Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.
Five
April 17, 1905
As David loosened his tie just enough to let him breathe easier, he couldn't help but think that perhaps Vanessa had given Mr. Wagner even more credit than he initially thought. Though the office officially closed at six, it was already well past six and David counted himself lucky that the old skin-flint was finally letting him get away now.
Not that David really had much cause to complain about his boss other than the nights where Mr. Wagner, busy on a case or just wanting to milk his clerks for all they had in them, kept the staff long after and it took him that much longer before he could make it home to Vanessa. Mr. Wagner was, in all, a fair boss, and while he expected much from those in his office, the wages were much better than any factory job could offer—especially for a clerk who'd been working there for nearly three years. He could afford their apartment on his wages, plenty of food for the table so they never went hungry, and even a new dress whenever Vanessa wanted one. He couldn't ask for more.
Still, that didn't stop him from wishing sometimes that Mr. Wagner would take pity on his workers and close the office just a little earlier. Late as it was now, David had promised himself at breakfast that he would share a quick visit with Spot before going home for supper with his wife. He told himself he would and that was precisely what he was about to do. Because, if he didn't, would he ever find the time to remind Spot in time? A man had to have some priorities, and if he didn't keep the promises to himself, how long would it take before he broke the promises he made to Vanessa?
But perhaps he would stop at a shop on his way back to the apartment and buy Vanessa a gift to make up for his uncharacteristic lateness. If he did, he would certainly feel better about making this quick detour before he headed back home. If he did, Vanessa might not be so cross for being left alone so long. She had a sweet tooth, and even the smallest piece of chocolate might satisfy her.
Pleased with his plan, David started off to meet Spot. Once upon a time he would have had to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge—maybe even pause halfway in order to scream over the side—and venture a few blocks inside the neighboring borough if he wanted to speak with Spot Conlon. Not anymore. For more than three years—if not a little longer—Spot had, albeit regrettably it seemed, called Manhattan home.
David knew Spot used to lodge in a crowded boarding house on the Lower East Side, a place where bachelors and young married couples could afford a room and a hot, hearty meal at every supper. He'd lost track of where Spot was sleeping these days, but that didn't matter.
He knew where Spot lived.
It was a warm summer day, early June when the humidity and the stink of the city hadn't rolled in just yet and it was possible for a boy and his girl to sit together on a rooftop if they could, overlooking the streets below, content and cozy. David had led Vanessa up by the hand and set her right next to the edge, making sure to stand beside her; being up so high made her both giddy and dizzy and he wanted to assure her that, no matter what, he would keep her safe.
There was a content silence between the pair, David smiling and Vanessa staring downward, her hazel eyes wide and shining. They were happy, and for a few reasons. Having graduated at the top of his class, David received a job offer as a low-level clerk in an attorney's office not too far from his apartment. The pay started at a higher wage than he expected, with room to grow if a young man was ready and willing to learn. As a reward, he bought Vanessa a new dress, a pale blue one that offset her features nicely; it was the dress she would wear when Sarah was married in a few weeks.
Despite the turmoil Sarah's announcement had made, despite his mother's upset and his father's shame that she chose an Irish boy over a Jewish son, David was still pleased for Sarah, and glad that she was happy with her own choice. Still, he could hardly believe it: his sister was to be wed in less than a month.
His sister was going to become Mrs. Liam Conlon.
It had been quite the surprise when it was discovered that, shortly following the ending of her courtship with Jack Kelly, Sarah had found a beau in Brooklyn's own, Spot Conlon. The two of them kept it hidden for too long in David's opinion, almost more than a year, and now that Sarah had just turned eighteen, his headstrong sister insisted that she be allowed to marry Spot. Mama cried and Papa pleaded but none of that changed her mind or her determination: Sarah was to marry Spot, and that was that.
The only problem at times, it seemed, was Spot himself. Oh, he said he loved Sarah and David knew that that had to be true, but there were moments where David had to question Spot's devotion. Moments like what was about to happen…
The sound of the heeled shoes clacking against the stairs and the quick opening and subsequent closing of the rooftop door was enough to jar David out of the lull he was experiencing just then. Following Vanessa's lead, he turned away from the edge of the rooftop only to find Sarah in a right state as she hurried toward them.
"Oh, David," she breathed, and her voice sounded thick, her words coming quickly, "I'm so glad I found you."
"What is it, Sarah? What's wrong?"
She didn't even have to say it, though she did; he knew the answer just from the worry written all over her pretty face. "It's Spot," she told him, her fingers kneading the folds of her skirt restlessly. "He was supposed to meet me here to finish up our planning, but he never showed. I'm worried."
David bit back a sigh. And Sarah had to wonder why her parents thought Spot an unsuitable match for their only daughter? "Are you sure he knew? It could've slipped his mind."
Sarah shook her head, her long, dark hair swaying in the heavy breeze. "I reminded him last night. He promised he'd be here. David, do you think you could help me find him?"
"I—"
"Go, David," Vanessa murmured. "I'll stay with your sister."
That was all he needed to hear. "Yes, of course I will," he said, nodding assuredly, though inwardly he was beaming at Vanessa's support.
He kept his features neutral, however, in an attempt to keep Sarah from slipping from her obvious worry into a full-blown upset. There was a hint of tears in her chocolate-brown eyes that David would have done anything to keep from trickling down his sister's face—including braving some of the area's seediest pubs in search of his sister's beau.
Because, if David knew Spot Conlon—and by now he felt that he had a good handle on the Irish boy's temper and constitution— he knew exactly where to go to find him.
This wasn't the first time David had gone this way, down past the New York World building he remembered fondly, down past the well-deserved nicknamed Newspaper Row, all the way to the end of Park Row. There was a saloon at the corner, and though David had no cause to turn to drink himself, he'd had plenty reason to visit the establishment.
It was an old-fashioned saloon, the sort that opened up at dawn, and closed only when the last patron finally staggered away from the bar. He could even understand part of its charm, if he forgot for a moment that he was a young married man with a loving wife and a nice home to return to; it wasn't easy, but he could do it. Saloons like this one offered nickel beers and whiskey for not much more, and lunch was even free as long as you bought a beer with it. It was the perfect place for a bachelor—or for someone like Spot Conlon.
He had to cough when he first walked inside, the inside too dark and too smoky for him to breathe freely. The saloon was crowded, men of all shapes and sizes occupying the stools or sharing a table, a joke or maybe a song. The noise was nearly deafening, a din that rivaled some of the more raucous lunches at Tibby's Diner from his youth. It was definitely not the type of place that David would go unless he had no other choice.
But a promise was a promise, even if he only promised himself. A man was nothing without his word, and David understood that; it was lesson he learned that summer he sold papers as a newsboy, and it was one of the most important ones he learned outside of his classroom. So, pulling his handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, wiping his mouth and taking one more deep, clean breath, he stowed the handkerchief away and plunged into the busy, smoke-filled entryway of the saloon.
The long stretch of the bar was set up to his right, countless stools—most filled but there were some empty, which was odd given it was supper time—dotted the side closest to David. Plenty of tables kept the inside more like a maze that he had to navigate as he tried to recognize his old friend from among the crowd. Once he got used to the smell of the liquor and the tobacco smoke, David found it was rather pleasant inside; the rich smells of the saloon's supper cooking wafted by him and, aware that he hadn't had anything to eat since lunch, his stomach grumbled. He wondered what meal Vanessa would have prepared for him for when he returned, and he decided that he would find Spot, remind him about what was happening in five days, and then be on his way.
His eyes found his quarry then, though it wasn't as easy as he expected it to be. He had thought that Spot would be alone, but he wasn't, and that was why it had taken him so long to spy him. Instead, sitting at a table amidst a circle of three women, Spot looked a lot happier than he had the last time David saw him.
No one bothered the slim, wiry boy that sat in the corner of the saloon, nursing his third whiskey and acting as if, for all he cared, there wasn't another soul in the rowdy room. Spot Conlon didn't have the reputation in some of the Manhattan dives that followed him around Brooklyn like a curse, but there was a hardened expression on his boyish features, a cold look in his pale eyes that warned some of the men just to leave him alone.
He'd arrived inside shortly after the noon meal, shunning the offer of a plate or a nickel beer in favor of the ten-cent whiskey. After downing the first one—without even chasing it with water or buttermilk—like a man with a fire in his belly, and a dire thirst that needed to be quenched, he sipped at his second, savoring the taste, the burn that was even worse than before. After ordering his third off the saloonkeeper, he slunk to that far corner and there he stayed.
That was precisely where David found him.
He hadn't travelled to Brooklyn in search of Spot, choosing to visit the saloons on the Lower East Side first. He'd stopped inside three before this last one, where he nearly got involved in a fight in the first, and was propositioned by a girl called Pretty Kitty in the second before an uneventful trip a block over led him to this saloon right at the end of Newspaper Row. David actually felt quite foolish that it took him so long to get to this establishment. It was one he passed daily when he sold newspapers alongside Jack Kelly and Les, and it was nestled just past the newspaper buildings that ran up and down Park Row. A perfect spot for Spot to hide out in.
But why was he hiding out?
Sticking his chin out, striding towards Spot as if he didn't notice that half the saloon's patrons were watching him with either an interested or a blood-shot eye, David walked right up to Spot's table and cleared his throat noisily.
Spot never even lifted his head. "So, ya found me, Mouth. Ya want a dollar? Or can I get ya a drink?"
"I'm not thirsty."
"Oh, that's right. You're one of them teetotaler pansies. I forgot. Well, here's to you," Spot said, mockingly toasting David before tilting his head back and downing the rest of the murky contents in his glass in one big gulp.
David had to work to keep a look of pure distaste from crossing his face. "Sarah sent me looking for you, Spot. You have her very worried."
That was enough to wipe the smirk from Spot's. "What is she doin', worryin' 'bout me?"
"Because… and I can't say I understand why right now… because she loves you."
Spot slammed his glass down on the tabletop; it was only by a stroke of good fortune that it didn't shatter into a million pieces as a result. "Not you," he sneered, a touch of a slur finding its way to his voice, "not from you, too. I know I don't deserve a girl like Sarah, but I'll damned if I sit here and hear the Walkin' Mouth tell me that."
Ah, thought David, so that was what it was all about. No less than a little upset himself, he echoed the fury in Spot's tone. "Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?"
Spot didn't answer him. On the tabletop, his fingers were curled into a tight fist, trembling.
David let out a hollow laugh. It had started out a pleasant enough day; now look at how it changed. He'd had to leave Vanessa behind with Sarah while he went looking for Spot in a dark, smoky tavern. And why? All because Spot felt sorry for himself—but that wasn't it, was it? He laughed again. "I never thought I'd see the day Spot Conlon would be so afraid."
"I ain't afraid of nothin'!"
"Not even of getting married?" Spot pursed his lips, scowling, and David knew he'd gotten it right. He sighed. "She loves you, you know she does, and whether you… you or anyone… thinks you're worthy of my sister, Sarah chose you. Shouldn't that be enough?"
Spot's only response was to huff, reach out for his empty glass and, with a quick snapping of his fingers, let the barman know he was ready for another drink.
But David wasn't about to let that happen. He hadn't given up a peaceful day with Vanessa to trawl about dirty pubs only to return home to Sarah empty-handed. With reflexes not dulled by whiskey, he grabbed the glass from between Spot's fingers and hefted on his arm. "No. Come with me. It's time for you to go see Sarah."
Most surprisingly—considering he almost expected Spot to take a swing at him for taking his glass—Spot barely resisted. He swayed once as David's pull brought him to his feet before regaining his balance and blinking twice; immediately after, it was as if he'd never touched a drop. "I'll go," he said, the slur all but gone as he warned, "but if you ever tell her—"
"You have my word," David assured him, moving out of striking range just in case. That had ended a lot easier than he expected, but he definitely wasn't the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth. "You know you can trust me with any secrets."
Of course, David decided, it was easier to think that Spot looked happy when he was watching him from halfway across the saloon. Up close he looked tired and when one of the girls leaned in to whisper against his ear, he had to swallow a frown before waving her away.
They were working girls, girls of the oldest profession; from the way their hair was piled on top of their heads to the overdone make-up and the revealing dresses, there was no denying what sort of women were sitting with Spot at his table. The sight of them made the prim David purse his lips in disapproval as he stopped a few steps away from the table's edge. There was a thick wax candle on the wall behind him, the light leaving a shadow that fell across the middle of the table.
The shadow didn't fail to catch Spot's attention. He turned away from the blonde girl at his left in order to find the cause of the shadow that darkened the tabletop. When his eyes met David, he stared unblinkingly for a few seconds before he nodded. Then, with an air of dismissal about him, he said pointedly, "Night, girls."
The first one, a blonde girl whose face looked younger than the rouge would suggest, glared at David while she reluctantly got up from the table. The redhead closest to David gave him an exaggerated wink while the third woman, a brunette with a slight squint, patted Spot's hand and rose royally from her seat. To her, it was as if no one else was there—especially not the strait-laced young man standing there with a frown on his face.
David waited until they sauntered away from the table before he asked, "Friends of yours?"
Spot nodded at the recently vacated table. David shook his head and remained standing. Spot shrugged. "Not really."
"That blonde one looked pretty cozy," David said, referring to the one who had kept her lips at Spot's ear.
But Spot waved his hand absently, brushing aside David's complaint. "Mabel? She's harmless. The girls, they feel bad for me, Dave, want to make me forget. So I talk to 'em, listen to 'em, but that's all I want and that's all they'll get." Spot lifted his eyes up again, glaring curiously at David. The silence that followed was telling. "What, don't believe me?"
"I believe you, Spot."
He'd tried once, when Spot stopped calling him Mouth and called him David instead, he tried to follow Sarah's lead and refer to Spot by his given name: Liam. All he got was a sucker punch to his cheek for his trouble, and despite knowing each other for more than five years, David only ever called him by his childhood nickname. Spot wouldn't have it any other way.
Spot was still staring upward and, even in the dim lighting of the saloon, David could see that his eyes were rimmed with red. His lips were pulled into a smirk, but it was an empty expression; the smirk didn't meet his eyes, and only because it was Spot did David think of it as a smirk rather than a sad smile.
"Come with me, Dave," he said, rising up from the table and leading the way to the bar. "Let me buy you a drink."
David had long given up trying to explain to Spot that he didn't touch the stuff. He also knew it would be just as useless to try and convince Spot that he didn't need another drink, either. Though it was hard to, David knew Spot well enough to tell when he'd had too much and when it was a good idea to stop. The only problem was getting Spot to agree.
Wordlessly, David followed Spot to the bar. A big, beefy, balding man with one hell of a mustache was standing there, wiping down the countertop with a dingy rag. "Another whiskey?" he asked.
"No water this time, Charlie."
"You got it, Spot."
Spot was a regular and, unlike some of the other bums who barely left the saloon, he usually paid his tab without much of a hassle. Charlie immediately reached for another glass, pouring a liberal amount of his second best whiskey inside before sliding it across the countertop towards Spot's waiting hand. Spot accepted it with a nod.
"Ya know," he said after taking a sip and waiting for the barman to serve another customer at the other end of the counter, "I was wonderin' when you'd find me. I knew ya would, see… honest," he drawled, tapping his nose with his pointer finger before waving at David. "If it was Race, I never woulda seen him… but you, Dave… I've been waitin'. Hell, my money was on last week. What happened?"
It was with a sheepish sort of grin that David admitted, "I forgot."
Spot sighed. "Lucky guy. There's plenty of things I wish I could forget."
"Well, did you?"
"Mm?" Spot had the glass back to his lips, letting the whiskey trickle down his throat. He lived for the burn. "Did I what?" he asked when the rest of the glass had been swallowed. He smacked his lips, wondering where Charlie was for another fill.
"Did you forget? About the…" David paused, making sure no one was listening in on their conversation. It was hard to tell, there were so many people in the saloon, but it was loud enough that he figured, by dropping his voice, they were safe. After five years of holding onto the secret, he didn't want to be the one to blow it with only five days left. "About the money?"
"The money? No… I didn't forget."
"Oh." It was clear that David hadn't expected that answer. "Then you'll be there? At midnight?"
"No."
"No?"
"No, Dave, I ain't goin'."
"Why not?" David asked incredulously.
"Because," explained Spot, his expression blank as he leaned back on his stool, staring at a point past David, "what good will it do me? Money's money, Dave, and I've gotten by for five years without worryin' 'bout boyhood games and stolen satchels. It can't bring Sarah back—"
"Yes, but neither can sitting in a saloon with… with hussies as your only companions, while you leave the rest of us to wonder what's become of you!"
Spot snorted. "None of you really care 'bout me, and I don't blame ya. Go get your money, Dave, and just forget about me. You're good at that."
David couldn't take it anymore. He was tired, it was a long day, he was hungry, he knew Vanessa was probably wondering where he was and now… now Spot was making him feel guilty, making him feel like a louse for being a success and for even thinking about claiming his share of their hidden fortune. Didn't Spot think he missed Sarah just as much as him?
Scoffing, barely aware that he was drawing attention from some of the other men at the bar, David remarked heatedly, "Sarah would be ashamed to see you hiding like this."
"Don't you mention her to me," Spot erupted in a sudden burst of anger, knocking his empty glass aside, rising quickly from his seat as if preparing to go nose to nose with David. "You have no right—"
"I was her brother," David cut in, standing his ground. Gone were the days when he was a fifteen year old boy first meeting the fabled Spot Conlon, the most feared newsie in all of New York. He was a twenty-one year old man now, and he'd seen Spot at his highest and at his lowest… staring down at Spot, he wasn't sure how much lower he could get. This was worse than he expected. He understood the anger and the hurt, but the continued guilt made Spot reckless. It was no wonder they barely saw each other anymore. When a fight was inevitable, there was no use in bothering.
"So?" Spot challenged, but he remembered himself, too. There was no bite to his voice, only sorrow, as he sunk back into his seat. Drinking or not, guilty and alone or not, he knew he couldn't hit David Jacobs. He hadn't spent all those years protecting Sarah's brother only to start beating on him now. "I was her husband, Dave, but that didn't help her in the end, did it?"
David felt a stab of remorse as Spot looked visibly defeated, slumping into his seat. He decided to try another course. "Why don't you come with me, Spot? Vanessa was just saying how she misses you coming around. I'm sure she'll have more than enough supper cooking, we have a spare room… stay with us."
"No thanks, I'd rather drown here."
Shaking his head, David wished Spot would just be sensible for once. This wasn't the first time he'd come looking for Sarah's husband in a saloon, or a pub, or even a tavern. It wasn't the first time he had to try to talk some sense into the Irishman when drink had already taken its hold, either, but he certainly hoped it was the last. "Spot Conlon," he said, "always the stubborn one."
"I ain't bein' stubborn," Spot argued, "I'm doin' my penance."
"Penance for what?"
It was at that precise moment that Charlie decided to come back to their end of the bar. He held the whiskey bottle out to Spot, silently offering to pour, but Spot just waved him away again. By the time Charlie picked up his rag and busied himself with wiping out a glass, David knew he would never get an answer out of Spot.
Not that he needed to. He already had a pretty good idea what Spot would've said.
Still, he had to ask: "Penance in a saloon?"
"I'll be damned if I ever set foot in a church again."
The edge to his voice was so sharp that David felt he would cut himself if continued in that line of questioning. Besides, he wasn't sure he even wanted to know. But just then he did know that Spot had had more than enough whiskey; if there was ever a chance to get him out of the saloon, it would be now. And, based on their conversation, based on Spot's stubborn streak—penance or no penance—David would feel even guiltier if he left his sister's husband behind. Especially when the drunken Spot was intent on giving up his claim to that money. He obviously didn't know what he was doing and it was up to David to keep his interests at heart.
"Come with me," he tried again, "at least for the night. It's one night free boarding, Spot, and we can always talk about this again come morning. Please?"
It might've been that last word, but Spot actually stopped and thought about it for a moment. "If I go, do ya promise to shut that mouth of yours for the rest of the night?"
David nodded.
"Then I'll go." Spot climbed down off of his stool steadily, no sign that he'd had any whiskey at all. He pulled his hat down low, hiding those red-rimmed eyes, but the brim of his cap wasn't low enough to hide the faint shark-like smirk tugging at his lips. And David suddenly understood that, for all the guilt and the pain he knew, Spot wasn't as dumb as he looked. He might've been drunk, but even after an afternoon in the saloon, he could still manage to outwit the educated office clerk.
That was the Spot Conlon he knew so well. He had a brain—and more than half of one.
"Wait," David said then, stopping Spot from heading towards the exit. Remembering his idea of getting a gift for Vanessa, he turned to look at Charlie who was standing across the countertop from them again. "Is there a shop in here?"
The big barman said nothing but jerked his thumb to a corner in the back. David thanked him and hurried in that direction, heading straight towards a counter set up on the far side. There was a hefty sort of woman standing there, all apple-shaped cheeks and a big, cheery smile. Plump and ruddy, her reddish hair pulled back with thin wisps falling in her face, it was a safe guess that she was the saloonkeeper's wife.
"Good evening," David greeted, his eyes roaming over the wares laid out in front of him. He caught sight of a package of bon-bons and pointed one slender finger at it. "Can I have one of those, please?"
"One box of wife pacifiers for the good sir," the woman said cheekily, reaching for the chocolates and turning to wrap them up. "That'll be five cents."
Nodding as he reached in his pocket, David had pulled out a handful of coins when an unexpected voice coming from behind gave him a start. He just barely managed to hold onto his money, though his visible jump caused a snicker or two.
"Oh, don't be such a nickel nurser, Dave," teased Spot. David glanced over his shoulder to see that Spot was leaning against a table right behind him, watching his exchange with the woman at the counter. He didn't know that Spot had followed him and part of him wondered why he was surprised. "Why not spring for two?" Spot continued. "Say one's from me, a thank you for havin' me over."
He had to admit that Spot had a point. True to what David had told him earlier, Vanessa was fond of Spot—or, rather, she took pity on him—but that didn't mean it would make her very happy to have him show up to supper unannounced. All that chocolate could go a long way to keeping her happy—especially when he couldn't shake the feeling that his wife had been less so lately.
David held a second nickel out. "Better make it two."
Mere days remained until the wedding, and it took every ounce of cunning and courage Spot Conlon possessed not to just throw his cap in and run off like Cowboy did a couple of summers back. Only the memory of Sarah's younger brother—of David, the Walking Mouth, himself—hunting him down in the tavern, hinting that he was a coward afraid of getting married… only his pride kept him from giving up.
It had been such a selfish thing, a stupid thing, convincing Sarah to go against her parent's wishes simply to marry him. He couldn't provide for her. He was still a child, she was still a child… what had he been thinking? Both of them were just eighteen, with little more than a couple of dollars to start a household together. How did he expect to support a wife when his newfound factory job barely left him enough for boarding fare and a hot supper every night?
Sarah was too good for him. He'd always thought so. Too pretty, too kind, too innocent, even. Look at her. She refused to share his bed—his moth-eaten, damp, smelly bed at Madame Gille's boarding house—until they were married, and maybe it was his hormones that were more in control than his sanity, because making her his wife sounded a lot more appetizing than spending another night alone.
At least, it had. But that was before he had to talk to her father and endure the cold looks from her mother. Before Sarah started sewing her wedding dress and asking him for his opinion on where she should put the lace. Before the numbers and the bills started adding up and Spot—who'd had a head for numbers, even if he never got the schooling the Jacobs' boys had had—began to understand that making it official with Sarah was costing him a lot more than a month's worth of nights with some of Brooklyn's finest whores.
How could he ever afford a wife?
And then it hit him. A spark of light amid the bleak future, Spot could hardly believe it had taken so long for him to remember—
Spot really was a model drunk. It would've been impossible to tell he was inebriated at all, apart from the glaze in his cyan eyes that hadn't faded; it was more noticeable among the redness underneath the gas lamps out front. There was no stumble as he followed David out of the saloon, no slur in his voice as he asked pointedly, "Say, I was just thinkin'… do ya even remember what chunk of wall it was Jack hid it all behind?"
That was the last thing that David expected him to say. It caused him a quick pause in his own steps as he thought about it. That night happened so long ago, and it had all happened so quickly. If he concentrated, he could see Duane Street as he remembered stretched out in front of him, and he could vaguely remember at what point Jack bent down and put the tip of Oscar's knife to the brick. But that was it. He'd never gone back purposely, and he wasn't positive he could find it again after five years.
"I'm not sure," he admitted at last. "Do you?"
Spot shook his head, the lie coming easily. "Nope. Never went back there after that, didn't want to make it look suspicious."
"Huh," David said, curious now. "Me, neither."
—exactly where he could get his hands on a good chunk of a fortune, and fast.
End Note: I just had to throw a couple of things in this chapter that I got from one of my books: 1) Bon-bons were referred to as wife pacifiers (for obvious reasons, I think), 2) men were considered men only if they drank their whiskey straight followed by a water, milk or buttermilk chaser and 3) "nickel nurser" was a taunt against anyone who was either tight-fisted or stingy. The idea of saloons, their all day service including free lunch with a beer, and the fact that it was a place Spot could disappear in to avoid his own troubles (which, while vague for the moment, will totally have an effect on the plot as we go along.)
I've also decided to make Saturday my update day for now. I'm glad I had that one chapter buffer because chapter four has been kicking my butt - it's 85% done now and I hope to have the first draft completed by tomorrow night, but I haven't even started the next one yet. All I can say, though, is chapter four ties back to chapter two and chapter five...well, it's gonna be a doozy. I think this is going to have maybe 11/12 chapters total, which explains why each one is so long. It's planned, and there's usually so much that needs to happen in each section. I just hope you guys are enjoying this!
- stress, 06.26.10