Aren't you glad I updated so quickly? Yes, I am too. This is my favorite chapter so far and it's been a long time coming. Enjoy!


Part I, Chapter XIII

March 20, 1899

Brooklyn, New York

Spot had never been a religious person. All those lunatics reading salvation through a book and a preacher never set well with him. He didn't believe in salvation from a higher power. No, Spot relied on his own self to make miracles happen (if you call winning seventeen straight boxing matches a miracle). You may have thought Spot was a devout Catholic because of his Irish heritage, but nothing could be further from the truth. To Spot, there was no God.

Hell, even if he did believe, God was dead in Brooklyn. The trash of thrown-out food, urine, and dank, old papers were enough for Spot to realize that truth. Presently his foot plunged into a chilling, oily puddle on the ground beneath him, splashing up inside his pant leg, drenching a small knife in its sheath.

"It's this way, Conlon," whispered Chase. Motioning down the narrow, repulsive alley, the older boy treaded carefully into the dripping, humid shortcut to Thayer Street.

"The things I do for Brooklyn…" mumbled Spot to himself.

He bravely stepped across a puddle and was greeted with the putrid smell of the urban underworld of New York City. Sure, he had been in nasty places before now, but never had an alley produced such vile odor that he was sick to his stomach. The walls, now the darkest shade of black because of the nighttime, seemed to close in on intruders and interrupt their ventures. In every nook and cranny, the familiar sound of drip drop, drip drop echoed throughout the passage.

"Jus' hold yer breath," advised Chase with puffed up lungs, "and don't touch nothin'."

After dodging piles of human waste, a few dead rats, and a passed-out drunkard reeking of whiskey and beer, Chase and Spot caught their breaths on the sidewalk. This side of town was more dangerous than what Spot was accustomed. There was more booze, more filth, more crime, and no police to try and stop it. Spot remembered this fact as he watched a scrawny young man held without mercy at the entrance of an alleyway across the street.

"God, help me!" cried the man at knifepoint.

"God ain't heah tonight, sonny!" replied one of his attackers as he flattened the smooth side of the blade across his cheekbone. His partner in crime searched vigorously through the man's clothing, turning out his pockets and emptying the coins inside them.

"Please! I have a family!"

"Seems ta be it, Briggs," stated the partner, collecting the young man's money from the ground.

"Then get back to 'em before we do!" responded Briggs. He turned his blade and quickly sliced the young man's flesh.

With a holler of pain, he clutched his face, his hands turning scarlet red immediately, and limped across the street. Spot stepped back and let the young man, who was not strong enough to hold his own, pass by. The newsie paused and gulped down his breath.

"Hey," said Chase, smacking his shoulder, "don't lose ya nerve. Foist thing ya gotta know, don't evah lose ya nerve, ya got that?"

Spot nodded. "Yeah. I got that."

It was near midnight by the time they made it to Thayer Street's territory. Spot recognized Mama's diner approaching on his left. At the corner, Chase turned right and briskly made his way across the street. Close behind, Spot decided not to ask where they were headed; it became apparent once Chase positioned his back against a brick building and motioned for Spot to do the same.

"Marble, the one ya said probably soaked Oliver," whispered Chase, peering quickly around the corner and back again, "he sleeps at the end 'a this alley comin' up on the otha side. As far as I know, he don't get too many visitors this time 'a night. The whole gang scatters all ovah the place ta sleep, go nowhere's else ta go…"

Spot reached behind him and pulled the cold pistol from his pocket with a clammy, sweating hand. Chase moved slowly around the corner, scanning the darkness with every step he made. Spot looked around him as well; he couldn't make out anything. The clouds covered the moon and there wasn't a street lamp in sight.

"I'm gonna go in foist. Cover me, a'right, Conlon?"

Spot nodded dutifully. "A'right."

As Chase inched his way closer to the alley, Spot gripped his gun tighter than ever. In the darkness of that mere sidewalk, Spot tried to follow the most important advice Chase would ever give him: don't lose your nerve. His heart raced so fast he worried it would crack a rib, and a cold bead of sweat slicked his forehead. As he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he understood why some people believed in a higher power for strength.

He looked in front of him and as the impending alley drew closer, he felt the pit of his stomach rake with terror, and he heard himself say, "God, help me."

"Agh!"

Within a split second, Chase stumbled to the brick wall, clutching his arm in agony.

Spot had heard it. He hadn't been quick enough. There had been the sound of a cocked pistol to his right and it grazed Chase's arm and ricocheted off the brick building. Spot extended his arm, stepping in front of Chase to protect him. He moved his arm around aimlessly into the blackness in front of him until the shooter knocked the gun from his hand in front of him and shoved him to the ground.

"What're doin' 'round heah, Chase, huh?"

The boy excused Spot and grabbed Chase by the collar, hoisting him to his feet. Chase, without answering, grabbed the gun in his pocket and hurled the bottom of it to the boy's mouth, sending him reeling backward. Chase knelt into the boy's stomach to trap him on the ground and gripped his chin tightly, blood spilling onto his white-knuckled fingers. In his other hand was his pistol lodged underneath the boy's chin.

"Fuckin' with Brooklyn, are ya? Again, Jimmy? How many times we gotta warn you bastards?"

Jimmy writhed on the ground relentlessly, even with impending death touching his face. He swung his arm out to grab Chase. Chase knocked it aside and sent a warning shot into the air above him, silencing Jimmy for a moment.

"Conlon! Go!" commanded Chase, nodding emphatically toward the alleyway.

Spot came back to his senses and picked up his gun from the ground. He jumped toward the alleyway entrance and stared down the tunnel of dark, humid space.

"Marble!" shouted Jimmy with a muffled voice.

"Shut yer goddamn mouth!" Chase knocked Jimmy's head into the ground, a quiet crack reverberating. "Conlon, do it!"

"I can't see nothin'!" shouted Spot.

He looked up, down, and in every hidden place without venturing into the alleyway entirely. All he could hear was the uneasy pace of his breath and the assault behind him. Then there was movement. Spot could make out two feet scrambling to hide themselves behind a stack of broken crate boxes. Spot walked forward and knocked them down.

Marble, a stout, pudgy young man was revealed unwillingly in the darkness. He stared at Spot with huge, fearful, white eyes before raising his arms in defeat. Even in the pitch black, Spot swore he could feel how frightened Marble was. Spot raised his chin and turned slightly as if not wanting to see his victim.

"Please," blubbered the Thayer Street leader, ignorant to who his attacker was. "I got no money, I ain't got a home! An' I'm fresh outta bullets. If it's a fight ya want, at least gimme that kinda respect!"

Spot wanted to grant him mercy but he couldn't bring himself to do it. This boy had beaten Oliver to nearly an inch of his life. He deserved to die like the coward he was now like the coward he had been when he attacked Oliver. But Marble had no idea who he was. Spot would remain a mystery to him. Was he going to give him that respect?

"Conlon!" screamed Chase.

"Please!" plead Marble.

"No," answered Spot coldly, cocking the gun.

"God, please!"

Spot pulled the trigger. He heard nothing but echoes of silence and the lifeless body of Marble, the leader of Thayer Street, falling to the ground. Time slowed down, he caught his breath, and stepped out of the alley, mute, silenced.

Chase released Jimmy as he struggled beneath him. Spot watched as Chase let the boy run fifty feet away from them, raise his arm quickly, and shoot Jimmy dead in the back. Spot couldn't see what happened. He only heard Jimmy hit the ground.

"Was that…" panted Spot.

"Yeah, it was necessary Conlon," interrupted Chase defensively. "He woulda gone back, told his boys, an' started a war with you'se guys. Why d'ya think I told ya not to tell anyone we was doin' this tonight?"

He turned to Spot, out of breath, and clutched the spot on his arm that had been grazed with Jimmy's bullet. "I just saved ya life, Conlon. Nobody's gonna know it was us who did it. Hell, Marble didn't even know it who ya were."

Spot came back to his breath. In a way, he had to thank Chase for covering for him; had they not just taken care of Thayer Street anonymously, Chase would have left Spot the lodging house with a war on his hands. For the first time, Spot respected him.

The walk back toward the lodging house seemed shorter, like it did not take as much time to get there. Spot stood in front of it before entering. It looked smaller than he last saw it, and Brooklyn seemed larger than anything he had seen in his entire life. Chase was leaving this all to him.

The moment of clarity was overwhelming, and Spot felt the same feeling in the pit of his stomach. He took a step back and clutched his nervous heart.

"My god…"