Whenever Dallas has anything to say, Ace listens. Now is one of those times as he scrambles up the crates, going as quick as he legs can carry him. Dallas is moving, pulling the canvas back as well as he can, revealing more and more of the carts. They all seem bland at first look: they all have that yellowish-brown look to them, and as more lightning streaks through the sky, he can see better that there are quite a few crates stacked up, most of them longwise.
"What the hell is going on?" Ace asks, struggling up the last few stacks. "I thought you almost died—"
"Lighter," Dallas interrupts, moving his hands carefully around the broken wood. "Need to see." He grunts, prying up some of the wood, trying to avoid splinters as he goes.
"This isn't a t—" Ace finally pulls himself over the crates, and his eyes widen in his face. His thin, slightly sallow features are captivated by the view below of what Dallas has found. Hastily, he reaches for his lighter, finally silenced by the sight. When he flicks out his lighter, he sticks it near the crate to get a better view as Dallas pulls up a plank and tosses it.
And it's quite a view, Dallas finds in a more steady light. There are guns stacked neatly in rows in the boxes, all of them guns he's seen before wielded by various gang members. Dallas exchanges a look with Ace, and then at the other crates.
They didn't need words to figure out the meaning.
Quickly, carefully, they work pushing the canvas to look at the other crates. Most are wedged entirely shut but some, like the previous one, had some damage to them. Dallas guesses water or just the way they were moved, as he wedges some off to peer inside: there's amber liquor in some; one has tightly packed packages that he can only assume are drugs.
"We found someone's loot," Ace breathes out. "Someone's honest to god loot!"
Loot is a way to put it. Dallas doesn't contest it though, feeling ecstatic, confused and all around excited, exchanging an enormous grin with Ace as another streak of lightning broaches the sky.
There are possibilities whirring in his head about whose this could be, if all the crates contained goods or not. "No good, law abiding schmuck would have all this here," Ace reinforces as he holds the lighter to another crate. "I think there's gotta be money here, too."
He's not wrong either. None of this seems legal...
"How long," Dallas clears his throat, some dust making his throat it, "Think it's been here?"
"How should I know?" Ace shrugs back."Long enough to get dust." He slaps one of the containers with the flat of his hand. The moment he says it, as the dust motes float up, a thought travels between them. That if all of this had been here for awhile, if it was enough to gather layers of dust?
There was a high chance that no one knew about it. That no one was coming back for it.
Dallas looks up at Ace. Ace looks at him. They both look at the crates together and Dallas chews at the inside of his cheek. He didn't exactly have to be smart to know that this? This would be a lot of money. One crate at all was going to be worth tons of money — so a whole stack of them, for the taking? They could be rolling in it until they were twenty.
That, was of course, assuming they could move it out of here. That they could do anything at all, looking at the high stack of crates. The more up they go though, the more Dallas thinks of things he's heard snatches of: of men who have had money, bragged about it and gotten their throats slit on the street. Of robberies where only one man walked out with the money despite the whole crew. The thought of people who have found things like this...
And not walked away alive.
It swirls in his head, same as he thinks about what he could do with it all. Leave his family's apartment, be part of a real outfit, with Ace. He looks over the crates again and says, "What're we gonna do?"
"I dunno," Ace is thinking the same thing as him as always. "Don't think they're coming back." He reiterates the thought, but reaches up to scratch at his cheek. "But... who's gonna believe us if we said we found this? What if it ain't even here in a few days?"
There's a note of fear there, and Dallas hates the thought of walking away without at least something. He looks around the crates, eyes glancing at the labels, his eyes seeing something he hadn't seen before. He beckons Ace over who holds his lighter up: on the crate, at the very bottom corner, there's a mark there beneath some of the dust and grime. Dallas rubs at it with the butt of his palm until he can fully see it: a 'G' written in cursive, in a dark green. It's old, clearly done with paint, but it's not an unfamiliar symbol, at all.
It's the symbol of the Genovesi.
The Genovesi weren't unknown. They were headed by a man around Texas' age, who was imposing in and of himself, that Dallas had only heard about and never seen: Stefano. This had been his symbol for years, known to everyone who dealt with the Families.
Including Texas, who hated him. Texas, who Dallas heard muttering about him at night to his other lieutenants, sometimes to Odessa herself. They were a rival in all this, who had stiffed Texas more than once.
And here Dallas was, staring at what could change that. What could potentially be bad for them — and good for him.
"Wait, wait," Ponyboy's voice breaks through and he shifts in the nest. He's on his second bar of chocolate already, and Dallas frowns at him as he wipes at his mouth. "You said his name's Texas, right? And the Genove—"
"Chew and swallow, Jesus," Dallas interrupts. Ponyboy rolls his eyes, but does finish chewing and swallowing the chocolate bar. He's gotten comfortable on the other side of the nest, only pausing to take some sips of water as he goes. Drinking more than a bit of beer was going to make him lose his thoughts, and now that he was here, unearthing it all, he couldn't afford that.
Ponyboy takes a swig of Dallas' own water, continuing, "Everyone sounds like they're out of an Italian gangster movie, 'cept you and Texas. Kind of gangster name is Texas or Dallas?"
A snort leaves Dallas' mouth. "They ain't. Dad picked up the name Texas cause of all this shit before I was born. He named me something, but I ain't answer to it. Picked Dallas cause it's from Texas. Only way people knew I was his kid." It's something he rarely thinks about anymore so it's surprising in it's own way to see Ponyboy's expression of mild shock on his face at that.
Then again. His name was Ponyboy.
"Still don't explain Winston," he rebuffs.
"We'll get there. You wanna hear it before the sun comes up or not?" Ponyboy huffs but nods, passing the water back. Dallas takes it, watching Ponyboy tuck the candybar in his pocket, legs folding again as the bonfire pops. He looks eager, not the least bit repulsed at anything so far except the description of how home had been. He'd looked angry, had almost interrupted and Dallas had kept going, not willing to stop.
He scratches at his chin. "So, we found the shit. Knew it belonged to the Genovesi and they'd been a bug up my old man's ass for awhile."
Ace knows, too, looking at it all. His father talked about it, about the way the Genovesi were such a problem, and he looks more excited than before as more rain lashes against the windows. "You know what this means right? If we take this, any of this? They're gonna be pissed. But Texas would love it. Taking loot from under their noses." The grin on his face is so huge that Dallas can't help but grin back.
"Proof," Dallas adds, frowning. "We need proof." He doesn't have to underline it: that no one's gonna believe two mutts on just their word that they found this. They need all the proof they need, and Ace is the one who grasps one of the lighter crates, jerks it down.
Dallas helps him with it — he's always been stronger than Ace, something that's been getting more pronounced lately — and they force it open. There are guns in there, and it takes work to go to different crates to pull out different things. Liquor, drugs, money all go in the pile, and the 'G' is bright enough to be seen.
By the time they're done, the cart is groaning a little and the rain is letting up. Carefully, they throw the tarp back onto the remaining carts, even if Dallas feels like it's not totally necessary. They could probably come back in two days and it would be the same.
Once it's done, Dallas braces the one they have from the back, Ace in front. It takes some effort to heft it out, Ace huffing and puffing, Dallas getting annoyed until he grasps it on both sides. He hefts it up, following Ace out into the streets.
Everything smells good like it usually does after a rain. He takes a deep breath of it, the scent feeling more vivid than ever. He thinks there's a faint change in Ace's scent too but doesn't mind it as he follows his cousin down the street eagerly.
They found something good today. Nothing was gonna erase that.
Now, they just had to figure out how to use it. And more importantly, Dallas voices, "How are we gonna hide this?" It's the most he's said in days, he realizes as he follows Ace through the back alleys, away from most prying eyes.
"I'll put it in my place, seeing as you don't really got a place," Ace says. "I can hide it til we can get more of it, or get some help." He and Dallas both pause at the mouth of an alleyway, both of them listening. They're getting deeper, closer into the city now and Dallas grunts, trying to jockey the crate a little. "There's no way we can get all of that out ourselves."
Which is true. What's not really in Dallas' favor though, is what it will take to get others to help them. Even at ten years old, he knows that you had to share. Sharing with Ace was never a problem; it's not like either of them have had a lot of anything between them, and Ace wasn't all that petty.
Sharing with other people in gangs though, who could screw you over at a moment's notice though? He didn't want that.
The trek to Ace's place is harder, trying to dodge everyone. Once, a woman calls out to them and Dallas doesn't respond, hurrying up. He leaves Ace to lie to her, and by the time they reach the apartment where Ace lives, he's itching to leave as soon as he steps foot in the apartment building.
It's not as if it wasn't nice. It was — about as nice as his parent's place. But he feels uncomfortable walking inside the door when Ace beckons him in. His aunt is Odessa's sister — his aunt. She looks uncomfortably like her, only instead of a head of dark hair, she's dark blonde, and looking at her always made him feel funny. Not in a good way, in a way that made him feel almost vaguely sick. Something about her was his mother and was not and he feels relieved that she's not there when he steps inside.
"Follow me," Ace motions for him to come follow him, and Dallas moves with him through the apartment. It isn't far inside to find Ace's bedroom. It's mostly bare, and Ace kneels down in his closet, hand moving until he yanks up a floorboard. It pops open, and Dallas is grateful that they brought the crate. It barely wedges into the little compartment, and it takes some nudging for the little lock to click to secure it.
They sit there for a minute, utterly pleased with themselves. They've got an unknown loot that neither of them had been anticipating, and now they had to figure out: what to do with it now that they had it.
Ace chews at his lip, thinking as he and Dallas leave his bedroom. Dallas can scent Ace's younger siblings, a bit of his father, and not wanting to even deal with the man, speeds up. "Who do you think we can deal with?" Ace walks into the kitchen long enough to open the fridge, grab one of his father's drinks. "Someone just in with you guys?" He frowns, turning the drink, then ducking back in. "Maybe Bruno? Donnie?"
Their faces swim up: guys loyal, but almost twice their age. "Younger. Big Frank?" The name was apt enough for him: he was a seventeen year old, had already done time before, was probably bigger than he ought to be and aggressive. But Texas liked Frank, would listen to him — and Frank would also want to work with Dallas. He didn't like him, but for some reason, something in Dal knew that Frank wanted to please him. Why, he didn't quite totally understand, but he seemed useful now.
Biting into a stick of cheese left in the fridge, Ace looks surprised. "Not—"
"Big Frank," Dallas insists, more than before. "He's got brains." He struggles to elaborate what he knows — the need in Big Frank to please, that he had more to him — but he can't get it out and settles to add, "Him and Saul."
Saul would make sense to Ace — they're similar in that way that Dallas can't define but knows. "Alright, but it'll be day after tomorrow. I think one of 'em left, doing some job." Ace looks excited to know it and Dallas grins back. "You gonna stay for dinner?"
As always, Dallas shakes his head no. "Day after tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Ace nods and Dallas turns. "You can come back tonight if you want!"
He won't. He never does. When he hits the stairwell, he can scent his aunt, and quickly, Dallas moves past her. He doesn't want to look at her face, doesn't want to see her at all and when he moves past her, she never seems to say anything.
This time is no different as he steps into the street. The rain has stopped pouring, the sun is low in the sky and Dallas knows that Ace likes to be around his mother, help her. His father would be home too, soon enough and Dallas can't stand him either.
There are two options: he could stay on the street all night. Go to his preferred haunts, sleep, and eat. Go find Ace tomorrow morning. Or he could try the apartment, and see if he could stay there the night.
The apartment is always the risky move. Sometimes, he would be tolerated there, ignored when he slipped in. Other times, Texas might be home there to hit him or keep him away from the table. Or Odessa might be there, angry with him and forcing him out. Or, if he's lucky, it's late at night and everyone is asleep and he can slip in, get some sleep. There are other possibilities to consider...
And he can still smell rain on the horizon. He knows that if he stays outside, it's riskier to do so when rain comes in and out. Less spaces to hide. That more people will be competing and he's only so big and able to defend himself.
So he chews his lip and goes towards his family's apartment.
He ought to try, at least.
By the time Dallas gets to his own apartment, the rain is starting to fall in hard, sharp pellets. He can feel them hit him harder and harder, and by the time he's climbing up the fire escape, the metal is cold beneath his fingers and it's slippery to hang onto. Still he goes, knowing that he has to find somewhere, anywhere to sleep. This cold isn't going to work and he shivers, moves as quick as he can up the escape. Once he gets to the one for his floor, his fingers wedge at the window, peeling it open. He's half blind from the rain on his face, eyes squinting.
When he gets into the apartment, he's hit by a sharp blast of cool air that's so sharp he's gasping. His feet get the white doily that's fallen on the floor wet, and when he wipes his face, his eyes confirm what his nose knows: there's no one home.
A feeling of relief streaks through Dallas at the realization. He hastily uses his wet fingers to shut the window behind him, and once shut, he reaches up to take his shirt off. Once it's off, he wrings it into the sink. Outside, the rain is falling in a harder, harder sheet as the sun sets.
Where Odessa might be is anyone's guess; she could be at Ace's place with her sister; she could have gone to the church; to another friend's house, or wherever it is she went when Texas' eyes weren't on her.
And Texas? Texas was a mystery for the ages in his whereabouts.
Dallas didn't care as he set the shirt down, moving through the apartment. Whatever mess he'd made that morning was gone, which makes it easier for him to go through the old laundry that Odessa keeps in a bag. He reaches in — sometimes she takes shirts of gangsters or friends of Texas', shoving them in there to clean — and rummages through. There are a few blood stained shirts, but he plucks a clean enough green one — the scent inoffensive enough — and pulls it on him. His head pops through, and after going through several other baskets of actually clean clothes she's left in the back of her room, finds underwear and jeans. He shoves his wet clothes in with the dirty ones knowing Odessa rarely cared or noticed who's things she was cleaning.
Next is the fridge.
Of all places, this is where Dallas is most careful. With his brother now, he had to be more careful than before with what he took. The last time he'd gotten greedy, Odessa had screeched so loudly he was out the door before she could land a slap on his face.
And tonight is tempting. His stomach is starting to ache, unable to exist on just one or two meals now. There's a chicken in the fridge that's not cooked, some bacon slices, a pie that looks disgusting, fresh butter and bread. It's the bread that entices him, grasping the butter as well.
He tries not to eat too much, but he's not able to stop himself once he gets a few bites in, fingers tearing at the bread. That low level ache in his teeth that haven't seemed to stop quells enough for him as he eats the bread, using the butter as best he can.
It makes him feel full, almost to bulging, when he's done. The bread is now half of what it was, and gingerly, Dallas puts it back, angling it in a way that if Odessa glanced at in the back, she couldn't see it. He does the same with butter, covering them up with other things in the fridge.
Lightning streaks across the sky. There's a hum — and then the lights go out.
It doesn't scare him the way it might scare others. Instead, he glances over his shoulder, to the closet. He's full, Odessa isn't back...
He walks over, opening it, and letting the scent wash over him. The coats, the jackets, all of it mixing with shoeshine and his barely there scent. Dallas walks inside, shuts the door. There's another streak of lightning, a boom of thunder.
A small part of him wishes he had a parent to go to. That he could have ever expressed being afraid of it.
The rest of him knows that he's never had that. That as close as he got to his parents wrapping their arms around them was this: reaching up, grasping one of Odessa's expensive coats and yanking it down. Having one of Texas' suit jackets clatter down as well, Dallas taking out the hanger.
Best he can, he arranges them into a makeshift bed, shuts his eyes and counts until he drifts off to sleep.
He doesn't know how long he sleeps there except it's better than it has been in a long time with a belly full, with something exciting on the horizon. He knows that as he sleeps, he sinks into it, the relative silence of the apartment, the thunder and lightning mixing in a way that's soothing rather than bothersome.
It feels for a moment that he'll sink through the floor, truly dream when the sound of a creak permeates his senses. He grunts, turns over —
— and then the door to the closet is opened. He tumbles over the shoes as he feels something strike him in the ear and then his shoulder. Dallas doesn't think, just shoves forward, able to hear Odessa yelling, "Get out! Get out of here, how dare you come back!"
He takes in the scene around him in a flash: Odessa's blue eyes, filled with anger, her black hair wet from rain and her shirt soaked through, the flash of her teeth, the rapidly worsening, angry scent coming off of her.
Dallas bares his teeth back at his mother.
She lunges at him, and he's too slow to deflect the blow to his ear again. He is, however, quick enough that it's the only one she lands: he's running away from her as fast as she can, her words half English, half Italian as he runs out of the apartment. He only thinks to grab some shoes he sees outside of someone else's apartment. They're big for him, but he doesn't stop to do anything but run to the stairwell.
Odessa's shrieks reverberate off the walls, only quieting when the door to the stairwell slams shut behind him. Hastily, he puts the shoes on, almost tripping down the steps, and then he's out, fleeing into the streets.
There's one other option that didn't occur to him before. One that he normally doesn't turn to, but tonight, with the rain lashing at him so hard it makes his skin sting, with the ache in his teeth, with a belly that was so full before but he now feels sick to carry, he's got one other option.
He runs as quick as he can through the dark streets. There are worse things out there that could get him and he hurries as well as he can. Runs until the lights are half blinding, until his legs hurt. He only stops once to throw up the bread and butter, coughing and wheezing miserably.
Then he sees the familiar steps. He's shivering, wet, pathetic when he fumbles for the window he knows is open for him, slipping and hitting the floor hard. At least here it's carpet that greets him and not wood.
Exhaustion, pain radiates up around him as he fumbles, shuts this window.
Blindly, cold and wet, eyes warm from a need to do something he can hardly remember, he manages to get to a familiar bedroom. He kicks off the shoes and does the only thing he can think to do once he sees the large bed: he crawls beneath it, to the warmest spot in the room. Dallas shivers, shakes, presses his palm to his eyes, feeling pain on almost every part of him.
Thunder and lightning intertwine until he falls asleep, his fingers white knuckling to grip his thin sides.
