Hey, at least he tried. You can't say he didn't try. If Spot had left the apartment without letting Gabby know, he was pretty sure she would have packed up and moved out when he got home. He didn't want that. He just didn't want to tell Gabby where he was going since he probably would have had to deal with her disagreement.
Will be home later. Don't worry.
And that was all he put on his note. He didn't even sign it. Gabby just couldn't stand in the way of some things, and this was one of them. Brooklyn was Spot's domain and nobody was going to stop him from returning home.
The walk there was a little unnerving. The weather was overcast with such a white-gray sky that it was impossible to differentiate all the clouds. The gloominess enhanced the November temperatures with a sharp breeze. As Spot trudged over the Brooklyn bridge a sadness swept over him.
As he neared the lodging house, he noticed his old, familiar selling place. He never let anyone else touch it and everybody knew not to do so. Now, a small newsie who could have been no more than ten years old stood in his place. One of his arms held a bundle of almost twenty papers, and the other held up today's paper as he shouted out the headlines.
"I'll take one 'a those," said Spot at the newsie's side. He dug deep and found a nickel.
"Dat'll be a penny, sir," the boy said, handing him the paper. His accent was thick and his voice tiny, but he still carried himself with the demeanor of a giant. Under any other circumstances, Spot would have smiled.
"Thanks. Keep the change."
As Spot began to take the paper, the newsie still had a grip on it. He looked up at Spot with big, brown eyes. Both hesitated for a moment.
"Ya're him, ain'tcha?" said the boy in an awestruck way. "Spot Conlon?"
A corner of Spot's lips turned upward at the recognition. He bent down so that he crouched in front of the boy. "What's yer name?"
The boy sniffed and straightened up his stance with gusto. "I'm Spits. Dis is my sellin' place."
"Damn good place it is, too," responded Spot in a proud tone. "I bet ya get all those businessmen ovah there from the bank, don'tcha? And the men ovah at the government building right there?" He pointed in the direction from memory at the hottest buildings to sell to.
"Uh-huh." Spits sniffed again, apparently suffering from a cold. "I got tha best place 'a the whole lodgin' house. I even fought my way heah." Sniff. "Three times."
Spot couldn't help but smile at Spits. He was like a miniature him. "You do that place proud, a'right Spits? Take care 'a ya'self."
Spits nodded. "Yes, sir."
Spot walked away and swore he could make out a small ray of sunlight on that little boy. But he looked up and saw only the same gray sky. It must have only been in his mind. And he couldn't understand why, but the image of his boy Noah popped into his mind.
The lodging house, as expected, was fairly empty. He took a seat on the porch, bundling up his coat and shoving his hands in his pockets. It was freezing, just like it always was in his dream. Almost an hour passed while Spot watched the passersby.
Soon, boys began to trickle back into the house. A few he recognized and exchanged greetings, some of them he could tell were new and most of which stared at Spot for a brief moment, recalling that he was the former ruler of Brooklyn. It was a pretty good feeling.
After most of the boys had filed in, Bolt made his way up the steps. Spot stood and in doing so, felt the same hurtful pain he felt the last time he had seen Bolt. The colder weather had brought out the worst of his old friend's appearance.
"Hey," was all Spot could say as his greeting.
Bolt looked up and stretched a smile onto his bony cheeks. "How ya doin', Spot?" The tone in his voice seemed like the question had taken so much from him, like it had him to the point of exhaustion. He, too, sniffled a couple times.
"Doin' a'right. I actually gotta talk to ya…It's kinda important."
"Ho-ly shit, Spot Conlon's back in Brooklyn," came a familiar voice from behind Bolt. Thompson, another close friend back in those days, appeared on the steps.
It had to have been the cold weather, but Spot could have sworn they never looked that bad when this time rolled around; Thompson was nearly as frail as Bolt was, with sunken cheeks and pale skin.
"Heya, Thompson," responded Spot with a spit-shake after he had gotten over the appearance. "You guys got a while?"
Bolt shakily lit up a cigarette in the lobby of the lodging house. The three boys sat on the steps and listened to Spot's recollection of his encounter with Jumper, who now went by the name "Johnny Salvini." Thompson lowered his head and held the back of his neck as they took in the information.
"That little dip-shit ain't no more 'Talian than I am rich," said Thompson with anger slowly rising up within him. "What the hell does he want?"
"Closure," answered Bolt, quietly. The other boys looked at him and nodded after much deliberation. Bolt hungrily sucked on his cigarette as he went on, "He's probably still pissed off and thinks he can get away with it 'cause you ain't a newsie no more, Spot. Now he thinks he's invincible er somethin'."
Spot rested his elbows atop his knees and pulled at the roots of his hair. "Have ya guys gotten any grief from Harlem at least? I mean, I know about Queens an' all, but what about Harlem?"
"Dese days it's hard to tell who's from Harlem and who's from Queens when they wander in here," replied Thompson, "fer all we know we could have boys from Jersey or Boston in Brooklyn…"
Spot sighed heavily and got up. He walked around the small room, a helpless and angered look about his face. After brief moments, he asked openly with slight passion, "Why do ya let 'em do whatever they want now? Let 'em walk all ovah our turf? Dammit, did I not teach ya anything? As much as ya wanna deny it, this thing'll get bigger. It got bigger the moment Jumper walked into that club in Manhattan."
Thompson and Bolt hung their heads low, faces to the ground and making uncomfortable movements as if to adjust their seats. The scene made Spot pissed off, more so than he had ever imagined. This was his Brooklyn, his former territory and these boys were careless and apathetic about it. Their heads hung in shame.It all made Spot want to scream.
"You even listenin' to me?" shouted Spot, and he kicked over a crate of papers on the floor. "They've got you in the palms of their hands and you ain't doin' a damn thing to stop it! Look at you, Bolt, you'se just sittin' there all quiet as can be! I ain't nevah known ya to be the quiet one in all my life. Wouldja realize what's goin' on heah? Brooklyn is crumbling!"
"No one asked fer you to come back heah, Spot!" burst out Bolt suddenly, to Spot's surprise. "Ya talk to me once in a couple 'a months and think you'se can come back heah and things would be the same? Yeah, I know things aren't as perfect as they were when you was heah, a'right? But when you'se left you swore you was makin' the right choice with me. Don't doubt me just 'cause you ain't in charge anymore!"
"Look, Bolt, I ain't sorry fer comin' back heah…"
Damn straight. Spot Conlon never apologizes for anything.
"But look at ya'self, Bolt. You ain't gonna last long if somethin' starts with these guys. Trust me. You'se gonna need all the help you can get."
"So, what, you gonna fly back heah and come to my rescue soon as somethin' happens, Spot?" replied Bolt in a biting, sarcastic tone.
Bolt's response stuck a place in Spot's stomach hard. He looked at Bolt for a long time, trying to figure out if this was really the boy he had grown up with on the streets. When Spot had gotten into his first fight when he was five, it was Bolt who had had his back; if Bolt wouldn't have been there, the older boy would have surely killed Spot. So, he couldn't quite figure out how to answer Bolt's question.
"If that's how it is, Bolt," started Spot quietly, "ya know where to find me."
He stood before his friends for a moment and walked himself out.
It was the early afternoon when Spot returned back to Manhattan. He stood in front of his apartment building and looked up at the several floors and windows. A flurry of snowflakes fell to the ground from the undisputed gray sky, and one landed on his eyelash. He blinked it away and looked at the wet, cold ground. He couldn't bring himself to go up to his apartment.
Instead, he turned to his left and walked himself a few blocks, turning down two streets and cutting through one alley. A part of him felt guilty for memorizing exactly where it stood, but he couldn't help it. He walked through the entrance and up four flights of stairs. He knocked a few times on apartment 6D.
"Long time, no see, Conlon," greeted Kat in a dazed sort of way.
"Yeah. I ain't botherin' ya, am I?"
Kat leaned her head against the door and pulled it open further with a dreamy smile on her tranquil face. Spot stepped in and smelled that Kat had been smoking something to make her seem so drifted. Opium, marijuana, whatever, Spot wanted it. He took a seat on Kat's ratty, uncomfortable sofa as she joined him.
"You look tense, baby," she cooed softly in a slur. She sat next to him and removed his hat, running her fingers through his damp hair. Her head rested heavily onto his shoulder as he stared directly ahead of him, emotionless.
"Yeah" was all he mumbled in response. His eyes eventually wandered down to his side as he looked at Kat. Her body was light on his and her corset was tight enough to tease him uncontrollably. Looking away reluctantly, his eyes sought out the joint burning carelessly on the table next to him. Hungrily, he reached out and sucked in the relaxing, soft grass.
"Juss got that yesterday," informed Kat tiredly. She sat up and laid across his lap to help herself to the hefty stash.
The combination of an increasing high along with Kat willingly lying across his legs made for a somehow better afternoon, in a twisted sort of way.
They sat on the couch, silent, lighting up countless papers and burning down the day. He kissed her. Once he started, he couldn't stop. He laid on top of her and undressed her and she took off his clothes and did not object to any of it. As soon as they were done, Spot would light up, let the smoke consume him, and do it to her again.
It had been like stepping through a time portal or entering a different world entirely, because the next day he didn't go to work. He had slept through the morning and finally woke up at noon. On the floor, naked as sin and scantily covered by a thin blanket, Kat snoozed calmly. Without saying goodbye, he put on his clothes and headed downstairs.
But as soon as Spot stepped back to 1901, reality smacked him coldly in the face. As he made his way south, even in the lightly falling snow, there were billows of black smoke coming from the other side of his Brooklyn Bridge. Immediately a sickened feeling washed over him and he rushed over for a better view. Clouds of gray and black rose up into the sky not far from the bridge and he seemed to be the only one to see it.
Relax, he told himself over his wildly beating heart. It could just be a factory or something…
Spot quickly bought a paper from the nearest newsboy and frantically flipped through its sections, searching for anything that read "fire" or "blaze." It was a small, quick brief in the bottom corner of the third page. No bold headlines or front-page news, but it was still there, screaming at him:
"Fire at Brooklyn newsboy lodging house kills six…"