkin' dat somet'ing's going on." Her frown deepened as she scowled noisily. "Tell dat ta da Harlem kids."
"Well, at least we know dat it ain't happened in Brooklyn yet," Itey spoke up and shrugged. "Not dat dat helps us a whole lot."
Not even Brooklyn knows what's goin' on, Jack thought, staring into his cup of black coffee as though it were a crystal ball. He imagined children, swaddled in rags and shifting through garbage for food, being snatched off of the street because of—what? His forehead furrowed in sober thought. Why would anybody wanna take a bunch of street kids? I mean, if you'se gonna take kids, nobody'd notice a buncha missin' street kids. But why are dey even disappeahing at all?
Jack was familiar with the manner in which things simply disappeared. He glanced at Books, who was chatting easily with Snoddy and Pie Eater as she placed steaming dishes in front of them, and remembered sitting on a bare wooden floor as he invented stories about heroic cowboys, faithful cavalries and horizons of red mountains. His sister's eyes had shone with a brilliance that could not be explained by the single candle that served as their source of light. Against his will, memories flooded Jack's mind until he felt as though he was drowning despite the din of those around him.
~*~
"And Western Jim, well, he didn't know what he was gonna do," a young boy, whose greasy hair fell into his eyes, dropped his voice to a whisper. He momentarily glanced at the grimy window, which the moonlight seemed unable to penetrate, before turning his attention back to the girl who sat before him with her legs crossed like a small Buddha. Her eyelids were dropping but her head was still raised, causing the boy to recognize that he still needed to invent an ending to that evening's tale.
"Uh-huh," the girl prompted in a weary yet persistent voice. "What happened?"
"Well..." the boy muttered and coughed anxiously. His stomach twisted with the realization that he would soon no longer be able to hide the truth from his sister with quick bedtime stories. The entire affair had been much simpler when she had been a toddler, falling asleep in the middle of a dramatic tale and sleeping peacefully until morning.
"Did da Indians come?"
A relieve grin split across the boy's lightly freckled face. "Yeah, dat's it. Western Jim had left a trail dat only da Indians knew. See, he's a smart guy, dat Western Jim. He learned it all from—"
His voice stopped at the familiar sound of a rusty doorknob turning. Momentarily praying for a small miracle, he leapt to his feet and hustled his sister into the other room (separated from the main room by means of a shabby gingham curtain).
"Hey!" she shrieked and struggled against her brother's shove despite her weariness. "What happened ta da story?"
"Uh, we'll save dat for tahmarrah night," he vowed and tossed her a tattered nightgown. "Now go ta bed; I promised ya'd be asleep hours ago."
The girl frowned petulantly as she tugged on her nightgown, not knowing whether to be irritated by her brother's domineering behavior or flattered that he had deemed her worthy of staying up far passed her bedtime. She crawled into bed, springs moaning in protest with each small movement, and was asleep within moments.
One problem avoided, the boy thought with a silent sigh of relief. Watching the door inch open, his heart began to pound with the force of several hammers. One more ta go.
A man nearing middle age staggered the tenement, moving slowly under the weight of a shabby wooden crate he clutched to his chest. His thinning hair, which could be called neither blonde nor brown, was obviously rumpled even hidden under his frayed cap. His thin, sharply defined cheeks were stained vermillion. Perspiration dotted his upper lip and forehead. He had not shaved in days, after losing his razor and cursing his luck instead of buying another one. If there had been a time when his green eyes had possessed the light of youth and hope, that time was a mystery to the young boy who studied him. The boy could not remember a time when wrinkles of worry (not laughter) had not been carved around the man's eyes and thin lips.
"Heya, Frances," he greeted in a gasp for air as he strained to steady the crate. "Why ain't ya asleep?" He did not speak accusingly, only tiredly, as though he had hoped to find both of the children slumbering.
The boy shrugged and leaned against a nearly wall. "Jus' wasn't tired yet."
"Oh." Using his leg to close the door behind him, he set the crate on the splintered floor. "Well, ya outta get ta sleep now. Make shoah ya don't wake your sistah when ya get inta bed." His voice was labored, as though he still struggled with the weight of the crate
"Okay, Papa." He strode towards the curtain, taking care to glance into the crate as he passed. Gold watches, leather wallets, and a diamond bracelet winked at him from the depths of the rickety wood. Frances's stomach twisted into a tight knot, although he mentally berated himself for such a reaction. It ain't like you'se not used ta dat; he's always come home wid stuff like dat and ya know exactly how he gets it. Ain't no use tryin' ta get him ta change.
The man saw the flash of disappointment in his son's eyes. The boy had almost disappeared behind the curtain when a word ripped out of him. "Frances," he called, causing the boy to turn slowly. When faced with the weary expression of a boy far too old for his eight years, his jaw moved helplessly and produced no meaningful sound. "I…uh…'night, son."
"'Night, Papa."
~*~
Leaning on the back two legs of his chair, Jack wearily studied the dregs of his coffee. While those around him created wild theories to explain the sudden rash of disappearances, he silently mulled over the issue. T'ings don't jus' disappeah, he solemnly reminded himself. Deah's always somebody dat's deah makin' dem disappeah.
He placed his cup on his table with more force than he had intended, drawing the curious stares of those sitting beside him. When he did not make any remark, they turned away and allowed him to continue his thoughts in peace. His stomach churned anxiously at the memory of stolen items lying in broken crates or stuffed into his father's tattered pockets. He did what he t'ought he had ta do ta stay alive—and ta help us stay alive, too, Jack told himself, a phrase that Books had occasionally used when trying to rationalize the actions that had landed their father in jail. Taught me not ta starve, yeah. But at least I make a kinda decent livin'. At least I ain't doin' anyt'ing dat'd leave two kids homeless and starvin' on da streets.
The memory of two particular street kids flashed behind his eyelids. Aw, damnit, what do dey maddah? Da boy looks okay, but dat girl's annoyin' as hell. I wondah what happened ta dem, anyway? He scowled noisily, once again attracting the attention of those beside him. Ah, screw it, it ain't my problem. Blushing faintly, he grabbed his cup of coffee and downed the last weak gulp.
To be continued…please review!