Hehe, Whistler's such a good actor. Everything should come clear in this chapter, and I can only hope that I'll manage to convince Silky.

Chapter 9: Keys

All was prepared. Spot grinned as he glanced over his deployed troops, making doubly certain that everyone was where he was supposed to be. Two groups of five each waited on nearby fire escapes with slingshots in case the fight got out of hand, while Spot and the main body of the army stood ready to charge, twenty boys in all. Each carried the weapon of his choice, be it a knife, ready fists, slingshot, or—in Spot's case—gold topped cane.

"First slingshots, ready!" Spot called. The marksmen not in fire escapes aimed carefully at the door of the Queens lodging house.

"FIRE!" Ten or so assorted rocks, marbles and bits of whatever was at hand flew through the air, hitting the building.

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doin' out there?" someone shouted from inside.

"Takin' back what's mine," Spot yelled back. "Fire at will, boys!"

Meanwhile, Whistler had won the Nine Man's Morris game against the door keeper and was concentrating on staying away from the windows as a steady barrage of debris clattered against the glass. Now was the delicate portion of his mission. To steer clear of the Queens boys long enough to get the prisoners out the back way and back to Brooklyn.

"Git your lazy asses out there an' fight back, ya bums!" Deuce shouted. Whistler concentrated on being inconspicuous as he fought the crowd heading toward the door. Suddenly he found himself not moving, a hand on the back of his collar.

"You!" the owner of the hand shouted. "What the hell are ya doin' goin' that way? Git up t'the front!"

"Ya moron!" Whistler shouted back, thinking fast. "'F Spot sees me, I'm done for an' you lose a spy!"

Deuce frowned a moment, trying to figure out what his prisoner had said. "Then git in back where no one kin see ya," he ordered.

"Gladly," Whistler said, saluting. "I'll go make sure no one sneaks the prisoners out while you all're out front."

"Yah, go guard the prisoners," Deuce said, nodding. He turned to the rest of the Queens boys who were hanging around the door. "Whatcha waitin' for? Git out there!"

"Slingshots down, weapons up!" Spot yelled as the lodging house door opened. Some twenty-odd boys came boiling out, followed by Deuce who was urging them on. The Brooklynites came forward to meet them.

For about two minutes, all was chaos. Spot laid about with his cane, hitting whatever he could reach that looked unfamiliar. He privately thanked whoever was listening that he had had his boys wear a bit of blue cloth tied around their arms. Otherwise there might have been serious injuries from friendly fire, and the King of Brooklyn wouldn't stand for that.

Meanwhile, Whistler was having problems of his own. It seemed that the door keeper had been mistaken in saying thatMrs. Conlon and Emilywere in the back room, unless Deuce had figured out how to make them invisible. Whistler severely doubted this, and so began his search, cursing the entire time. After all, he couldn't be sure how long Spot's diversion up front would last.

After nearly two minutes of knocking on doors and shouting for Emily and Mrs. Conlon, he came across a locked door.

"Hah," he muttered as he fished his lockpicks out of the pocket of his trousers. The lock was open in seconds and Whistler was taking the stairs two at a time as he went down to the basement.

It seemed that Brooklyn was winning. Deuce had long since abandoned the fight for the safety of the lodging house, leaving his boys to their fate at the hands of the irate Brooklynites. No quarter was given.
The basement of the Queens lodging house was nearly pitch black save for a soft glow from under yet another door. This one was locked as well, but this presented no problem for Whistler and his skills. He threw the door open to reveal Mrs. Conlon-- dirty, tired, and clutching a sleeping Emily.

"Hey, 'member me?" Whistler said. "I'm Spot-- I mean,Patrick's second.He sent me to get you outta here."

"Why should I trust you?" Mrs. Conlon asked. "The last time someone said they'd come on Patrick's orders they turned out to be lying."

Whistler shrugged. "I suppose you're right. 'Cept for one thing." He pulled something on a shoestring out of his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Conlon. "Your son don't take this off for anythin', an' anyone tryin' to steal it'll find themselves in a lota' pain. He gave it t'me to show you."

Mrs. Conlon examined the small object. It was a key, the same key that she'd noticed around her son's neck.

"Patrick's outside, makin'some noise so I can get you and Emily back to Brooklyn. I'm not sure how long he'll be able to keep them busy."

Mrs. Conlon nodded. "I trust you," she said.