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 19, 1905
David woke up early that morning. So early, in fact, that beyond the gauzy windows, he could see the night's sky twinkling over a city that never really went to sleep. The small bedroom was just as dark inside as it was outside. With Vanessa next to him, her soft, snuffling snores a comfort to him as he lie on his back, staring at the ceiling, he was awake even before his wife was. The candle was unlit, matches perched next to the base for when Vanessa needed them, but David ignored it. For the moment, at least, he enjoyed the blackness. It was easier to forget what he'd seen last night when his eyes swam in the darkness of his familiar room.
He didn't know how long he laid there, his thoughts returning to the night before and the discovery he and Spot had made. The two of them hadn't lingered in Race's apartment much longer after they found the knife, instead returning to a befuddled Vanessa who couldn't understand it when her husband turned down a plate of freshly baked bread. Spot turned in immediately, leaving David alone to convince Vanessa that nothing was wrong with him for a change. And Vanessa, recognizing that David was preoccupied but far too concerned over her conversation with Spot that morning, said nothing when David turned in not too long after Spot had.
Turning on his side, his eyes accustomed to the dark now, David watched his wife sleep as he struggled to keep his own breathing under control. She was huddled on her right side, tucked under a light blanket, her fingers gripping the edge so tightly that David doubted he could pry the material from her grasp. She was frowning in her sleep, a fitful rest, and the lines furrowing across her brow made David wonder if she was having nightmares as bad as his.
Last night, he'd dreamt of blood.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw that blood-stained knife and wondered: What happened to Race? He'd wanted to tell someone, he'd wanted to go look for Race immediately, but it was Spot who had calmed him down. What could they do at night when they had nothing to go on but a messy apartment and a stained knife? There was, thankfully, no body to be found, and everything could be explained. Maybe Race cut himself, maybe he had to rush down to the doctor to get bandaged up, maybe he tripped and fell and destroyed his entire apartment—
David couldn't take it anymore.
Propping himself up on his forearm, he leaned over and kissed Vanessa lightly on her forehead. She murmured in her sleep but David was pleased to see that her worried frown faded into a content smile as she pawed against the blanket before lifting her hand and sliding it under her pillow. Then she fell promptly back into a deep sleep. David smiled as she did before quietly slipping out from his blanket and off of the bed. He moved slowly, careful not to wake Vanessa up. For once, maybe he would be the one to leave a candle burning for her.
Treading softly, David reached inside his dresser for a new change of clothes. A freshly pressed pair of trousers was sitting on top and he grabbed them too before changing into them hastily. He would wash up later, since there was still some time before he had to go to work; certainly he didn't want to head into the kitchen in his night clothes. He did stop to light the candle first, checking to make sure that the cracking sound of the match being struck didn't disturb Vanessa, or the small, yellow flame didn't steal her from her slumber.
It didn't. Sighing, Vanessa simply rolled over, turning her back on the candle and on David, and fell right back asleep again. David let her. She needed her rest. She didn't look half as nervous, half as hunted when she was sleeping.
He walked barefoot out of the bedroom and into the hall, taking small, tentative steps in order not to wake up Spot, either. The door to his borrowed room was closed, and David moved on the balls of his feet until he passed, making his way toward the kitchen. It was then, though, as he got close and the abrupt smell of freshly boiled coffee slammed right into his nose, that he knew that his precautions were in vain. He didn't need to be careful about waking Spot up. Spot was already awake.
David couldn't disguise the groan he let out. The coffee's scent was so strong, so overpowering that his still queasy stomach jerked and he groaned in discomfort. The sound caught Spot's attention who, with his back to the doorway, hadn't heard David's stealthy approach until the small noise echoed around the calm and quiet kitchen.
Spot turned around and David noticed that he also hadn't bothered cleaning up just yet; unlike David, Spot was still wearing the same clothes he'd spent the last two nights in. He'd removed his shirt, wearing only his trousers, his patched union suit and his faded red suspenders over that. As a strange, sudden thought, David wondered if those were the same suspenders Spot had always worn as a boy. Come to think of it, the only time he remembered not seeing Spot wearing them was during his wedding to Sarah—and even then David's father had to fight to get him out of the ratty old things.
He must've been staring at the suspenders because Spot quirked his eyebrow and stared unblinkingly back until David realized it. His face felt flush, the strong coffee odor getting worse by the second, and David dropped his gaze to the floor. He swallowed once and waved his hand up slightly in a quick greeting. "Good morning, Spot."
"I'm makin' some coffee," Spot said simply, as if nothing had happened. "I was gonna wake ya up when I was done. Want some?"
David felt his stomach turn again in a way far too reminiscent of last night. "No, thank you."
Spot noticed the way his cheeks took on a greenish tint and he smirked. "What? Not feelin' any better?"
"I was, and then I smelled the coffee. It's a little… pungent this morning."
As if on cue, the kettle whistled its high-pitched shrill whistle and Spot immediately reached over to turn the flame on the stovetop down without even checking to make sure the coffee was done. "You're not gonna go ahead and puke again, are ya?" He shook his head as he removed the kettle from the burner next, chuckling as he reached for his mug, leaving the spare to sit unused on the countertop. "I didn't know blood did that to ya."
David managed a weak chuckle that paled in comparison to Spot's. "Me, neither." He couldn't hide his frown, either. In his opinion, it wasn't all that funny. He'd just gotten those shoes polished, too!
"C'mon, take a seat."
For just a moment, David imagined refusing Spot, maybe even rebuff the man as he stood in his own kitchen, the master of his house. He was a grown man; the time when he felt like he had to obey Spot had passed long ago, and even then there was a stubborn streak the Jacobs' possessed that made him almost contrary. For just a moment, David was going to remain standing… until the wafting odor of the strong coffee hit him and he felt another rolling wave of nausea strike him down. Feeling more than unsettled, David pulled his chair away from the table and sank into it like a straw man, all arms and legs and no strength.
But that didn't mean that Spot won. Or that David was going to let him off that easily. Surrounding his table in his apartment, he felt safer, though no less concerned, and he was aching to ask Spot what he made of their trip last night. They'd hardly spoken about what they found—or, rather, David had tried but Spot hadn't wanted to hear it as they made their quick escape from Race's apartment back to David's. Now, though, after a night's sleep, he wondered what Spot would have to say.
Except, it seemed, Spot was content to just sit there and sip absently at his coffee.
After a few quiet minutes that seemed to pass like hours David had to fight back the urge to scream—there was something about the silence that was making him mad. Normally one to sit back and enjoy the calm early mornings before he had to rush off to work, he realized that these were not normal circumstances and it was driving him absolutely batty that Spot was ignoring what had happened. He wished he could forget the state of Racetrack's home, the torn newspapers tossed everywhere, the stained knife hidden on the tabletop… he wished he could take back their impulsive journey over there, but he couldn't and so he wished instead for Spot to open up and help him figure it all out.
It was a pity Vanessa wouldn't let any liquor stay in the apartment. David was almost tempted to offer Spot some whiskey just to get him talking.
Spot was halfway done with his coffee, absently tracing the curve of the ceramic handle with his forefinger, when David first began to suspect he was stalling; he was staring off into space, blinking only once in a while, and he was almost certain Spot had the same thing on his mind that he had. He just wasn't about to admit it.
Well, David had had enough of that. It was getting late, it was getting close to the time he had to go to work and, with his luck, Vanessa could wake up at any moment and the conversation he'd hoped to have with Spot would be over before it was begun. Taking his opportunity before he thought better of it, David jumped in with one of the most pressing concerns, one that had been bothering him more than others ever since last night: "Do you really think it was a good idea not to go to the police?"
Spot looked up, almost surprised that David had broken the quiet with his question. He thought about what David had asked for a minute, leaving the other man to stew again in the quiet, before he said pointedly, "What would they have done? We tell a copper we just happened to go to Race's place, found the door open and walked in on a disaster? We'd be locked up right now, probably halfway to Sing Sing, and what kinda help would we be then?"
"But we are going to help, aren't we?"
Snorting under his breath, Spot closed his eyes momentarily. "Jeez, Davey, I know ya got a brain. Why don't ya use it sometimes?" When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that underneath the pale yellow manufactured light David's cheeks were tinged with pink.
"I don't know what you mean, Spot."
"Sure ya do."
And Spot was right, too—David just didn't want to tell him so. He knew it would've been a dumb move to go to the police, but David wasn't a criminal. Regardless of the corruption and the vice in the city, he was raised to believe that, when a crime was committed, you went to the police. Spot, obviously, had a very different education. And he was right. Thankfully, there was no body, just a vandalized apartment and an old switchblade. No body meant no crime, though there was a good chance that a copper could throw them in jail just for breaking into Race's apartment. They couldn't go to the police for help, but the two men were both stubborn enough—curious enough—loyal enough that they were going to get to the bottom of this themselves.
So, yes, David reasoned, they were going to help.
Now that left only the knife.
David cringed inwardly as the image of the rusted, stained knife flared up in his memory. Neither he nor Spot had picked it up, and they'd left it behind when they slipped back out of the apartment last night. In the light of the morning, David wondered if that had been a smart thing to do. He'd only got one good glance at it—he didn't need another after he got sick—but there was no denying that it struck a chord with him. He was almost certain he'd seen it before, or perhaps one like it. He just didn't know where.
His thoughts on the knife and where he might know it from, David hadn't realized that his cringe was so noticeable until Spot let out a small laugh.
"What's the matter?" he said in a considerably lighter tone. "Not gonna hurl again, are you?"
David knew that Spot's continual teasing was nothing more than a way for him to work out his frustrations. They were both upset, both worried over what they found in Race's place and while David regretted his weakness when it came to the sight of blood, he regretted it even more for Spot being the one to witness it. But because he knew Spot was as unsettled as what they found as he was, he said nothing.
Besides, it wasn't that. "I don't know… something we saw back there was odd—"
"Heh. No shit."
David ignored him. "—and it's been bothering me. And, no," he said before Spot could, "it wasn't the blood. But I think it does have something to do with the knife. I'm sure it does."
"What, didn't look sharp enough? 'Cause I would think the blood showed it was."
"No," David said slowly, wondering if Spot would understand what he meant if he told him that the switchblade they discovered looked familiar to him. He doubted it and decided not to even try. Shaking his head, he just said, "It's not that, either… I don't know. Maybe I'm just focusing on that so I don't have to worry about—"
Spot cut him off again with a steely glance. He slammed his mug down on the tabletop; lucky for him it didn't shatter or Vanessa would have had his head. "Race is fine," he said in a sharp voice that left little room for argument. "Stop thinkin' like that, Dave."
That was easier said than done.
Sarah Conlon died on a Monday. By Wednesday, she was buried. By Friday, her husband was missing.
Esther Jacobs was the first person Spot told when Sarah succumbed to her illness. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't stand being in the same room as his wife's cold body, her formerly-warm brown eyes glassy and lifeless as they stared unseeingly. He went straight to Sarah's mother, told her without having to say a word, and only returned to the apartment after Sarah had been covered by a sheet awaiting the ritual purification.
Sarah was a Jewish girl and Esther insisted she be buried like one. Spot didn't have it in him to argue. In fact, he secretly agreed that getting her buried as quickly as possible was the best thing for all of them. It was a mockery, sitting with Sarah's body while the spirit, the soul of his beloved wife had gone where he couldn't get to her. Every time he glanced at the still form, every time he thought he caught her chest rising and falling before chiding himself and reminding himself that she was dead, damn it, every time he wished that it had been him… it was just too much. Up until Monday, Spot had done everything he could have done just to keep her with him.
He would've done anything to get rid of her now.
She was buried in her favorite shawl, one she sewed herself, in a plain wooden box that Spot paid for himself; in every way except what most counted, Spot was buried with her. He stood with Les and David, her brothers, and said nothing as the prayers were murmured and the dirt scattered. When David, then Les both said a final farewell to their sister—pausing to rip a small tear on their right sleeves in memory of Sarah and her passing—Spot followed them to the edge of the grave. Esther had told him about the tradition known as keriah but Spot did his wife one better. Instead of ripping his good shirt, he bent down and, drawing something out of his pocket, tossed it on top of the coffin's lid. It landed with a thump and without a backward glance, he turned and walked away.
The old rusted key he wore as a street kid in Brooklyn was buried with Sarah. When they were alone, he always told that she held the key to his heart. In his last gift to his wife, he made sure she would always have it.
That was the last anyone saw of him following the funeral.
The seven-day period of mourning—shiva—was set to begin at the Jacobs' family apartment right after the burial. Esther and Meyer, along with Les, invited their neighbors in to sit with them that afternoon in honor of Sarah; David and Vanessa were going to stay the whole week. Spot was supposed to, too, but he never followed the family back. No one was surprised, they left the Irishman to mourn in his own way, but when Friday night came, Shabbat, and David could be excused from mourning, he immediately set out to find Spot.
From past experience, he went to the saloons first, the pubs, the taverns where Spot liked to go. Thinking back to the days before Sarah and Spot were married, he really thought he'd find him in the saloon on Newspaper Row… but he didn't. Spot wasn't in any of those places. The factory had dismissed him weeks ago, so he wasn't there, either. Nor was he at the apartment he shared with Sarah. Where had he gone?
David had had to wait until sundown before he could go looking for Spot and it was quickly closing on midnight by the time he finally realized where, if he was Spot and Vanessa had just been buried, he would go.
It was snowing, a soft, gentle wafting snow, when David arrived at the small cemetery where Sarah had been buried two days prior. It was empty, the wind blowing just enough to cause chills to erupt underneath his jacket, and David felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He didn't believe in ghosts, but that didn't mean he thought it was a good idea to go skulking around a cemetery at the dead of night.
And then he caught sight of a solitary figure standing next to a newly dug grave and knew that, good idea or not, it didn't only belong to him.
He headed straight towards the figure, took a deep breath that made the back of his throat burn from the cold and coughed out a single name: "Spot?"
There was no response but the specter was undeniably Spot Conlon. His silhouette was unmistakable, the downturn of his head, the gravesite he chose to stand beside. Then there was the fact that he was wearing the same clothes he wore on the day of Sarah's burial and David's stomach dropped. He had left the cemetery, hadn't he?
"I've been looking for you," he said, aware of how loud his voice sounded in the stillness of the snowy night. He lowered it considerably. "We expected you at the house."
Still nothing.
David took a tentative sniff. All he smelled was the brisk, crisp smell of the snow in the air but, if he tried, he could almost catch a whiff of a sickly sweet odor coming off of Spot. He sighed. Of course. "Have you… have you been drinking?"
That got Spot's attention. His head jerked up, his eyes visible as he turned his head sharply to look straight into David's. They were glazed over, red-rimmed and narrowed as he stared over at David. He cleared his throat but his voice sounded hoarse and raspy, like he hadn't slept in a week, when he snapped, "Leave me the hell alone."
Throwing one more glance at the mound of dirt, Spot jammed his hands in his pockets and turned away from David. Neither one of them said another word as Spot stormed away, leaving David alone at Sarah's grave to wonder whether the glaze in Spot's eyes was from the liquor or his tears.
David went to work because there was nothing else he could do. Spot stayed at the apartment because there was nowhere else he wanted to go.
Until, that is, he thought of a couple of old favors he could cash in and a couple of old birdies who were always up to finding out anything and everything they could whenever they were put up to it. Then, after rinsing out the kettle and his mug, pulling on his shirt and grabbing his hat, he silently followed David out through the front door before Vanessa Jacobs had even woken up.
Of course, David had no idea that Spot left the apartment not much longer after he had. So content in the knowledge that Spot would be home with Vanessa all afternoon—understandably, he was a bit apprehensive about leaving his wife alone—David was able to devote his attention to his ledgers and numbers and books once he arrived at the office. Or, rather, he tried to. It didn't really work like he intended.
Every time he tried to add up a column of figures he found himself remembering the ominous knife hidden under an old newspaper. When he went poring over musty old journals to look up a particular fact for Mr. Wagner, he got sidetracked as he wondered: in what scenario could Race's apartment get ransacked, a bloody blade left behind, his friend inexplicably missing… in what scenario could that mean that everything was all right?
David liked to consider himself something of an optimist, if a cautious and wary one at times, and even he knew that that was too much to hope for.
As hard as he tried to keep his mind on his work, it inevitably started to wander after a few moments, turning back to Race, back to Spot, back to Vanessa… his pen stopped scratching, his eyes closed momentarily as he pushed distressing images aside, and while his practical side warned him against worrying too much when not all facts were known, his worried side was much louder, much more vocal and it was drowning out both his common sense and his work ethic. David just couldn't stay focused; not even when his supervisor, the head clerk by the name of Jensen, called him out in front of his peers for making a foolish error in his sums could keep him from fretting. First Vanessa's behavior, then Race's absence… he thought he finally understood why a man like Spot Conlon sought out refuge in local saloons and corner pubs. Anything to make the thoughts stop.
It didn't stop him from his worrying, but he had enough pride in his work not to want to fail again. His ears ringing from Mr. Jensen's scolding, his cheeks hot and red with deserved embarrassment, David took back his ledger and retook his seat at his desk. Yet, no sooner had his trousers touched the wood did he immediately think of Spot again. He wondered how was doing and if he was keeping Vanessa safe and out of trouble back at the apartment.
There was one good thing about not having a lead, he decided as he forced himself to really pay attention to the scribbles and corrections on the sheaf of paper in front of him. No lead meant no reckless actions, no next step. They could wait until midnight on Friday to see if Race showed up. What else could they do? He wanted to help… but how? Besides, for the first time in three nights, David might actually be able to sit down to a dinner with his wife at a decent hour.
He should've known better than that.
As if he was trying to make up for his earlier goof, David threw himself into his work for the rest of the day—and was surprised to find that it was well past six thirty by the time Mr. Wagner left his stuffy office in order to dismiss his clerks. Amidst the grumbles of his fellow workers—young Jenkins' grumbles being the loudest—David grabbed his hat and hurried down, one of the first to take to the steps.
Glancing at his watch as he stepped out through the front door of the building, he was just telling himself that he would be home by seven at this rate when something made him look up and across the way. There was Spot, leaning lazily against the same pole as yesterday as if he hadn't a care in the world.
And there, realized David, went dinner.
He swallowed the frown that threatened to blossom, turning it into a puzzled quirk of a grin as he met Spot underneath the unlit gas lamp. It was a questioning grin, asking Spot what he was doing there—more importantly, why wasn't he back at the apartment with Vanessa like he said he would be—without him even having to say a word.
"I found him," Spot said by way of a greeting.
"Race?" David asked brightly, immediately forgiving Spot for showing up unexpected again—though maybe he should have been expecting him—in favor of the news his brother-in-law offered him. To say that Race being found was a worry off his mind was an understatement.
But Spot's dark expression was more than enough to shoot down David's hopes. "No, not Race. I found Delancey."
"Oscar?" David was confused. "Were you looking for him?"
"Of course. Dave, we went to see Race and, well, you remember what we found. We said it the other day, Jack will show up if he wants to, but no one's seen or heard from Delancey in ages. Don't that strike ya as suspicious? Three days until the 21st and Race's place is destroyed? He's disappeared? I don't know why ya wouldn't think to at least see if we could find Delancey and figure out what he's been up to."
Put like that, David had to admit that Spot had a very good point. "What did he say?"
"How the hell do I know? I didn't see him yet." Then, in answer to the perpetually confused expression that had taken up lodging on David's face, he sighed and said, "I was waitin' for you, genius."
"So where is he?"
"Surprise, surprise: he don't live too far from Duane Street." Spot jerked his chin toward the street behind David. "Ya wanna come with me to go and see him now?"
What else could he do? "I guess." He placed his hat over his head of thick brown curls. "Lead the way."
Vanessa would understand, he reminded himself as he followed after Spot. In a couple of days, when all this was over and he had one-fifth of that money to call his own, he would explain to his wife what had kept him so far from home all those days in a row. Perhaps a case of bon-bons, a new hat and as many dresses as she'd like would also go a long way to earning her forgiveness.
Oscar Delancey… it had been years since he saw one-half of the formidable Delancey Brother pair that used to tease and taunt the Manhattan newsies. In fact, the last time had been that night almost five years ago. Following the strike in late July of 1899, when Morris, Oscar and their Uncle Weas were run out of their jobs, all of the Delancey's seemed to up and vanish. It was just their luck that the only time Oscar decided to make an appearance was on April 21, 1900—right in time for him to be there when Spot dragged that bag of money into the deserted alleyway.
David never knew what brought Oscar in town that night, Oscar never said, but that was the last he saw of him. To be honest, he wouldn't have felt guilty if Oscar of the five—he pointedly thought five over four—didn't show Friday night. And that's why he didn't really get it. Why would Spot want to see Oscar so bad unless—
"Spot?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitated for a moment before asking, "Do you think Oscar might know what happened to Race?"
"I don't know, but it's worth a shot, ain't it?"
David finally understood. Regardless of whatever trouble a wise-cracking gambler could get himself into, there was the matter of the money. There were five people who knew that Race was coming into money: David, Spot, Oscar, Jack and Race himself. But only one of them was ever that handy with a knife.
The knife—
David gulped. "Um… Spot?"
"Yeah, Dave?" His annoyance was almost palpable. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't appreciate it every time David jerked him out of them.
"You remember that knife, don't you?"
Spot's thin lips were drawn into an even thinner line. They barely moved as he muttered, "How could I forget?"
David was surprised at how even his voice sounded, considering how fast his heart was beating. "Remember this morning how something about it got me thinking?"
"Yeah…"
"I remember now." He gulped, his traitorous stomach performing a small flip that made him only too grateful they weren't going home for dinner. "I remember where I've seen it before."
"Yeah? Well, don't hold out on me, Davey. Where'd ya see it?"
"You saw it, too. Five years ago, Duane Street. Spot, I think that was the knife Jack used to chip at the brick wall."
There was a sharp intake of breath as Spot caught on to what David was getting at. "And ya remember who gave him that switchblade, don't ya?"
They both said it at the same time: "Oscar Delancey."
Oscar Delancey wasn't a twitchy boy; nerves were never a problem for him. He hardly showed any fear, not even when the Crips gang started leaning on him and Morris to join, but there was something about the dark alley behind the Newsboy Lodging House on Duane Street. It was goddamn spooky. Leave it to that idiot Cowboy to pick the only hiding place in Manhattan that gave him the willies.
And that didn't have nothing on how he kept thinking he was being watched. Oscar kept looking over his shoulder, feeling like a mook every time he did. Morris was back at the apartment; besides, not even his brother knew why he went back to Manhattan when the sun went down. Except he wasn't calling on sweet June Whitaker tonight.
Damn it, but he shook. He gave his word that he wouldn't tell—not his brother, not his uncle, not his girl. He didn't tell, but what was he doing standing in front of the brick wall two weeks after a sack of money fell from the sky? And why was his switchblade flipped open and waiting in his hand?
He knew why.
And yet… yet he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Oscar knew exactly which brick it was—Jack Kelly was not a dab hand with a knife, and it was easy to tell which brick had been cut away from the others. He could reach behind the brick, grab just a handful, and no one would ever know.
But the thing was this: he would know. And damn it, he shook.
Before he thought better of what he was doing, before he talked himself into acting ever inch of the villain those newsies thought he was, Oscar flicked his blade closed and carefully slipped it back into his pocket. The way he saw it, he didn't have all that money two weeks ago and he didn't have it now. The other newsies wouldn't have it, either—between the four of them, he was pretty sure one would keep the rest away. And that was that. All there was left for him to do was wait.
Now, it was dark, but was it too late to pay a quick visit to June?
In the shadows, Spot and Jack stood together, watching, saying nothing. It was only when Oscar started off again, his hands in his pocket, his knife out of sight, that Jack betrayed their position by placing his cigarette in his mouth and, after a second of fumbling in his pockets, pulled out his matchbox and struck a match. The eruption of the small flame blinded him for a moment; his eyes adjusted, he let his cigarette and then shook out the thin wooden stick. All that remained was a tiny, fiery light of his embers, a glow that brightened when he took one long drag.
"I guess I owe you another two bits," he said, blowing the pale grey smoke out in a steady stream. "I was damn sure that he'd be first… well, after Race, I mean… to take some of that money. I can't believe he just left like that."
"Double or nothin', Jacky," Spot said, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "I never bet unless I know I'm gonna win."
Jack flicked his cigarette, sending the ashes dropping to the floor. He absently toed the dirt, scattering the ashes until there was no sign of them, wondering where in the world he was gonna come up with Spot's winnings. Rather than think of that—or the fortune just out of reach—he asked out loud, "How did ya know he wouldn't take none of it?"
In the darkness of their hideaway, Spot's teeth managed to gleam wickedly. "'Cause he knows I woulda killed him if he tried."
David wanted to ask Spot how he found Oscar, but he didn't. After he blurted out that the knife he saw at Race's was the one Oscar used to walk around with years ago Spot didn't say another word. He was silent, obviously thinking about what David's revelation could mean, and neither of them liked what it could mean.
He stayed a few steps behind Spot, unsure where they were going but unwilling to ask. His throat felt tight, his stomach jumpy and he had half a mind to let Spot confront Oscar on his own—but he didn't. What would Sarah say if she saw him acting like a coward, leaving her husband alone to face whatever dangers lay ahead? No. It was his turn to look after Spot now. Why else had he gone down to Spot's favorite saloon on Monday night?
Unlike Race's apartment, there wasn't any super waiting to let visitors inside. It was a standard tenement building, one that looked like the hundreds other in this part of the city, and the two men walked inside like they belonged there. David immediately turned to the stairs but Spot stopped him by grabbing his arm and pointing at one of two doors on the main floor. "That one," he said abruptly before strutting right over to it and banging on the door. His fist was clenched so tight as he knocked that his knuckles were white and David felt himself flinching away from Spot's barely contained anger. Without even having met up with Oscar again, he'd already decided he was responsible for whatever had happened to Racetrack.
When the door wasn't answered after a few seconds Spot's impatience got the better of him and he kicked the door once with the tip of his boot. David rushed over to him and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Spot shook him off, exhaling roughly, but by the time the door opened slowly inward, he was breathing softer.
In the last five years, Oscar had hardly changed. He was taller than David remembered, and he'd put on a few pounds, but there was something about him that screamed "Delancey" to him. Maybe it was that oily grin, that smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes… whatever it was, David knew him the second he saw him.
Oscar recognized them, too. "David, Liam—"
Spot's eyes blazed at the mention of his Christian name; he was already incensed, that was just the final straw. No sooner had the second syllable been said, he was already interrupting Oscar. "How did you—"
"Oscar!" cut in David quickly. There was that old familiar twinge in his cheek from the last time he decided to call Spot by his name. He had to calm him down, diffuse the situation, because how could they ask Oscar any questions of Spot went ahead and decked him first? "It's good to see you."
His jaw clamped shut and his hands still folded tight, Spot shot a warning glance at David that he met without blinking. Seeing David that serious, he calmed down. Slightly. "Yeah," he snapped, a small growl in the back of his throat making his words as harsh as meant them. "It's good, Delancey."
If Oscar noticed the look Spot and David shared, he didn't comment on it. Grinning widely, he held his hands out as he gestured at them. "I'd say the same but, hell, I guess I'd be lyin'." He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Let me guess. You're here 'bout the money."
"Something like that," Spot said through clenched teeth.
And there was that laugh again. "Don't worry 'bout me. I ain't interested."
"What?" Spot's surprise was so intense that he immediately forgot his anger.
David echoed it with a quick: "What do you mean?"
"The money," Oscar said with a shrug. "I don't want it. And, really, I ain't too keen on you two showin' your face around here. My wife… she doesn't like late visitors, and seein' how I kept my word and never gave up your secret, I can't really explain what you're doing here, can I?"
It was Spot's turn to laugh, a hard disbelieving laugh. "Your wife?"
"Yeah," Oscar answered, reaching behind him and pulling the door behind him closed. David hadn't even noticed that it was still open until it clicked shut. "You didn't think you were the only one to catch a girl, eh, Liam?"
"Oscar…" Spot began warningly, but David cut him off with a quick, "That's nice to hear, Oscar."
Oscar pointed at David's hand, waggling his finger in the direction of the simple band David wore on his left hand. "I see you got one, too. She a looker?"
David jerked at the blunt question and secretly wished he'd allowed Spot to hit him when he wanted to. "Um… yes?" What business of Oscar's was it if Vanessa was beautiful—which she was, of course, he mentally added—or if she was his? He opened his mouth to retort but stopped when Oscar held his hands up as if warding David off.
"I'm just kiddin' with ya, Davey," he joked. "Lighten up."
Spot's good humor was gone as quickly as it appeared. As if reminded what he was doing at this place by Oscar's casual mentions of Sarah and Vanessa, he stepped past David and said, "Have you seen Race?"
The question stumped Oscar and he took a moment before he answered. "Tony?" he asked, then he laughed that slick laugh of his again. "Oh, I get it. You're looking for him 'bout the money, too. Don't you worry, I don't think nothing's gonna stop him from goin' after his share. Hell, I would've forgotten 'bout it long ago if it wasn't for him poppin' up and remindin' me from time to time."
"You know Race?" David asked. He didn't know that. Strange, it was something that Race never mentioned.
"Yeah, and his mouth is still as smart as ever. I see him down at the track sometimes. Him and Benny are good friends. That's the guy ya want to talk to if you're lookin' for Tony."
"But you haven't seen him?"
Oscar waved his hand again. "Nope, not for ages. He goes for a drink sometimes, makes his bets, but I don't invite him around my family, and I don't got to his place. But Benny does."
And David realized suddenly that he believed Oscar was telling the truth. Maybe he was letting his memory of the Delancey boy cloud his judgment but he didn't remember Oscar actually being helpful, nor did he expect that he would answer the questions Spot had for him. It didn't sound like an act; it sounded like he meant it when he said he didn't want the money, or that he knew Race but didn't know where to find him. David couldn't help but think that Oscar had no idea what happened to Race. But Benny… this Benny guy did.
Spot, it seemed, was thinking along the same lines as David. Except, instead of feeling just a little glad that Oscar was being honest, he wanted to catch him in some kind of lie.
Sounding more casual than David though him capable, he asked, "One quick thing, Oscar, and then we'll be goin'. Ya still got that knife of yours?"
"Why do you ask?" he said. There was no suspicion, just honest curiosity.
"Humor me. Ya got it?"
Oscar kept the door open when he went back inside, allowing David and Spot to get a peek. It was similar in design to Race's apartment—well, without newspapers torn everywhere or furniture toppled on its side—with a tiny front room, a hall that led away to a small kitchen and, David assumed, the bedrooms. It was cozy, candles everywhere with a few small wooden blocks scattered along the edge of the hallway. He hardly had anytime to wonder why the blocks were there when David saw a boy with hair as dark as Oscar's come hurrying towards the toys. He looked to be about three or four years old, but there was enough resemblance between him and Oscar to figure that this was Oscar's son.
But before they could get a better look at the boy, Oscar returned, a puzzled look on his face. He stood in the doorway, blocking his son from their view, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Huh… ya know, it's not where I left it. Funny, last time I saw it was when Benny needed it…" He suddenly looked panicked as, for the first time, his easy smile slid off his face. "Shit, I hope I didn't leave it out. My wife'll kill me if one of our kids gets their hands on it." Oscar glanced back into his house in time for all three of them to notice a petite woman with big brown eyes watching from across the hall. Oscar nodded at her, she waved and vanished. "Was there anything else?" he asked, moving so that he was standing just inside the doorway, his hand holding the edge of the door. "'Cause, look, it was kinda nice seein' ya again but I'm happy now. Ya don't have to worry 'bout me. I'm not lookin' for none of that money. You'se guys… share it. I hope it makes ya as happy as I am."
The door slammed in their stunned faces, a quick close that told them that the conversation was over. Then, to add insult to injury, David was sure he heard the lock click as it turned before the muffled sounds of a woman asking questions about her husband's unexpected guests could be made out through the thin wooden door. Still, neither of the two men moved just yet.
"What the hell happened to him?" Spot's expression looked exactly the way David felt. "That ain't the Oscar Delancey I remember."
David had to smile in spite of himself. "He got married, Spot. He had a family. Five years is a long time. Are any of us the same anymore?"
It's not what he meant to do. Sure, he swiped Oscar's blade the last time he visited him and his lovely little family at their home, but that was just in case. He'd certainly never meant to use it for anything.
Race was already drunk when he got there. Maybe if he'd been sober, maybe if he'd realized just how damn serious he was, Race might've been able to rely on his self-preservation instincts and he could've avoided the whole thing. But he wasn't—he'd already taken in far too much gin, and the gin made him both slow and stupid. A bad combination at any time, but even worse when a dedicated man was out for answers.
All he'd wanted was for Race to finally fess up, tell him about his never-ending supply of money, how he got it and where he could get his hands on some. He knew Cowboy had something to do with it and, if what Race said last night had any truth to it—which was about a fifty-fifty chance, knowing Racetrack Higgins—than so did Oscar. He knew he could ask Oscar, and maybe he could even hunt Jack down if it came to it, but Race was his best chance. Enough gin, and he'd tell him anything; too much, and Race lost his nerve.
He'd taken too much that night.
Race never locked his door, figuring that if someone wanted to get in bad enough, they got in. It was only too easy to slip inside his apartment and find the dark-haired gambler with a half-empty bottle of gin and a jumpy disposition.
"Oh," Race said, when his dazed eyes narrowed on him in the gloom of night, recognizing him in a sudden rush of relief, "it's you. What're ya doin' here?"
He closed the door behind him. Whatever happened, whatever passed between them, he didn't want any witnesses to this conversation. "Why do ya think?" he said then, the click of the closed door, the satisfying turn of the lock, all of that behind him now. "It's about the money. You had to know I'd be comin', Race."
Race stood up but what did that matter? He was taller, he was stronger, he was insistent and, most of all, he was sober.
"I… I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Save it. I've heard all that before."
"I don't have any more." Race's shoulders slumped visibly, but it didn't matter. He was wasn't buying the defeated act, either.
"Then get some," he snapped. "I know you can. Ya always can."
"I can't—but give me a coupla days." He saw the way Race's beady eyes flitted to the table, glancing at the most recent newspaper lying on top of a pile of older ones. "Just five days. I'll have all the money you need."
And that was all he needed to hear. Five days… he only had five days to get to Race's stash of money before anyone else did. For a split second he wondered if he could get more information than that out of Race, but he knew he couldn't; he was lucky for Race to let slip that much with a belly full of gin like that. Even if he could, that might mean sharing with the others—and he wasn't the sort of fella who liked to share. A little info from Race, some more from Oscar, and he'd have it all to himself.
All of it.
He took Oscar's switchblade from out of his pocket then, flicking it open with an expertise that was all too eerie. "Sorry, Race, but I ain't waitin' five days," he said and—
Well that was that, Oscar decided. He'd been wondering if any of the other guys would come for him and wouldn't you know, with only a handful of days left, he had David Jacobs and Liam Conlon at his front door. What next? Tony Higgins knew better than to come round by the house and if he never saw Jack Kelly again, that would be too soon. Huh.
June didn't ask what that was about when Oscar went back to the kitchen, with a quick apology for his wife and a ruffling of his son's dark hair. His little girl, Sadie, was clinging to her mother's skirt; at two years old, she was interested in everything and anything her mother was doing, especially when June was fixing up supper. Oscar joined Roy at the table, stopped his boy from sloshing his jumper with juice and immediately forgot all about his visitors.
That is, until a few hours later. It was dark, supper had been both finished and cleaned up and the four Delancey's were sitting together: Oscar reading the newspaper, June sewing the lace onto a secondhand dress for Sadie, Sadie toddling after Roy while her brother moved cheekily out of the way of her sticky fingers. Sadie giggled though her eyes were drooping and it was just about the children's bedtime when there came a sudden, echoing knock that caused Oscar to lower his paper and June's eyes to widen in surprise.
She turned to look at her husband questioningly but Oscar was already climbing up from his chair.
He didn't know who he expected to find when he opened his door, but it certainly wasn't the man he expected. There, standing in front of him, was a tall man, thin, with dark hair done in a fancy wave that Oscar thought made him look like a pansy—not like he'd ever tell him that. There were just some things you don't tell a touchy man and making fun of his style was one of them.
"Benny? What are you doing here?"
"Let's talk, Oscar," the man said easily. Friendly. No trace of animosity whatsoever.
Oscar looked at Benny, trying to figure out what would've brought his pal to his home so late. But there was no answer there and he knew better than to keep on looking. Holding up a finger, he leaned around the open entryway in order to call back into the apartment. "Junie?" he called, knowing his wife could hear him from the doorway, "Benny's here. I'm just gonna go out for a minute. Tuck the kids into bed for me, will ya?" Her reply was muffled, but seeing how it wasn't in June Delancey's nature to argue against her husband, he knew what her answer would be. Reaching for his old black derby, Oscar patted it on top of his head. "Alright, I'm ready."
"Come with me," Benny said smoothly, "let's talk while we walk."
"Sure, pal."
But Benny never started to talk. And Oscar wasn't all that surprised.
This wasn't the first time Benny Daniels, a buddy of his from his days down at the track and the one damn newsie Oscar actually liked when he was a boy, came calling at his house. They had a lot in common—a realisitc approach to life that some thought of as glumness, a love of a good whiskey and rye, a one time job down at the linoleum factory that Oscar still kept but Benny was canned from ages ago... Sure, Oscar had a wife and children and Benny only worshipped dollar signs, but they were still pals. Oscar knew Benny pretty well.
He knew where they were going, too.
The Doctor's was a popular dive bar on Park Row that Oscar and Benny used to frequent after a long shift at the factory, or whenever Junie was bringing the kids to visit her mother for the evening. It was a notorious saloon, a place for panhandlers and crooks to try to con a nickel out of an honest man, but it served the best whiskey around. It had been ages since the two men had gone down that way, too, but Oscar could find The Doctor's with his eyes closed. And Benny, of course, was counted a regular among Burly Bohan's patrons.
In fact, Benny had been there that night last July when Jerry O'Connor pulled his revolver on Patrick Bohan. Oscar was there, too, though he ducked out of the brawl before it got too heated… but he'd never forgotten the way Benny folded his fist and tried to punch any inch of O'Connor he could reach. Benny was a good guy, a good pal, but there was a darkness in him that Oscar had seen that night—one that he never wanted to see again.
Which was why, when Benny asked to borrow his knife the other day, Oscar coughed it up no problem. Except… that knife. Why had David and Liam asked him about his knife? And where the hell was it?
"Hey, Ben," Oscar said, in an attempt to break up the curious quiet and bad memories, "did ya happen to see what I did with my knife when ya gave it back?"
And Benny, knowing exactly where he'd last seen Oscar's knife and that he hadn't given it back, just shook his head. He was still shaking his head as they walked right past the open door to The Doctor's.
—suddenly, Skittery realized he would do anything for money.
End Note: Goodness, this was the chapter that didn't want to end (and, as such, was by far the longest one in this quickly-approaching-epic length fic). There was just so much I needed to do with it, from introducing Oscar to revealing the identity of our mystery man to even more bantering between David and Spot... it had everything, and there's still so much more that needs to be done in the next three chapters before the story is complete! This chapter also had a lot of research put into it - both the funeral rites and rituals for the Jewish faith, as well as the story about the infamous barfight that took place at The Doctor's on July 25, 1904. It's all so very fascinating, too. You should really check it out - after you tell me what you think of this so far, that is :)
- stress, 08.08.10