The room was deadly silent save for the wind tapping a dead tree branch against the window repeatedly. Spot closed the door and the two sat in the small den used for employee meetings (or for O'Reilly's favorite customers spending time with one of his showgirls). They sat across from each other, staring for a moment, on either side of the coffee table.

"Enjoyin' yer stay in Manhattan, Jumper?" asked Spot casually.

Jumper's face was complacent; had he shown any sign of emotion he would have been less intimidating. His dark eyes blinked as he flicked away a chunk of black hair from his pale forehead. He cleared his throat and answered, "It's all right, could be bettah. How 'bout ya'self? Makin' any trips back ta Brooklyn at all? Heard ya had a lil' visit not long ago."

"Funny, I heard the same thing 'bout you."

Slightly, Jumper cocked his head to the side as if surprised. He nonchalantly took out a Cuban from his suit coat and even offered one to Spot, who accepted after a skeptical stare. Jumper looked better-off than Spot; his matching suit was clean and indicated that more than mere coins nested in his pockets. Silently they lit the cigars and remained quiet for a few moments. Had it been a year ago and they were still newsboys, someone would be dead.

"Look Conlon, I know what yer thinkin'."

"Do ya, now?" Spot felt a hint of an Irish accent come out of his mouth while he savored the flavor of the cigar. "What's that…'Johnny,' is it?"

Jumper exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nostrils and twirled the Cuban about his forefinger and middle. He paused, looking out into space for a brief moment. After another inhalation he responded, "I didn't start no fire."

Spot sat back into his chair deeper; his eyes narrowed in on Jumper. He was not exactly as he had anticipated, because he couldn't tell if Jumper was actually telling the truth or if he was just lying right through his teeth. It was strange, for it was as if the streets had grown him a different persona; as if he actually was Johnny Salvini now, the young Italian, not Jumper the ex-newsboy leader of Harlem. All Spot had come to be familiar with was starting to slowly fade away.

"How'd ya hear 'bout the fire?" inquired Spot, unsure of what to say.

"Word travels, Conlon. And 'a course, I read the papah still. Readin' the newspapah's important fer me now." He sighed contentedly, like this was just a way of his precious time.

He was beginning to drive Spot crazy. Why wasn't he sitting there cursing him in a whiney sort of way, telling him that Brooklyn was no good? That Harlem could take him out any day of the week? Why weren't they part of that system anymore? Had they still been their old selves, this would have been over with a simple pull of the trigger. But the present was different; it was harder to take the enemy out of the picture.

Spot set his cigar into the ashtray on the table. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. Looking up at Jumper he asked, "Why're ya doin' this?"

The Italian stopped twirling around his cigar and stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket formally and straightened his tie.

"You was always a threat to me, Conlon. You an' yer Brooklyn boys. But I just can't have that in my life anymore."

Jumper walked toward the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head back to Spot, who was staring blankly at his cigar, and reiterated, "Like I said, it wasn't me who started that fire."

Irish luck seemed to be on his side; Bedford had let Spot come back to work for him. It was nearing the holiday season, a busy time for the store, and Bedford needed the extra help. He had only given the boy one chance to earn back his job, and after shamefully begging and pleading, Spot had gotten it.

Spot drove a nail into the splintered piece of wood that was the start of a rocking chair. He and Benny worked diligently without much side conversation; but Spot's head was going a mile a minute thinking about the talk he had recently had with Jumper. The scene in his head kept rubbing him the wrong way. Why was "Johnny Salvini" so calm and smug? A certain kind of confidence elicited from that boy, which surprised Spot. But where was Jumper's easiness coming from?

"So, I hate to bring this up," spoke Benny suddenly as he sanded a desk, "but I've been hearin' your name mentioned in my building, Spot."

The statement made Spot stop working. He looked up at Benny with narrowed eyes and a questioning look.

"Or at least I think so," continued Benny. "I mean, I could be wrong. You didn't happen to run into, uh…Christ, what's his name…that Italian wop…Salvini?"

An uneasy feeling started to settle in Spot's stomach. He knew Benny lived in a dominantly Italian part of Manhattan; why, he didn't know, because everyday Benny was taking his life into his own hands. Spot picked up his hammer slowly and responded, "What about Salvini?"

Benny seemed to realize it was a touchy subject and began to sand quicker and fumble a little more. "Oh, uh, I just heard he goes to O'Reilly's quite a bit. That, uh, ya know, social club..."

"What've you heard, Benny?"

"Nothin', it's nothin'…Pass me those nails, would ya?" Benny moved somewhat shakily and tried to avoid eye contact with Spot. He ignored his question and moved quickly to retrieve the nails himself.

"Benny, what the hell's goin' on?" demanded Spot. "It's been a strange couple 'a days, I really don't need this right now, a'right?"

After brief hesitation, Benny quickly glanced around and moved closer to Spot. His green eyes were serious and almost grim. His voice dropped low.

"Look, Spot…I heard you an' this Salvini kid had a little run-in at O'Reilly's a while back. I'm not judgin', I'm just tellin' you that I've been hearin' some things about this guy. Johnny Salvini, you know who I'm talkin' about?"

Spot nodded hastily and continued to listen with anxiety.

"You don't wanna get mixed with this guy too much, Spot. He knows his people, let me put it that way. Trust me on that, from one Mick to the next. Don't cross paths with Salvini any more than you may have."

The room was that deadly quiet again. Spot felt his stomach plummet as Benny resumed his work on the desk. Without thinking, Spot did the same. It wasn't until he barely missed nailing his finger that he realized how badly his hands were shaking. He felt his forehead bead with sweat and he dropped his tools to rush for some fresh air.

While he caught his breath behind the store, he couldn't help but feel that that run-in with Jumper might be much deeper than he could imagine. So much for the luck of the Irish.