Concerning item #5: The Key Around His Neck 3 (continued)
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Cat stepped out of the house. She was clothed in a dulled earthen blue, trimmed with black lace and sash and a straw yellow hat with a black ribbon. She had long brown locks down her back, coiled in wonderful tube-like curls. Her golden eyes shone the color of honey in the harsh glare of the sun. Her little pointed nose was clear of the freckles of her youth, leaving untainted porcelain skin behind.
She was beautiful.
She beamed widely at Jack, and came hurrying down the steps to embrace him. Spot watched her as one mesmerized. She certainly had changed. He scolded himself for being so entranced, but even still, couldn't pry his gaze from her.
"Heya, Cat," he heard Jack say. Even if Spot wasn't looking right at him, he could tell Jack was speaking through a wide smile. Spot smirked. They looked good together. Why did his chest sink when he thought that?
"How are you?" she asked Jack in her soft sweet voice. It sounded older now, sure, but Spot would still recognize it as Cat's.
"I'm good, I'm good. I have someone heah to see ya actually."
She perked up and looked around him.
"Really? Where?"
"Hey, come heah!" Jack called.
Spot fingered his cane, and glanced at his shoes, and had second thoughts to if he should.
"Com'on, ya little bum," Jack still insisted.
But Spot wasn't afraid. She was just Cat. That little girl he lived under the same roof with in another lifetime. She was just a little girl.
But that was a lie. She wasn't a little girl anymore, though she was still familiar, she had been raised to be a proper woman. She wasn't the girl he knew.
Spot stared for a moment more.
"Com'on!"
He couldn't do it. It was enough for him to know she was safe. Being back in her life would only cause her trouble, and he knew it.
"Where is that bum?" Jack wondered aloud, then looked around the corner, but Spot was gone.
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That night, Jack walked slowly up the abandoned dock with silent steps. The waves crashed beneath the pillars violently in the cold night, with the large moon as the only light for his path.
There was Spot, sitting on the edge of the wooden structure. He held no cane, carried no slingshot. It was too late at night; he must've left them at his lodging house. When Spot couldn't sleep, he came here, and that was how Jack knew where to find him.
Jack stopped walking when he came to edge of the dock, putting his chilled hands in his pockets and looking out into the river with Spot. Neither spoke for many moments.
Finally Jack looked down at him.
"You take on the whole o' Brooklyn, and carry it on yer back, face fights with overwhelmin' odds--"
"I wasn't afraid of her, Jack," Spot interrupted. Jack sat down beside him, and let his feet hang over the edge like Spot.
"Then why, huh?"
"Gave it a think," Spot replied coolly. "Decided it wasn't such a good idea."
"Youse been lookin' for this goil for four years. Now youse decide youse don't wanna find her?"
"I did wanna find her. And it's good enough for me to know she's taken care of. There ain't no good that can come from her seein' me. Just gotta let her live out her life."
Jack sighed, and looked back to the river.
"Youse evah think maybe she wants to see youse? Maybe she's worried about youse?"
Spot looked at him for the first time that conversation. It was a confused expression, but still cold. He said nothing, just looked back at the river.
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Quiet time was Cat's favorite time of day. It was the time to just sit down, drink tea by the night's fire, and get lost in their preferred reading materials. Cat made herself comfortable on a red leather armchair, and looked around to make sure the authority had gone to bed.
Once satisfied that they were, she pulled out the newspaper Jack had given to her earlier.
They didn't get newspapers often around here. Miss Gray felt that politics and current events should be left to the men to worry their heads over, and women should focus on the house. She said if they wanted to know the news so badly they should simply walk up to a man, and ask.
But when a newspaper did somehow find it's way into the house, Cat savored it, reading it from front to back, every word.
After she was done reading about the trolley strike on the front page, she turned to the next. A story on page three caught her eye first.
"Child Riots Linked to Underage Organizations"
A recent killing of local street gang leader Henry "Haze" Dickens has prompted police to investigate a sudden rise of riots in the Brooklyn area. Numerous riots consisting of minors, mainly shoeshines, newsies, and sweatshop children, have made police assume the possibility of a new 'leader' of these gangs in Brooklyn. Officer James Tuber reasoned that these children are starting the riots "to mark a sense of territory", and that single gang has been linked to most of these riots, led by an unknown youth who goes only by the name of…
Cat sat up in her chair. She read the name once, then again, then once more to be sure her eyes weren't lying to her.
Spot.
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Spot dragged his feet as he walked home. After talking to Jack, Spot hadn't stopped thinking about what he said. About her. She looked nice, all grown up, like him. She seemed familiar. When Spot saw her, something came inside him he couldn't explain it. A calm came over him. It wasn't love; it was security. It was like the feeling you get when you have a long day of work and toil, and you open the door to reveal your warm home, promising rest. He didn't know how else he could describe it.
Was he wrong to take that decision out of her hands?
No. He decided right. It was like he said, no good could come out of it. So why bother?
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The next day, after all her classes and lesson, Cat took up her shawl and some money, and told a friend to cover for her. She was going to find him. She was going to Brooklyn.
She went to the first man on a carriage she saw.
"How much to get to Brooklyn, sir?"
"Two dimes, ma'am," he replied. "But are you going all by your lonesome? Brooklyn's a mighty rough place nowadays."
"Yes, sir, I am," she paid him his fare, and climbed aboard.
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"Just let me out here," Cat called to the man when they crossed the bridge and had gone a short ways.
"Are you sure, miss?" the driver said with concern.
"Yes, very sure indeed."
So the man left her behind.
Cat gripped the newspaper in her hands and stared at the ominous city. But she would not let fear get the better of her. She held her head high, and walked through the streets in confidence. The newspaper said something about his gang hanging around the bay harbor, so that's where she decided to start.
"Excuse me, sir," she said to a newsie nearby. "Do you know where I can find Spot Conlon?"
"Nope," he replied. "Nevah hoid of him."
Cat sighed.
"I assure you, I am not with the police, and I'd be willing to compensate."
The kid looked around himself.
"You had bettah not be with the bulls. Spot's the best thing that evah happened to this town, heah? Used to get beat up and robbed every day when Haze was runnin' things. Now I actually make profits around heah."
"I am just trying to find an old friend."
She placed a nickel in his palm. He looked around himself again.
"He's always movin', but I happen to know his favorite place is on the river, usually at the fishing docks right ovah theah. I just saw him this mornin' sellin' around theah. It's your best bet."
"Thank you, very much," Cat said in utmost gratitude, then made her way over.
Boys were abundant, everywhere. They jumped off the docks to the water below, played games amongst themselves, and even fought each other. But one thing was common: every time she passed, their attention would turn. She seemed so out of place, in her nice clothes and them barely in anything.
Hoots and calls would abound, but she readily ignored them.
"I'm looking for Spot Conlon!" she announced. They looked amongst themselves like they were confused, and didn't answer.
"Please, can anyone help me?"
"What you need to find Spot for?" one called out. The others were interested in the answer too.
"He's a old friend."
Laughter erupted, like she had just told a hilarious joke. They slapped their knees, and each other on the backs, and some rolled on the floor. Only one kept a straight enough face to talk.
"You," he chuckled. "Are an ol' friend a' his?"
"Yes."
More laughter.
"Spot aims higher and higher nowadays, don't he fellah's?" the one she had spoken to said. More hilarity ensued.
Cat wouldn't stand for this. She pushed him aside and continued down her way.
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"Spot," Woodsy said, coming to his perch in a hurry. "There's a goil comin'. Says she's lookin' for ya. Says she knows ya, and ya ol' friends."
"A goil?" Spot repeated in wonder.
"Yeah."
Spot grabbed his cane and hopped down from his river view.
"Com'on, this way," Woodsy said, motioning for him to follow. They went further down the docks, and hid behind a larger cargo crate.
"That's her," Woodsy said, pointing. Spot peered around slowly. And nearly had a heart attack.
"Oh, my God… It's Cat."
"You do know her?" Woodsy said in surprise. Spot leaned his back against the crate and out sight. What in the world was she doing here? How did she know he was here?
"Damn you, Jack," Spot cursed under his breath.
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