CHAPTER NINE
It was quite baffling to Angel, as she approached the Brooklyn lodging house cloaked and hooded, how dull and commonplace the structure resembled in the daylight.
It had been Conlon that single-handedly was responsible for the rise of Brooklyn, like the resurrection of a gilded Phoenix from the ashes. For a district so instilled with respect and fear, their cantonment was surely not terror inducing. It was an antediluvian youth hostel run by a one old man McDonald who in the genesis of the building had allowed just any newsie to take up residence for only two pennies a night.
However, when the fearless leader came along, he laid out his priorities to old man McDonald and the Brooklyn lodging house was now quite restrictive of who was allowed to haunt inside its walls. Especially now in the midst of the broken truce with Midtown, Conlon had taken extra precautions and had become extra wary. All he needed was one of Oliver's assassins posing as a Brooklyn newsie and attaining a bunk only to shoot his assigned victim from inside the walls.
At least, that's the tale that Angel had been told. She herself had only been inside the structure twice, once when the Armageddon had taken place-the massive rumble where Midtown invaded Brooklyn twain years back-and the time when she had straddled the fearless leader himself, sharing a passionate kiss with him.
Angel shivered at the memory. She had never before experienced emotions that wild, that impassioned, that unbridled from another human being before. She had almost convinced herself that the exchange had never taken place, though the bewildering appearance by him in her room had just reinforced her strong, unsure notions of him.
She halted, a thatch of waning mist swirling round her. Involuntarily, she gulped, her clammy grip tightening on the revolver at her side. Her wide eyes stared upwards, regarding the foreboding, looming lodging house. Her fingers absentmindedly fondled the trigger, as though preparing to cock it.
The structure rendered her breathless, and she could not help but feel a cold flicker of fear within her heart. She still hadn't forgotten that she was a Midtown native in the presence of the Brooklyn headquarters.
Suddenly, a flash of panic swept over her. She wondered if it was a rash judgment to have left Night unconscious. She of course would not have him any other way, save dead, though if she were to be espied or caught and captured by the enemy he could always come to her aid.
The doubt she was experiencing cracked as a grim smile came to her lips. Nero Night, assist anyone but his own self? Angel shook her head; it was not very likely. It was best that he was laying in the copse of bushes. The thought brought a broad smile to her full lips as she pulled the hood tighter around her head, shadowing her features.
She turned her attention to her surroundings once more. She stood a few paces from the warped steps that led to the porch on the front façade of the lodging house. Her memories strayed to the night when she had seduced Flick and Charley Cicatrice to their deaths. An intoxicated Flick had grabbed her ankle on the very steps she regarded now. The very porch that had once been filled with wild, drunken laughter, makeshift poker games, and abrupt lovemaking now was deserted and empty, save the thin vapors that occupied it.
She elicited a dejected sigh as her eyes wandered upwards to the window that was Conlon's room. At the time when she stated to Night confidently that the meeting of the two districts was being held there, it had only been a string of false airs. She had no idea in hell where the conference was being held. Though, she deduced that she had to start somewhere, and Conlon's room was better than nothing.
A warm wind slicing through the air and swirling around the ankles of her tailored-slacks, she wrapped the cloak tighter about her and kept her head low. Keeping to the side of the lodging house, she flirted around the thick copse of bushes that littered the corner and rounded the edge. Stopping suddenly, she raised her eyes to find that she was under the second-story window of Conlon's room.
Cursing silently under her breath, Angel surveyed the splintered wooden boards covered in creeping ivy that made up the left wall of the lodging house. She had foolishly thought that there would perhaps be a fire escape of some sorts as there had been at the Manhattan lodging house. There, she had been to scale the accessible flight of stairs and enter the bunkroom like a shadow, slitting her intended victim's throat as he had slept.
The Fates had not been on her side on this sojourn. Now, she was going to have to do the near impossible: enter the lodging house intrinsically and discern where the meeting was in order.
An utterance from the previous time she and Flynn had trekked to Brooklyn entered her mind, and propelled an ironic laugh to escape her lips.
He's going to get us all killed in the end.
She had of course been complaining to Flynn of her kin, yet now the words seemed to relate more to her present plight than they had before. She regarded the window and shook her head. Sometimes she fathomed if Oliver did not just attain his kicks at sending her off on impossible tasks.
On suicide missions.
An exhausted sigh issued from her lips as she brought the back of her hand to her brow, wiping away dew from the fog that clung to her flesh. Though, there was no way between heaven and hell that she could just waltz on back to Midtown without at least attempting to gather any information. The Lyners would be there, and Oliver would not wish to disappoint them, most notably Rylie who had a sadistic nature to rival that of her brother's.
Exhaling darkly once more, she pirouetted slightly on her toes so that she faced the opposite direction. Striding forward and keeping close to the building, she gathered the dark material of her cloak about her. Her head down, while staring at fall in length of shadows, she could deduce that the sun was setting and soon it would be dusk.
Gulliver's Inn. In the Bronx. We shall meet at dusk. Bring no more than ten. Don't bring any weapons, you will be unarmed at the door. There, we will discuss the preparations for our little tea party.
We shall meet at dusk. Meet at dusk.
Oliver's words haunted her as she took a soft left, bringing her once more to the front of the lodging house. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand. If she was to garner any information at all she need hurry.
Her lips pursed in determination and the lines of her face hard, Angel turned and grasped the splintered railing of the porch. With a strangled grunt, she pushed herself off her feet and in one graceful motion swung her legs over the railing. She landed in a crouched position, as silent as a cat. In the process of the flight, her hood had pushed back some, leaving wisps of her pale hair to glow like burnished gold in the last remnants of the dying sun.
Her senses acute and sharpened tenfold, she rose slowly, brushing back the unbound hair and pulling up her hood once more. Her head jerking about, when she espied that there was no one about, she slowly crept forward towards the smeared, cobwebbed-laced window that looked into the parlor. She neared the slovenly pane of glass and sank to her haunches so that her intense eyes could view inside.
The parlor was vacant and she could observe not a soul. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart thumping loudly in her ears, she stayed paralyzed in the position for a good minute or so, just as though when she entered the threshold she would not be ambushed.
When she finally felt satisfied enough, she rose to her feet and skirted to the doorway, nudging the door opened with a sway of her hips. The door opened with a squeak as though it was being diabolically murdered and Angel switched her position to the other side of the doorway so that she could glance inside the crack that the opening had produced. All she could view were the shadowed stairs that lead to the second floor smattered with thin beams of sunlight. Placing her palm on the thick plank of wood, she glanced warily over her shoulder once more to calm her jittery nerves. Reassuring herself, she turned her attention back to the door and carefully pushed on it so that it would not produce any sounds that would give her away.
The door swung silently, slowly inward to reveal the parlor of the lodging house. Angel stepped into the threshold, her palm still on the door and her eyes taking note of the surroundings. The parlor remained empty, a far cry from the intoxicated, blissful sonority that had been predominant in the air at the grand party that Conlon had thrown. The warped table that had been the center of the poker game sat desolate, coated in a thin layer of dust. The band and their melodious music had long since disappeared, as had the glitter-shot beer bottles and drums of booze. Shadows had settled into the room, save for the dimming rays of light that lazily entered the parlor from a trio of windows on the left wall.
Angel took a few steps forward, her hand leaving the door as she stepped into the room, her eyes still darting about in awe. The silence was so thick that she could have sliced effortlessly through it with the blade that she had sheathed and bound to her leg. If she hadn't been a denizen to Brooklyn then she would have never have fathomed that Spot Conlon called this his home. All that haunted the room now were fantastic ghosts of the wild jollification that had been.
Unknowingly, it struck a chord in her heart. As though the thought were so depressing. Inwardly, Angel hissed at herself for being so sentimental. Gathering herself, she stole over to the flight of stairs. She purposely crept as silently as she could, as though not to elicit a squeak from one of the stairs until she halted on the median stair, engulfed in a patch of darkness. Planting her feet on a step, she curled her arms on an upper one until she was stretched out on the stairs, her ears perked for any cacophony.
She listened intensely, until she picked up a dull buzz of commotion on the second floor. She rose once more and took the rest of the steps in a deathlike silence, her eyes and ears wide opened. As she reached the terminus of the stairs, she straightened and flattened her back against the right wall so that she could peer into the dim hallway. She looked to her right first; her heart beat drumming sonorously in her ears. Radiating from the direction, she could determine the subtle sounds of conversation.
Angel then returned her bent neck to its place as her head found its normal position. A shallow light glowed from the end of the hallway.
She inhaled in a sharp breath, yet realized that her breath already been caught in her throat. She released a slight cough and immediately brought a hand over her mouth, pressing her rigid back to the wall, the polished banister digging into her lumbar. She dare maneuver her head to that she could peer into the darkened hallway once more at the light. The shallow beam flickered for a moment as she regarded it.
The beam of light that had illuminated his room spilled into the hallway.
Involuntary shivers traced down her backbone in remembrance of his quarters. Perhaps she had been correct in the notion that the meeting of the two leaders was being held in the room.
Her pulse speeding and her respiration incrementing steeply, she flushed as she stepped off the stairs and into the dimly lit hallway. She pried her eyes from the light for a brief second to cast her glance over her shoulder. Detecting that she was protected, she began to pad softly, deliberately towards the light as it beckoned to her like a fiery siren. As she neared Conlon's room, she could discern that the door was swung inward and that the kerosene light that was positioned on the vanity or desk or whatever it had been was throwing the dim glow into the hallway.
Pressing her back against the left wall, the wall that the room was situated on, she silently sidestepped her way towards the chambers. A diluted noise resonated from the room, and her flesh crawled with an incurable itch to peer her head inside and catch what the leaders were bantering of.
Yet, over the audible thudding of her heart, she heard the faint fall of footsteps down the hallway.
Step..step..tap.
Her breath bated painfully in her trachea as her pulse increased rapidly. A wave of panic washed over her, dousing her, so that she abruptly halted and snapped her head to the right to glance down the hallway. With the jolting motion, her hood had fallen back and wild wisps of hair fell unbound from the black ribbon, glimmering vaguely in the light at the end of the hall.
Her storm-hued eyes engorged in their sockets she immediately froze as though a frigid liquid had been induced into her veins, chilling her blood to ice. Her chest heaved painfully as she heard the strange fall of footsteps once more.
Step..step..tap.
A more upbeat fall of feet could be heard in convergence with the unusual steps.
And then Angel heard the voices. It was though they were a haunting reminder of when Conlon had found her hidden behind his trunk, for now she heard the same exact tones. The voice of passion and the voice of reason. The impassioned voiced reverberated down the corridor to her ears and she closed her eyes as the words played in her ear canal. She allowed the exquisite sensation of heat to overwhelm her as Conlon's voice-there's still time-found her welcoming ears. The other, lower voice she recognized of that of Whitie Wilson, Conlon's right hand man, as was Night to her brother.
All sense of mobility was brutally purloined from Angel as the reverie shattered, the delicious warmth dissipating and leaving in its place an icy mortal fear. She willed her legs to move; yet, they were transfixed to the splintered floorboards at her feet. It was as though her raging mind were severed from her limbs.
Her breath becoming labored, she sharply turned her head in the direction of Conlon and Wilson. They had emerged from a room at the opposite end of the hallway, engaged in a heated conversation, only to halt suddenly in a patch of shadows, oblivious to all but each other.
Her mind temporarily paralyzed, she regarded the pair of silhouettes that were dimly bathed in light. Conlon had his back leaning on the wall, his right hand clutching what appeared to be a cane. He was silent as Wilson stood before him, his voice calmed and hushed as his arm made extravagant gestures in the air.
As Angel averted her sight from them, her mind finally cleared again. With a choked sob of fear, she pushed herself off the wall and dashed across the corridor and into the first available room situated before her. She entered the threshold, a sigh of relief overwhelming her. She bent, pushing her hood back with one careless swipe to run her hands through her tangles of sweaty hair.
As she remained in the doubled-over position, she heard the resume of the footsteps as they neared. With a gasp, she straightened and quickly panned her surroundings. She was situated in a darkened room that appeared desolate and abandoned. It was furnished without any windows, allowing shadows dominate. There were only a few warped wooden cartons in myriad stages of decomposition wrought with glistening cobwebs scattered about.
"I told you, Whitie, you'd have to be a fucking idiot to go to this damn council without any weapons." Conlon's voice was alive with a passionate fire as he and Wilson neared.
Angel quickly turned over her shoulder to glance into the hallway. The opened threshold of Conlon's room was partially visible from the room she took refuge in. Her curiosity immediately overtook her as she crouched low and sidled to behind the opened door. Positioning herself correctly, she could see freely from the crack between the door and the wall where the portal was hinged. Her eyes quickly surveyed the inhabitants of Conlon's room, taking exquisite note if she was to recite it to her brother and his party at the Hideaway.
The room was dimmed; save for the fire from the kerosene lamp that highlighted the features of those that she could view. Sitting on the edge of the warped vanity she could make out the definite form of the leader of Manhattan. She could positively identify Kelly from the idiotic hell-fire red bandanna and the foolish cowboy hat down his back that was anchored by a string around the neck. His lifeless features channeling that of a statue's, he kept fidgeting, perhaps unknowing to keep his arms crossed over his chest or his fingers drum atop the vanity.
The only other she could recognize was that damn gambler, though she could not recall his name. He was positioned next to Kelly, sitting on the vanity with a leg tucked under him and the other dangling listlessly off the edge. A fuming cigar was positioned between his lips and he lazily tossed a deck of cards between his hands.
Her gaze on the gambler was shattered whenever Conlon strode furiously in front of the crack, causing her to gasp. The strange fall of his steps was attributed to the gleaming cane that he handled in his right hand. When Wilson had crossed in front of her, Angel bit the tip of her tongue between her lips in determination and silently rearranged herself so she could have a better view.
An abrupt hush fell across the room when Conlon entered, replacing the dull murmurs that had been predominant. Conlon positioned himself before Kelly. His lanky form held erect and his face emotionless, his hand rested on the cane in front of him while the kerosene lamp caused his hair to glow while his visage remained shadowed.
There was a heavy silence while both leaders regarded each other. Kelly took leave from leaning on the vanity as he straightened.
The Brooklyn leader broke the silence. "We're taking weapons."
Angel's head cocked in wonderment at the reaction this simple statement brought. A large assortment of groans and yells blended into one angry murmur that filled the still air. In the reflection of the fire, Kelly's face twisted into disgust as he threw his arms over his head. The gambler had taken the cigar out of his mouth and was holding his arms outstretched. His mouth moved quickly, his features contorted into disbelief and anger.
Throughout this outburst, Conlon's collected disposition never once broke. He still stood straight, proud, and motionless with his head held high.
Kelly's voice strangled with utter infuriation rose over the cacophony. "Taking weapons? Your-you're taking weapons?" He placed his hands to his face and then ran them through his dull brown hair as he began to pace before Conlon. He suddenly halted and piercingly stared into the cool eyes of his ally. "Spot, tell me you're kidding me, just tell me you're kidding me." His voice lost its anger, and now was soft, as though he did not wish to accept Conlon's words.
Conlon only tilted his head slightly, his lower body never moving even a muscle. "I'm not kidding you."
A large roar of voices arose at his words, as a string of blue curses issued from Kelly's lips. The Manhattan leader raised a pointed index finger towards Conlon. "You don't know what the hell you're doing, Spot. If Haddox told you not to bring any weapons, then you shouldn't bring any weapons-"
"But Oliver will have weapons." The low, timid of voice of Wilson interrupted Kelly, causing Angel's gaze to flicker to him. She had nearly forgotten of him, standing in the doorway. Kelly cast his burning glare from Wilson to Conlon.
"I really don't give a shit if Haddox will have weapons. Of course he will have weapons! But do you even want to dare mess with him? If he says that you'll be searched at the door then he means you'll be searched at the door no if, ands or buts!" His impassioned voice died away and he stepped closer to Conlon so that their faces were mere inches apart. Angel regarded their intense profiles illuminated by the blaze. Conlon's head was still held high and proud, never have moved. Kelly's brow was slicked with sweat and the muscles in his face trembled. She had to strain to hear his words for his voice had fallen to such a deathly whisper.
"Spot, you know I've been your best friend through thick and thin and you know that I'd give my life for yours in a minute. But there are some things that I just won't do. And fucking with Oliver Haddox is one of them.
"He's like a cobra waiting to strike. If you bring weapons he'll search you and find them and blow your head off for bringing them. You know that damned sister of his will shoot your brains out in a heartbeat. They're ruthless, Spot. Absolutely ruthless.
"You made Brooklyn what it is today by using that head that is on your shoulders, but on decisions like this I sometimes fail to see how. I'm a pretty willing guy, Spot, but I also have to look out for my boys. That's what a leader does. And I can't do this, won't do this if you bring weapons."
A deafening silence hung over the air like a suffocating shroud. Angel could physically feel the awesomely intense electricity crackle between the two leaders as she sat on edge for a reaction.
Conlon finally responded. His electric eyes never leaving Kelly's, his hand went to his chest and grasp firmly what seemed to be a key. She watched as he twisted it anxiously before her eyes returned to his cold face.
"I, too, Sullivan, am a leader. Don't forget where you are. You're in Brooklyn, not Manhattan. What I say goes. You speak of insubordination."
Angel felt her pulse begin to race, whether it was with lust or a feeling of sickness, as she watched the most powerful district alliance, including Midtown and Queens, crumble before her very eyes.
Her eyes never left the two leaders as an overpowering silence filled the lodging house. She would have bet her immortal soul that very instant that every breath in the small, cramped room had been caught painfully in each and every throat as all eyes fell to the two.
As quickly as a match ignites into fire, so did Kelly. His face grew livid as his features twisted into that of absolute repulsion. "Insubordination? I speak of insubordination? Jesus Christ, Spot, that's an awfully big word for you to use. When did you find time to hawk the dictionary? Was it while you were fishing your boys like goddamn fish out of the water? Oh, wait, that's right. With all this stress you haven't been laid in over a month, so maybe you found the time then."
A deafening hush fell over the room and Angel quickly flicked her gaze to Conlon. His frigid, indifferent demeanor had all but been shattered. His pale skin had erupted into a violent shade of crimson and his eyes glittered with hate like blue diamonds set on fire. His whole carriage trembled outright as his hand gripped the head of the cane so tightly it turned white. "Who are you? Manhattan. Fucking Manhattan. Who are we? Brooklyn. Mother whoring Brooklyn! What in the name of Christ was I thinking when I asked you to help me? Aren't you always the pansy that comes running to me when the little Delancey's start picking on you? So why in the name of God would I need your help? You're nothing. Absolutely nothing. Cowboy Jack Kelly and his band of girls. Why the hell do you think I am named the goddamn Fearless Leader of Brooklyn! Because I'm fearless! I don't need you! So take your girls and get out of my room, you son of a bitch. I don't need you. I don't need you."
Even from being situated from across the hall, Angel could still pristinely distinguish the absolute loathing and malevolency that coursed through Kelly. His visage burnt a deep red as he extended a trembling index finger towards Conlon. "I hope you still say that..I hope you say that Conlon when Haddox finds your weapons and blows your fucking brains out. I hope you say that! I hope you say that Spot because you're so fucking blinded by pride that you can't even what's right in front of you. It's a trap, Spot. A big goddamn trap and that bastard is just gonna sit back and smirk when you disobey him. If you don't bring weapons then at least you can have a chance to have your final vengeance against him in a real out and out war and not die at his mercy tonight-"
"I thought I told you to leave!" Conlon hissed with an ample amount of venom in his shaking voice.
Kelly lowered his hand lax to his side. Angel shifted her weight some so she had a more proper view of them. They had shifted somewhat in the midst of the argument and now they stood near the warped desk, the light of the kerosene lamp highlighting the creases of hate in their faces tenfold. The light reflected off of their eyes, causing them to glitter violently. They hauntingly resembled deadly cobras, prepared to strike for the final time.
Kelly shook his head. "Don't worry, Spot don't worry. When I walk out of here it's over. But hell, I'll come to your funeral
and read a nice speech about what a stupid, proud son of a bitch you were."
With that, Kelly strode furiously to the door. As he exited the threshold, Conlon turned towards the door and shouted after him, "Fuck you!"
Angel pulled away from the crack some as Kelly stalked past her down the hallway, his shoes heavy against the antediluvian floorboards. After Kelly had passed, she quickly rose to her knees again and inched closer towards the crack. She peered out at Conlon who was still looking towards the open door. His face was livid and his chest heaved heavily.
When the sound of the door to the lodging house slammed shut in one final time, the sound reverberated throughout the deadly silent room, a silence that seemed to consume the entire surroundings. As soon as the sound diminished, Conlon then abruptly straightened and panned the paralyzed newsies who still inhabited the room. His gaze roaming over them, their lingering appearance just seemed to fuel his intense rage more. "What are you still doing here?" he howled. "I thought I commanded you to leave along with your goddamn leader!"
The newsies all exchanged glances before the apparent Manhattan rose to their feet and filed past Conlon. Some were more expedient on their feet than others, not meeting his wrathful gaze as they hurried into the hallway with fear. Yet others were slow, and even dare to halt before Conlon for a brief second, their faces wrought with absolute hate, as the gambler did.
The gambler was the last to leave and had bestowed upon Conlon the most scathing look. When the billows of smoke that he had left in his wake dissipated, the Brooklyn leader then turned once more to the newsies that remained-his newsies.
"Out. Get the hell out now." The hate in his inflection had slightly calmed and his words were more of a weary command. They must have known when to tempt their leader and when not to, for simultaneously they rose to their feet and quickly filed out of his quarters, avoiding his gaze.
When the last one had left his presence, Conlon elicited an utterly exhausted sigh and placed his hands to his face. The color of his flesh immediately waned and his ridged posture immediately softened as his shoulders rounded. He took a few paces towards the bunk beds; his visage still covered with his hands and sat on the edge of the lower bed. He bent forward, placing his head between his legs. One hand remaining on his face, the other found its way through his hair.
It was an exquisite temper that he possessed. It was an erratic one. When it came upon him it consumed him like the most powerful fire. Yet, when it left, it left an exhausted human being forced to deal with the repercussions of a few seconds of passion.
Angel regarded him as she slowly rose to her feet. Just a few moments ago he had appeared so utterly fearsome and yet now he looked so utterly pathetic and...mortal.
A slight creak turned her attention away from Conlon to the hallway before her where Wilson stood poking his head in the doorway, regarding his friend and shaking his head sadly. Conlon did not notice his presence for his posture still did not change. He only ran both hands through his hair now, polishing it back.
Wilson took a step forward so that he entered the room that only a moment before he had been excommunicated from. His heavy boots caused the wooden floorboards to creak under his weight and caught Conlon's attention for he raised his head sharply.
Wilson's carriage was erect and rigid, as though he expected yet another lashing from his superior. Yet, Conlon's gaze was frighteningly void of any hardness whatsoever. The eyes that he glanced at Wilson with where the ones that only the most experienced of men possessed, men who had survived entire lifetimes of trials and tribulations. A seventeen-year-old boy should not have possessed eyes that worn and lifeless.
A thin smile flickered upon Conlon's lips before it fell and his face once more found his hands. Wilson stepped forward cautiously, shifting his weight from one foot to another, causing the boards under him to moan. "Uh, Spot," he began, his voice raw and unsure.
Conlon did not reply, only twined his fingers through his dirty blonde hair.
Wilson cleared his throat. "Spot, I wanted to tell you when they all left..." His voice trailed and Angel could see the back of his neck turn a bright crimson.
And they sure as hell did leave, she thought with ironic humor.
"I mean, I wanted to tell you...I got something for you."
Slowly, Conlon raised his head to gaze at Conlon. "What?" he implored in a weary voice, taking his hands from his hair.
"I..it...I mean she is in the other room. I bought 'er for you, Spot, before we left for tonight. I thought it...she might do you good. You know, all this pressure-"
"Pressure?" Conlon hissed, his blue eyes glittering.
"Pressure? Did I say pressure?" Wilson laughed nervously. "Naw, I meant..well you told Ja..well you said that you hadn't been laid in a month yourself. Her name's Breathless. Aw, and I'm sure she'll leave you breathless. She's great looking. They said she was the best. Tall, leggy, and blonde. Just the way you like 'em. Great tits, too. I told her to wait in the room across from yours on account of the meeting."
Angel did not see the shallow smile that adorned Conlon's lips or the way it caused his eyes to glimmer for her mind had suddenly fallen into the hands of chaos. Wilson's words kept replaying in her mind like some sort of jumbled train wreck.
I told her to wait in the room across from yours. I told her to wait in the room across from yours. In the room you're in right now Jesus Christ!
Angel released an inaudible gasp and pressed a hand to her mouth. She stumbled backwards into the darkened room as she viewed as Conlon gave Wilson a tired smile and as the mattress fluxed under his weight as he rose to his feet.
"So you sprang for a slut, Wilson? Jesus H. Christ!" Conlon's amused voice came as he and Wilson exited his room and prepared to enter the room that Angel was situated.
Angel's breath was brutally purloined from her as she scrambled backwards, her eyes desperately searching about the room for any place at all to conceal herself. Save the warped crates, there was nothing at all. Her eyes finally flickered to the dark, damp walls as a last resort to perhaps espy a window. They were bare.
As she continued to press backwards, she stumbled upon a crate that happened to be in her path and with a cry she was brought to her feet. She landed with an audible thud, causing the dust that had to collect to suddenly billow and rise. After eliciting a loud sternutation, she opened her eyes to find the pair looking inside the door, confusion adorning their visages. Yet Wilson soon turned towards Conlon as a grin played upon his lips.
Conlon reciprocated the gesture as best he could. Wilson then nodded towards him and soon was striding down the hall. Conlon, his eyes upon Angel's darkened visage, stepped through the threshold, the floorboards squealing under his weight. In the last remnant of the dim light of the corridor, she could see his eyes glint hungrily before he stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind him so they were both devoured by darkness.
Angel's breath was heavy as she breathed through her mouth and her sonorous heartbeat filled her ears. She squinted her eyes, trying to allow them to adjust to the fresh darkness. She did not allow a single muscle to move as she sat on the floor with her legs still over a tumbled crate, trying to discern where Conlon was at in the room.
She heard a soft groaning of boards issue forth to her left and she uttered a slight gasp, snapping her head in the direction.
"So, your name's Breathless." His voiced sliced cleanly through the blackness and found her ears where it gently played its seducing song. She slightly gulped as she felt her blood begin to burn in her veins.
"Do you really think you'll leave me breathless, Breathless?" He paused a moment, the origin of his voice not distinguishable, before continuing. "Because I'm telling you, as you most likely heard from my friend I haven't been laid for a whole entire month, even more perhaps. And it all just builds up inside every day." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Building and building. Layer upon layer. Until one day it just...explodes."
At his last word, she felt his hands firmly grasp her upper arms as he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was absolutely smoldering. Before she had time to respond in sheer surprise, he was forcefully raising her to her feet and directing her backwards.
Angel released an unintentional moan as she felt her back slammed against the wall. She tried weakly to remove herself from him, yet the command slowly waned in her mind until it was all together drowned out by a sweet, hot temptation. She released her inhibitions and let go, her body becoming lax.
He doused her in scorching, fiery kisses, all his passion and rage pouring from his soul and being exchanged to her. She released a sigh as one his experienced hands quickly found its way down her left side where it impatiently pushed up the materiel of the heavy cloak. His hand found its way up her thigh where he pulled her leg up near his hip. His other hand found its way under her hood, caressing her tangles of hair as his fingers became interwoven in it.
She tried to halt him from doing so, from pushing back the hood, yet he only stopped her. As he slammed her once more against the wall, Angel felt herself returning the kisses with equal ardor. Her mind had long since been decimated, her better judgment suspended as blistering, white-hot passion coursed through every fiber in her body. She was drunk with an impassioned craze, a high, as his unbridled ferocity was passed to her through his professional kisses.
Unknowingly, she was eliciting noises she had never known possible as his lips ravished her skin, making a line down her throat where they finally rested at the hollow of her neck before settling upon her lips again.
In a state of fevered bliss, Angel brought her hands to his chest where they grasped the key that was about his neck. She pulled at it, unable to sustain the orgiastic sensations that rushed through her, and it easily broke off in her grasp. Still holding the key and chain, she brought her hands about his head where she dug her nails into his slovenly hair.
It was then she heard the strike of the flint and the light appear. Thoroughly startled, Angel turned her head to see that Conlon had struck a match and although he was much busy saturating her with impassioned kisses, he was holding the flame a loft and level to their faces.
Panic immediately overtook Angel and her initial reaction was to push him off and fluidly reach for the revolver at her waistband. She saw Conlon's eyes quickly alight in wonder as she blew the flame out in one breath, darkness overtaking the room once more.
The revolver already unsheathed, she decided on only one course of action. Her arm expediently snaking about a disoriented Conlon's neck, she easily brought him to the floor as she sank to her haunches behind him. Pressing the revolver to his left temple, her tight grip increased as she restrained him. She cocked the trigger and brought her lips to his ear, her hot breath filling his ear canal.
"If you want this to stop then listen and listen carefully," she growled. "If you bring weapons tonight he will find them at the door and he will kill you without second thought. Unless you want to die don't bring them. And if you want to have any chance of living, go apologize to Kelly. No matter what you say you need Manhattan because he will have Queens. Don't allow stupid pride to blind you. He's serious. And he will murder you and every last one of your boys at the door, no ifs, ands, or buts-"
Angel was interrupted as the door creaked open, accompanied by a sultry female voice. "Well, Brooklyn, ready for a time you'll never forget?"
Angel's head immediately snapped up and her pupils constricted painfully in the bright light. In doorway stood undeniably Breathless, her platinum hair and gold-sequined dress catching the light. Her red lips fell open and confusion crossed her face as she saw the scene before her. "Hey, Spot, you all right? Are you all right?"
Angel did not allow Conlon a reply for her arm quickly slid from his neck as she rose to her feet and flew out the door, pushing past the harlot. Pumping her legs and her hair blowing behind her, she dashed into Conlon's room and to the only means of escape possible. Not even tempting to cover the main stairs to where other Brooklyn newsies would most likely catch her, she covered her head, and ran full-force into the only window in Conlon's room. At the impact, the pane of glass shattered into a million shards as Angel released a gasp as tumbled off of the jagged sill and felt herself in flight towards the earth below. Quickly curling into a fetal position and bringing her head between her head, she hit the hard patch of grass below with a shower of fractured glass raining down upon her. She landed on her side, excruciating pain immediately shooting through her.
Alas, she willed herself up, tears stinging her eyes due to the pulsating agony that rocked her upper left leg whenever one of her hard strides connected with the ground. She rushed blindly, the forgotten revolver locked in her grasp, only halting as she saw Night stumbling in a circle near the copse of bushes where she had left him unconscious.
He had a hand to his right temple as blood still streamed freely from the wound that she had inflicted upon him. When he noted her presence, he halted and his eyes fell to her, never quite focusing on her face. "Hey, hey what happened?"
"There's no time to talk, Night, we have to get out of here, now!" With that, she grabbed his hand and took off running once more. It was an impossibly difficult sojourn-Night was still a bit dazed and could not run correctly and each time Angel picked up her legs her left one felt as though it was on fire-yet they made it back to Midtown as dusk consumed the sky.
***
"I told you, Oliver, they weren't there."
"But that still doesn't explain what the hell happened to Night," her brother hissed, his dark eyes flickering to Night quickly before falling to her once more.
"Or why it appears as though you've been thoroughly ravished, Angel," Rylie Lyner intoned in a low, amused voice.
Angel became self-consciously aware of her absolutely disheveled appearance again as she felt the uncontrollable rage begin to built in her chest. Though, she inhaled in a deep breath and recited her tale once more to her audience.
"I told you. I went there and told Night to stay in the bushes. Why risk both of us getting caught? I crept near the lodging house and peered inside any ground floor windows but it appeared vacant. So I went inside and went to the old man who runs it, old man McDonald."
"You ask old man McDonald?" Oliver hissed incredulously, slamming his bottle of whisky down on the table, causing all of the other cups to shudder.
"Yes, but I pretended as though I was looking for Whitie Wilson," she said quickly, catching herself. She breathed a sigh of relief as her brother's skin waned from the deep hue of crimson it had taken on.
"You know Wilson," she urged. Noting the utter dumbfounded look upon Horance Lyner's face, she reiterated. "Conlon's second. Anyhow, he said that all of the newsies were out. Said Conlon had told him that they all went so some 'rally.' Obviously I couldn't get any information with the old man standing there watching me like a hawk so I left. When I got back to where Night was I saw a dark man beside him. They were struggling and the man struck Night across the head. I ran over to them and the man was trying to rob Night so I went over and tried to break it up." She was becoming impatient, the utter pain in her left leg incrementing with each passing second. "So the man turned on me and that's why I look like I do not because I got laid." She directed a particularly stinging gaze towards Rylie. "And then I pulled my revolver and he ran off. Will you stop asking me to repeat the goddamn story over and over again? I can't help that you're brother is a total idiot Rylie, but I'm tired for Christ's sake!"
With that, Angel dropped into her chair next to Flynn with a deep sigh. She picked up her bottle of booze and downed what was left with one swig. Ignoring the amused stares she acquired from the others around the warped, circular table, she kept her gaze to her lap as her hands massaged her aching leg.
Not looking up at the sharp kick that Flynn gave her to the shin with his foot under the table, Angel sat in her own thoughts as her brother dominated the conversation. "Well, my dear comrades, but it appears to be dusk and we must be off to have a tea party with Spot and his little girls."
A low laugh ripped throughout the party as the men lethargically rose. Angel lifted her head in time to see the arrays of last-minute deadly weapons that they were tucking into the folds of their clothing.
A shiver ran through her as she rose also. She was the last to exit the Hideaway and when she stepped outside into the warm, summer night she inhaled deeply and felt a fait memory of the explicit fever that she had felt only a few hours prior with a man who was her mortal enemy.
"Hey, Angel, you got your revolver?" She lifted her head at the sound of her brother's voice and slowly nodded her head. A grotesque smile crossed his lips as he nodded and took the first steps towards the meeting place to where the war-council was to be held.
Angel turned her head and gazed into the horizon, a sudden chill overtaking her. The last of the crushed pink sunset was dying and the cold stars were beginning their reign in the heavens above.
Involuntarily, her hand went to her waistband to feel for the revolver. As she caressed it, she felt another object. Its touch was cold, foreign, and she immediately lowered her gaze.
Angel choked back a sob. Sticking out of her trouser pocket was the key on the chain that she had unclasped from his neck in a state of smoldering passion, silver and glinting in the moonlight.