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
Jack was pacing—or, rather, he was pacing as best he could inside the close quarters of his rented room. He'd arrived in Manhattan at the beginning of April with a couple of dollars, the last bit of cash he had left from a con job he'd run on his way out of New Haven. Now, after a couple of weeks, he was down to a handful of pennies and a quarter piece or two, enough to keep a roof over his head but the roof was all he really had. The room was like a shoebox, long and thin and too narrow to fit nothing but his cot and a weathered wooden trunk for all of his belongings. As his trunk was currently half-empty, clothes and papers and trash strewn all over the cramped room, his pacing was difficult, his frustration growing with every misplaced step.
Pulling a squashed cigarette out from the depths of his pocket, Jack stuck it between his lips and let it rest there, relying on chapped lips and a firm frown to keep the cigarette from falling. His hands were shaking in agitation, he couldn't find his matches anywhere, and he threw the remaining pair of trousers from his trunk in an effort to find another box inside. He sighed when he did, striking the match much rougher than was necessary—the smell of sulfur momentarily overpowered the rot and the stink of the rundown boardinghouse—before he used the flaring tip to light his cigarette. Then Jack shook the match out, breathed in deep and shut his eyes.
Like every time he tried to close them, he immediately saw Vanessa's impish grin staring back at him—but it wasn't the worried gaze of a grown woman, her hazel eyes clouded over, her smile shaky and nervous. No, it was the face of the girl he knew in 1900, the girl he abandoned in favor of a childhood dream that never came true. He never made it to New Mexico; New Haven was as far as he got. He never got a real job, he never got any money, he never found someone to make his wife… David had everything Jack wanted, and not for the first time did Jack spite his old pal for his successes.
David had everything. Was it fair that he should have Vanessa too?
Jack knew he was being ridiculous. He'd even said so himself: he couldn't have expected Vanessa to wait for him. And he hadn't. If he was being honest—and with Jack Kelly, even being honest with himself was something rare—he probably wouldn't have looked for Vanessa if it wasn't for Racetrack having let slip that she'd married Davey in the first place.
But that was it. Now that Jack knew what came of her, now that he knew what came of David, he wanted it all. Just like he wanted the money that lay hidden on Duane Street, he wanted what he never really had: a family. Happiness. He could have had it before, but he'd given up any chance he had. First with Sarah, then with Vanessa. He could've had a family, and now he wished he did.
That was why he didn't want to see David. History or no, old pals or not, he hated David. He hated David, and he could never explain to the other man why.
He hated David Jacobs because he coveted his life.
And Spot. Back to pacing, absently, angrily kicking his trousers, his shirts, his spare vest aside as he stormed back and forth across the narrow room, Jack discovered that he hated Spot as much as David. Spot had Sarah—what did it matter that the poor woman was dead now, when Spot had had her for all the time she was alive? When Spot got with Sarah, he also received a family of his own… he took over for Jack, fitting in easily with the Jacobs family, pushing Jack Kelly aside until it was like the former Manhattan newsie had never existed. Spot doted on Sarah, Spot protected David, Spot supped alongside Meyer and Esther Jacobs, sharing the soup and that charming street rat quality that should've been only his.
They'd all made something of themselves, Spot and David and Vanessa, they'd all gotten ahead—but not Jack. Falling in with the same sort of crowds in the shady, dark streets of New Haven, Connecticut, Jack didn't have an army of ragtag boys to listen to him spin his words. He was the listener, the enforcer, working his way through a gang of criminals using the only things he had left: his charm and his lies. He never made nothing of himself, but this was his chance. Damn David Jacobs, marrying Vanessa when Jack should've been the one to do it, and damn Spot Conlon for getting in the way now.
Sending him back to his rented rooms with his tail stuck between his legs like a wounded pup, who was Spot to tell Jack what to do? He wasn't expected to see Vanessa because Spot stood in their way, was that it? Jack didn't think so. He answered to men a hell of a lot more powerful than Spot Conlon, self-proclaimed king of Brooklyn the little runt thought he was, had ever been; answered to, lied to and utterly ignored when the fancy struck him. He had nothing to fear from Spot, he decided in the solitude of the small room, or David, for that matter.
Jack puffed on his cigarette franticly, his tired eyes wild. He left a trail of ash behind him as he stepped over a smoke-stained pillow, anxiously flexing the fingers of his free hand. He couldn't take this waiting. Waiting until Friday night when he could cut and run, waiting until he could get Skittery to pony up and buy him a drink for, well, the first time ever, waiting for another message from Vanessa…
Exhaling sharply, throwing his cigarette to the marked floor and extinguishing it with a savage twist of his boot's heel, Jack reached up and ran his hand raggedly through his greasy, unwashed hair. He couldn't take the waiting anymore. And why should he?
His boots were still on his feet; tired and angry and frustrated as he was when he tried to go to sleep last night, he sullied the sheets by climbing into his cot while wearing them after his return journey from Sheepshead Bay. His soles itched to be padding the familiar path back to the Jacobs' apartment. Jack had to admit it was funny, too: sometimes days would pass before he felt the urge to visit Vanessa, to lay beside her, but being told to stay away—told by both Vanessa and Spot—did something to his ego (and his libido). He wanted to go back to see her if only to prove to himself that he could.
Jack Kelly was the sort of man who was used to getting what he wanted. Sarah was a chaste beauty, and he won her over in the end. Vanessa was a loose girl with questionable morals, and he scored her easily. He led a strike, he broke out of the Refuge, he rode in the goddamn governor's carriage—the goddamn president's carriage!—and he brought the newspaper giant, old Joe Pulitzer, to his knees. There was only one man he'd ever had to answer to.
And that was David Jacobs.
During the strike, David was the brains, Jack just the mouthpiece. David came up with the ideas; Jack shouted them out to the crowd. He hadn't been able to do it on his own. Always a pause, always a quick look down where David stood at his right hand, always ready with the next idea for Jack to pass off as his again. To all of New York it seemed like Jack Kelly was the renegade leader of the band of newsies and their upstart strike but he knew better. As long as he turned to David, as long as Pulitzer could use David and his family as a threat, a way to keep Jack in line, then David was the one with the power.
And now he was second to David again, and he hated himself for that.
Jack almost left his cowboy hat in his room at the flophouse when he finally followed the call of his feet and stormed out. But when the hat was all he had left that was his, something that no one had ever tried to take from him, he couldn't. As soon as it was perched back atop his head, he felt more like himself. Damn it, he was Cowboy!
There's something about desperation. Jack never thought he was a desperate man, but he was nothing short as he strolled back towards Vanessa's place. It just felt right, being with her, a feeling of completion he'd been missing ever since he took off five years ago. New Haven held nothing but spite and flea bites and bad memories. There were the gang's girls, used and abused, laying back and taking it from any man who wanted it.
How long had it been since he was with a woman who called his name, moaned at his touch? He couldn't go back to the emptiness, to the loneliness. He hadn't come back to New York to find a girl that could be his again—he'd come for the money—but how could he leave now, knowing what it was to be loved? So what if she was David's wife? She was his girl first and, besides, she was the one who let him into her home, into her bed. Vanessa was as much to blame for this as he was. Giving herself to him, reminding them both what there had been once and could be again. Maybe he should never have gone to the Jacobs' apartment in the first place, but she didn't have to open the door, did she? This was as much Vanessa's fault as it was his.
Then why couldn't he hate her in the same way he hated Spot and David? And himself?
Jack didn't know what he was going to do when he arrived at the apartment building and when he stopped on the same corner as yesterday, he realized both how impulsive he'd been and just how limited his options were. He'd meant to go straight upstairs, go right to Vanessa's door, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't want to deal with Spot if he answered, or worse: what if Vanessa was alone and sent him away regardless? In the end he decided that he would stay where he was until he came up with a better plan. Like the time he slept outside Sarah Jacobs' window, he was content to just wait, knowing that this was as close to Vanessa as he could be for the time being.
And then he didn't have to. As if in answer to his wishes, a very familiar figure came hurrying out of the building's entrance. The hat she wore was pulled down, shielding her face as she watched where her feet were going, but Jack didn't need to see her face. It may have been days, it may have been years, but Jack would know Vanessa Sawyer—Vanessa Jacobs—anywhere.
He waited for her to cross over to the next street before he started after her, only slightly disappointed when she passed him by without so much as a second glance. Figuring she hadn't seen him, he followed not too far behind her, glad that she was out on her own, neither her husband nor Spot accompanying her. Jack wondered where she was heading off to and, entertaining the vague notion that she going to see him, he lengthened his stride in order to catch up to her faster.
Jack got his chance when Vanessa paused as a horse and carriage—a relic compared to the new motorcars he'd heard tell about—crossed the side street she was looking to get to. Moving quietly behind her, he wrapped his arms around her sweetly in the same manner he'd done while in her kitchen the last time they were together. And, like the last time, Vanessa stiffened at his touch, tensed, but she didn't lean back into him as she had when she recognized his embrace—which made sense when he realized she hadn't any idea that he had followed her at all.
Bringing his head next to hers, the edge of his jaw against her ear, he murmured, "Hello, beautiful," as he breathed her in, sighing softly in content. Jack loved the way she always smelled like flowers, both freshly cut and her unique floral perfume. All anxieties seemed to melt away, just having her near.
But Vanessa, it seemed, was nowhere near as content. "Jack," she whispered and instead of falling into him, she started to pull at his arms around her waist, "what are you—you can't do this." Her hands, he noticed, were shaking.
Taking pity on her, not quite understanding her reaction, Jack loosened his hold but did not let go of her completely. Spinning her around gently so that he could face her, he asked, "Who will know?"
"These are my neighbors," Vanessa reminded him. "It's not right. They all know you're not my husband."
"So? I don't care."
With a small shudder, she crossed herself. "You should."
It was an empty gesture, Jack felt. How many times had they both broken a commandment already? Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife. He sniffed and lowered his arms, enabling her to move a few steps back and away. "Don't try that on me," he said, jerking his chin at her chest and the way she kept her hands folded in a mockery of prayer, "I know you better than that."
And she huffed, a small spot of color coming to her wan cheeks, "You only think you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Vanessa sighed and, following Jack's lead, lowered her hands until she had them folded demurely in front of her midsection. She dropped her gaze to her button-heeled shoes, leaving Jack to glare purposefully at the crown of her tan hat. "I meant nothing by it, Jack, it's just… what are you doing here? Didn't you get my messages?"
"Yeah," he said shortly, angrily spitting on the dirt. This was hardly the welcome he expected when he spotted Vanessa alone on the street. "Ya know what else? Saw Spot, too."
It might've been the words, it might've been the barely masked venom in his voice, whatever it was, Vanessa's heard jerked up. Underneath the fancy brim of her hat, he could see that her hazel eyes were wide and worried. "Did he say anything to you? What did he say?"
Jack wanted to hold onto his anger longer but, confronted with her panic, he found he couldn't. He folded, giving in as he echoed her earlier sigh. "Nothin', Nessie. Spot said nothin' at all. But you're right… he knows. How the hell did he find out?"
"Your cigarette."
"Oh." Jack was rightfully abashed at that revelation. How many times had Vanessa warned him against smoking in the apartment? But it was an urge, an addiction, just like going to see the woman herself was. "And did he tell—?"
"No!" It wasn't just her hands shaking now, he noticed.
Taking advantage of her obvious upset to slip his arms around her waist again, acting like he was trying to calm her, using the moment to pull her close to him, Jack gripped her just at the hips until her bosom was pressed to his chest. It was a forward action and he could already hear the neighbors gossiping if any of them caught sight of Vanessa in such a scandalous position but Jack didn't care. "Maybe he should."
She smacked his forearm with the flat of her palm. "I said no!" It was a strike she meant and, for the second time, Jack backed away from her. It was a stinging sort of slap that rang and he bit his lip in order to keep the cry from escaping. It was difficult to figure what she was saying no to: his hold on her or his suggestion that they allow Spot to tell David of their affair… or even tell David themselves. Whatever it was, the anger welled up in the petite woman was so potent that Jack felt he'd be burned if he got any closer to her.
He didn't quite understand. There was that look on his face, that lost, little boy look he let slip into place whenever the charm faded and the bravado disappeared and there was nothing left for him to fall back on. He was hurt, he was lonely, he was desperate for a little affection… he bowed his head, he absently wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and he hesitated before he asked, "Why not?"
It pained Vanessa to have to say it but the words rushed out regardless: "I think you know why, Jack. Now, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Please… don't follow me."
And she left him, standing alone once more, alone on the street with the memory of the heat from her body—the heat from his embarrassment—still keeping him warm.
She hadn't expected to send the second note, and she could tell from the surprised expression on the young clerk's face when she returned so soon to the courier's office that he hadn't thought she would have another message for him that afternoon. Vanessa Jacobs liked to believe she was a respectable young woman these days—and, in most ways, she was—and respectable young women didn't spend much time on the streets alone, especially without a chaperone of any kind. And, yet, for the second time that day Vanessa hurried into the hustling, bustling office and, after waiting her turn, dispatched another message to Mr. Jack Kelly.
It was as simple as could be. Two words.
He knows.
That was all she had to say. She couldn't bring herself to hide her true meaning behind polite words like she had with the first note. Spot knew and, she decided, it was just as important for Jack to be aware that they'd been caught. She knew Jack—or, at least, she thought she still did—and she doubted he would pay much attention to her warning that Spot was staying over at the apartment. But he had to now.
She had to make him.
Vanessa walked out of the courier's office a little taller than she had entered it; a small weight, hardly anything in comparison to the other worries she carried with her but a weight all the same, it had been lifted from her shoulders the moment she dictated the second message for Jack. One task done, there was still another—another worrisome one, to be sure—to accomplish.
When Spot left the apartment, Vanessa knew that he wasn't planning on bringing David back before supper. He told her as much herself, letting her know with a telling frown that the two men had some business to tend to after Mr. Wagner freed David for the evening. What could she have said but a half-hearted 'good luck' and an unsaid promise that she would not take advantage of their absence to invite Jack in?
Of course, she waited until Spot adjusted his suspenders and grabbed his hat before she followed his lead and left the apartment behind her. Her first stop: the courier's office, just in time to send the short memo before the uniformed boys on their bicycles were being sent on their rounds again. But then she didn't turn back home.
This appointment had been weighing even more heavily on her mind than anything else: David's strange behavior, Spot's sudden appearance, Jack's secret journeys to her home while David was at work. When Spot showed up unannounced last night as David's guest, Vanessa feared that she would never get away to go with Spot staying at the house. Until the matter had been resolved one way or another, she refused to tell David anything about it so that he wouldn't worry in vain; she'd made that mistake before and wouldn't do that again. She tried not to look too relieved when Spot left, even though she wondered vaguely what was going on between him and her husband and these strange evening trips. When her own affairs were in order, she promised herself, she would get David to open up to her.
They were husband and wife, after all, and Vanessa knew better than anyone the tolls secrets could take on someone.
321 East 15th Street, just past Stuyvesant Square, that's where she needed to go next. It was too far a trek to make on foot and she used some of her pocket money to take a trolley across town. Despite her worry that she wouldn't make it, she actually arrived at the unassuming brick building with plenty of time to spare. Time, however, that she used to convince herself that this meeting was necessary and that she would be doing more harm than good if she stayed outside rather than learn the truth.
Momentarily reverting to the spitfire of a girl she'd been, Vanessa exhaled roughly and went inside. The was a cozy, homey lobby inside and, after she gave her name and the reason behind her appointment, a young fair-haired woman all dressed in white led her to another room within the building and, with a supporting smile, told her to take a seat and wait.
She didn't have to wait long.
Only a handful of minutes—minutes that seemed like hours—after she sat stiffly in a hard-backed chair, another door that opened onto the room swung inward. Another young woman, dark-haired this time but wearing the same white dress as the blonde girl, she poked her head in and called out, "Mrs. Jacobs?"
Vanessa stood up, anxiously fussing with her skirt, nervously rubbing the wrinkles away. Nerves flared up like a nest of butterflies flapping earnestly in the pit of her belly. "I'm Mrs. Jacobs," she said weakly. Her voice, she noticed, was quavering. Uncertain. Afraid.
The nurse, like her colleague, had a smile that immediately put Vanessa at ease—until she told her, "The doctor will see you now."
The two men stared a moment longer at the closed door, each of them taken aback at the abrupt way it had been slammed in their faces. Spot scowled, David gaped at Oscar's rudeness, but nothing more could be done so they both—as one—turned and exited out through the entrance they had come. The whole affair couldn't have taken ten minutes. Maybe even five.
David checked his watch. It was only a little after seven now. Not too bad. And they may not have found out what happened to Racetrack or Oscar's knife, but it was pretty clear that Oscar wasn't a part of it—or, at least, not the way Spot suspected or David feared. Plus they got a new lead. Oscar made repeated mention of a Benny… but who was he?
As if he could hear David's thoughts, Spot removed his hat and pushed roughly at the longish hair underneath. "Who the hell is Benny?" he snapped out in frustration.
"You don't know?"
David had to admit he was surprised. He'd assumed the only reason Spot hadn't asked about Benny because he already knew who Benny was. Not to mention the fact that, when they were younger, Spot used to know everyone; as he got older, even when David and Spot would go out with Vanessa and Sarah, there was hardly a place they got to without Spot meeting someone he knew in some capacity or another. He had almost hoped that Spot would know Benny, too—almost because if Spot had known this Benny character, they would most certainly be running off after him now and, well, David just wanted to go him and see his wife.
"If I did," Spot retorted, jamming his hat back on his head, "do ya think I'd be askin' you?"
While David knew better than to take anything Spot said in a temper to heart, it did sting a bit when Spot spoke to him like that. He understood why Spot was acting like this—he just didn't like it. This trip to Oscar Delancey's had opened up more questions than it had answered and to top it all off, they still didn't know what happened to Race. So, yes, Spot was upset. David understood. Race was his friend, too.
Trying to appease him, David said quickly, "It could be someone we know. I mean, Oscar acted like it was and he seemed keen on using given names. Most of the fellas just went by nicknames, right? Those are the names we know. It took either hard work or pure luck to find out someone's real name, and even then you couldn't be sure if they were lying."
Spot thought about it for a second. "Kinda like how we all learned who Cowboy was at the judge's bench."
"Or like learning your name when Sarah refused to call you anything else."
That probably wasn't the smartest remark to make, David realized a moment too late. Oscar had pushed his luck, calling Spot Liam more than once without Spot diving forward and trying to hit him. Now he was testy, and just referring to his given name was enough to snap warningly, "Watch it, Mouth."
David couldn't help himself. Maybe he was just that naïve, or maybe it did Spot good to let some of his emotions out rather than stewing over them… either way, the words were out before he'd had the chance to think better of them. "Liam's a good name, though I must say I've always wondered why you were called Spot."
"Yeah?" scoffed Spot. David had obviously touched a nerve with his comment. Slipping his hands under the straps of his faded red suspenders, Spot snapped out, "Keep wonderin'," before he started to walk away—in the opposite direction of the quickest path back to the Jacobs' apartment.
He hadn't been expecting Spot to take off like that and he had to perform some sort of intricate hop, step, skip in order to catch up. "Where are you going?"
"I need a drink."
"Spot, I—" David began but stopped when he saw the blazing look in Spot's eyes. David took a step back and swallowed before continuing, "We should go back to my place, eat some supper. We can look for Benny… for Race… tomorrow."
"Vanessa knows we were plannin' on stayin' out late again," Spot lied, "if that's what's got ya so damn itchy to go home."
"No," David answered quickly, and the way the color rushed to his cheeks told Spot that he was also lying.
It had occurred to him after he left the apartment that David probably wanted him to stay behind with Vanessa again, and maybe he should have. Not that Spot wanted to watch over Vanessa—though she needed someone to keep her in line—but he lied because he didn't want to explain that he left at all. The less said about David's cheating wife, the better. And he understood now why David was always so desperate to be back with Vanessa. If he'd ever suspected that something fishy was going on with Sarah—if Sarah had ever played him false like Vanessa was with Jack Kelly—he never would've left her side.
Well, maybe once. Unlike David, he would've gone after the bastard who dared to lay their hands on his wife. David just didn't have it in him. He even vomited when he saw blood!
Feeling guilty—and knowing damn well that he wasn't going to give David a chance to grow a spine by telling him about Vanessa and Jack—Spot decided it would be better for the both of them if they stayed out a bit longer. Spot would get his drink, David could be oblivious a little longer and Vanessa should take the time to get her act together and decide if screwing Cowboy was worth losing David.
"Come with me," he said, making the request more of an order. "Look, ya don't want to tell her why we're back so soon, do ya?"
"I don't want to tell her that I took you to get drunk, either," David answered reproachfully.
"I never said nothin' 'bout gettin' drunk. I said I needed a drink." Spot held out his hand, a compromise. "Alright… instead of gettin' a drink, why don't we take a quick stop at Race's part of town and see if we can get anything on this Benny character. Then we can go back home."
Spot had to pause there, wondering when in the world it had become we… or, worse: home. One night… he was only going to stay the one night. But how could he leave? Especially now that he knew for sure that Cowboy was in town—and that Vanessa Jacobs knew it, too.
When David didn't answer, and Spot thought David might have also picked up on the words, he just shook his head impatiently. "Come on, Davey. What do ya say?"
Considering David hadn't really been listening to Spot past the understanding that the Irishman was looking for a drink, it was no surprise that he had nothing to say on Spot's suggestion. Instead, focusing on what he could do to help Race and help Spot—kill two birds with one stone as it were—his thoughts had been in the building a few blocks back.
"Why don't we just go back to Oscar's and ask him who Benny is?"
Spot's expression darkened. David was thinking about Oscar but Spot immediately remembered the little boy in the hall and a wife called Junie. "Delancey wants out," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument, "so we're leavin' him out." And, like before, he took off without another word, leaving David to pick up his feet in an attempt to keep up all the while wondering what it was he said this time.
Despite Spot giving up on getting himself a drink, he certainly didn't give up on going to all of the bars and taverns near Racetrack's apartment. David just clucked his tongue as he followed Spot inside every establishment they came across but as Spot never ordered a whiskey, he kept his thoughts to himself.
Nobody heard of Benny.
It was frustrating. David was tired and antsy, Spot growing all the more livid, but none of the men they talked to could tell them anything about Racetrack Higgins or this fellow Benny he hung around town with. It was already past nine when David finally thought to mention Sheepshead Bay. The saloons were proving useless, and hadn't Oscar said something about Race and Benny meeting down at the track?
But Spot ignored him as he left the latest of rundown, seedy taverns behind them, heading towards Park Row. He didn't stop, he never even turned to check if David was still right behind him—which, begrudgingly, he was—until he finally drew up in front of another bar. It was a dive bar, a real classless place. The sign in the window proclaimed it was called: the Doctor's.
David sighed. Not another one. "This is hopeless," he murmured under his breath, half-hoping himself that Spot had heard him.
And this time it seemed as if Spot had—or, rather, he actually answered him. "You're right," he agreed. "It is hopeless."
"Then what are we doing here?"
"This is where I go when things get hopeless."
The doctor said it was tuberculosis. Consumption. He said it was a miracle Spot hadn't caught it, too. He said the disease had taken its hold over Sarah quickly, leaving her weak, bedridden, but she was fighting it. He said there was a chance—a slim chance, but a chance all the same—that she'd pull through. That she would make it.
The doctor said he'd done all he could.
Spot didn't believe him.
Ever since her only daughter fell ill, Esther Jacobs had taken to joining Spot at Sarah's bedside. It was a silent vigil, broken up only by the sound of his wife's coughs. None of them spoke, though they all hoped, and sometimes… sometimes Spot prayed.
Not that night.
Spot said he was letting the doctor out—which was true enough. The old man was motivated by money and Spot promised him the world if he would only just fix Sarah. A couple of secret nighttime trips to Duane Street after his own savings had been exhausted should've been enough to ensure the doctor did all he could. But the truth remained: Sarah wasn't getting any better.
Sarah Conlon was going to die.
As the doctor gripped his medicine bag and headed out into the blustery, wintery night, Spot was suddenly overcome by anger, grief, anguish… he couldn't go back inside. He couldn't sit there helplessly anymore. But what could he do?
He started walking.
Spot walked in the direction of the wind, the iciness of it piercing through his thin coat and stinging his cheeks, his nose, his hands. He blamed the wind then the first moisture welled up in his eyes but he bowed his head, turning away from the striking force, and the tears continued to come. They nearly blinded him but he refused to shed a single tear; instead, he pushed angrily at them with the heels of his hands. He was a man—he should know better than to cry. He should be like his father, a cold, stoic man from his memories who nodded when his wife died and barely batted an eye when he kicked his young boy out the door.
When he was certain he'd erased every tear, when his eyes ached from the pressure of his hands against them, Spot finally lowered his arms and, by chance—by providence—lifted his gaze. Without the glaze of his tears, he saw where his wandering had taken him.
Where, perhaps, he was meant to go.
The church hovered in front of him—over him—both warm and inviting. He shook off the chill, the last vestiges of forgotten tears clinging like minute icicles to the edge of his lashes. Without another thought, Spot climbed the stairs to the church and walked right inside.
It had been years since he'd walked up to a church, even longer since he went inside, but it was still familiar. Quiet and stuffy, yet a place right out of his childhood. He'd never been in this church before but it didn't matter. He walked inside, saw the carved cross in front of him, the altar, the pews, and suddenly he was back in Brooklyn again. He could've been a boy of eight again, following his devout Catholic mother to her church.
There wasn't much Spot remembered about his youth. His mother was a long forgotten memory, his father a banished thought… but he remembered this.
He got on his knees and began to pray. They weren't the right words, they weren't pure scripture or even close, but they came from his heart which made them better. Stronger. Real. On his knees, in an empty church, Spot Conlon tried to make a deal with God.
The doctor said he was doing all he could. Now Spot was giving it a go.
If Sarah didn't make it, he would know exactly who to blame.
Spot pushed open the door, walking into the bar as if he owned the place. Feeling out of his element, and wishing he'd stuck to his guns and insisted that they return to the apartment, David followed closely at Spot's heels, pulling his jacket close around him.
In one respect, the dive bar that they walked into wasn't all that different from the saloon David had found Spot sitting at on Monday night. It was big, it was crowded, and there were plenty of men filling up the tables and sitting at the bar; women, too, but they were as much a fixture as the stools were. But, rather than the rich smells of supper cooking, David smelled the vile and rank odors of a questionable establishment. His stomach turned, any hunger he'd been working up leaving him as quickly as it took for him to walk into a man with a crutch and a leer who smelled like he hadn't had a wash since Garfield was president.
David skirted around the Bowery bum, careful not to lose Spot, as he took in the rest of the Doctor's—and tried not to breathe.
There were two long tables along the rear wall of the bar. When he noticed the lumpy forms sprawled out both on top of and beneath the tables, he realized that they were the sleeping quarters for the bar. Sawdust was scattered on the floor courtesy of a grizzled old man who grinned a crooked, toothless grin when he caught David watching him. Spooked, David turned to look ahead of him again.
As they moved further in, they fileed down a narrow path that separated the long bar and the tables set up opposite of it. David's attention was then drawn to his left and to what was hanging over the bar. Fourteen engraved portraits of former Presidents of the United States hung over the top, an interesting sight for a seedy dive bar like the Doctor's.
A painted-up woman in a tight black bodice, scarlet stockings and a broken feather in her hair was standing with her hand on her hip along one of the first tables. With a nose for a sucker, she reached out her long, scarlet claws as David walked by her.
"Hey, handsome," she purred, trailing her fingers along the length of his arm when he stopped, unnerved by her forward touch, "why don't you come sit with me?"
Shaking his head, David mumbled an unintelligible apology to the woman just in time to see another hand—this one gnarled and scarred—blocking him from following after Spot. "A nickel, sir," rasped its owner, "spare a nickel for a hot meal."
David was already reaching into his pocket when Spot turned and slapped both hands away. "Don't mind him, Dave," he said under his breath as he pulled David past the man, "that's just old Tom Frizzell. Between me and you, he's got more money than both of us together. And that's countin' Friday."
Glancing back, David got a good look at the beggar. At first he looked like a harmless old man, hunched over as if it hurt to sit up for long, his hand hanging out as if the nickel he asked for would've given him enough strength to live another day. But there was something else, too. The way his other hand held tightly to a heavy-looking cane, the way his eyes were alert, narrowed, shrewd. His body was turned so that he was facing the presidents' portraits, his legs planted firmly against the floor like he was ready to get up and fight. If he was just a harmless old man, then David Jacobs was the king of New York.
His hearing was obviously keen. Sneering a bit, he leaned back in his chair. "Do ya want me caught without pad money for the first time in years? Hell, I ain't takin' bread outta your mouth, Conlon," he called after Spot, suddenly looking a lot fiercer than he had a moment ago. "Don't you go tellin' the chumps about me!"
Spot looked his nose down at Frizzell, not at all impressed. "He's a chump," he shot back, "but he's my chump." He then turned his back on the old panhandler, gripping David's upper arm as he pulled him toward the end of the long bar. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."
David knew better than to argue this time, or even ask any questions about what just happened or how Spot knew the man. It wasn't worth it.
There were plenty of openings closer to them but Spot insisted on leading them as far down the lengths of the bar as they could go. David wasn't so sure if that was a good idea—there were some… interesting looking characters hanging around that end—but he minded his tongue. Spot was in rare form, moving as if something was compelling him forward, and David was just going along for the ride.
That's when he saw him.
"Jack?"
Because he'd been watching the tables instead, careful not to get caught staring at some of the men lounging at the bar, David caught sight of him first; there was no sign that Spot even saw the former cowboy sitting alone at the table. In fact, David wasn't even sure how he recognized the other man in the doom and gloom of the far tables… though the cowboy hat perched smartly on his head was a good guess.
Then there was the way he looked up when his name was called. Jack turned his head aimlessly, searching out the owner of the voice before his eyes settled on David and Spot standing no more than a few feet away from him. Pushing his chair back abruptly, he stood up. "Spot, David, ain't you guys a sight for sore eyes!"
Spot hung back as David, surprised and pleased to have found Jack Kelly when they were looking for Racetrack Higgins, surged forward and joined Jack at the table's side. "Jack, I… what are you doing here?"
They were the same words Vanessa used no more than a few hours earlier and Jack visibly flinched; from his place across the way, Spot saw him. But then he recovered, reaching his hand out to rest on David's shoulder. "What do ya think, Davey? It's almost the 21st, ain't it? Didn't think I'd show up?"
As Jack clapped him on the shoulder, laughing, the motion sent a gust of stale air wafting up towards David's nose. There was smoke on the air, dirt and sweat, and… and something else. David took a tentative sniff, then another, ignoring the stink and focusing on the sweet smell that was coming off of Jack. It was floral. Perfume. David sniffed again. It smelled like Vanessa's perfume.
Jack saw the way David's grin slid off his face only to be replaced by confusion. His heart momentarily stopped then picked up its pace, beating like a drum. But he played it straight, keeping his voice light. "Are you sniffin' me, Davey?" he teased.
"I didn't mean… I'm sorry," David said, shaking his head, "I couldn't help it. You see, you're not going to believe this, but I could've sworn I smelt… my wife, she wears a perfume like flowers and for just a second I could've sworn I got a whiff of it. Strange, huh?"
It was Spot's turn to finally come and stand beside David. With a hard glare that told Jack more than words ever could, Spot glowered over at him. His jaw was clenched angrily as he said coldly, "Sure sounds strange, eh, Jacky? You… smellin' like Vanessa."
"Yeah," Jack echoed hollowly, "real strange." His following laugh was forced and he could just see the thoughts as they formed in Spot's mind. No doubt he was already suspecting Jack of seeing Vanessa which, while true, was hardly what had happened that afternoon. But there was no way he could explain—especially with a very puzzled David standing between them.
He glanced past the two men, trying to find Skittery at the bar. Jack didn't want to spend another minute in this awkwardness, free drink or no free drink. David was smart. How long until he wondered why Spot purposely used Vanessa's name and Jack actually responded to it? Because that was it: he wasn't supposed to know anything about David's wife.
He tried to find Skittery at the bar and when he couldn't, he rapped his knuckles anxiously against the tabletop, seemingly making a decision. "Look, fellas, it's great seein' ya and all but could you do me a favor? I got somewhere to be so if ya see him, tell Skitts I ain't gonna be able to take him up on his offer of a whiskey for ol' time's sake."
David looked behind him before turning back to ask, "Skittery's here?"
Jack nodded. "I met him comin' down here and he offered to buy me a drink."
"And ya gotta go so soon? That ain't like you, Cowboy. Hurryin' off to meet a lady?"
"Nothin' like that," he told Spot, frowning. The little jab hit straight to the heart of things but, he noticed thankfully, it wasn't a remark that caught David's attention; it seemed that he and Vanessa were right: Spot hadn't told David. Looking over his shoulder again, looking for a glimpse of Skittery, he acted as if he hadn't heard Spot's comment at all. He cleared his throat, anxious to end this meeting and get the hell out of there. "So, uh, Friday… right? I can't wait to catch up with you fellas on Friday. Race, too."
An unreadable expression flashed across Spot's face. It wasn't anger, but what was it? "Yeah. Race."
"I guess we'll see you on Friday then, Jack," David offered, utterly bewildered at the odd direction the conversation had taken and just how quickly Jack was leaving. Having not found any hint of Skittery at the bar behind him either, he had turned back in time to hear Jack say his goodbyes. "Are you sure you really can't stay?" he asked. "It's been years!"
It was another jab, worse because that one had guilt attached to it. Jack turned his head away from David's earnestness and took a deep breath. Coming face to face with David Jacobs was a lot harder than he thought it would be. Exhaling, acting as if he hadn't a care in the world, he said loftily, "Oh… yeah. I'm sure." And then he felt the guilt twist when he saw the confusion etch itself ever deeper on David's face. No one was that good of an actor. "On Friday, fellas," he said hurriedly, tipping his hat before he moved past Spot and David.
Before he made his escape.
David held his hand up in a wave. "On Friday," he said quietly, his voice drowned out by the din and noise surrounding him. And then he shrugged. Maybe Jack just wanted to leave the seediness of the Doctor's behind him. In that case, David didn't blame him at all.
So Jack left the bar, throwing uncertain glances over his shoulder as he slipped past Tom Frizzell's open palm and the latest whore's cheap come-on. David was too busy looking around for Skittery to notice, but Spot kept his unblinking stare trained on Jack until he could no longer see him inside of the Doctor's. He turned his attention back in time to see Skittery Daniels approaching with two glasses—one with a clear-colored liquid, the other a familiar brown—in his hands.
Spot elbowed David in the side. "Look who's comin' this way."
David followed the direction in which Spot was staring. It was no wonder he hadn't found Skittery at the bar: he was coming from the opposite side of the tavern. "Skittery!"
Just like Jack had done minutes earlier, Skittery looked to see who had called him by that name—not many fellas did, anymore—and his gloomy scowl brightened to a pleased smile when he caught sight of the two men still standing near the table. The table, he realized, where he'd left Jack in order to get the drinks. Hmm… maybe he shouldn't have gone into the back room for the camphor if it allowed his quarry to get away so easily.
Then again, he thought as he eyed the two other men, the Lord does work in mysterious ways.
"David… Spot… fancy meetin' you fellas down here." He made a point to look around him though he knew exactly what seat he'd left Jack sitting at. "Hey, you seen Jack? I brought him his drink."
At that, Spot's eyes came alive, his hand reaching out before his mouth could even form the words:
"I'll take that."
It was over in a heartbeat, the knife slicing easily into Race's side. When he pulled the handle roughly, jerking it back with as much force as he'd used to stick him, there was a sharp intake of breath, a rattling hiss, a gurgle and then a gasp. Anthony Higgins died, Benny Daniels killed him, and that was that.
But it wasn't.
Grabbing one of the newspapers from the pile besides Race's lifeless hand, Benny gave the handle and the blade a quick swipe before crumpling the paper to the floor and tossing the knife to the tabletop. Another shove and a couple of other useless papers covered the knife like the dirt on a grave. He'd be damned if he brought it with him; he wasn't going to be caught with a murder weapon on him and he couldn't return it sullied like that to Oscar. Why not leave it here? If the deadbeat cops stumbled upon this place first—and he doubted it, why would they?—let them figure out where it came from. Shoot, let Oscar take the fall for it if they were even able to trace the switchblade back to Delancey.
Now what?
He could destroy the place, make it look like a robbery, liked maybe some of Racetrack's 'friends' had come a calling for old debts. Scatter some papers, break a chair or two, leave the place in shambles so that it appeared as if someone was looking for something. The landlord would believe it. The police would believe it, too. It was an idea.
But the body… what could he do with the body? He couldn't discard it, and he couldn't leave it behind like the knife. Besides, there wasn't any time.
Peg Summers was waiting for him. If she did what she said she would, Benny would finally get the chance to have a talk with that infamous Miss Addleton of hers and maybe find an in with a new gang. In New York, working with a crew always yielded more profits than working on your own—he couldn't afford to miss this meeting.
Then again, maybe that was the answer.
Benny liked money. He would do anything to get it, do anything to make it, do anything to keep it. Hadn't he just proved that? For the lure of money, for the chance to get his hands on a pretty pile of dough, he'd just killed a lifelong buddy. He hadn't meant to do it, but it was done and he couldn't take it back. Race was dead, and he left behind a secret for Benny to crack. Maybe, he mused, he'd been a little too hasty.
What to do… what to do…
And then it dawned on him. Peg Summers and her crowd, of course! And what if they weren't interested? There were hundreds others out there, maybe even thousands, all sorts of drifters and gangsters in New York willing to do even the dirtiest jobs for a quick buck. Hell, if he put his mind to it, he'd probably find a crooked copper or two ready to help him out for the right price.
That thought in mind, Benny stood up and got to work. He moved silently and quickly, wrapping Race's body in a worn quilt he found crumpled on top of an old cot; while he planned on leaving the knife behind, the last thing he wanted to do was leave a trail of blood for the straight-laced police to follow. Then, once the body was tucked out of the way until he could later retrieve it, he methodically ripped up and threw the newspapers around to create a distraction. Without making any noise, he knocked over chairs, pulled drawers out of dressers, and messed up the rest of the apartment.
Then, only when he was satisfied that the crime could be viewed as a spur-of-the-moment crime—which, in a way, it was—Benny left the apartment, a determined air about him and a cigarette poised between two fingers. He had to hurry now, especially if he wanted to meet Peg in time. And then there were some others he needed to go looking for now—
"So, ya see," Spot said, slurring more than usual as he sipped his third—or maybe it was his fourth, Skittery was bringing them faster than he could count—whiskey and rye, "we even looked up Oscar Delancey to try to hunt Race down and that didn't work out too well."
"You saw Oscar?" Skittery asked, swallowing his drink like it was water—which is what it was. With Jack, and now with Spot, he couldn't afford to get drunk. "He tell you anything interesting?"
"Nah. The bum didn't tell us anything that bears repeating. Ain't that right, Dave?"
And David, lost in his thoughts of Jack's sudden appearance, even quicker disappearance, and the lingering floral scent he just couldn't get out of his head, simply nodded, going with the motions, as he agreed. "That's right, Spot."
"I'm not surprised," Skittery admitted off-handedly, "that a Delancey was no help. I always thought Race and Oscar hated each other. Whatever possessed you guys to look up a Delancey? You might've had a better chance if you looked up one of the old fellas. Some of us stayed in touch." He jerked his chin across the table. "I see you two did."
"He married my sister," David murmured just as Spot nudged him in the side and said a touch too loudly, "'Cause Davey here is like my brother."
"That's nice, that's real nice," Skittery said, hardly meaning the words though he certainly had a few suspicions himself about what else had kept the men in touch. Based on some things he heard from Race, and others that he planned on getting out of Oscar Delancey, he was beginning to wonder what role David Jacobs and Spot Conlon had played in Race's secret stash of money. And if they did… maybe it would be a good idea to keep an eye on them, too. Jack could wait. "You know what?" he said, as if the idea had just occurred to him, "Why don't I help ya? I've seen Race around. I could help you fellas find him."
Spot jumped at the opportunity. Slamming his near-empty glass down on the bar top—and earning a glare courtesy of Burly Bohan himself—he started to climb back to his feet. "Really? Then we should go."
It was David's gentle hand on his shoulder that kept Spot from rising. "Spot, I don't think it's the time—"
"Shut up, Dave," Spot snapped angrily, swatting at David's hand like it was a buzzing fly, "I tell ya I'm fine. I want to find Race. Don't you want to find him? We've been lookin' for him days, ain't we? C'mon!"
"Of course I want to find Race," David said, sounding wounded, "but it's late. I do have to get down to the office early tomorrow," he added before Spot cut him off with a huff and the downing of the rest of his latest drink. He was just gearing up to retort when Skittery cut him off.
"No, Spot, David's got a point. I can't go tonight anyway."
Spot turned his glare on Skittery. "Why not?"
The venom in Spot's demand was so biting that even Skittery was a little taken aback by it. Tipsy or not, drunk or not, Spot was someone to be reckoned with and he would do well to remember that. Trying to keep his cool, Skittery chuckled lowly and said, "Trust me, Spot, you leave it to me. I'm gonna do what I can to help ya with Race… just not tonight."
"Why not tonight?" Spot repeated. His arms were folded across his chest, tucked under his suspenders, and he looked, as was his custom, as if he hadn't taken in a single drop at all. Except, of course, for the way his red-rimmed eyes were glazed over, swimming in and out of focus. Oh, and the way he was leaning to one side as if the bar was tilting. David moved a few steps over so that Spot's shoulder was leaning into his back, keeping the drunken Irishman on his stool.
He bit back a sigh. He could already hear Vanessa's scolding already. In his experience, he'd never seen Spot lose it so entirely like he'd lost it at the Doctor's. Shooting an apprehensive glass at the most recent of Spot's empty glasses, David had to wonder if it was only whiskey inside or something else entirely.
"I got a lady waitin' for me," Skittery lied easily then, barely noticing the odd way Spot was acting; besides, he was used to it: getting a fellow drunk and incapacitated by any means necessary… that was just a trick of the trade. Just like lying. There was no lady where he was going, not unless he counted Junie. "How's tomorrow sound?"
Tomorrow, thought David. Thursday. The twentieth. That left one day until Friday, one day until the five of them were supposed to meet at Duane Street at midnight. Funny how, over the past five days, he made up with Spot, tried to track down Race, met with Oscar Delancey for the first time in years and now, when he least expected it (and in a place he never would've guessed) he saw Jack Kelly. The five of them, or four if Oscar meant it when he said to count him out—or, he gulped, maybe even three—would meet again Friday and it would all be over. If Race didn't show up by Friday, David knew it meant the worse.
But they still had tomorrow to find their old friend and get an answer, and David wasn't about to give up on Race just yet. He couldn't… and if Spot was sober and rational, he wouldn't want to give up, either.
"All right," David decided because, well, Spot was obviously in no state to make any decisions himself. "Tomorrow."
—and a couple of deals he hoped to make.
End Note: Okay, a couple of things:
1) I wanted to just say thank you to anyone who voted for this story during Peg's Summer Reading List fanfiction awards. Five won 2nd place for best mystery, 1st place for best narrative, 1st place best plot twist, 2nd place best villain and 2nd place summer blockbuster. I was both flattered and pleased by the results - you guys make this journey worthwhile!
2) I know this update is way later than it should've been but, well, writer's block can be a pain. All the planning in the world didn't help when I just couldn't put myself in the scene and get it down on paper. In the end, I allowed the characters to tell me what to write - I'll give you a hint: one of these parts wasn't planned this way but it just fit so perfectly that a conversation between Skittery and Race got shunted out in order to have the story play out this way. Also, this marks the end of the second arc. The third arc - the ending - will be made up of the next two chapters (also known as the last two chapters in this story).
3) Credit for some of the description goes to the book, Gangs of New York, including the details regarding the Doctor's and Tom Frizzell (the old King of the Panhandlers who would sit, staring at the president's portraits along the bar in order to be granted strength and the fight to make sure he was never caught without lodging money). The hospital featured in Vanessa's aside? The very famous New York Infirmary for Women and Children, founded by the equally famous woman doctor, Elizabeth Blackwell.
4) Remember how, in chapter 3, Spot said he would never go to church again? Well, now you know why! And the idea that David had gotten caught sniffing Jack? That was a little allusion to a scene in my other David fic, The Pigeon. I gotta say: I'm actually having a little fun slipping in those little things that tie into my other stories ;)
and, just because there had to be-
5) I hope you guys liked this chapter. It was a whopper, clocking in at nearly 10k, and there was quite a lot to digest. Still, let me know what you think, okay? I've been staring at some of these scenes, some of these exchanges, some of this description for so long that "David" and "Spot" are beginning to no longer look like real words to me. Seriously! Come on, now. Don't be shy - I adore feedback!
- stress, 09.02.10