Title: Never Enough
Summary: For every prohibition you create you also create an underground. SET IN 1921. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work. Charli O'Rourke is the property of Betchya O'Connor. Whistler is the property of Garen Ruy Maxwell.
Author's Note: Goodness, I have not touched this story in almost two weeks, wow. Then again, considering that 2.5+ years gap in updating time, a couple extra days isn't too bad. Actually, next week marks the four year anniversary of this story. I'm so proud… Anywho, here's the next bit. It's coming along nicely, I think. I want to thank all the people who have continued to read this story and review this. It makes sitting down and working on these stories very appreciated. I just thought I'd take the time to express that. And now, part fourteen.
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Part XIV
The three of them just stood in the hallway of the old, dilapidated building before Charli remembered her duty as hostess and invited both Frankie and Reagan in. Frankie smiled and ducked her head as she entered into the room; Reagan waited for a moment but, after realizing that if she did not go into the room she would be left alone in the dark hallway, she followed after Frankie. Charli nodded and backed into the room, closing the door behind her.
The room that the girls found themselves in was quite the contrast from the dingy outer hall. The walls were a clean white color, with a yellow sheen due to the various oil lamps that were stationed all over. Reagan was glad that she could finally see her hands in front of her; it had seemed that she had been submerged into darkness for much longer than she had been.
While Frankie and Reagan stood in the middle of the room – standing atop a nice shag rug, Reagan noticed – Charli took a seat on the floral print daybed. She gestured to two of the matching four seats in the room. "Take a seat. Please."
Frankie did as Charli said; Reagan followed her companion's lead and sat in the seat that was in between Frankie's chair and the window.
"Now," Charli began, and Reagan could see from the oil lamp at her feet that the girl's eyes truly were two distinct colors, "I think some real introductions are in order."
The girl, about the age of both Reagan and Frankie – sixteen – crossed her legs and looked at Reagan again. The feel of those oddly mismatched eyes made her uncomfortable; she turned to Frankie for help.
Frankie, on the other hand, seemed to take Charli's words as a cue. She cleared her throat. "Match," she said and Reagan cocked her head in confusion – who the hell is Match? "I'd like you to meet Reagan Malloy. Like I said, she's from Brooklyn. I met her today and I thought it be best if I brought her to you." The girl grinned and nodded. She seemed to expect such an answer.
Frankie turned to Reagan. "Reagan, this girl here is Charli O'Rourke but we all call her Match. For obvious reasons," she added and Reagan knew she was referring to the girl's strange eyes. So that's Match... "Match is a pal of mine. She's kind of like the middle man between me and Brooklyn."
Reagan shook her head. Before she could stop herself, she was blurting out a question, "What do you need a middle man between you and Brooklyn for, Frankie? Your father, from what I hear, is in the middle of a war with Brooklyn. Ain't it dangerous, then, if you deal with Brooklyn?"
Despite the dim lighting – not even the large amount of oil lamps Match had burning illuminated the whole room entirely – all could see that there was a red tint to Frankie's freckled cheeks. The girl was blushing.
Match answered Reagan's question with one of her own. "Not so fast, toots. Before you start asking things of my pal, Frankie, I want to know what you're doing here? Hmm?" Match, while still sitting on the soft padding of the sofa, leaned forward and glared at Reagan.
The blonde girl was taken aback at the accusatory tone Match had adopted. She could see that the girl was very protective of Frankie and she gulped. She really did not want to relive the night's events again.
However, under the intensity of Match's stare, Reagan knew that she had to answer to Match's inquiry before anything else would be said. She sighed but, just as Reagan was about to explain just how she was involved in this whole mess, a knock was heard. Somebody was at Match's door.
Match turned to face the large wooden door, both eyes narrowed in confusion. It was odd enough that Frankie Kelly, and her petite guest, had called at such late an hour but another set of guests? She shrugged and got up from her seat on the sofa. "I'm coming," she answered, adopting the smart-alecky tone she had used when greeting the girls before.
Reagan let out a second sigh. She was not sure how well she could have answered Match's question, anyway.
--
The drive from his father's hide-away in Brooklyn to the Lower East Side in Manhattan did not take Johnny and Whistler very long – mainly because Whistler was a speed demon behind the wheel. In fact, as Whistler sped the car past the ritzy buildings along the border that separated the rich and the seedy portions of the Lower East Side, Johnny only just got a glimpse of the penthouse where he knew the Kelly family lived.
He tapped Whistler on the forearm. "Hey, we just passed her house."
"I know."
"Well, aren't we gonna stop?"
Whistler shook his head while keeping his eye on the road. "I ain't chancing it tonight, Johnny. I think we'd be better off visiting Match O'Rourke and getting her help, instead."
"You're beginning to sound like my Dad, Whis," Johnny complained. He brushed his shaggy dirty blonde hair out of his face before leaning back in the passenger seat.
Whistler did not seem bothered by Johnny Conlon's words. He shrugged slightly. "Hey, Boss Conlon pays me to make sure that nothing happens to your skinny ass. There's only two of us here tonight and I ain't about to go walking up to Jack Kelly's door. Even if you do want his daughter."
Johnny chose to overlook Whistler's comment and, instead, smirked. The facial expression – so like his father's – really marked him as a Conlon. "Look who's calling who a 'skinny ass'," he said, finally. Whistler looked like a skeleton with a red ponytail.
But Whistler knew better than to think Johnny meant anything by his words. That was just Johnny – it was his way of giving in.
Whistler pulled the car over and parked a few blocks away from the Kelly's apartment. Johnny was outside and walking briskly back in the opposite direction before the care was entirely stopped. Whistler groaned and exited the car quickly. The boss's only child was sometimes too impulsive. Right then was a perfect example; without even waiting for his friend (and, technically, body guard), he was already heading down the Manhattan street.
Whistler was shorter than Johnny but could still walk quickly when he wanted to. He caught up with the other boy just they were crossing the exact building where they both knew Jack Kelly (and his family) lived.
Or, maybe, the reason why Whistler was able to catch up was because Johnny stopped right in front of the building. When Whistler met up with him, he was staring up at the top of the building. Whistler shook his head – this was why it was better to go with any of Boss Conlon's whores than get hung up on one girl. Monogamy makes a boy go crazy. Evidence: Johnny Conlon.
"Come on, lover boy," Whistle said, rolling his green eyes, as he hooked one of his hands under Johnny's arm. "If you want to see your lady friend tonight, you have to see Match first. Remember?"
The younger boy did not say anything as Whistler led him away.
The pair definitely stood out as they began to walk the half mile or so that it took to get to the O'Rourke's tenement. Whistler was less conspicuous, wearing a pair of secondhand plus-fours and a simple white shirt – given that he preferred to spend his money on women and drink rather than fashion – but Johnny was walking advertisement for the wealthy – even if the money was ill-gotten. The Conlon boy was wearing a cedar-colored knickers suit with two-toned patent leather shoes in the color of tan and white.
However, both boys exuded such a sense of danger and confidence that none of the bums they encountered, once they crossed into the dirtier streets, even looked twice at them. Besides, this was not the first time that they had taken this trek.
Before they knew it, they had made it to the familiar corner apartment building; it was hidden in the darkness but the boys knew it was there. As quickly as they could – Johnny because he was anxious, Whistler because he had to piss – they had entered into the tenement.
It was dark inside the building and, rather than grope about blindly in the stairwell, both Johnny and Whistler each nicked an oil lamp; Whistler took the one that rested right inside the lobby, Johnny stole the one that sat at the top of the first flight of stairs. With the lamps held carefully in their hands, outstretched so that they could see exactly where they were going, the two boys made it up the three flights that led to Match O'Rourke's apartment in no time.
Whistler placed his filched lamp in the stairwell while Johnny used his to lead them to Match's door. Whistler raised his hand to knock but paused; it almost sounded like Match had company already – and, as far as he knew, she lived alone and rarely invited people into her home. Unless, such as the case of Frankie and Johnny, they could make it worth her while. I wonder if this could be a trap. Whistler did not get his job as guard of Johnny for nothing; his slight sense of paranoia kept him on his toes.
Johnny, it seemed, had not heard any sound coming from within the apartment. Careful not to spill any of the hot oil, he elbowed the older boy. "What are you waiting for, Whis?"
Whistler shook his head. "Never mind," he said before raising his hand to knock again. He may be paranoid but at least he was not so impatient. If it turned out to be a trap, after all, he would just have to get as far away from New York before Boss Conlon found out.
--
When Match got up to answer the door, Frankie stood from the plush seat and stretched, trying to fight a case of nerves – nerves brought on by Reagan's question. The seemingly innocent way she asked about Frankie's relationship with Brooklyn – and, therefore, Johnny Conlon – made Frankie feel all the more guilty for playing around behind her parents' back. But she was in love and people did crazy things when they were in love.
Now, normally, it did not bother her that she disobeyed her father and mother's wishes – from the stories that some of her dad's companions told her, her parents broke more rules than even she could dream of – but the introduction of Reagan unsettled her. She knew, even now, that her father was probably trying to figure out what to do with the blonde girl. And, considering that her father was the leader of the Manhattan Mob – and now knew that Reagan was from Brooklyn – the options could not be good. And what if her father found out about her forbidden romance with his enemy's only son?
Not for the first time did Frankie wonder exactly why Reagan came out and told Mr. Blink about her being from Brooklyn and that the boy she had been with was Mickey Finn. She had not spoken to the quiet girl much on the way to Match's house – her mind had been elsewhere. But now, as she sat inside the O'Rourke's home, waiting for Match to send her guest away, she started to think about all that had happened.
Mickey Finn is dead and Daddy killed him…
What was Johnny going to do when he found out that her own father had killed one of his closes friends? What was Johnny's father going to do when he found out?
"Hey, Match, long time no see, eh? I've missed you."
Frankie's breath almost caught in her throat. From her seat next to Reagan, she could not see who it was that was standing on the other side of Match's open door; it was as dark as ever in the hallway and, with the oil lamp resting just behind her, she could only make out two small silhouettes. That voice, however, suggestive and low as it greeted Match, was so familiar to her that she did not need to see who it was. Whistler Connolly.
And, if Whistler Connolly was at Match O'Rourke's place, that meant only one thing: Johnny Conlon was with him.
Despite the myriad of confused and disturbed thoughts that circulated around her head since meeting Reagan, Frankie grinned. Johnny is here.