Chapter 2

Concerning Item #2: The Gold-Tipped Cane 1

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"Patrick, darling!" she called after him, but her voice fell on deaf ears. She ran after him, but she stopped, for he was young, and she could never be able to catch him. Tears fell to her eyes, and sorrow overcame her, but her voice never weakened. He was gone, but she would do all in her power to get him back. He was her only child, and she loved him. Without him, she was alone. For though Patrick never knew, she was thankful.

"God save him," she said, as she watched him disappeared over the hill of the cemetery.

-

The street was dark and lonely. Patrick had a few coins in his pocket, but they wouldn't get him far. He was cold, and had nowhere to go. But he would sooner freeze to death or starve than go back to that house. The guilt was too much. He sat on the curb in Manhattan, and put his face in his hands. The gutter water ran over his feet, but he was too tired to care.

A man entered his life then, when Patrick was coldest and hungriest. He was an old man, who held a box under one arm, and with the other poked at Patrick with a gold-tipped cane.

"Youse alive?" he said.

Patrick looked up at the older man, about the age of his father, and squinted through the dark.

"Kid?" the man insisted on the boy answering.

"Leave me alone," Patrick said, pushing the man's cane away from his arm.

"Youse an orphan or a runaway?"

Patrick looked up at the man and didn't now what to say.

"Both," he said finally.

"Fine, then. Fine. Look at ya, all sitting in a lump, nottin' more than a spot on the cobblestone. Ya wanna help me with this here box, Spot? I'll give ya dinner if ya do."

Patrick frowned, but before he could answer the man dragged him to his feet and said;

"Of course ya do. Now come with me."

They walked a ways, the man giving Patrick the heavy box to carry. The old man directed him to a tall decaying building, one with still a warm feeling about it, with lights on the inside and music to be heard. The sign above told that it was a saloon.

"Home sweet home," the man said. "Come on in, kid."

He led him around the back, to inside a storage room, and let Patrick set the box down there.

"The name's Mr. Barrenger to you. Come on in the kitchen."

He led Patrick through to the next room, where people were busy at work serving drinks, playing piano, and getting drunk. But the old man didn't linger, just led him to a set of stairs, and up to the living floor of the bar.

A plump woman in an apron came immediately at the sound of the opening front door.

"Oh, my dear, I thought you had gotten lost in the dark. Talk of rain soon, oh! I was so worried."

She hugged him promptly and then noticed the young boy.

"And what's this? Picking up more strays, John?" she smirked at the old man.

"This is the misses," Mr. Barrenger explained. "Just promised him a hot meal, Lizzie, he ain't stayin'."

She bent down to Patrick's level.

"Well, ain't you the handsomest one! Like hell he thinks we're just going to through you back out on the street. He may be heartless, but I sure ain't!" She grabbed his hand decidedly and led him to the kitchen, still ranting on. "Look at you, all skin and bones! We'll have to get you plenty of jobs around here, build you up a bit! Definitely need more meat, you do. We'll get you on your feet, mark my words!"

She filled his plate with delicious things like pork and potatoes and cornbread. It wasn't like what he was used to eating, but it tasted wonderful.

"And look at you, with your torn dark clothes. It's a wonder that a stray carriage didn't hit you, blendin' in with the night like that! Wait just a moment and I'll fetch you some dry clothes."

"Looks like you're her new pet," Mr. Barrenger said with a smile. Patrick looked up at him with a full mouth and said:

"Suits me fine."

The old man laughed.

"I'll bet it does. When you're done here come on downstairs and I'll get you some more things to do. Ain't getting all this for free, mind you."

"What's this?" A redheaded kid came from the hall, scratching his head in wonder.

"Who's that?" he laughed at Spot's appearance. "Look at ya! Youse all hoity-toity and whatnot. Where ya from anyway?"

Patrick looked down at his clothes, well-tailored pants and neatly buttoned shirt and perfectly tied tie.

Patrick loosened the tie from around his neck and threw it to the floor.

"I'm not-- I mean, I ain't hoity-toity or nottin'. These don't even belong t' me, so shove off."

The redhead smiled.

"I like him," he announced. "He can stay in my room. Name's Red, Mr. Fancypants. What's your name, kid?"

Patrick found it funny that he called him 'kid' when they appeared to be around the same age.

"Patrick Conlon."

"Well, come with me, I give ya the tour."

He led him around the small one room apartment happily.

"Red's a real original name, I know, with the hair, but it's just what they always call me, so I don't even remember what my real name was anymore. Prolly's already happened to youse, huh? What he call ya out on the street?"

Patrick thought for a moment.

"Spot."

"Well, welcome, Spot Conlon."

-

The clothes Mrs. Barrenger brought weren't exactly custom made, but Spot made them work best to suit him. That is, the white and gray plaid shirt was slightly too big, so he rolled up the sleeves and tucked in the bottom. And the brown pants were slightly too small, rising just above his ankles, but they were the only ones that fit somewhere around his tiny waist. He wore high-topped boots to make up for the gap at the bottom and they worked for him too. The only piece of clothing he kept was the red suspenders. The rest had sentimental value now because they came from the Barrengers, so even though Spot could afford new clothes, he never got rid of them. It also showed them that he was grateful.

Three years passed in the blink of an eye. Soon Spot forgot he ever had another father or mother, for the two old Barrengers replaced them so wonderfully. His form and good etiquette stayed with him always, but his accent slowly changed to fit in with the other New Yorkers by his own will. He worked at the bar day and night, sometimes drinking his way through shifts. Mr. Barrenger never cared.

Spot's muscles built up from all the lifting of boxes and scrubbing of floors. It wasn't an easy life, mind you, but it had comfort and security. He didn't grow much like everyone figured, just about an inch or so through the years, but Mr. Barrenger used to say that he made up for it by acting like he was seven feet tall. You had to in that part of Manhattan. People that came in the bar were tough, and you had to let them know you meant business.

The first time people figured not to mess with Spot, as he was now always introduced, was on a warm night in June. The place stank with sweat and beer, but Spot was far used to it by now. A group of teens came through the door. Large fellows, with chains dangling from their belts.

"Brooklynites," Mr. Barrenger explained. "In your right mind don't mess with them. They'll rip you apart, Spot. Just give 'em what they want and send them on their way."

Spot acted busy drying off glasses, but he kept one eye on the Brooklyn kids at all times.

"I wanna man the tables, Mr. Barrenger," he said at last.

"The poker tables? Naw, your too good, Spot, and with these fella's--"

"--I wanna man the tables, Mr. Barrenger," he insisted.

Mr. Barrenger frowned.

"Fine, off you go," Mr. Barrenger said, throwing his hands up in defeat and heading up the stairs to retire for the night.

So Spot threw his towel down and went over to relieve Red.

Spot loved this game, and his poker face was perfected through the years of playing, and he knew the cards like he knew breathing. A few of the Brooklynites lost with a few grumbles, but others stuck around feeding him more money. It was too easy, but he did his best to hold back in case he upset them too much.

Then more came through the door, and one of them dragged in a girl. She was dirty from head to toe, probably a stray like him. Her dress was tattered, and her dark hair in tangled locks.

But she was pretty anyway.

Spot didn't do anything to suggest this in his face, for again with his perfected blank expressions.

"Go siddown, Cat," one said to the girl. Probably short for Catherine, no doubt. The name suited her, Spot figured, with her big slanted brown eyes and brown hair. She definitely wasn't from around these parts.

The girl obeyed, sparing a single glance at Spot before dropping her gaze to the floor.

"Who's the girl?" Spot said absentmindedly to one of the poker players. The gruff Brooklynite smiled back.

"Why, ya like her?" he said. "If youse interested, I can give ya a good price for her."

"She's a whore?" Spot said in surprise.

The man winked.

"She was a flower girl about a few hours ago, but yeah, guess she is now. Found her on the street, and decided to take her in outta the goodness of my own heart."

The words made something boil inside Spot, knowing this. His mercy for the men ran thin. He stopped holding back his poker skills and began to slaughter the men mercilessly.

"Full house," Spot said, and began to scoot his chips over to his side of the table once more. But a large hand slapped on top of his, and Spot found himself eye to eye with a very large, very angry Brooklynite.

"Youse a dirty cheater!" one said, gripping his dangling chain, having finally had enough. "Youse give me back the money for that last hand, or I'll rip it from ya!"

Spot looked at the large man with narrow eyes, scanned the man down, then said in a daring tone:

"No."

"What did youse say?" another challenged.

"I said, you try it, you get soaked, here? Why doncha take your little drunk butts outta here."

"Youse got a lotta nerve there, little man."

"And you don't seem to got any. I haven't seen any of youse throwin' anythin' at me yet."

With that the men yelled in anger and came swinging. A single uppercut under one's chin put his lights out. Another took a few to the chest, before swinging the chain so that it wrapped around Spot's wrist. So Spot simply yanked it from his grasp, and hit him back with it. But the others began to realize the scuffle, and joined in. Soon Spot was outnumbered. He grabbed Mr. Barrenger's cane from by the counter, and swung it like a bat into several faces. Then they began to back off.

"Anyone want some more?! I got some right here!" Spot taunted them.

"What are you?" one wondered in amazement.

"He's got bricks in dose knuckles!" another announced, rubbing his jaw in pain.

Then one in the back, who hadn't got up from his chair the entire time, began to clap and laugh.

"Youse somethin' else, kid," he said. The room stopped moving when the man spoke, like the voice of a king had spoken. "Ya beat up my boys like they're a buncha pansies. Stop making us look bad, runt. What's your name, anyway, kid?"

Spot didn't answer him.

"Fine, den. I wouldn't trust me eidder. But you know, we could use a fist like you. Ya ever come to Brooklyn, look me up, huh? The name's Haze Dickens. Anybody who's anybody knows me in Brooklyn."

He got up from his chair, and snatched the gold-tipped cane from Spot's grasp.

"You come find me to get this back, alright? Let's get outta here, gents."

"Hey!" Spot said in protest, jumping from the table to the floor and starting to go after them. "HEY!"

"Brooklyn!" the man shouted over his shoulder as he walked into the street.

Spot spat on the porch to curse the ground they walked on. Stupid Brooklynites. He hoped he never saw them again.

"Thank you," said a small voice behind him. The girl.

"Ah, forget it," Spot said over his shoulder. "Woulda done it if you were here or not."

"No one's ever stood up for me like that before."

Spot strolled carelessly back over behind the counter in the all too silent room. Mr. Barrenger hand him a towel then left up the stairs for bed, instructing Spot to close up.

"No one, huh?" Spot said absentmindedly. "Not even your family?"

Spot turned the 'open' sign around to 'closed'.

"All my family's dead," she said silently.

Spot looked at her promptly, speechless.

"Sorry," he said, then went busy with scrubbing the counters, acting like she hadn't said anything too out of the ordinary.

"How did you learn to fight like that?" she asked in her sweet quiet tone. She played with the edge of her tattered dress sheepishly.

"Ain't too much different from fightin' Red. They just taller."

"You seem really brave," she said.

"So what if I am. I always knew that."

He threw the towel back on the counter, and paid the girl his full attention.

"They rough ya up?" he asked a little harshly. Most of the time he knew no other way to speak.

"Yes," she replied. "But I'm used to it. I get that a lot nowadays. I stand out around here."

"Why don't you find somewhere to go?"

She giggled.

"I've been looking for a long time."

Spot propped his elbow on the counter and rested his chin in his hand. He sighed and started toward the stairs.

"Come on. You can stay here tonight."

She perked up.

"Really?"

"I got a bed upstairs you could use. Red's there too, but he won't talk anythin' he can back up."

She looked at him with a broad smile.

"Thank you again, really."

"Please, shut up," Spot said, then led her to the stairs. "I ain't doing this for you."

Her smile fell.

"Then who are you doing this for?"

"Mr. Barrenger," Spot replied as they climbed the stairs together. "He picked up me off the street so now I'm payin' it forward. And he's always griping sayin' we need another bar hand. Come on, keep up."

"Got a new pet, Spot?" Red wondered when she came in the room.

"Shut up, Red. She's called Cat."

Spot went to work making his bed on the floor.

"Ah!" Red said, sitting up in his own cot. "So she is a pet! Well, welcome, Cat. Pleasure."

She curtsied.

"Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Red."

"Whoa!" Red said, impressed, while tapping on Spot and pointing to her. "What's all this? Ya see this, Kid?"

"Yeah, I see fine, Red."

"She's prolly from your part a' town."

"Doubt it."

Red slouched in disappointment.

"No more pickin' fights, now, Spot," Mr. Barrenger blazed as he came into the room. "Hear? No more. Fights lead to no good."

"Yes, Mr. Barrenger," Spot replied.

"Who's this?" Mr. Barrenger asked, motioning to Cat.

"I just promised her a hot meal," Spot explained. "She ain't stayin'."

"Right," Mr. Barrenger said skeptically. "Where have I heard that before?"

She was the second memorable woman to enter Spot's life. If only he knew what was in store with her…

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Please review… Thanks!
Signed,
--RedRogue