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

Jack held the scrap of paper loosely in his right hand, fingering the worn edge of the thick stock, absently playing along the crease before unfolding it and folding it in half again, not entirely too sure what he was doing. The note slipped from his grasp once, landing on the stained, rumpled bed sheet, and he left it there for just a heartbeat before snatching it back up and placing it against pursed lips. But he didn't read Vanessa's message another time. There was no need to. From the moment the uniformed messenger knocked at his door and delivered the message and he had read it and reread it and memorized it, he didn't have to read the words again. And yet, he just couldn't bring himself to throw it away.

Was this how Vanessa felt when Tumbler delivered Jack's letter all those years ago? Forgotten, pushed aside… worthless? Angry?

His first instinct had been to pull his boots on and head straight over to see her, regardless of what her note said, whether Spot Conlon was at the apartment with her at the moment or not. He didn't care. Jack had never been the sort of man to be denied anything he wanted; in fact, having Vanessa warn him not to come only made him want to see her more. He wasn't a kid any longer, he didn't have an uneasy alliance with Spot in Brooklyn to keep him in line. If he went back to see his lover a day after his last trip over, it was his business and his alone. It was his decision. He certainly didn't want a woman making it for him—or an old friend who'd never really been all that friendly in the first place.

He wanted to go, he wanted to hear Vanessa say she didn't want to see him—even though he knew she never would—and while he preferred not to allow Spot to find out what had been going on between him and Vanessa, he knew that there was a good chance Spot wouldn't stay inside long. From the information Race let slip when they met last month, Spot had become even more withdrawn than ever after his wife's death. There was a better chance of him finding Spot down at a local saloon over him actually spending the entire afternoon inside with David's wife.

Jack wanted to go—

—except that, when he sat down on the edge of the narrow, unmade bed, he never bent over to retrieve his shoes. He sat there, troubled brown eyes reading the message once and then reading it again until her loopy, shaky penmanship was burned into his memory. Then he folded the note, unsure of why he was unwilling to leave, fiddling with the scrap in preoccupation while he let the message run unbidden through his mind:

Mr. Jack Kelly,

My apologies, but I'm afraid I will have to postpone our luncheon this afternoon as I am entertaining a guest, Mr. Liam Conlon, my husband's sister's husband, while my husband is away.

Yours,

Mrs. David Jacobs

That didn't sound like the Vanessa he knew at all. It was forced, formal, educated—everything Vanessa had never been when they were together. Maybe she had really changed so drastically in those four years… It was easy to tell from the shaky hand that she'd been nervous, obviously upset as she penned the words. Still, she was clever in her own way for sending a message to warn that Spot was over while David was at work; clever, even if he didn't appreciate the warning she sent.

Besides, he mused, it could've been worse. Like the way she referred to Spot by his Christian name, she could've addressed the message to Mr. Francis Sullivan. Then Jack's thoughts soured and he realized that, if he hadn't run out on her all those years ago, she would've signed the note Mrs. Francis Sullivan. Then again, if he hadn't run out on her, she never would have had to send him such a message at all…

There was a knock at the door then, a loud frantic knock that jarred Jack from his thoughts. Who could that be? Hell, what time was it? He'd paid up for his week, he'd already seen the courier that brought him Vanessa's message, and no one besides her knew exactly which room he was renting during his stay in the city. The horse-faced woman who ran the boardinghouse only knocked when supper was done, or when she was ready for his washing? Was it that late? Folding up the note for the countless time, he slipped it into his pocket and, after grabbing his hat, headed across the tiny room.

His hat was old, he couldn't remember when he bought it—he knew it was after the strike, a replacement for the hat he gave to Les Jacobs—but it was a perfect fit for his head and it was out of place enough in the big city to make others think twice about who he was and what he was doing. Most people who saw the cowboy hat imagined him to be a yokel, a Western buffoon, but that's what Jack wanted them to think. It was a lot easier to lie to people and scam them when they never expected it from you.

Jack wasn't smart, but he could be pretty clever sometimes himself.

He placed his hat on his head, slipping from who Jack Kelly had been—a young idiot who had it bad for the first girl who'd been quick to jump into bed with him—to who Jack Kelly was now—a self-assured loner who managed to be both cautious yet impulsive at the same time. This wasn't the best part of town, this was the best flophouse he could afford to rent, and he adopted a preemptive sneer seconds before he pulled the door in.

The scowl slid off his face as a look of genuine surprise replaced it. There was a boy standing in front of his door, the red sleeve of his oversized uniform pushed back so he could knock. From the flattop cap to the off-white bag slung over one shoulder and crossing his entire body, the pale boy was obviously another messenger.

It wasn't the same boy who brought him Vanessa's earlier message, that much was obvious from first glance. This one had a younger face and a mischievous glint in his mud brown eyes that reminded Jack a little of Les when he first started to follow Jack's lead and con customers into buying papers. Short and thin, too small for his red messenger's uniform, the boy looked like one good gust of wind would knock him over.

"Got a message for Mr. Kelly."

It was strange. He was so surprised to open the door and find another messenger standing there that he never realized that there was only one reason one of the red-suited boys would have come back. "I already got one," Jack said without thinking, already patting his pocket for the piece of paper from earlier.

"Then there's another one," the courier replied stubbornly.

Jack stopped searching. "What do ya mean, another one? Why didn't I get it with the first one then?"

"Don't ask me, mister, I just deliver 'em. 'Sides, this one musta just came in."

"Let me see it."

He held out his hand expectantly, biting his tongue when the boy took his sweet time digging through his messenger bag in search of the note bearing his name. He knew the kid had had it just a second ago—how else would he have known the name or the address he had had to ride his bicycle towards?—and was only pretending he didn't so that he could annoy the older man. And it wasn't like he blamed him, either. As a boy, he would've done the same exact thing. But it didn't mean he had to like it.

The courier boy took another moment longer, Jack felt his sneer returning and his patience dwindling, and suddenly the note miraculously appeared. "Here you go."

Jack took the message much rougher than he needed to, ripping the folded stock card right out of the boy's hand. Once his fingers closed around it, though, he immediately knew something was wrong. Call it a hunch, call it a premonition, but he wasn't so impulsive as to open the note right away. The messenger boy stood on the threshold expectantly; Jack hardly noticed that he hadn't moved. Like that morning, he accepted his message and shut the door in the courier's face. Except, with the first message he'd been curious, unsure of who knew how to find him. Now… now he felt apprehensive and weary. He had half a mind to take the paper and put it to the tip of the oil lamp's flame before he ever read it.

But he didn't. He didn't even need to see his name scrawled in the same hand to know that Vanessa had sent him another message, and he didn't have to flip it open to know it would be bad news. The fact that she sent a second note through the courier services instead of walking to the boardinghouse herself was more than enough to tell him that.

Jack Kelly may be many things, a liar, a scamp, a thief, a self-interested bastard… but he wasn't a coward. Little things didn't scare him. It was only the real life-changers that sent him running, and he had four more days before he could take off this time.

With a quick breath, he flipped the folded scrap of paper open and read two words:

He knows.

Vanessa had been off color lately, pale and drawn when she was normally red-faced and alive. These days she was always frowning, hemming and hawing nervously whenever Jack came to visit until his visits went from nearly every day to once or twice a week. She never seemed happy to see him and after three visits with Vanessa acting as if his very touch made her ill, Jack found his temper beginning to prickle. He wasn't an angry young man, not anymore, and he allowed his considerable charm to take over as he enticed Vanessa to open up to him.

It didn't work.

He was just about ready to give up on her. He loved her—at least, he thought he did—but could he love a girl who glared at him one second, was on the verge of tears another and watched him apprehensively whenever he watched her back? This wasn't the Vanessa he knew, and he had no clue what he had done to send her away… or what he had to do to bring her back.

And then, just when he was about to stop seeing her altogether, Vanessa came looking for him.

He was on his way to Brooklyn, to a poker game that Spot set up on the other side of the bridge. With only a handful of dimes and nickels in his pocket and one of Race's marked decks in his back pocket, he was walking like the wealthiest man in all of New York. His head held high, his cocky, know-it-all grin in place, Jack strolled down the back alley streets of Manhattan like he owned them, only stopping when a girl with messy hair turned the corner and almost ran him down. It took him a split second to recognize that it was Vanessa; when he did, his reflexes caught her just before she knocked them both over.

"Vanessa? Nessie, what's wrong?"

Vanessa Sawyer wasn't a girl normally prone to emotional fits. She was lively and spirited, true, always with an opinion or two, but Jack could count the times he had seen her cry on one hand. And unless he was mistaken, there were tears welling up in the corners of her hazel eyes just then.

He caught her by her forearms, putting slight pressure against her skin as she breathed heavily. His touch seemed to calm her long enough for her to say, "I've been lookin' everywhere for you!"

"Well, ya found me. Mind tellin' me what's got you runnin' like that?"

She took a deep breath and her words spilled out in a rush: "I'm… I think I'm going to have a baby."

Jack could've have been more floored if she told him that she was coming to say goodbye because she was running off to live with Weasel. "What?" he exclaimed. "Are you… are ya sure?"

Vanessa pulled back away from him, the tears freezing where they were as her eyes glazed over and blazed in indignation. "I'm pretty damn sure, Jack. Mama wasn't around long, but she told me enough." Then she slumped, the anger fleeing as she folding in on herself, embracing her trim waist with her arms. "What… what are we going to do?"

The words were out before Jack even knew he said them: "Let's get hitched."

It was Vanessa's turn to exclaim in surprise. "What?"

"I mean it," he said smoothly, a handsome grin splitting his face. "Let's get hitched, Nessie. Married. Me and you."

"Really?" Her voice echoed the relief she obviously felt. Jack had opened his arms wide and inviting and she let herself fall into them willingly. "Oh, Jack, that's wonderful. I was so worried!"

And even while he held her close, felt her belly pressed up against his, Jack couldn't help but wonder how much money he would need to find the quickest train out of New York. There were still four years left until he would be rich, four years left until he could afford to upkeep a wife and a child, but that also meant there were still four years left before anyone would notice he'd had to return to that brick wall on Duane Street to fund his escape.

In the end he decided to go see Vanessa regardless of whether it was a good idea or not; the second note had been the kick in the pants he needed. When he was a kid, he'd tried to be something he wasn't and failed. There was no use trying to be smart now. David had been the brains of the operation… Jack was simply a creature of instinct, living and dying by his gut reactions. And while his gut was telling him it was the dumbest thing he could do to get involved with his old sweetheart—David's wife—this was one time he listened to the one thing that beat out his gut: his libido.

He knew it was foolish, especially following her latest note, but he couldn't help himself. For four years he regretted his rash actions, his fearful reaction to her announcement; for four years he played a never-ending game of "what if". What if Vanessa had really been pregnant and he'd had a child? What if she never told him at first and he never had cause to panic and flee? What if he didn't run? What if he stayed and married Vanessa like he offered?

Would he have the life David had now?

Jack had fooled himself into thinking he could still have it. Why else would he have gone back to visit her, not once but countless times since he finally returned to town? He had to see her again, if only to convince himself that he didn't imagine the spark of attraction that still existed between them. Spot didn't frighten him. Besides, Jack had kept Spot's secrets in the past. Now it was Spot's turn.

Keeping his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled low, Jack walked across town, making the same journey he'd made the afternoon before. He moved purposefully, his eyes watching, searching his surroundings as he crossed over to the other side of the street from the Jacobs' apartment building. He was being careful, just in case. There were times when he let his impetuous emotions get the better of him, but this wasn't one of them. In the last five years, Jack had matured enough to know when the time came for a little prudency.

His choice proved to be the right one when, as he stood opposite of the entryway, he glanced over just in time to see Spot leaving through the front door, whistling a tune only he could hear. He walked as if he didn't have a care in the world, but only someone who could be just as suspicious recognized the signs: the way Spot's eyes darted to and fro, the way he carried himself as if he was poised to fight at the drop of a hat, the way he walked slowly, giving the other passersby a wide berth. Spot was a former street kid, just like Jack, and there was no hiding a tough life.

And just then, as if he could feel the heat of Jack's gaze from across the street, Spot's head shot up and stared right at him. Their eyes met. Jack swore under his breath, his hands deep in his pockets clenching into fists.

Suddenly he was a boy of seventeen again, faced with crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge in order to convince Spot Conlon and his newsboys to join in on the Newsboy Strike of 1899. Back then he knew he would stand or fall by Spot's decision. It was like that now. Everything—David's happiness, Vanessa's marriage, Jack's opportunities—everything depended on what Spot did next.

Jack held his breath as he held Spot's gaze. He refused to blink, Spot barely moved at all and then, slowly but surely, Spot lifted his arm up. One finger was extended and there was no doubt what he meant: he was telling Jack to turn around and walk back down the way he came. Which, hating himself as he did it, was exactly what Jack Kelly did.

He was a grown man now, twenty-three and world-weary. Still, he felt like a dog with his tail between his legs as he turned his back on Vanessa's apartment building, knowing Spot's eagle-eye was watching as he slunk away. He would see Vanessa before long, he was certain about that, but he knew it would be pointless with Spot standing right there.

As he turned around smoothly, acting like it was his idea and not Spot's, Jack was reminded of that day nearly six years ago when he brought David and Boots with him into Brooklyn in order to enlist Spot and his boys' help. He'd left then, too, not knowing what the volatile Brooklyn leader was going to do, whether he was going to aid Jack or watch him fall. How he felt then… well, that was exactly how he felt now.

It had all come back around.

When Jack left Vanessa and all his troubles behind, he had every intention of heading to Santa Fe. Even now, all this time after he left, he still wasn't entirely sure how he ended up in New Haven, Connecticut, running numbers for some low-life gangster. It was as dark in the city, as stark, as lifeless… everything seemed so crowded, so stifled, and yet he felt like he was home.

Maybe that was why he couldn't leave. Not again.

He lived in a rat's nest, a small hovel that smelled worse than the bunkroom did on the hottest day in July. He shared it with too many people—people like him—though none of them stayed as long as Jack did. He was rising up the ranks in his group, which had been a feat in and of itself. It was tough, going from a leader to a mere follower, especially since he'd managed to stay out of some of the roughest gangs on the Lower East Side, but he survived. Jack Kelly was nothing if not a survivor.

Sometimes he thought of what had had really left behind. The friends, the memories, the opportunities… He thought about David, and he something tortured himself with thoughts of what Vanessa was doing or how Les was coping without him, and while he sometimes wanted to go back, he never did. He couldn't really explain it, but he didn't want any of them to know that he'd never gotten far; New Haven was no Santa Fe.

He wrote one letter since he left, a short note sent to Les Jacobs because he knew, no matter what he wrote, the kid would believe the lies. He just never expected that the return address would fall into anyone else's hands.

And then the invitation to Spot Conlon and Sarah Jacobs' upcoming wedding arrived and Jack felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. He didn't know what hurt worse: that his old pal was actually marrying his former girl, or that what they had was something he never would… though he could've once. It was a reminder, a sad, sorry reminder of the mistakes he made, the mistakes he lived with every day, and he felt like he'd been cut with a knife when he read the announcement.

But, at the very least, the fancy paper invitation made for good kindling when the fire burned low at night.

He didn't go back to the flophouse, the second-rate boarding house he was renting. For just a second he debated whether or not it would be worth the risk to wait for Spot to get far enough away before he could go back and see Vanessa. After her first message he knew she was worried; after the second, she was terrified. He wasn't too sure that he blamed her, either. It was one thing for Spot to rat him out to David since he was leaving anyway. Did he really want to leave Vanessa behind in a mess like that?

And, damn it, there was that guilt again.

There was no doubt in his mind what those two simple words meant: He knows. Spot knew about Jack being in town and, worse, he knew about his affair with David's wife. He was pretty damn sure that Spot wouldn't go running to David and blab straight away, but did that mean that he wouldn't tell anyone else? Who else could he tell?

There was only one other person who knew that Jack was in town. There was only one other person who knew that Jack had been given David and Vanessa's address—because, of course, he'd been the one to give it to him. And, just his luck, Race had told him when they met a month ago that he was the only one still in the habit of speaking to Spot since Sarah's death.

Without being able to visit Vanessa, Jack set off in search of Race. At the very least he could try to convince the short gambler not to tell anyone else that he'd seen him. He didn't plan on cutting out of town until the 21st at the earliest, so if he could try his best to keep everything under wraps until then, he was damn well going to. He wanted his share of that money, but he wasn't positive he could face David if he found out about him and Vanessa before then. And, well, Spot might hold his tongue. Race, he wasn't so sure about.

At first he stood on the east side of Ocean Avenue, wondering if he should've just given up and gone back to the boardinghouse after all. Sheepshead Bay Race Track was a huge complex, part of the Coney Island Jockey Club, and the racetrack Racetrack had been coming to for as long as he knew him; no surprise, this track was how young Anthony Higgins got his nickname. It was so large, and so crowded, that he doubted he would ever find Race if he spent the rest of the afternoon looking.

There were voices everywhere, screams and hollers and cheering as the betters picked their favorites and hoped their horses would finish in the lead. Sheepshead had two courses, a dirt track and a turf course, and there were ample people—men, women and children… but mostly men—surrounding both of them.

Sheepshead was just too busy, too noisy, and Jack had to wonder why Race liked to come to this place so damn much—.

"I won!" screamed someone from in front of him, their voice piercing in their excitement. "My horse finally came in first! I won! I'm rich! Rich, rich, rich, rich, rich… ya-hoo!"

—and then he remembered.

The thing was this: Jack Kelly always dreamed of becoming a real cowboy, a rancher out west. David Jacobs used to think he could follow in Bryan Denton's footsteps and become a respected reporter. Racetrack Higgins just wanted the chance to win it big at the track. As far as Jack knew, all three of them were still working toward their dreams, but only Race was close. Someone had to win, and the odds were that he'd win sometime.

It just wouldn't be that day, Jack decided, because, after strolling around the busy racetrack, there was no sign of the Racetrack he'd come all this way to see. Then again, he didn't see Race, but that didn't mean he didn't see anyone he recognized from the old days.

It was on his third trip around that he found him, standing against a fence just outside of the turf course. For a second, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Standing there, talking to a girl with her dark hair tied up in a loose bun and her back to Jack, there was a tall, thin brunet man with his thick hair done in a queer sort of wave across his forehead. Unlike many of the other men milling around, he didn't wear a hat but the slender cigarette hanging off the edge of his lip was one of many lighting up the crowd. He had his arms crossed over his chest, listening intently to what his companion was saying, frowning.

It was the frown he recognized more than anything.

"Skittery," he called, pushing through the people in front of him. "Skitts, that you?"

The man straightened upon hearing the name, his fingers flying up to his mouth to grab his cigarette before he used his whole hand to shield his eyes against the setting sun. His dark eyes roamed the faces of the people around him, but only when Jack pushed past a stout fellow in a derby and emerged only a few feet away did Skittery drop his guarded expression and let out a small laugh.

"Jack! It is Jack, isn't it? I can't believe it's you!"

Jack opened his arms wide. "In the flesh."

The girl Skittery had been talking to turned around when she heard Jack's voice. Obviously interested to see who Skittery had been talking to, she was facing Jack and he could get a good look at her. She was a petite girl, a head shorter than Skittery but just as slender and lithe. With almond-shaped brown eyes and sunkissed cheeks, she was a pretty girl that Jack would've remembered seeing before. And, obviously, the feeling was mutual. Her small pink lips were pursed in an appraising look as she met his eyes.

There was a soft lilt to her voice that sounded undeniably protective as she laid one quick hand on Skittery's sleeve. "Who's your friend?"

There was a flash of annoyance and a quick sigh coming from Skittery but it was gone before either of the other two had noticed. "Peg, this is Jack Kelly, the infamous Cowboy from my youth. Jack," he said, gesturing back to the girl, "this is Ellie Summers."

"Pegasus," she said, offering up her nickname with a quirked grin. She looked from Skittery to Jack and back. Opening her mouth to say something, she caught Skittery glancing at her pointedly from the corner of his eyes. She closed her mouth, absently stretched and flexed her fingers before folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I think it's about time I started heading out… Skittery." She paused, and Jack got the feeling that she had meant to call him another name before she thought better of it. "I'll see you later?"

Skittery nodded, inwardly pleased that she had caught his hint. "I have a coupla more questions about your tutor and the people she knows."

"Miss Addleton? I'm sure I can arrange an introduction later this evening if you're free."

"I'll meet you in town tonight," Skittery promised.

"Then I'll see you then." Peg moved close to Jack, almost bumping into him but not quite as she side-stepped a hoity-toity looking man with a moustache to rival Teddy Roosevelt's. "It was nice meeting you," she said, brushing his shoulder in an attempt to move past him.

"Uh… yeah," Jack said, a little taken aback by how quickly his appearance had sent her running off. Was it something he said? It had been a couple of days since he shaved and maybe he could've used a wash after walking all over that afternoon, but did he offend that much? Or was there something he missed?

Skittery was watching with narrowed eyes as she started to walk away but called out to her before she'd gotten too far. "Hey, hold on there, Peg."

She stopped, turning on her heel, her long black trumpet skirt wrapping around her calves as she spun. "What?"

"You know," Skittery said in a short, clipped voice. His arms were crossed warningly over his chest again. "C'mon, hand it over."

"I don't know what ya mean."

"Peg…"

"Oh, fine." Slipping her hand into the pocket of her skirt, she drew out Jack's wallet. She offered it to him with another word—well, to him, at least. With a backwards glance at Skittery, she mumbled, "You're no fun anymore."

"He's a friend. I've told ya before: Steal from who ya like, but not from my friends."

"Yeah, yeah," she replied, but there was a mischievous curve to her answering smile and both men had to wonder if she had gotten anything else, or who else her wandering fingers had attacked in recent times. Then, offering Skittery an impish grin and Jack a shrug of her shoulders, Pegasus moved away and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.

Skittery watched her go until he could no longer spy her working her way through the unfortunate people surrounding her. "Sorry 'bout that. Peg's fingers have got a mind of their own, but she's a great girl."

"I let her get that," Jack lied automatically. He opened the wallet, checked to make sure the single dollar bill he had was in there, and slipped the wallet under his waistband over tucking it in his back pocket again. "I was just about to ask for it back."

Skittery would've rather swallowed his lit cigarette than admit that he knew Jack was lying. Pegasus always had that effect on people—they never imagined a girl looking so innocent had fingers that quick. Instead, calling a wide, friendly grin, he said in a surprised voice, "Jack… Jack Kelly. Cowboy. Wow. Never thought I'd see you 'round here again."

"I never expected to be back, Skitts. Ya look good," Jack said, reaching out and plucking at Skittery's grey shirt. "Grew out of the pink?"

Skittery had to bite back the frown as he smacked Jack's hand away, ignoring Jack's low chuckle at the same time. "Funny, Jack," he said dryly, patting the spot on his shirt where Jack had pulled at him. Six years after he discovered a soak in the washbasin had left his white underclothes pink, and he still hadn't lived it down. "Ya know, I still think it was you who dropped that rag of yours in the tub. Took me forever to buy a new suit." It took a little effort but he managed to turn his frown upside down. "I notice ya ain't wearin' your bandana, either."

"Guess I grew out of wantin' to be a cowboy." Then he remembered the old leather cowboy hat perched on his head. "Then again," he said, a genuine smirk tugging at his lips, "maybe not."

Skittery laughed then and Jack clapped him on the back and the two of them continued in their easy talk, two young men reliving old days, old times, Jack denying ever having anything to do with the accidental staining of Skittery's pink longjohns—he was lying—and Skittery, while reminiscing with the best of them, trying ever so nonchalantly to figure out just what the hell Jack Kelly was doing back in town.

It didn't work.

Jack, he decided, needed a more heavy-handed approach, a direct question that he couldn't conveniently ignore or even wiggle his way out of providing Skittery with any sort of information—and Skittery specialized in gathering information these days. He didn't answer when Skittery asked where he was staying or how long he'd been in town or which other fellows he'd seen since he'd come back. Jack was vague when the topic of David Jacobs and his new wife came up, and just the mention of Spot Conlon and his dead wife made a muscle in his cheek twitch—though, Skittery had to admit it might've been a bit callous to mention Jack's old flame like that.

Even a direct, "Whatcha doin' here, Jack?", didn't work the way he intended it to, though, in a quick flick of his brown eyes, searching the crowd over telling Skittery what he was doing in New York, Jack gave away the answer. Jack was at Sheepshead Bay Race Track, and it was only dumb luck that he found Skittery there; still, it was undeniable he was looking for someone.

And there was only one person he would've gone to Sheepshead to see.

Skittery Daniels had never been a big drinker. When he visited a bar, he busied himself with a smoke and a glass of water over ordering a whiskey or a gin like some of his pals. For one thing, it was cheaper; for another, he liked the power of being the only sober one in a group of unsuspecting drunkards. You never knew what a couple of drinks and an innocent question could tell a guy.

It had been his idea—it was always his idea. He caught up with Racetrack Higgins at the track earlier that afternoon, watched as Race made sizable bets on long-shot odds while never getting his pal to confess where he got the money to bet in the first place, and felt his envy and jealousy and goddamn curiosity well up until getting Race drunk was the only thing he could think of to do.

It worked to some extent, too. After one shot Race admitted he had some money coming to him, after two he admitted that Jack Kelly—now, that was a name Skittery hadn't heard in years—had something to do with it, and at the third he got paranoid, and rightly so, and that was the end of the conversation.

But that didn't mean that Skittery stopped trying.

He reached for the gin bottle, poured another quick shot and offered it out to Race. Despite his attempt to ply Race with the spirit and get him to finish what a loose tongue and little sense had begun that evening, Race smartly clammed up as soon as he realized he might've said too much. He looked surprised when Skittery gave him the shot and immediately reached in his pocket for some coins but Skittery stopped him. "It's on me," he said, pulling out a quarter and laying it on the counter.

Race's beady eyes swam in and out of focus, following the money and the tight-fisted grip Skittery held on it. "Thanks, Skitts," he said, punctuating the statement with a hiccup, "you're a real pal. I mean it… a great… just a great guy. I owe ya for this," he said, lifting the small glass up to his lips. Some of the liquor dribbled down his chin but he didn't notice. "When I… when I get mine… I'll remember my friends. I'll remember you."

Skittery dismissed Race's gratitude with a simple wave of his hand. This wasn't the first time Race had made mention of getting his, or of some future windfall he was expecting, and Skittery made sure to note it every time he did; that, coupled with the names and places he'd dropped earlier that evening was enough to peak Skittery's interest. A suspicious bastard by nature, all it took was a hint here, a clue there, and he knew that something was up. But he wasn't just suspicious—he was damn patient when he needed to be. Two shots and Race was talking, two more shots and Race was talking nonsense… you never knew when he'd come back around.

Besides, it was worth a quarter just to see what else Race was willing to say. "Hey, no problem, Race. Ain't that what friends are for? You can always catch me later."

And he meant it, too. Well, maybe not the friends part so much, but certainly the fact that he expected Race to pay him back before long. He would bide his time, he would wait, and in the end that gin was going to cost the short Irishman—

In his experience, Skittery knew that, when he didn't have alcohol to lower someone's inhibitions, silence could just as easily do the trick. A sturdy shot may entice someone to talk, but silence absolutely demanded it out of some people. There were those who would talk just to fill the gap, speak if only to hear the sound of their own voice. And Jack, Skittery remembered from their shared time in the old lodging house, was one of those people.

And they called him glum and dumb. He was neither. In fact, he was pretty damn smart, if he said so himself. They called him pessimistic. He was just realistic. He could read people.

Even after four years, he could still read Jack.

So when Skittery stopped talking, nodding only when something Jack said needed a response, saying not a word as Jack jumped from one topic of conversation to the next, he could see the discomfort his silence brought and knew it wouldn't be long. Eventually Jack stopped talking himself, no longer bothering to hide his desperation to find someone else that wasn't there, and Skittery had to wonder why he was the one the fellows had nicknamed Skittery.

Finally, when the silence—and it wasn't even that silent, Skittery considered, since there were countless people making bets behind them—got the better of him, Jack blurted out: "You don't know where Race lives, do ya? I was hopin' he'd be here, but… it might be easier just to check out his place."

Skittery shook his head. He knew it, too. It had to be Race… and it would've been that much easier if Jack had come clean with him in the first place. Not that he could help him, though. "Sorry, Jack," he said, "I've never really been there."

"Damn it."

Skittery shrugged. "I wouldn't really worry. Race is always here. If he ain't here now, he'll be around before long."

"Yeah, but I ain't gonna be 'round much longer," Jack told him, scowling. The silence had really gotten to him. "In fact, I'm supposed to be headin' out in about five days. I only paid up my boarding fare 'til then."

Skittery tucked the little nugget of information away for safe-keeping—finally—before coming up with a stroke of brilliance… at least, he thought it was brilliant. "I don't know where Race sleeps, but I know a couple of his haunts. You're gonna be here for five more days? Let me at least buy ya a drink tomorrow." Tomorrow was good. He was already booked for this evening and, if he hurried up, he could catch up with Peg before she got too far. "I'll take ya to one of the bars he likes and, hell, if we're lucky, we'll find him there."

Jack thought about it for a second. And why shouldn't he? Skittery was an old friend he hadn't seen in years, it was a coincidence—but a good one—that they met that afternoon, and what else did he have to look forward to tomorrow? Against all reason, he'd walked over to Vanessa's place today only to arrive just as Spot was walking out the front door. He was absolutely positive that he'd been seen, there was no denying that, and it would be a fool's errand if he dared go back again the next day. Maybe on Thursday. If not then, maybe Saturday… on Saturday he would have money and Spot wouldn't have any reason to hang around the Jacobs' apartment.

Skittery was standing there, silent again, patiently waiting for Jack's answer. Jack smirked. "You buyin'?" he asked.

"Sure," Skittery said with a short, easy smile. "Why not?"

And that, right there, should've been the first warning that something was wrong.

Skittery Daniels never paid.

—a fortune.

End Note: These chapters are beginning to get a little lengthy there, aren't they? I guess this is what happens when I set up my outline and don't want to cut anything out. I actually had this happen during Diabo - once it got plotted out, the chapters double in size because there are so many details I want to include, so many scenarios I want to set up, that I can't bring myself to edit a chapter any more than I already have. On the plus side, though, that just means more to read, eh?

I actually had some fun with this chapter. There was some humor, a couple of new characters - Skittery's going to be fun, and I hope Peg enjoys her cameo! - and I couldn't resist throwing in a plug for one of my other stories. If you ever wondered what happened to Skittery's longjohns in Pink, you have the exclusive answer right here :)

- stress, 07.25.10