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.

Author's Note: I'll be totally honest with you all. I can't stand this chapter. However, I've been working on it for four days and I can't get it the way I want it. Instead of spending any further time on it (especially when I promised Rae an update and I promised Bittah I would get to Curiouser & Curiouser), I thought I would send it out without adding more to it. The next chapter is going to be very important, though. I just hope I get over my semi-writer's block. As of right now, I want to say that this story is near 75 percent done. The good stuff (plot wise) is coming up shortly. Enjoy.

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Part XVII

While Whistler and Match exchanged pleasantries (and not so pleasantries) at the door, Frankie stood from her seat and smoothed the skirt of her white dress. Reagan could not help but notice that, unlike her, Frankie had managed to remain spotless throughout their jaunt downtown and their minor spill in the hallway.

Finally, after a few more words were said at the door, Charli let her second set of guests enter the apartment. The look of surprise on Johnny's face was quite evident; as he hurried over to Frankie and wrapped her up in a tight hug, Whistler looked slightly vindicated. "There you go, Johnny. Ain't you glad now that I stopped you from making an ass of yourself? Wanting to stop at the Kelly's building, Jesus. I just don't know what's going on inside your heads sometimes."

Reagan found it amusing, and partly embarrassing, to see the sandy-haired boy, Johnny – while still holding tight to Frankie with one hand – make a rude gesture behind her back.

His red-headed companion just laughed as he took the vacant seat next to Reagan.

He turned to face her, a smile still thinning his lips. She could feel the heavy gaze of his green eyes as he looked her over, taking her appearance in.

Reagan, aware that her dress was torn and stained, raised a hand to her chin-length hair self-consciously. She patted the straight, blonde strands, trying not to meet the boy's gaze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his eyebrows rise questioningly. Her face felt like it was on fire; she lowered her hand and patted her cheek instead.

He laughed again. "Hello, there. You're a darling little thing, aren't you?" he said flirtatiously as he leaned in to get a better look at her face; the oil lamp was burning low and, while it was better than the dark of the hallway, the room was nowhere as lit as she would have liked it.

She grew more flustered the closer the boy drew in. She swung her head to the right, searching for someone to help her out of such an uncomfortable situation. Frankie, however, was still standing in the center of the small apartment, her arms slung around the neck of the second boy as if she was afraid that, should she let go, he would vanish forever. Match had, strangely enough, fled the small room after inviting the two boys in. Reagan thought she heard something going on in a second room and could only wonder what her hostess was doing. She was alone.

Great. First I have Mickey, rest his soul, pawing at me, she thought, lowering her head and staring at her shoes, taking care to look anywhere but at the boy sitting next to her. Now I have this goon.

Inwardly, Reagan groaned. She had never expected her day would progress like this when she agreed to spend the afternoon and evening with Mickey Finn. Now Mickey's dead and, after the longest walk in my life, I've been shanghaied by the daughter of the Manhattan Mob leader… who happens to know that I'm from Brooklyn but is fine with that. And if that wasn't enough, now I am sitting in a dank apartment on the wrong side of town, being stared at by some letch. I'm dirty, tired, hungry, nervous and confused. She shook her head. I want my Mama. Reagan sniffed at the unfairness of it all, just hoping that the boy would leave her alone.

The skinny boy did not seem deterred by her lack of enthusiasm; neither did he pay any attention to her sniffs. Instead he stood up slightly, stooping over the chair, before he dragged it over the lush carpet. He did not stop until his chair was touching the wood of Reagan's chair. Obviously quite satisfied with himself, he let the chair drop and sat back down. "The name is Whistler. What about you?"

Whistler? Reagan's head shot up. Oh no, God, please tell me he didn't just say 'Whistler'… like Mickey's pal, Whistler… like the Brooklyn Boy, Whistler… Cursing the shoddy light, she cocked her head slightly to the right and squinted. She tried to use the limited light available in Match's apartment to get a better look at his face. Not like it would help, though. Mickey never let her close enough to his friends – especially Whistler Connolly, for reasons she fully understood now if this guy was Mickey's Whistler. Mickey preferred – had preferred – to keep her attention focused on him.

It was then that Frankie finally pulled away from the other boy. Grabbing his left arm with her right hand, she led him over to the two remaining chairs further down; Whistler had taken the one she had occupied while she was greeting Johnny. As she sat down, she rolled her eyes at Whistler. "At it already, Whis? Leave Reagan alone."

There was a quick silence as the blonde girl's name sank in. Then…

"Reagan?" asked both boys at once. Reagan jumped at the sound of her name but neither boy was looking at her just then. They were looking at each other. Johnny scratched the back of his neck as he narrowed his eyes into the direction of Reagan and Whistler. Whistler caught his questioning look and shrugged.

Then, leaning in even closer than he had been before, Whistler turned his attention back to Reagan. But, rather than look at her face, he looked at her chest. He nodded and turned back to the other boy. "Yeah, Johnny. I remember these tits. This is that dame that we was talking about today," he announced, speaking as if Reagan could not hear him.

"Johnny?" asked Reagan, mostly to herself. Didn't Frankie say something about a Johnny before? Johnny… Shit. "Johnny Conlon?" she said again, her voice slightly shaking. If the red-headed boy called Whistler knew her then it only followed that this Whistler was Mickey's Whistler. And Mickey had a Johnny, too – Boss Conlon's son, Johnny Conlon. Oh, double shit… If her mother knew she was cussing she would be having a conniption but there was no other word in the whole of the English language that could express exactly how she was feeling at that exact moment but a cuss word.

As confused as the three Brooklyners appeared, Frankie's confusion far surpassed their own. "Johnny? Whis? Reagan? Uh, guys? Did I miss something? Do you all know each other?"

Reagan found she could no longer speak. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth a full confession would fall out.

Whistler, meanwhile, laughed and glanced at Frankie. "This little lady is the skirt that good ol' Mick was chasing for the past few months. Didn't you know that your pal, here, was from Brooklyn, Frankie?"

"She told me," Frankie said. "But she didn't say nothing about knowing you guys."

Reagan could feel the blush that was currently staining her cheeks. However, Johnny cut in so that she did not have to answer to Frankie's statement. "I don't know how well Whistler knows the girl but I've never met her. I've just known about her from what Mick says. He has it bad for the girl."

Had, Reagan could not help but think as her blush deepened. It occurred to her, just then, that she was going to miss Mickey Finn. She had been so concerned with saving her skin following his murder that she had not given thought to his removal from her life. If I get out of this alive, I'll make sure he gets a nice burial… Maybe Mama will make me a black dress to go to his funeral.

"Oh, I've seen her before," Whistler added, wolfishly, bringing Reagan out of her depressing thoughts. Now she was slightly disturbed. "But Mickey made me keep my hands to myself. Said he picked her out first." He shrugged and turned back to Reagan. "Say, Rita—"

"Reagan, Whis," corrected Johnny. "The name ain't that hard to say."

"I know, Johnny. I just like the name of Rita better. So, anyway, Reagan," he amended, "if you're here with Frankie, where is Mickey?"

Just like Whistler and Johnny had earlier, Frankie and Reagan jerked their heads toward each other, trying to find the other's eyes. Both of the girls knew what had happened to the younger Finn brother. Neither wanted to tell: Frankie because she was beginning to worry about her father's safety; Reagan because she did not want to be involved in this any further.

Frankie swallowed and stared at Reagan. The blonde girl shook her head shortly, moving slowly as not to draw Whistler's attention back to her. Right then he was sitting back in his chair, looking from Frankie to Johnny to Reagan and back. It was hard to tell but the red-headed boy looked almost amused by the tension that had just filled the small room.

Johnny took Frankie's hand and squeezed. "Did I miss something, Frankie?" he asked, throwing the same words back at her. The gulp and brief nod in Reagan's direction had not gone by unnoticed by him.

In the limited time that Reagan had known Frankie – a few hours only but it had seemed like far longer to the girl – this was the first time that she had witnessed the Manhattan girl lose her cool. Frankie had been confident while facing down the barrel of a loaded gun (even if it was wielded by her father); she had been in control (for the most part) while trying to convince that one-eyed man to leave them be; she had been calm while the pair of them had crossed the line from the ritzy part of town to the not-so-ritzy part of town.

But just then she faltered. She did not know how to tell Johnny about Mickey's death. But she knew she had to.

Frankie had known Johnny her entire life. When their fathers broke their partnership and the rift between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys grew, the childhood friends were torn apart – only to be reunited shortly after her fourteenth birthday. They had been together, sneaking kisses and planning forbidden trysts (with the help of Match O'Rourke), ever since. In all that time she had never had a secret from him. She could not keep the truth from him.

"Johnny," she began but paused; she could feel Reagan's stare and knew that the blonde Brooklyn girl did not think that Frankie should tell him. I have too, though. It had to come from me. She took a deep breath, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Johnny, Mickey is dead. He… he was shot this afternoon. In Manhattan." There was another pause. "And, Johnny, it… it was my dad—" she added, trying to explain what Reagan had said happened, trying to show him that it was not an unwarranted attack on her father's behalf. But he did not give her a chance.

Johnny pulled his hand out of Frankie's grasp and stood up. He ran that same hand through his cropped sandy hair, trying to make sense of what Frankie had just admitted. Whistler just, as was his namesake, whistled; it was a long and slow whistle that said more than any amount of words.

Reagan placed her hands in her lap, waiting for the blame to fall. She had been the last one with Mickey before he had been shot. Surely the Brooklyn Boys would see it as all her fault. Frankie, on the other hand, lowered her green eyes so that they were resting on her lonely hand. The rough way that Johnny had drawn away from her touch made the confession – and the repercussions – all the harder. With nothing better to do, and the sting of Johnny's rejection hitting her hard, Frankie began to cry. Soft sniffles at first that grew louder when he turned his back on her.

The news was such a shock that neither of the boys knew what to say at first. They had always known that death was imminent; the odds against all four of them surviving adolescence in a dirty business such as the one they were involved in were slim to none. The fact that the death would come at the hand of one of the Manhattan Mob was equally understood – it came with the territory when one was a Brooklyn Boy. However, it was one thing to understand that it could, and probably would happen. It was another to realize that Mickey Finn was dead. Actually dead.

Johnny was the first to speak, finally. "Frankie, don't cry. I'm trying to think about what's going to happen…" he said, his statement trailing off. He knew what was going to happen – they all, somehow, knew what was gong to happen once his father heard of the murder – but he did not want to admit it just yet. Just like Frankie had done, pushing aside the realization that her father would have to be held accountable at some point for his actions, Johnny did not want to think about his father's reaction.

His words, of course, only made her cry a bit louder. Everything was hitting home for her at that moment and Frankie, for one of the first times in her life, was frightened. It did not make things any better that Reagan had not backed up her story – or that Whistler, quite unlike himself, had not added in his own two cents.

It was then that Match reappeared. Coming from the hallway, holding a tray of five liquid-filled glasses, she paused in the entrance of the sititing room. There was an oil lamp kept on a side table just at the entrance; she was able to see the four young adults, three resting on chairs while the Conlon boy was on his feet. Not a one of them were making eye contact – they were all staring sadly at the floor. And, unless her ears were playing tricks on her, Frankie – Frankie freaking Kelly – was crying.

Match placed the tray onto the side table, pushing the lamp a bit to the side. She placed her hands on her hips; she did not like it when she missed out on something. From the look of things, she had missed a big 'something' while preparing drinks for her guests.

"What the hell did I just miss?"