After spending her morning with the newsies, Fawkes met Medda in the dressing room. the trim woman was standing beside a row of wigs, a mirror behind them. Off to the side was a rack of dresses.
Medda was grinning at her, "I was thinking we'd start you off with one song. You can sing it at the end of the night when folks are too drunk to care. That should ease your nerves. You can sing a sad song and then we'll close down."
Fawkes didn't say anything. She'd get paid better as a performer. If her talk with Spot was any indication, she needed to get out of New York, sooner, rather than later.
"First, we should talk about how we're going to bill you. You'll need a flashy performing name. Not to mention an attention-grabbing outfit," the woman gestured to the items at their disposal.
The full extent of how well this could hide her identity became suddenly clear. If she was smart about this, and avoided Snyder throughout the strike, Fawkes could assume this identity and avoid Brooklyn and the Refuge, and book passage to Ireland.
She nodded and Medda swept over to the rack of dresses. She pulled out a crimson dress that was more than risque. It had a low cut top and was sleeveless. It was bulky on the bottom though. "What do you think of this?"
Fawkes wasn't aware that she was making a face, "I think I'm a redhead. I can't pull that off."
Medda laughed, "You're only a redhead if you want to be."
Fawkes's attention was drawn back to the wigs with various hair shades. She tried all of them.
They settled on one that was made of wavy dark brown hair-so dark it was nearly black. "I like it," Medda was nodding at the mirror. "It makes your eyes stand out." She paused and a smile slipped across her features, "We'll call you Colleen, the Black Irish Balladeer."
"Black Irish," Fawkes scoffed. It was a term given to people with Spanish heritage who'd washed up on Ireland's shores.
Medda was grinning broadly now, "If you sing half as good as you look, you might change how people in this city view your immigrant brethren."
Fawkes blew out a breath. She'd never counted herself as an immigrant. She wasn't born in America, but her memories here were all she knew. Her mother had brought her over as a babe.
Fawkes was a hit with her mournful ballads. Every night, Medda moved her to an earlier time so she could encounter a larger audience.
As the days passed, Jack worked out the details with Medda about using her place as the base of operations for the rally. In the mornings, Fawkes went with the boys to squash scabs. In the afternoons, she worked the tables at Medda's and sang a song or two.
Medda recruited her to perform for the rally. She was one of the few people who'd be willing to do it for charity. A lot of the other folks wanted to get paid for their time. Medda couldn't do the whole show by herself.
As Colleen, Fawkes had no fear of being recognized. She agreed immediately.
The day of the rally, Fawkes met the boys at the square as usual. They'd rolled some scabs, but it was nothing they couldn't handle. The man behind the circulation desk didn't like it. Everyday they called the cops earlier and earlier to try to disperse the mob.
The second she heard the whistle, she lit out. She tore around the corner and heard a name meant for her.
"Connie!"
It wasn't a question. It was a demand, and that low rumble could only belong to one person.
Fawkes pulled up short and looked wildly around, not disbelieving her ears. It was shock that got the best of her.
Newsboys rushed past as they dispersed, some of them tugging her in their direction as they went.
She had no reason to respond to the name-if it had been any other voice. "Mackey?" She asked, making her way in the direction of the speaker. If she saw him then she would know she wasn't going crazy. At the same time, a small part of her brain was telling her to run. Run while she still could.
Her search took her to a side alley where she found the unmistakable form of Patrick Mackey. He'd always been a big guy-tall and barrel-chested. He seemed bigger than she remembered. He'd always been destined for a life as a dockworker. He used to be the head of the Brooklyn chapter of newsies. Now he was over twenty. He'd aged out (kids sold papes better, the bigger and thuggish you looked, you didn't do so well).
"Hey kid," he almost smiled.
"What are you doing here-?" The disbelief evident in her voice. He wasn't supposed to be here. Fawkes amended that thought. Technically, neither was she.
"I could ask you the same thing." His tone was as smart as ever.
"I meant Manhattan," Fawkes said narrowing her gaze. "The boys in Brooklyn want me dead cuz of you."
He nodded, "Sounds about right."
"But you're out! You could tell them!" She paused as she watched him. "They don't know," she deduced. "Why-?"
"Does it matter? There's someone competent in charge there. That's the way it works."
Fawkes shrugged. She knew he was right. Mostly, she just wanted her name cleared. She was sick of Brookies wanting her head on a pike for something that was not entirely her fault.
"Listen, the Bulls are gonna be coming down on this place hard. Let's take a walk," Mackey suggested.
That was when Fawkes realized Mackey's bulk was being disguised by a police uniform. "Nice cover," she commended him, and against her better judgment, she started walking.
She wished she felt better about this situation. Seeing him was supposed to take a load off her chest. Instead, she felt her lungs struggling more. She should be halfway to Harlem by now.
Why wasn't she?
Because Mackey wasn't a guy you said 'no' to. She'd learned real quick to shut up and do as he said when she was younger. Time had changed her, but for some reason, being in the company of certain people makes you regress to previous behaviors. Mackey's size was not one you wanted to challenge. Not then, not now. Which made her more than a little curious. Things hadn't ended well between them-so why did he seek her out? Why had she agreed to this stroll? Back there had been witnesses. Now there was no one.
Fawkes stopped as she realized this mistake. She knew his temperament. He was capable of holding one hell of a grudge. There was no way he'd let her get off scot free. "How'd you get out?"
If she remembered correctly, he was supposed to serve twenty years, first in the Refuge, and then real prison-which, Fawkes had on high authority was more difficult to escape from.
When he didn't answer, Fawkes dared to look at him. She'd been avoiding it. He had much more weight to throw around. She stood no chance in a brawl. She'd have to run for it. She knew that. It was the only way she'd escape.
When their eyes met, Fawkes's attention was caught by a brass whistle between his lips.
She struggled to find words. Her brain was busy processing this whole situation. She had to say something. She had to prolong the time before that shrill sound pierced the air and backup arrived.
It was clear now that Mackey hadn't escaped. He must have made a deal with Snyder. Maybe working with him would reduce his sentence. Mackey liked beating people up-he had fists like sledgehammers, Fawkes remembered that much. He had been the king of Brooklyn. A power trip like that was hard to forget. How was it possible that Brooklyn didn't know? Fawkes asked him, letting out a tiny sigh of relief when he spoke around the whistle.
"I tend to frequent Manhattan and areas north, " was the response.
Fawkes's eyes lit up as she realized she could out him. He realized it too and blew the whistle.
In close proximity, it was deafening.
Mackey dropped the whistle from his lips and grinned as Fawkes shook the sound from her ears. Could she hear feet on the cobblestones or was she just imagining it? She didn't wait to find out.
She was clumsy as she moved to flee. Mackey realized what she was about to do and reached for her. He knew that once she got her feet under her, she'd be gone. She wasn't superfast, but she was faster than him. She always had been. She had less weight to carry.
"I make a better friend than an enemy!" He called after her.
Fawkes stopped at the end of the block and looked back to see his reinforcements beginning to arrive, "So do I."
Mackey looked confused, "You're just a newsie. I'm the one with the power."
"You always had the power, Mackey."
"Now I have the law on my side."
The bulls were pulling level with him and Fawkes kicked back into gear. She turned the corner and raced up a fire escape. She got to the roof just as they started up the stairs. As she sprinted across the rooftops, she backtracked, determined to get to Harlem, hoping to at least make it to Midtown before they caught up with her.
Fawkes didn't make it to Midtown. The bulls were patrolling all the streets north of the circulation center, like they knew that was her plan. Of course they did. Mackey was making it impossible for her to go to ground. Fawkes was planning to run to Medda's. Now she couldn't. Her only option was to get caught, or take her chances with Brooklyn.