CHAPTER THREE
The sun had retired making way for a clear, breathless night. A still humidity, a residue of the smoldering morning, combined with the light zephyrs that danced across the sky, producing an ethereal feeling. One such zephyr breezed down low, slithering between Angel Haddox's legs, causing her multitude of skirts to rise above her head and reveal the revolver pinned down by the black garter on her right upper-thigh.
She released a wrathful sibilation as she tried in vain to push the skirts to their rightful place. This action elicited a quiet, low laugh from Flynn as he strode next to her, his arms swinging carelessly at his side. Holding the great heaps of garments still with stiff arms, she cast him a sharp glare. "Do you find something in this amusing?"
He only shook his head as he trained his eyes forward once more. "Nothing, it's just that with that dress on, Haddox, you almost look like a lady."
She released a disgusted noise, fussing with the skirts as though she was about to tear them down the seams. "Wow, Flynn, you're such a comedian. It wasn't my idea to wear these goddamn mother-whoring cloths. It was all Oliver's idea."
Flynn gathered saliva in his mouth with the accompanying noise before spiting on the cobblestones. "And it was actually a good one, Angel. Better to show up dressed as a whore than dressed like one of the boys. It'll make the plan go more smoothly."
Angel cast him a dark, insolent stare. "Thanks for the flattery, Flynn."
He halted, stopping her abruptly by placing a constrictive grasp on her upper arm. His green eyes glittered with supreme seriousness. "I'm not joking, Haddox. Do you understand where we are going? What we are doing? We're going into the hornets' nest and are gonna kill two of their good old boys right under their noses. Do you understand what will happen if we fuck this up?"
She stood silent and in a somewhat state of awe of Flynn Finesse. It was no wonder that her brother treasured his trade so much. Flynn carried out what he was commanded of without a second notion.
She slowly nodded in agreement. "I understand but it doesn't mean that I agree."
His eyes shone like cold shards of glass. "You're an assassin, Angel, you don't get that choice."
Flynn then strode off, his steps far apart. Angel dashed to catch him, finally matching his strides. "Like you don't give a damn! Wasn't it you just this afternoon that was saying that you get your emotions into it?"
He flushed and looked somewhat pained, as though she had touched an exposed nerve. "So I was, Angel. So what are you going to do about it?"
A light breeze filtered through the air once more, causing her skirts and loose strands of hair to flutter about. "You can't agree with him, though. I agreed with him when we weren't on the truce and they had their assassins after our boys. Then I got something out of it. Then at least got some sort of satisfaction. But now-it's not that I'm losing my touch, but I'm worried about my life. You know as well as I that this truce is a crock of bullshit. At least Conlon is holding up his side of the deal. But Oliver…kill them just because they glanced at him the wrong way? He's going to get us all killed in the end."
There was a deep, thoughtful silence between them, the only sound that filled their ears the slight howl of the wind. Flynn slowly turned his head from some structure in the dark distance to Angel, her eyes unusually piercing under the charcoal the whores had smudged around them. A dim smile lit up his tired features. "Haddox, you think too damn much. How you ever got into this business is beyond me. Don't go thinking on me now. We have to do what we came here to do because Oliver told us too, no ifs, ands, or buts." He made a motion with his head. "The lodging house is just up ahead there. You have to be on your guard. And you have to remember the plan. You remember the plan don't you?"
Although Angel shook her head in compliance, Flynn took the liberty of discussing it once more. Though, she did not take heed. She was too busy squinting her eyes, trying to discern the infamous Brooklyn lodging house throughout the shroud of darkness. Although it was not visible to her eyes, just the notion of it was cause enough to feel as though a tornado were ripping apart her innards. She of course had been under the looming shadow of the structure as the sun was setting many times before, her only company Flynn, Nero, and the piercing sound of a bullet as her latest victim fell lifeless to the ground. Yet, she had never stepped foot inside of it. It chilled her blood to even think of what would occur if she and Flynn would be recognized, especially since they both had their revolvers on hand. She fancied that Conlon would have no qualms of ending their lives right there and then in front of all his intoxicated newsies.
"Haddox, you still with me?"
Flynn shattered her thoughts. She quickly turned her head to find his intense eyes upon her and his hands cupped over his mouth, lighting a cigarette. She listlessly nodded her head, her gaze flickering once more to the direction of the lodging house and returning to Flynn. He tossed the match to the ground and inhaled on the cigarette, his glance observing her, as though waiting for a reply.
And for the first time, in a long time, Angel Haddox felt real fear. It manifested itself as a cold shroud covering her heart. Her hand unwittingly dropped to her side and felt for the revolver through the thick skirts. She damned herself for feeling this alien emotion, willing herself to feel the nothingness she had previously that day as she had placed a bullet in the head of the man at The Hideaway.
Her eyes fell to Flynn's and she wished to tell him that Oliver had finally gone insane and that they were going to end with their brains blown out rather than those they were to target. Yet, Flynn's green eyes looked all too cool as he exhaled and the smoke swirled from his mouth and disappeared into the clear night. He would not give an ear to any of her sniveling. This would only give him cause to tell Oliver that she truly had lost her nerve, that she was of no assistance to him and now the only profession she could succeed at was that of a whore.
So, instead, she betrayed her quaking heart and cocked an insolent brow, plucking the smoking cigarette from her accomplice's lips and placing it between hers, deeply inhaling.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Finesse? Let's go."
***
The plan had flowed from Flynn's silver tongue as though it would be remarkably easy.
He had taken Oliver's offer in Angel's borrowing of a dress from the whores at the brothel that the former regularly attended. Angel had been guided through the process of dressing to lure men by Oliver's favorite little tart, Dominiquette, as she had restlessly twirled her loaded weapon upon her index finger. She had been suited into a fantastically constrictive corset, over which a blood-red dress had been placed. And through much fussing, her flaxen hair had been brushed out and her features accented with deep cosmetics. After Dominiquette had finished, Angel did not trust herself to regard her appearance in the full-length looking glass, and instead flipped up her skirt and safely tucked the revolver within her garter.
Flynn had then met her outside the brothel with his bright hair tucked under a cap that was pulled low over his brow. Angel had darkly reckoned that she resembled a scarlet-woman on the arm of her customer, yet Flynn had merely brushed her off and relayed to her the closure of the scheme as they traveled to Brooklyn.
Angel now stood, the butt of cigarette quivering slightly between her lips as she regarded the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. She and Flynn were still situated within a patch of shadows, undetectable to anyone in the lodging house.
He pulled on her elbow, bringing his mouth close to her ear, as her eyes stayed fixated to the quarters of her brother's arch nemesis. "You can't forget the plan, Angel, you must remember it," he said heatedly, his breath hot within her ear canal. "Remember, you'll go in before me. After a few minutes, I'll go in. Remember, you don't know me. If you see me, glance away. We can't have any suspicions drawn to us. Look for both of them. Once you find them, do everything in your power to get them outside. They'll most likely be taking back drinks and will be drunk, so it may be easy. But don't take any yourself. You have to have your wits about you. Once you get them outside, lure them a few hundred yards away from the lodging house, preferably on the pier so we can just dump the bodies in the river. I'll be watching you, so don't watch for me. I'll come and join you. Then we knock them off and get out of here. We can't take no chances. None at all."
When she did not reply, he hissed roughly in her ear, "Do you have your gun?"
Angel's reverie was broken as she blinked, feeling his warm breath upon her cheek. She pulled away from his grasp, her steel eyes finding his. "Don't I always?"
Flynn elicited a sigh, gripping her shoulder slightly. "Good, Angel. I hope you understand what your brother has us getting into. How goddamn serious this is. If you slip up and give them a clue who you are, they'll kill you without a second thought."
Angel felt a superb shutter wrought its way down her spine as she glanced at the lodging house.
"Just stick to what I told you, Haddox, and you'll be fine. If you get asked who you are, lie through your teeth and make up some bullshit story. Say nothing about Midtown and nothing about me." He released his hold on her. "And no matter what you do, stay away from Spot Conlon. Even though you may fool his boys, you won't be able to fool him."
Flynn lowered his spread palms to her lower back and gave Angel a hearty shove, sending her, disoriented, out of the shadows and in full sight of those around. She doubled over, yet caught her balance in time from tumbling to the ground.
"Good luck, Angel of Death!" she heard Flynn hiss behind her. She raised herself, brushing tangles of hair out of her face, and turned over her shoulder to regard him with narrowed eyes. Yet, the amusement drained from Flynn's features and his eyes flashed as he brutally mouthed to her, Don't look at me!
His reaction took her aback, and she quickly trained her head forward once more, slowly striding ahead. Flynn Finesse was soon all but a whisper of memory as she beheld with fear and wonderment the site before her. In the daylight, the lodging house could be mistaken for an ordinary, antediluvian eyesore, what with the three stories that appeared miraculous that they did not collapse upon one another, the warp the unhappy porch had taken on over time, and the chipped stenciling in black paint that proclaimed Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. Yet, at night and armed with the knowledge that the infamous Spot Conlon and his band of newsies resided here, one could not but help have their breath taken away.
The structure resembled a living entity itself, presenting all the fear and passion as its leader did. Bright light streamed from the spider-wed laced windows, illuminating the nearby night sky. Boisterous, audible racket resounded outside over the minute sounds of what sounded like that of a pitiful, makeshift band: harmonica, fiddle, and clicker. She watched as the silhouettes of figures mulled about from window to window, each one presumably carting either a bottle, flask, or cup filled to the brim with alcohol. Many littered the porch or the surrounding areas. As she made her way to the porch steps, her eyes darted about, taking in the couples that unabashedly relished in the throes of passion. There were those few that had initiated their own private poker games, undeterred by the intoxicated laughter and screams of pleasure that pierced the air.
As she climbed the steps, her uneasiness forgotten for a moment as she watched what was nonetheless a Brooklyn newsie flip the skirt of his inebriated companion over her head, she suddenly felt a clammy hand take a strong clutch on her left ankle. Involuntarily, she released a sharp noise and roughly flicked her foot in attempt to free her captive ankle. Though, the grip only became harder. She cast her stormy gaze down to see a newsie lounging on the steps on his back. He was obviously drunk, for in his other hand he held a wobbling bottle of rum. To further back her hypothesis, his green eyes never quite focused on one point, and the tip of his nose was as bright red as his thatch of hair.
On impulse, Angel's hand reached to her waist prepared to grab her revolver and end his life then and there. Yet, as she realized that she was not wearing trousers and to access her gun she would have to raise her skirt, reality donned upon her. If she were to kill him, suspicions would be drawn to her and Flynn's whole plan would be shot to hell, perhaps along with their lives.
So, instead she rearranged her expression into one of supreme mortal hate and roughly shook her foot. "Get your hand off my foot, now," she spat.
Though, this did not have the desired effect upon the newsie, for he only rolled to his stomach, his grin and eyes growing wider, as his grip became firmer.
"You're not going to agree, are you?" she sighed.
He idiotically shook his head, and now pulled down on her ankle, as though she would allow him the liberty of flipping her skirt over her head as their exhibitionist neighbors had done so.
In response, Angel brought her free foot back before connecting it with the newsie's face and smashing his nose with Dominiquette's borrowed heels. He released an agonizing howl of pain as he immediately emancipated her ankle, bringing both hands to the bloody mess and curling into a fetal position.
This action caused quite a few pairs of eyes to be directed towards her, and Angel felt a glimmer of coldness slide down her backbone. Tilting her angle of vision down, she quickly passed from the porch and through the threshold, now entering the lodging house. To her left, she saw the room that was the center of commotion, the parlor most likely. A slew of newsies was huddled in a circle in one corner, their eyes wide and cheers loud. It was most likely the table where the official game of poker was partaking in. A roaring shout arose from the boys, causing the girls that stood near them to appear more sullen for they most likely wished to have their newsie in a dark corner rather than be engrossed by a silly poker game.
In an adjacent corner was where the measly band played, amateurs who were intoxicated newsies performing a dismal hidden-talent. To the band's right was situated the barrels of alcohol. One fellow was on his back under the knob of one of the barrels, with the booze flowing into his mouth while the nearby crowd whistled and cheered him on.
Past the couples that were entwined around each other and straight ahead of Angel was a flight of stairs of course littered with glitter-shot bottles of beer and more garments flipped over heads.
As Angel stood within the doorway, partygoers sifting past her, her reason for attendance was almost oblivious to her. It was only when she saw the undeniable figure of Flynn slip through the doorway, his face and shock of bright hair undetectable by his cap, that she realized that she was here on a mission. Her eyes lingered on Flynn, and he briefly met them before he disappeared behind a laughing crowd that was exiting the lodging house.
She shook her head and twined a set of fingers through her hair. She had been sent here by her brother, to the residence of the one he hated most on the face of the earth, to slay two of his newsies. The idiocy in the whole notion sprung a slight laugh from her lips. She raised her eyes and panned the room, finding a morbid sense of amusement that here she was, native of Midtown and sister to Oliver Haddox, in the heart of Spot Conlon's territory, surrounded by his own.
Truce or no truce, she knew, they would have no problems whatsoever with pointing her own murderous revolver at her temple and blowing her brains out.
As she tried to clear her mind, to think of the descriptions of the two that Flynn had told her, Angel felt a hand snake around her from behind before resting on her lower torso. She could feel whomever it was pressing against her back, his hot breath invading her ear. "Hey, baby, I'm broke so tell me now if you charge any rates."
He pressed Angel closer to him, as her countenance twisted into repulsion. Dominiquette's mission sure the hell had been attained: the general populous now rendered Angel Haddox a whore. For the second time that night, Angel had to will herself not to reach for her gun. Instead, she drew in a deep breath, and turned around. Alas, the expression she deemed sultry that had plastered her face now turned into one of complete and utter shock. It was the face, the newsie's face that left her breathless. A hideous scar ran from his left lower cheek diagonally across the bridge of his nose before ending in the middle of his brow above the right eye.
Flynn's words from the sojourn to Brooklyn earlier streamed through her brain. On one of Conlon's boys that she was to assassinate, Oliver had claimed that he had a large scar adorning his face. Her eyes traced the path of the scar over and over, as she deemed this stroke of fate too good be true. Yet, there it was, in all its wretchedness. Perhaps if she could seduce him and his companion in time she and Flynn would be back to Midtown by sunrise.
The thought purposed a smile to her lips as she gazed into his watery blue eyes. One of her hands found its way to his muscular chest, the other the right side of his face as she traced the scar with her thumb. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of charging you anything." Her voice dropped an octave. "It would be my pleasure."
The scar was raised as he pulled his lips back in a drunken smile, his hands unabashedly roaming her body. "Good. Charley Cicatrice has yet to pay for a slut yet."
It was when Cicatrice's hand passed over the bump on her right thigh that was the revolver that Angel felt a surge of hatred build up inside of her. And to think that she had had reservations of assassinating the two that had looked at her brother the wrong way. It would give her nothing but the utmost pleasure to watch a bullet lodge itself in his head.
A forced coy smile crossed her lips. "Well I wouldn't want to be the one to break that record, now would I?"
His eyes were vacant as he regarded her. "Hey, have some booze," he said, forcing the cup at her so that the alcohol splashed upon her exposed flesh in the low-cut dress. Angel involuntarily reeled back in disgust as Cicatrice bent and pressed his tongue to her skin, licking away the drink. During this motion, her hand went up her skirt and firmly held the base of the revolver, poised to skip the step of luring him outside before killing him. Yet, before she could reveal the weapon, Cicatrice had straightened and turned over his shoulder, calling to an acquaintance.
Angel took these brief moments to bottle her rage and reluctantly release the hilt, allowing her arms to fall lax to her sides.
"Hey, Flick, get over here!" Cicatrice bellowed over the audible noise, motioning with his hand.
Angel was taken aback once more to find the newsie that had joined them was nonetheless the one whom had grasped her ankle as she had tried to enter the lodging house. He approached them and stood next to Cicatrice, obviously disoriented and his nose shattered, the fresh blood that was not congealed glittering prismatically in the light.
"Heya, Charley," Flick replied, his voice cracking and weary, his gaze still unfocused.
"Hey, Flick," Cicatrice implored, lowering his head somewhat towards Flick's. "What the hell happened to your face?"
Flick shook his head in the negative, his green eyes slightly lolling around in his head. "I don't know." His eyes suddenly waxed. "Hey, maybe it was Oliver sent one of his guys on me."
Cicatrice shared in his friend's expression as Angel felt a pit manifest itself within her stomach. So these were the two that had wronged Oliver, had only glanced at him the wrong way. They matched the descriptions that Flynn had informed her of immaculately, and here one of them had mentioned Oliver's namesake. They were standing before her now, breathing and drunk, yet she could only picture them lying sprawled and lifeless on the docks under the full moon, with deep crimson blood trickling from the quarter- sized wounds that would be inflicted to their heads.
She winced as she regarded them. Though they were Brooklyn, though she had been learned and conditioned to hate and despise them beyond all else, she could not but feel a stab of an undetectable emotion upon her heart, watching them so stupidly and drunkenly debate how one had obtained his broken nose.
Angel's hand slipped down to her leg and grasped the revolver through her skirts. And that damned word slipped into her mind again: conscience. At that delirious moment, she was in her right mind to turn from the pair and exit more than the lodging house but that of Angel Haddox and the dark and tormented world that was her life as she knew it. Yet, that foolish dream was shattered as she turned her eyes up and over the shoulders of the condemned; she espied Flynn skulking against the back wall. Even though a shadow shrouded his face, she still knew that his jade eyes were burning into her, telling her that if she would wish to finally lose her nerve, not to do it in the headquarters of goddamn Brooklyn and Spot Conlon.
So, she lowered her eyes and though she felt she could disgorge her guts at their feet, she forced a smile upon her lips and pulled Cicatrice close, whispering illicit nothings into his ear as she could feel the arousal burn off him like fire.
She did not make eye contact with Flynn as she led the two out the door, morbidly as though leading them to their death. She knew he was still positioned near the door, though she need not look at him. Once she had left, he would follow her in the same manner of a shadow.
The night air was refreshingly cool and cold stars prominent in the black sky above. Angel carefully stepped over those that were entwined around each other on the stairs, the revolver feeling strikingly heavy against her upper leg. She inhaled in the cool air, desperately trying to sustain herself from ripping into twain.
Angel turned over her shoulder, an eyebrow cocked as a breeze fluttered her skirts and strands of hair, observing the pair as they stumbled off the porch and to the sidewalk. "I hope you two aren't this slow at everything you do!" she called, her voice deceivingly smoky.
In response, Cicatrice pushed Flick forward, raising his chin in defiance. "You just wait!" he slurred. "Hey, Flick, hurry the hell up. We don't want to keep her waiting!"
"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying," Flick protested on his behalf.
As Flynn had ordered, Angel delivered the pair to the pier where nearly all their Brooklyn assassinations were carried out. The ebony water lapped rhythmically against the pier, acting as though a companion looking glass to the sky above as it reflected the waxing moon and brilliant stars. As though it was hungry, waiting impatiently for the cadavers that would soon be pushed into it.
Flick was stumbling about in a circle, though Cicatrice had his eyes trained upon Angel, burning with raw lust. He approached her as she stood near the edge of the dock, an animal grin upon his face, twisting his repulsive scar. He closed the distance between them and pressed his body against hers, his breath reeking that of volumes of alcohol harshly invading her nostrils. His hands made themselves free to explore all crevices of her body as he whispered huskily in her ear, "Wanted to be away from the crowd, eh?"
Angel felt a shutter work through her as she closed her eyes impossibly tight, awaiting now the arrival of her accomplice. Flynn made his appearance known a few moments later as Flick inquired in a scratchy voice, "Hey, who are you?"
Her eyes opened and Cicatrice backed away from her, turning over his shoulder to observe Flynn. Her breath bated in her throat as she took in Flynn's strong presence: his cap askew revealing a thatch of his bright hair that gleamed in the moonlight, his green eyes set in hate, and his revolver that was pointed point blank at Cicatrice's head. She never had noticed the murderous gleam in his eye before, perhaps she had been so blinded by the power she felt of wielding a weapon, about to take a life. It chilled her to the bone.
"Hey, who in the hell are you?" Cicatrice growled, his fists balling at his sides.
Flynn only ignored the question as he turned to Angel. "I thought I told you not to look at me."
"Forgive me, your majesty," she retorted as acidly as she could, trying to cover the shakiness of her voice as she slowly reached under her skirt and drew her revolver.
Flynn's eyes were on fire as he glared back at Angel, yet he only motioned with his head to Flick. "You take him, I'll take Scar-boy, and then we get the hell out of here."
Realization finally seemed to seep into Cicatrice for his jaw dropped. "Hey, just what do you think you're doing, now?"
Flynn cocked his head somewhat in the manner of a bird, his eyes glimmering with amusement. "Why, killing you, of course."
Angel felt the stunning pain begin to rage in between her eyes once more as she watched Flick as he blanched in his skin, realizing the barrel pointed at his brow was not just for show.
"On the count of three we do it." The gun began to quiver furiously in her grasp as she regarded Flick's green eyes widen in mortal terror.
"One-"
Flynn's trigger clicked as he cocked it.
"Two-"
She took his lead, the click filling her ears tenfold as she watched the utter atrocity before her that was a human being urinate in his trousers, his stark eyes unwavering from the gaping black hole of the barrel before him.
"Three-"
An audible, singular gunshot ruptured the still air, followed by the collapsing of a lifeless body to the docks. Angel still remained transfixed to Flick, as his saucer-like eyes drifted from her and to the heap on the dock that had been Charley Cicatrice. He released a whimper, taking in the heinous bullet hole that now adored the corpse's forehead; a perfect shot that showed the skill of a practiced assassin. As his eyes drew back to Angel's, his wild sobs pierced the air.
Flynn's delirious shouts echoed over the Brooklynite's hysterics. "What in the blue fuck do you think you are doing, Angel? Pull the fucking trigger!"
Yet, for the life of her, Angel Haddox could not will herself to pull the trigger of her revolver. She could only hold her arms out in front of her, the weapon still pointed at Flick's head, yet they were quaking so that the bullet would miss its prime target of the brain. "I can't do it, Flynn, I can't do it!"
"What the hell you mean you can't do it?" he replied his raging infuriation contained by the utter surprise he felt at her inability to pull the trigger.
Angel could not convert the overpowering, foreign emotions that consumed her into words for Flynn's comprehension. It was the part of her she had always yearned for yet never truly wanted for it would destroy all she had ever built: a conscience. She regarded the hysterical newsie in front of her as a human being and not as an animal. It made her ill to believe that she thought such ludicrous notions now.
To add insult to the wound that had been inflicted upon Flynn's skillful plan, a shout rang out from the direction of the lodging house, inquiring what that sound had been from a moment ago.
Flynn spied the silhouettes in the distance, and dashed over to Angel's side. "Pull the trigger!" he bellowed.
And then Angel broke. Her psyche with its two raging opinions had ripped itself in half and had drained her of all reason. "No!" she cried, her grip becoming lax and the revolver falling from her grasp as she sunk to her haunches in feeling like a complete and utter miserable failure. Alas, before her weapon had even struck the ground, Flynn expeditiously drew his revolver and shot Flick point blank in the head, ending his bone chilling sobs.
"Angel, get up!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Angel, you have to get up, someone's coming!"
And Angel Haddox rose blindly to her feet, and ran as though the Devil were on her heels, the overwhelming emotions finally overcoming her. She hadn't taken but a few strides when she felt herself being harshly halted, her arms gathered painfully tight behind her back, and the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her skull.
She had been caught. Her thoughts went to her brother, went to Oliver, as she bitterly recalled her own words of how he was going to get them all killed in the end. How ironic it was: she had witnessed the faces of her victims in their last moments, wondered what had streamed through their heads.
How ironic indeed. She could not draw upon a single thing but the immortal terror she felt that her bloody trade had finally caught up with her. Her trivial prayers would not do anything to save her soul now.