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 18, 1905
It was times like these, when she questioned her devotion to one man and was absolutely concerned about her attraction to another, that Vanessa Jacobs strove to be the perfect wife she felt David deserved. If she could just show him how much she cared by doing the little things for him, maybe she could remind herself how much she did care. She loved David, she knew she did—but why was it so hard to remember that every time Jack came around?
It was quite clear that the guilt and the worries she struggled to hide had been on display last night for her husband and everyone else to see. Already regretting spending the afternoon with Jack, she'd been frightened when David returned later than usual. And, worse, he'd brought Spot with him.
It wasn't that she didn't like Spot—she did. He was a nice guy, even if he drank too much at times, and she'd pitied him when Sarah died so suddenly last year; she could hardly imagine how she would manage if David was taken away from her so cruelly like that. But how in the world could she explain it if Jack showed up at the apartment only to find Spot Conlon sleeping in the bed they normally shared? That thought had been running through her mind ever since David arrived with Spot in tow. It was no wonder David questioned her over how queer she was acting. The guilt and fear of being caught churned her belly, the queerness she felt was near overwhelming. It had been impossible to hide.
Still, when David fell asleep last night and Vanessa lay awake thinking, she knew then what she would have to do. Spot was staying, she wasn't sure for how long, and nothing was worth her affair with Jack coming to light. So, after serving David a nice, hot breakfast and kissing him before he left for work, Vanessa put on her hat and scurried down to the local courier. She dispatched a quick message for Jack Kelly at the room he was renting before hurrying right back home, mixed emotions hammering against her chest like the frantic beating of her heart.
It was then, relieved that Jack would get the message and stay away and then no one would have to know, only then that Vanessa came back to the apartment and started doing every little thing she could think of to prove to David that she was his wife, that she loved him and that there was absolutely, positively nothing for him to worry over. She proceeded to do all the washing, aired out the sheets—but not Spot's since he was still sleeping—fixed a button on one of David's shirts, and even pressed a pair of his trousers for another day. All that done, she turned her attention onto the kitchen next.
Despite the fog she was in yesterday, Vanessa was aware that David had eaten much of the remaining bread; partly because his crumbs had left a mess for her to clean, and mostly because she was afraid he might wonder what happened to the missing slabs that had made up Jack's bacon sandwiches. David loved hot bread, he said it reminded him of home, and since it was his mother's recipe, it should. If there was one thing that would help satisfy her husband, it was coming home to freshly baked bread. She had the ingredients, she had the time and she got to work.
Up to her elbows in dough, baking flour all over the front of her apron and everywhere else for that matter, she was too busy to notice it when Spot joined her in the kitchen. He walked silently, moving like a cat as he slipped noiselessly inside the small room. Vanessa never heard him, not until he murmured, "Mornin'."
His greeting gave her a start and she spun, her hands flying up to her face in surprise. Spot pulled a small, half-hearted smirk, keeping to his place just inside the kitchen.
His suspenders were hanging at his side, his undershirt untucked, his fair hair mussed as if he'd slept terribly. Lines marked his face, bags were under his eyes but there was a sharp glint in the cyan depths that betrayed his sloppy appearance. He'd slept far longer than he needed to, far longer than she would've expected, but he was awake now. Awake and watching her with such an unblinking expression it was as if he was looking straight through her. That made her uncomfortable, worse than his unkempt appearance, and she turned back around if only to escape his gaze.
"Good morning, Spot," she said, kneading her dough with more emphasis than was necessary. "There's some cold eggs if you'd like them," she added, gesturing with her elbow at the pan she left on the cooling burner after that morning's breakfast, "and I have plenty of fresh fruit if you're still hungry. David says fruit's good for you too, you should eat up."
"No, thanks. Actually, just a cup of coffee would be good."
"Milk, sugar?"
"When ya get used to drinkin' whiskey like water," he said bluntly, "you get even more used to drinkin' your coffee strong and black the next mornin'."
Vanessa had to fight to keep a disapproving look from crossing her face. For David's sake, if nothing else, she would behave herself. "And boiled is fine? That's how David takes it, boiled and right off the stove."
"Whatever ya got. Beggars can't be choosers, y'know. Want me to get the kettle?"
Wiping her hands with the bottom of her apron, Vanessa shook her head. "Leave it to me."
Not one to argue with a woman when it came to the kitchen, Spot sat down in the same seat he'd taken for supper and watched silently as Vanessa set out to make the coffee. After washing her hands free of the doughy muck, she filled up the kettle with water and coffee grounds, set it on the burner and waited patiently for the steam to make the kettle whistle. She didn't speak either, but the silence was a comfortable one. With something to occupy her, she could almost forget Spot was sitting behind her at the table.
When the kettle whistled and she knew the coffee had boiled enough to David's liking, she waited another minute or two more for the coffee to darken to a taste suitable for Spot's specifications—strong and black. Then, careful not to spill in too many of the grounds, she poured the coffee into a mug and brought it over to Spot.
"Thanks," he said, accepting the mug. He waited until she had turned around and had just put her palms back to her dough before he said loftily, "So, when are ya gonna tell him?"
"Hm? Tell who what?"
"Tell David. About Jack."
It was a good thing she was working on the dough rather than slicing up a hot loaf. The way her hands slipped, if she'd been holding onto a knife, she would've lost a finger. As it was, she banged her right hand against the countertop when she jerked, visibly shaken by Spot's words; folding it into a tight fist, grimacing as pain shot up her wrist, Vanessa took a deep breath before she said slowly, "I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you sure?"
There was something in his voice that enticed her to glance over her shoulder. And, when she did, what she saw caused her to gasp out loud—which she immediately regretted. She gave away too much in the sound.
In between two fingers Spot held the ends of a spent cigarette. How many times had they both seen Jack hand-roll his own with paper that looked just like that? And they both knew that David had never smoked a cigarette in his life; it was as equally obvious that it wasn't hers. But how could she have been so careless to let him leave that behind? She'd warned Jack more than once not to smoke a cigarette in her home in case the stench lingered and the scent of her flowers couldn't hide it. When had he left that behind?
Not… it was yesterday's, wasn't it?
Under the dusting of baking flour on her face, her cheeks lost all color as she paled. "Where did you get that?"
"Does it matter? We both know who it belongs to." Spot placed it on the table, frowning. "Dave's a good man, Vanessa. I've been watchin' his back for years, first 'cause Sarah asked me too, then because I knew he needed someone to. I just never thought he'd need someone to protect him from his own wife."
Vanessa was speechless. A hesitant finger reached out for the ends of the cigarette but she stopped when she was mere inches away. Drawing back as if she's been burned, she said softly, "You don't understand."
"And I don't wanna. I just want to make sure that this doesn't happen again."
He was only saying what she'd been telling herself from the beginning, but why did it mean so much more coming from someone else? She hung her head. "It never should've in the first place."
"Yeah." Pushing his seat away from the table, there was a strange look on his face as he got up: a calculating expression, a conspiratorial understanding in the down-turned lines of his frown. "Thanks for the coffee," he said, nodding at the untouched mug. "I think I'm gonna take that bath now."
Vanessa stood frozen as he left but sunk into her chair once the door shut behind him, hazel eyes drawn to the accusing stub like a moth drawn to a flame. The thing was this: it didn't really even matter that Spot knew. There was something about him, about the way he came to her to talk about it rather than go straight to David. She had nothing to fear from him. He wouldn't tell David, she was sure of it. Spot wouldn't think it was his place and, besides, he wouldn't want to hurt David like that. Not like she had.
The bread was all but forgotten as she chewed nervously at her bottom lip. She'd been fooling herself, that was all there was to it. Guilt didn't go away by ignoring it; baking bread for her husband didn't excuse her infidelity. Doing everything right could never make up for what she'd done that was so wrong.
No, it didn't matter that Spot knew. Vanessa knew, and that was enough.
It had been almost three years since the individual cities of New York—Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens and Staten Island—had been pushed together—consolidated, hah!—to create the Greater City of New York. Almost three years, but there were still those who respected the boundaries and knew when it was safe for a Brooklyn boy to head into Queens or where in the Bronx a Manhattan native could go if he wanted to have both of his legs when he left again.
Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly were two boys raised during a time when just walking down the wrong street could mean the end for you. It didn't matter what the city was called now, they were two boys who respected the old ways and knew where they were from: Jack, Manhattan, and Brooklyn for Spot. Hell, there were still times Spot flat-out refused to believe Brooklyn could be part of anything that wasn't his.
Which was precisely why, when Spot and Jack met up as they usually did to talk things over, they always chose to meet in the exact center of the Brooklyn Bridge. Halfway from Brooklyn, halfway from Manhattan, the two young leaders would talk about their boys, their sales and any rumbles of trouble from any of the other territories. Their uneasy alliance from last summer, when Spot and his Brooklyn boys came to the Manhattan boys' aid outside of the distribution center, had grown into something more powerful over time. Together, they were quite formidable.
Which was also why, when Jack and Sarah Jacobs broke things off at the end of the year, and Spot started seeing her not much later, Jack never said a word. Well, among other reasons…
For months they met at the center of the bridge but, no surprise, more and more these days they were edging closer to the Manhattan side. That morning Spot had even gone so far as to meet him at Newspaper Row, a couple of blocks over from the foot of the bridge. Together they talked about the morning edition—the headlines had been better and sales were up—and they talked about the latest rumors—Spot had his birds set up in Harlem, keeping an eye on their volatile leader—and they talked about a show down at Irving Hall they'd both managed to catch last week—Medda was vision of loveliness in blue. They talked about anything and everything except for the one thing neither had brought up in weeks.
Sarah.
Just as their meeting was winding down, just as Spot would normally be heading back to Brooklyn—even if Jack knew damn well that he wasn't going back yet—just as Jack thought he'd dodged that bullet again… that was when Spot glanced up at him and, looking him dead in the eye, said quite knowingly, "Who is she?"
"Who's who, Spot?" He should've been an actor, his innocence was that convincing.
But not convincing enough to fool an old pal. "The girl, Jacky Boy. Who is she?"
"I don't know what ya mean."
Spot scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ya haven't said one word 'bout me and Sarah. I've been waitin' and we both know that ain't like you. She was your girl but ya let her go, never sayin' nothin' when she chose me. That means only one thing: who is she?" When Jack didn't say anything, Spot continued to wheedle. "C'mon, I know ya better than that. What, don't trust me?"
"I trust ya, Spot." Jack sighed, suspecting he'd been caught. There was no way he could say anything else. To tell Spot Conlon he didn't trust him didn't just mean an end to their friendship. It meant an end to the Brooklyn-Manhattan alliance. "Vanessa, alright? Her name's Vanessa."
Spot's grin became suddenly shark-like and Jack knew he'd been caught. "Vanessa Sawyer." Then, in answer to the suspiciousness that flashed across Jack's face, his grin widened. "Birdies, Jacky. I got 'em all over."
It must've been a miracle. How else could he explain it? There it was, still minutes left until the clocks chimed six, and Mr. Wagner had given his office clerks leave to go home a little early. David could hardly contain his pleased smile as he followed young Jenkins out of the door. He'd make up for his tardiness yesterday by arriving home early today; if he could stop and buy Vanessa some of her favorite chocolates at the corner shop, all the better for him. Maybe he would even offer to help wash up after dinner.
And then he saw Spot Conlon leaning lazily against the thick, steel lamp pole perched just outside of the building. His back to the street, shrewd eyes narrowed on the exit, he'd been watching and waiting for David. When he saw him, Spot pushed his back off the pole, his hands in his pockets and his hat slung low enough to hide him from prying eyes.
David had paused when he caught sight of Spot. Once the other man started moving towards him, he lurched forward in an attempt to meet him halfway. "Spot?" he said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"We're going to go visit Race, remember?"
"You wanted to do that today?"
"Why not?" Spot asked conversationally. Pulling his right hand out of his pocket, he reached up and tugged on the brim of his faded old newsboy cap so that not even David could see his eyes—or so that he could avoid David's innocent blue eyes at all costs. "No time like the present."
David could already feel his plans for the evening slipping away; still, he gave it a good try. "But Vanessa… I didn't tell her I would be going out. I can't do that to her again."
"You don't have to. I told her we had somethin' to do and she wished us her best. Stop bein' such a worrywart."
Spot's scolding rang in his ears and he hoped none of his fellow clerks heard any part of that. He already had quite the reputation in the office for worrying, double- and triple-checking his ledgers often to ensure his figures always added up. Which they did—but only because, as David pointed out, he checked them often enough to prevent any careless errors. Glancing around, he saw that Mr. Wagner's uncharacteristic leniency and early dismissal had not been taken lightly; none of his employees, save for David, had lingered.
David let out a sigh of relief he quickly stifled when another glance revealed that Spot had already started to walk away. He'd gone half a block ahead of where David stood, taken aback by his quick pace. Clearly, Spot hadn't stopped at the saloon that day. He always walked faster when he was sober.
Lengthening his stride so he could catch up, David was a touch out of breath when he met Spot at the corner. A horse was crossing in front of them; it was a copper's horse which might've explained why Spot stopped, even if his impatient snort showed he wasn't too happy with pausing at all. The cop looked down his long nose at Spot, Spot glared back up at him and suddenly David envisioned himself waiting the five days to use Spot's share to buy him out of jail. But then the horse neighed, the cop rode off down the street and Spot started moving again. After only a second's hesitation, David followed him.
"So," he began, always one to start talking if only to hear the sound of his own voice, "how was your… er… your bath?"
As he walked, Spot turned his head slightly to his right; it was almost as if he couldn't believe the question. "It was good, Dave. I feel all clean now, thanks."
"And Vanessa… she didn't bother you?"
Spot was never big on beating around the bush. He should've known that was what it was about. Without even batting an eye, he said calmly, "Why don't you just come out with it? Ya want to know how she is, don't ya? Ya want me to rat her out, tell ya what she was up to while you was at work."
"It's not that," he began, sputtering at just how true Spot's accusations were, "I… you saw how she was acting last night."
"She's a dame. Don't you think your sister had her days where I couldn't make heads nor tails of her?"
"She did?"
"All the time," Spot answered with a shrug. He sounded so earnest that David had to believe him. "It's what dames do. So don't worry 'bout it. There ain't nothin' to worry about."
"Oh… thanks." That seemed to calm David down; at the very least, he wasn't anywhere near as twitchy. Heeding Spot's advice, David pushed his worries out of his head in favor of what they were going to do. "Where are we going now?"
"To Race's place," Spot reminded him. "He doesn't live that far from here."
David nodded. It made sense that Racetrack lived close by. Sheepshead Bay was still just a trolley ride away and, besides, with the exception of Jack and possibly Oscar Delancey, none of the others had moved more than a few blocks away from Duane Street. "It's been ages since I'd seen Race," he told Spot, "since the wedding, in fact."
Spot answered without thinking. "I remember. Sarah could hardly believe he showed up… and with half a bottle of gin inside of him!"
He laughed, and David followed, before both of them realized at the same exact time what Spot had said; worse, who Spot had brought up in so light-hearted a manner. David's laughter turned into a hurried cough which he covered up by lifting his hand to his mouth. Spot just shut his, took a deep breath in through his nose, and did not say another word.
They walked the rest of the way in that same awkward silence that followed them home yesterday evening.
There was a copper on the corner, swinging his night stick to and fro, daring any hooligans to show themselves while he was on the beat. It wasn't the most dangerous corner in the Lower East Side, not this far from Five Points, nor was it by any of the tenement slums full of murder, vice, sickness and death, and the bull had little to watch out for. It was quiet, the flickering flames coming off the gas lamps throwing shadows around, and he whistled "A Twilight Call" softly under his breath as he kept his watch.
But on another corner, one just a block over and hidden in the darkness, a lone figure stood, breathless. He kept his cap pulled down low, anxious fingers tapping nervously against his trousers, a half-smoked, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. Racetrack Higgins could see the cop and was damn glad that the copper couldn't see him back. His corner was just as empty, and his watch was as vigilant. His street was vacant which, for his purposes, suited him just fine.
He knew he shouldn't be doing this. If he had any shred of decency in him, he would've forgotten all about this place, all about the money, and just done what all the others promised to do: wait five years to split the loot five ways. But Race didn't have any decency left, just a feverish desire to take his money and run. He wasn't a crook, he didn't want any more than he had a claim to—okay, maybe he might dip into Oscar's stash some but Delancey deserved it—so why not? No one was around, David's conscience was nowhere to be found, they would never know…
They would never know.
Ducking down, tucking his chin into his chest, Race moved quickly, trying to make himself appear even smaller than he already was. The street was still empty, the lights were few and far between, and he was confident he'd made it without being seen.
He waited for only as long as it took him to remove the blunt knife from his vest pocket before he crouched down low in front of one particular brick in a long, unmistakable stretch of the wall. Jack's marks still visible to someone who knew where to look, he attacked them with the dull edge of his blade.
"Watcha doin', Race?"
Racetrack nearly swallowed his cigar. Straightening up quickly, brushing the mortar from his hands as his beady eyes searched the darkness, he saw what his nerves and his greed had blinded him to before: a not so tall figure leaning against the brick wall at the far end.
"Spot," he said, his voice oily and smooth as he hid the knife behind his back, "I didn't see ya there."
"Huh… seems like Jacky Boy owes me two bits."
It wasn't what Race expected him to say and he played along nicely. "Why's that?"
"He bet me that you'd make it five days before ya came back here for that money. I didn't think you'd even make it three." He jerked his head at the wall, nodding right at the exact place Race had been crouching in front of only a minute ago. "Looks like I was right."
"It's not what it looks like… yeah, okay, it is what it looks like… but five years, Spot? You're not really gonna listen to Mouth about that, are ya?"
"We shook on it," Spot said simply.
Race ignored that. "Why were you bettin' against me, anyway?"
"I only bet when I know I'm gonna win. Try not to be so predictable next time, Race. It's just money."
"Just money?" Race sounded pained, clasping one of his stubby hands over his heart. Lucky for him, it was the hand not holding the knife. "Don't say that."
There wasn't even a flicker of a humorous smile on Spot's face as he walked forward, moving closer to Race as silent as the grave, his hand outstretched and his lips drawn thin. Race gulped. Spot stopped a foot away from him, so close that he could smell the stale cigar smoke that clung to Race's vest. "Give me that knife," he demanded, his voice no higher than a whisper.
Racetrack was suddenly aware of the flimsy steel clasped between slick fingers. "What knife?" he asked. Even in the darkness he couldn't miss the way Spot's eyes narrowed dangerously, and his chuckle revealed more of his nervousness than he intended. Slowly, Race brought his hand back in front of him. "Oh… you mean this knife."
As quick as lightning, Spot shot his hand out and grabbed the knife by the blade; if it nicked him or sliced his hand in anyway, you would never know. He tucked it under his pale red suspender strap, placed securely beneath his cane. "I catch you around here again," he began, his every word dripping with the threat he meant, "this knife ain't gonna be stuck in the mortar, Race, it's gonna be stuck in you. And don't think the blade bein' as soft as your head'll stop me. It won't. Four shares of a fortune goes a lot farther than five, I'll tell ya."
"I… I hear ya, Spot. You won't be seein' me here again."
"That's what I thought," Spot said softly, menacingly, meaningfully.
And Racetrack realized what it was that made him so uncomfortable. It wasn't the threat, it wasn't the darkness, it wasn't even the way Spot appeared out of the shadows so silently like that… or maybe it was. It was the silence. Race liked it better when Spot was loud, his temper hot and his fists folded. This quiet Spot, this deadly serious Spot with an easy grip on Race's knife… he had Race damn near shaking in his plaid vest. But while he nodded, reluctantly agreeing with Spot and telling the other boy everything he wanted to hear, he couldn't help but think about the next time he could make it back to the wall and get the money.
Because he was going to. He just wasn't going to let Spot see him doing it. And once he had his money? Well, he'd grab more than enough to make sure that dull old knife would never find him.
The superintendent for Racetrack's building was far more accommodating than David would have expected. Maybe he recognized Spot as one of Race's—Tony's—friends, maybe he didn't think he had anything to worry about when it came to someone like David Jacobs, or maybe the old man didn't really care about who he let inside his apartments… either way, when David found him and explained who they were there to see, the man instructed them to go to the eighth floor and, as he put it, "make sure you tell that short bastard he needs to pay his rent, he's already overdue."
David, as per usual, was worried that Race wouldn't be home but, for some reason, Spot seemed convinced that they would find their old friend waiting for them inside. He confidently led the way through the tenement, stepping over a grey-haired sleeper in the first stairwell, dodging past two guys gearing up for a fight on the third and stopping to tip their hats at a ruddy-faced woman with two fair-haired children at her ankles on the sixth. By the time they finally reached the eighth floor, David was quite surprised to find that the floor was empty. It occurred to him that he had no idea which room belonged to Race but, without even a pause to find himself, Spot headed straight to a door and knocked.
The two men waited outside the closed door for a few moments before Spot folded his fist again and knocked even louder. A big man with a dark complexion poked his head out of his doorway a couple of rooms over, glowered when he caught sight of David and Spot in the hall, but said nothing. David lowered his gaze, Spot refused to acknowledge him, and the man huffed before disappearing back inside the doorway.
But Race still didn't answer.
They waited another minute before David exhaled softly. Frustrated, he said, "I didn't think he'd be home. Should we come back?"
In answer to the question, Spot reached out his hand to the door handle and gave it a quick turn. Instead of it being locked, it turned all the way around and Spot used the flat part of his palm to push the door open a few inches. "Or we can wait inside, if ya like," he said with a smirk.
David hesitated for only a second before nodding. "But only for a little bit. I don't want to go home too late."
"Whatever ya say, David."
Spot gave the door another push in order to open it wide enough to allow them to enter—but after a quick shove, it stuck fast. He paused, not expecting the door to stick, and proceeded to put his shoulder against the wood and heave. The door immediately flung inward, hitting the inside of the paper-thin wall with a crunch, and Spot stumbled and nearly fell inside the room. He caught himself in time, leaning against the door with his hand still wrapped around the handle. Then he got a look at what had caused the door to jam and he almost fell over again.
It was a disaster. There was no other word for it. Race's belongings were thrown everywhere, newspapers shredded, crumpled, ripped and torn, his furniture turned over… There was a side table lying on its back, the drawer pulled out and tossed somewhere else, its contents scattered on the floor. And that was just the front room. Veering off down the hall, glancing into the kitchen off to the side, Spot could see that the rest of the house was in as dire straits—if not worse!
"What the hell happened in here?" He stepped aside to allow David to follow him in. "Looks like a goddamn twister made its way through!"
And he was right. The level of destruction was high; this was no case of a sloppy man living alone in an apartment without a woman's touch. Maybe they could excuse the newspapers strewn everywhere if they weren't so ripped or tattered, and maybe they could understand why one chair was turned on its side… but not three. And was that one chair over there missing a leg? Spot looked down. Yes. The missing leg was what had kept the door from opening in the first place.
David's sharp intake of breath echoed in the wake of their unexpected surprise. Amidst the mess, there was no sign at all of Racetrack. "You don't think—"
"Shit, Davey, I don't know what to think." Spot kicked at a piece of torn newspaper that was balled up on the floor in front of him. "Here, why don't we look around? Maybe find a clue about what happened to Race's place?" The unsaid part of that suggestion followed: And maybe Race, but neither one of them said it out loud. Still, they were both thinking it.
"Okay," David agreed. "I'll be a right Sherlock Holmes."
Spot paused again, sparing a quick, curious glance over at David. "Who?"
"Never mind."
He was sitting at the table, newspapers piled in front of him, racing slips stacked haphazardly next to them. A bottle of gin was set before him, a full shot glass next to it, and Race's hand rested lightly on the rim. Fingers tapping lightly against the glass, he wondered if it was a smart idea to have another drink. His nerves were shot, every other second or two he was checking over his shoulder for only he knew what, and a sip might take the edge off of him. Just one more shot, it couldn't hurt, right? He was still alert. He was still aware.
His ears were still pricked, waiting for his front door to open.
See, it wasn't that Racetrack was a paranoid sort of fellow—no, but he did boast too much for his own good and sometimes opened his mouth when he damn well shouldn't. He didn't have to be paranoid to know that he was being followed, or that more than one of the local bookies down at Sheepshead was after him for money. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to flash his winnings around or make bets he couldn't afford, but Race was a gambler deep down with a gambler's soul and a gambler's propensity to be utterly reckless… especially with other people's money.
That day's newspaper was sitting in front of him; he bought one every day, overpaying whichever newsie sold it to him. The full shot of clear gin was resting on top of it, magnifying the date in the center. April 17, 1905. In five days, it would be April 21 and he wouldn't have to hide like this ever again.
Five days… all he had to do was wait five days, keep a straight face and demand whatever money was coming his way. And then, only then, would he be able to stop looking over his shoulder, waiting for a knife in the back or something even worse.
There was a soft snicking sound coming from behind him, the sound of the front door opening, and Race stiffened in his seat. Someone cleared their throat, Race turned around and, at once, he relaxed, leaning back in the wooden chair. His heart was thumping, his breath hitched, and his fingers itched to reach for his glass again. A long shadow fell at his feet and, from the gloom just outside of the kitchen, he made out a silhouette that was all too familiar.
"Oh," he said, and the relief in his voice was only too apparent. It wasn't who he expected to see, who he was afraid to see, and, for that, he was grateful. This guy… this guy was a friend. "It's you. What're ya doin' here?"
Without a word at first, he turned behind him and with one quick shove, pushed the front door closed. Then, taking two steps closer, he said lowly, "Why do ya think? It's about the money. You had to know I'd be comin', Race."
It was always about the money…
And, suddenly, Race realized that the word "friend" didn't mean what he thought it meant anymore. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood up; the sound of the clicking as the door closed echoed in his ears, more than the soft, whispered words from the man standing before him. He didn't feel safe sitting any longer and, nearly knocking his seat over in his haste to rise, he stood up.
"I… I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Save it. I've heard all that before."
Race knew it wouldn't work but it was worth a shot. Sighing in resignation, he decided to just tell the truth and get it over with. "I don't have anymore."
"Then get some," the other man snapped. "I know you can. Ya always can."
"I can't—but give me a coupla days," Race said quickly, thinking of the date. "Just five days. I'll have all the money you need."
There was a clucking of his tongue and a sigh, followed by a very slow, very solemn shaking of his head. If he didn't know better, Race might've thought his old friend really was sorry about what he was going to do. He was already reaching inside his jacket pocket as he moved closer inside the room.
"Sorry, Race—
"Hey, Dave, look at this."
Spot was standing in the kitchen which, from David's point of view, must've been the last place the intruder, if that's who had done this, had been. There was a table, but it was still standing, not on its side like the small wooden table in the front room. Newspapers were everywhere, just like the rest of the apartment, and it was one of those, crumpled but relatively whole, that Spot held in his hand.
But Spot wasn't looking at the newspaper he was holding. Instead, his eyes were drawn downwards at something still resting on top of the table. Unblinking. Uncomfortable. If David didn't think it was unlikely, he might've thought Spot looked a little… fearful, maybe? Apprehensive, definitely.
"What is it?" David asked quickly, as he sidestepped a broken chair before walking into the small kitchen and approaching the table. Glancing down, his heart skipped a beat when he saw precisely what had caught Spot's attention. There was a knife, a good, strong switchblade that was eerily familiar, sitting on top of the tabletop. But it wasn't a clean knife; it was stained, dark brown coating the steel blade in a way that sent shivers up and down David's spine. He froze.
Spot's next words were unnecessary: "I think it's a knife."
David's stomach turned, a queasy churning that caused him to swallow roughly in a bid to keep his lunch down. "But what's that all over it?" he asked, knowing the answer already, hoping he was wrong and praying that Spot would have some other perfectly reasonable explanation why a stained knife was hidden underneath a pile of newspapers, why Race's apartment was a mess, why Racetrack Higgins was nowhere to be found—
— and then Spot dashed all that to pieces with one quiet statement. "I… it's gotta be blood."
David was staring at the dried brown… something smeared all over the knife in horror, his complexion green and his hands trembling slightly at his side. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," he said weakly before the queasy feeling intensified and he folded over and vomited all over his freshly polished shoes.
—but I ain't waitin' five days."
End Note: Hey guys. First, let me apologize for the Monday update. I really wanted to stick to my self-imposed Saturday deadline but, well, trust me when I say that this was not a good week for me. On Wednesday night my dad was in a car accident (he's okay now) that left my parents' car totaled. Then on Friday my brother's car blew, leaving us down to one for four workers. It's been hectic, trying to get people everywhere and bringing my dad to the doctor... I just couldn't get it where I wanted by Saturday. I did my last round of edits on break at work today, though, so that's good. I'm still gunning for the next chapter to be done by Saturday but I'm not too sure that's going to work. Here's hoping - maybe Sunday night?
All that aside, I hope this chapter wasn't too... odd. This is the beginning of the second arc of the story, as you could probably tell by the closing part of this chapter. I know I've said this before, but don't forget the warnings from the first chapter. This is when they really start to apply. Nothing too graphic, nothing too terrible, and I really am curious to know what you guys think of the set-up so far. It seems obvious to me because I can already see how it's ending... I just wonder how it's playing out for you. Let me know ;)
- stress, 07.19.10