Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
Author's Note: This is the new story I've been working on. It's completely different than anything I've done and, as such, I'm making sure I'm fair with explaining much of the story content up front. This piece will start out with a T rating but, considering the way I have it planned out, a switch to an M rating is possible. Much of what it will contain is no worse than what you see on prime time - but it definitely will have adult themes, whether obviously stated or implied. I have to say, I really like this, I've had a ball with the notes, the research, everything, and I'm trying to do something new. I hope that comes across, and I really hope that my readers both give it a chance and, with any luck, like it! I say this not to scare anyone off, either. I already have most of this done, and the story is planned extensively from beginning to end - a first for me, I know. I know what's going to happen and I like the idea of placing warnings up front so that I don't suddenly drop anything on anyone. Now, without further ado...
Warnings: This story will have some minor language, non-graphic violence, eventual character death, minor adult themes and gratuitous use of flashbacks as a storytelling device.
It had taken months of planning to get this right. Casing the place, waiting for the opportune moment to strike, looking for the quick in, the quicker out and the route that would get them as far away from the New York bank as possible. Months of watching and months of setting this up so that they wouldn't fail. Months of picking the right team, going over and over the plan with them, making sure they weren't just in it for the chance to wave a pistol about like a fool. Far too many months.
There was to be three of them that night, three dark figures each with a gun in his hand. It started off smoothly enough, the three men loping through the back entrance of the bank. The guard stationed out back had been dispatched without any of the guns ever even needing to go off. They were safety measures more than anything, a guarantee that, no matter how easy it had been to break inside the closed bank, it would be just as easy to get out again.
Which it would've been… if there hadn't been a second guard—an armed guard—waiting just past the vault.
It was a late spring night, the type with a bit of bite to the air but still the promise of a bright tomorrow. The heavy air was as clean as you could get on the Lower East Side, not that that's saying much, and the boys were breathing it in deeply, enjoying a cool breeze that didn't burn their lungs and make them cough from the inside out.
Half past eleven and well past curfew, Jack Kelly crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the craggy bricks. As one of the older boys—and a hero in the bunkrooms—the old superintendent Kloppman was game to turn a blind eye or two whenever some of the fellas stayed out a little later than they should. And, well, you couldn't pass up a night like this for nothing.
Striking a match against the sole of his shoe, Jack cupped his free hand around the flame and lit his cigarette. He shook the match out and tossed the spent wood to the ground before taking a deep, steady drag. "Ah," he exhaled, blowing a thin stream of smoke out through his knowing smirk, "that was nice."
"Don't you think it's about time we started heading back?"
David Jacobs was huddling nervously just outside of the alley that kept three other boys shadowed. Unaccustomed to staying out too late, he kept watch for any passing coppers.
"Ah, poor Davey," teased the shorter boy across the way. Racetrack Higgins sported a crooked grin that settled familiarly around the cigar that seemed permanently stuck in the corner of his mouth. "Worried your mama is gonna fret without you home to hold her hand?"
From the other side of Jack there came a short sigh and a quick, "Watch it, Race."
Race turned to look in front of him. Spot Conlon was slouching next to Jack, his arms crossed over his chest and his newsboy cap slung low, hiding his brilliant eyes from Race's view. There was a good head difference between Cowboy and Spot—more since Spot was slouching down and Jack was just leaning back—but Race could see that, despite alliances and friendships and all the history they had, Jack was giving the other boy his space. That should've been enough of a clue for Race but, drunk on a night of freedom, he barely noticed.
"Sorry, Spot," and his oily, wise-crack of a voice made it clear that, despite his words, he wasn't done just yet, "didn't realize he was so important to ya."
"I'm warnin' ya," Spot drawled, "leave the Mouth alone."
Race chewed on the stub of his cigar and knew then that it was probably time to drop it. He did so with a click of his tongue and an exaggerated sigh. Picking on David Jacobs these days wasn't so much fun whenever Spot was around.
He couldn't understand it himself. For close to a year, ever since the strike last summer, it had been a free-for-all when it came to teasing the elder Jacobs boy, but lately Jack Kelly wasn't the only one making sure the teasing was light-hearted when it came to David. Out of nowhere, Spot had taken up the role of the Walking Mouth's protector. Jack, he understood, considering Cowboy had spent months trying to bed David's sister Sarah before he finally gave up on her. What the hell was Conlon's excuse?
David was too preoccupied to even have heard Race's comments, let alone take them to heart. Tapping his fingers against the side of his trousers, memories of dark nights, of alleyways like this one, of bad decisions, a paddy wagon and Jack in the Refuge resurfacing… well, it was no wonder he was a little apprehensive about staying out at night. Peering intently out on the street, he told the others, "I think someone's coming. We shouldn't be out here."
Hoping this would give him something to work with, some reason to keep poking fun at David without unleashing Spot's formidable temper—even more formidable considering the short fuse he had lately—Race crossed over the alleyway, absently chewing on his cigar. He joined David at the edge of the street, following the direction David was staring in and was surprised that this normally empty street—well, empty at half-past eleven, that is—actually had someone strolling alone toward them.
A second look and Race's lips curled.
It wasn't another cheap shot at David. No, it was better. Like Christmas come early, or ten to one odds proving true on a long shot, Race recognized the face of a young man the newsies hadn't seen in close to a year: Oscar Delancey, their one-time foe and an ex-employee for the New York World's Distribution Center.
"Hold your nose, fellas," he crowed, entering back into the shadowy path, approaching Jack with one hell of a grin on his face. "If I ain't mistaken, the foul stench of a Delancey is in the air."
Jack slapped Race playfully in the chest with the back of his hand. If there was anyone who missed picking on the Delancey brothers and was willing to take advantage of any opportunity to mess with one again, it was Jack. "Nah, Race, that ain't Delancey stink," he said, mirroring Race's grin, down to the smoke they kept between their lips, "that's the stink of a good for nothin' bummer."
Race's shrug was exaggerated. "But ain't that what Delancey is?"
"Ya got a point there."
Having heard their taunts and, worse, recognizing their voices, Oscar stopped in front of them, ignoring David and Spot as he glared viciously over at Jack and Race. "Don't think I forgot what you rotten newsies did to me and my family," he said lowly, referring to his brother and his uncle Weisel who had also been run out of a job when the strike ended. "We never got the revenge we deserved. You don't want to do this now."
Jack pretended to think about it for a moment. He shook his head. "No, I'm pretty sure we do."
"C'mon, Oscar, don't tell me ya missed gettin' soaked by Cowboy here?" Race teased, grateful to have the chance to blow some steam off. Oscar Delancey and his brother Morris were the sort of fellows that no one could would want to shield and protect. Fair game, they were, especially for someone who lost his lodging fare down at Sheepshead Bay that afternoon and wanted to make someone at least as small as he did.
"I ain't never—"
"Ya never beat him, that's right."
"Why, I oughtta—"
"You oughtta what?" Race asked daringly, interrupting Oscar a second time.
Oscar was sneering then, an ugly pull of his face that made him look more intimidating than Race would've expected, but before he could retaliate with his words, his fist, anything, David's strange behavior caught all of their attention.
He hadn't moved from his post since Oscar arrived, acting the part of the look-out for his own piece of mind, smartfully minding that he didn't get too close to the Delancey boy in case he started swinging. But suddenly David jumped and, in spite of Racetrack's snicker, grabbed at Jack's forearm. "Someone else is coming."
"Don't tell me it's another Delancey," Racetrack cracked first. "Ya know, it ain't like you, Oscar, goin' off without your ape of a brother. What, someone catch him and ship him off to the zoo?"
Oscar scowled, his hands curled into fist, but before he could try to take that earned swing at Racetrack—and receive a punch from Jack for his trouble—David's worried voice cut through most of the tension again. "No, it's definitely someone else. They're running this way. I can see them coming… we should really go." He pulled on Jack's arm. "Let's go."
Having just finished his smoke, and baiting Oscar not half as fun as it used to be with David chirping like a nervous chick in his ear, Jack shook him off and took the ends of the cigarette from his mouth. He threw them to the dirt, stamping them out as he tried to calm David down. "It's probably some dumbass, home late to his wife," he began, wondering to himself why he'd even bothered inviting Davey to a night out with the fellas. "Don't be so jumpy, Dave—"
His words were interrupted by a noise so loud it left their ears ringing like they'd been cuffed around the side of their head. Like a balloon being popped but so much louder, so much more piercing, it rang through the night, once, twice, three times before it stopped only to be answered by two more exploding snaps.
Jack was wide-eyed as he jerked, startled and taken aback. This time it was he who grabbed David's arm, dragging him into the darker mouth of the alley, hiding the curly-haired newsie from whoever it was out there making that loud, popping sound. "Get in here."
"What was that?" Race asked, his cigar stuffed in the corner of his mouth forgotten, a nuisance. His question came out muffled but the other boys understood. After all, they were—even if they'd never admit it—thinking the same thing themselves.
It was Oscar who answered. He looked grim; all earlier aggression was forgotten in the wake of the sudden, ear-popping noise. "Hell, I think I know what it was. Sounded like a pistol goin' off."
"A pistol?" David swallowed and moved quickly past Spot, leaving Jack and the Brooklyn boy closer to the edge of the street. "Oh, I knew I never should've left the apartment," he mumbled, placing his hands over his face as if that would hide him more efficiently than the shadow of the dead-end.
The four other boys ignored him pointedly.
After a few seconds had passed and no more shots rang out, Jack cleared his throat. "If someone was runnin' out there… and, yeah, I'd be runnin' too if someone was shootin' a pistol at me… well, where did they go?" He turned to his left and looked past Spot to meet David's wide blue eyes. "Ya sure someone was runnin' this way, Davey?"
David nodded vigorously. "I saw him coming."
"I'm gonna look."
"Jack, I don't think—"
Spot straightened up then, lifting his hat up with a quick tap of his thin fingers. His cyan eyes shone curiously in the darkness and when he said, "Let me by, Mouth," no one argued with him.
He didn't know how it all went wrong. Months spent planning, months wasted. They never knew there was a second guard waiting inside, a guard with a pistol and a whistle. When did he even find time to blow it? Quick on the trigger, the damn guard fired off two shots—two men fell—and it was only because the barrel jammed that he even got this far.
The guard blew the whistle and while he ran away from the scene, as much of the hard-earned money in his arms as he could carry, he knew that the whistle would rouse one of the city's sleeping cops to the chase. He was right. He barely made it two blocks down the street before a quick glance behind him revealed the guard and the cop, chasing after him, running him down while the guard with the pistol waved it menacingly in the night air.
The money was heavier than he ever thought. It was awkward to hold and once or twice he thought he might've dropped some. It certainly felt lighter as he rounded one corner, hoping to hell that he would get out of this. He almost wanted to let a bag fly, to lessen the weight, to make it easier to hold, but he deserved this money. With the lives of his two partners, he certainly paid for it.
Passing by an empty alleyway—a dead-end, he knew, so it was worthless to try and hide there—he shifted the bags in his arms and put on another burst of speed. The cop was older and slowing down but the guard was still keeping up. At this rate he would end up like the other two, shot in the chest and bleeding out on the floor.
That thought spurred him on even faster. And he wondered: why hadn't anyone warned him that robbing a bank could lead to such trouble?
It was then, just as Spot made to move forward, that a man came running frantically by. It was easy to see why it had taken him so long to pass the place where the five boys were waiting: weighed down by at least four sacks full of who knew what, the man was going at least fast enough not to notice the five pairs of eyes watching from inside the alley—or to notice when one of the satchels he was carrying dropped from his hold and landed with a thump just an arm's reach outside of the path.
Each one of boys watching the man fly past them recognized a man on the wrong end of a foot pursuit; having at one time or another each of them been chased on foot by a cop or—in Jack and David's case—the warden of the Refuge, they knew there was only a few seconds before one of the bulls came rushing past.
It was Spot who acted first. Crouching down low, hoping the copper was as dumb, blind and, most of all, as slow as the ones in his experience, he shot out his hand and reached for the bag. If it was worth holding onto while running like that, it had to be worth something. After his hand closed on the top, he dared a glance to his right and saw that his assumptions were right: not more than a block back, a police officer with a nightstick and a man with a pistol were running as quickly as they could after that first man.
Without another thought, Spot tucked the bag under his arm, slunk back into the darkness, hopped to his feet and ordered, "Follow me."
The others didn't have to be told twice. Though it was a dead-end, no opening on the other side of the alley, Jack, Race, Oscar and David all followed Spot as he led them to the farthest side, an even darker area that hid them completely from any prying eyes. There they waited until the two men passed, the police officer running first, the man with the pistol never even stopping to glance inside their hiding place; there they waited until the men had run by before Spot set the bag down on the ground. The five boys made a circle around it, staring at it as if they expected it to simply disappear.
"What is it?"
In response to Jack's whispered question, Spot pulled the string on the bag, opening the mouth wide until everyone could see what was inside. He left the bag on the dirt floor, moving back so that the lights from the street managed to trickle in far enough to shine feebly on the open sight: a bag stuffed to the brim with all sorts of money, bills of all sizes, crumpled as if shoved hastily inside. Money. It was a bag full of money.
"Holy shit," breathed Race. He was the first one to find the words. "We're rich."
"No we're not." David was shaking his head, his blue eyes wide as he stepped away from the spoils, his hands held up warningly as if he was warding it all away from him.
"What do you mean, we're not? Look at it, Davey. A sack full of money fell from the sky, we're stinkin' rich!"
"We can't keep it." The four others looked at David like he was crazy. Still shaking his head slowly, he continued, "No, really, we can't. How are we going to explain money like this? It's obviously stolen—"
"Yeah, but we didn't do the stealin'," interrupted Oscar, "so that's fine, right? Finders keepers."
"Yes, we did," argued David, "by taking this bag, we just about stole it ourselves."
"I'm not givin' it back," Race said stubbornly, his beady eyes still eyeing all that money greedily, "and I ain't about to let ya, either. You'd have to kill me first."
"Don't talk like that, Race," snapped Jack, anxiously rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth. His eyes never left the bag, either. "Davey doesn't want to turn the money in, does he? Do you?"
Under the heavy weight of four pairs of eyes, David found himself unable to explain that, yes, what he wanted to do was turn that money in. It was the right thing to do, it didn't belong to them but… well, his family had had it rough ever since his father was out of work last summer. Sarah and Mama deserved nicer clothes and Les was growing like a weed. And Papa… Papa shouldn't have to work so hard.
And, maybe Oscar was right. If he thought about it in a slightly skewed way, it wasn't like they were the ones who took the sack of money in the first place. All they did was… was rescue it. Right?
"No," he said, feeling guilty but also feeling the giddy excitement and relief a found fortune could deliver, "I don't think we should turn it in."
"We can split it," Race offered excitedly. You could already see the dollar signs flashing over his head, the plans he had for a pile of money, the bets he'd make, everything. "Four ways, right?"
"I think you meant five ways," Oscar said stonily, "unless ya want me chasin' after those coppers there."
Apart from David, none of the other newsboys had ever had a real education. Everything they learned, from reading, writing to arithmetic, they learned it on the streets. But they didn't need a real education to know that one-fifths of a sack of money was better than no-fifths. "Five ways," agreed Spot, and, like usual, no one argued with him.
Also, as to be expected, it was David Jacobs who got in the next word: "But not now."
Racetrack straightened; his hands, already rubbing eagerly back in forth, they fell as he dropped his arms back to his side. David was still a couple of inches taller and it was with his head tilted slightly back that he glowered at the other boy. "What do you mean, not now?" His fingers itched and twitched, eager to reach out and grab a fistful of cash.
"It's too soon," David countered. "We can't explain it how we found it, and someone's going to be missing this money. We have to wait."
"For how long?" asked Oscar suspiciously.
"I don't know… a couple of years, maybe? No more than five, I think."
"Five years!" Race exclaimed. "I could be dead in five years!"
But Spot, it seemed, saw some sense in David's plan. At the very least, he didn't say anything against it. "Yeah, but if ya ain't, then you'll be loaded."
The sight of that much money was playing havoc with Race. Without even thinking about it, he glared over at Spot. The Brooklyn boy barely even flinched, meeting Race's glare with a steely glint in his own eyes. Faltering just a bit, Race swallowed but still asked, "Alright, what should we do with it 'til then?"
It was Jack's turn to speak up. A self-assured grin splitting his face, he pointed at the bag at their feet but didn't touch it. It was like, if he had it in his hand, he'd never want to put it down again—and, considering what he was planning, that would make it pretty difficult to pull off. "Come with me," he said, nodding at the others, "I got an idea."
Oscar was the quickest. Before any of the others had the chance, he swooped down and scooped the bag up in his arms. Gripping the mouth of the sack with his fist, he jutted his chin out defiantly. "You're not goin' anywhere with this money without me."
"Yeah, Oscar," Jack said flippantly, waving his hand as he peeked out of the alley to make sure it was safe, "I guess ya gotta come, too."
"Well, okay, then. Just makin' that clear."
Spot tapped Oscar on his back with the edge of his cane. "Excuse me, Delancey, but I'll be takin' that."
It looked for a moment like he was going to argue before he must've thought better of it and changed his mind. With a small grumble under his breath and a threat he uttered loud enough to make himself feel better but low enough for Spot to ignore him, Oscar handed the bag off to Spot.
After taking a second to slip his cane back in place underneath his faded red suspender, Spot accept the weight of the bag. He pretended he didn't notice the way both Race and Oscar's eyes were glued to his every move. David, on the other hand, had joined Jack at the mouth of the alley, the two of them resuming the role of (much needed) look-out.
Clearing his throat, Spot called, "All clear?"
"All clear," Jack replied, motioning for the boys to follow him out.
With Jack in the lead, and Spot with the money cushioned on all sides by the three other boys, they all headed back up the Lower East Side, going past Newspaper Row, Duane Street an obvious destination. Sidestepping nightwalkers, avoiding drunken patrons, ducking alongside a corner shop when it looked like a copper was heading their way, Jack brought the boys to the back exit of the Newsboys' Lodging House on Duane Street.
But, rather than head inside like more than one of his companions expected of him, Jack veered left until they passed the doorway, moving to the edge of the building where chipped and ragged bricks made up the wall and there wasn't another soul in sight. It was at a stretch of wall untouched by the gas lamps along the streets where Jack stopped and, dropping to his knees, patted a few of the bricks tentatively.
When he found the one he was looking for he turned to look over his shoulder, meeting the wary gazes of those standing behind him. "Anyone here got a knife?" he asked.
Racetrack and David's eyes immediately turned toward Oscar who shrugged and reached into his back pocket. Unfolding a switchblade with a flick of his wrist, he handed it to Jack without a word.
Bending down again, Jack put the tip of the knife to the edge of that one particular brick, his tongue sticking out and his thick, greasy hair falling forward into his eyes. But he didn't start to cut; instead, he paused, letting the knife hang limply from his fingers. Glancing up and over his shoulder a second time, he said, "Race, ya got your watch on ya?"
"Uh, yeah, Cowboy. I got it right here."
"What time is it?"
Patting his pockets absently, not really sure why the time mattered now when Kloppman probably gave up on them hours ago, Race found the chain of his watch. He hooked one of his stubby fingers underneath and pulled the tarnished pocketwatch out. Flicking it open expertly, he squinted at the numbers. "It's just about midnight."
Jack nodded. "Perfect. Ya hear that, fellas?" he asked, eyeing each of the other four boys in turn. "Midnight, five years from now, we meet here, divvy up the loot? We tell no one, this'll just be our little secret. The money will be hidden inside this wall and we're gonna leave it here. Do ya understand?"
When he was met with nods and mumbled agreements, Jack placed the borrowed blade on the dirt floor and spit into his hand. Rising up, he offered the same hand out to Oscar. "We should all shake on it."
And Oscar Delancey, with three New York newsies as witness, mimicked Jack's gesture, spit into his palm and shook hands with Jack Kelly. After only a moment to make sure they had really seen what they just saw, Race spitshook with Spot and David—after trying to get away with just extending his hand—spitshook with Jack.
Finally satisfied, Jack picked up the knife again and began to saw.
It had taken months of planning for every eventuality, but it took all of five minutes for the bust to go sour.
Two of them dead.
One of them caught.
All the money recovered—
Jack pushed the brick back into place with the fleshy part of his palm, hitting it once or twice for good measure. Licking a dirty finger, he tried to make it look like none of the mortar had been chipped away by Oscar's blade.
"There," he said at last, impressed with his handiwork.
"See ya in five years," added Race, saluting the wall.
—except for one bag.
End Note: So, what did you think? I just thought I'd take the time here to note that this story is going to be a... well, an interesting marriage between some fascinating research I've been doing on the Victorian Era. I have two very good books - "Victorian America: Transformations in Everyday Life" by Thomas J. Schlereth and "The Good Old Days... They Were Terrible" by Otto L. Bettman - that have really helped me with the details. I totally recommend them (even if Bettman's book is a little more down and dirty than you would think, though the title is definitely fitting). Okay, that's all I have for today. Please let me know what you think, and I should have the next part out very soon!
- stress, 06.12.10
Chapter 2: David Remembers
Notes:
So, thanks to a comment by ScratchConlon, I realize that I never actually added anything past chapter one of this fic all those years ago. It's been completed on ff.net all this time and, well, why not put it here for posterity's sake? This is the exact version from back in 2010 that, now that I'm looking at it all these years later, I'm itching to fix -- but I won't. Not now. One day, though.
Maybe.
-- stress
Chapter Text
Five
April 17, 1905
Because he was expected to be at his desk just as the sun was coming up, David Jacobs always woke to the dreary darkness of another early New York morning. Sometimes he wondered in those few seconds following sudden consciousness if he'd gone blind, the far too many hours peering at numbers and ledgers causing his eyes too much strain. That familiar tightening of his chest—for twenty-one years old was too young to worry about losing his sight—only intensified when he would reach his arm out and discover that he was alone in his bed. Where was his wife?
But then the candle Vanessa always left for him would flicker, drawing his attention to the small point of light and, after a few moments, his eyes would adjust and he would see the outline of their small but cozy room around him. From the cedar chest his parents gave them when they were married last year to the shabby secondhand dresser in the far corner with a vase full of dried flowers resting on the top and the gauzy, moth-eaten curtains fluttering in the sweet breeze… in every way it was different from the apartment of his youth; in every way it was a reminder of how different his life had become over the last five years.
And then, feeling more awake than he had, feeling utter relief that what he woke up to every morning was more of a dream than the visions he saw at night, David always proceeded to devote the next few minutes of every morning to feeling grateful for all he had. Stretching, breathing slowly and softly, he thanked his lucky stars for his health, his occupation, the apartment he kept on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, his parents who still lived with his brother only a few blocks away, the woman who took him for her husband.
Yes, he especially spared a minute to be thankful for Vanessa.
David Jacobs approached the train yards slowly, apprehension in h is every step. He knew he shouldn't have bothered to come—gifted with words as he was, what could he say to stop Jack from leaving? If he was being honest, he was actually surprised it had taken Jack this long to leave.
The trains all looked the same to him and he had no idea which one would cart his friend off to Santa Fe. Shielding his eyes against the sun, hoping he'd find Jack before the boy had the chance to leave without even saying a proper goodbye, David was walking without watching where he was going. Therefore it was no surprise when, with a sharp jolt to his shoulder and a thump that sent him veering slightly off to his right, he ran straight into the back of a girl standing, frozen, directly in his path.
Rubbing his shoulder—for hers was quite bony under the thin material of her dress—David turned to look at the person he'd bumped into. "I'm sorry, er, Miss. I didn't see you there."
The girl didn't answer him and David was just about to take her silence for an acceptance of his apology when he noticed with a sinking stomach the reason behind her not speaking up. "Are you… are you crying?" he asked hesitantly, his heart dropping to his shoes. It was a simple bump, wasn't it? He hadn't hurt her, had he?
She shook her head roughly. "No," she snapped, her voice thick and her hazel eyes glossy with tears.
But she was crying, though she was stubbornly trying to hide the tears by blinking quickly and screwing her face into the most severe frown he'd ever seen on such a young lady. Though, he allowed, lady might've been too kind of a word. From the dusting of dirt on her cheeks, fair tracks left where the tears had touched her skin, to the dress she swore, faded grey and threadbare in the elbows and cuffs, he marked her as a factory girl or maybe even worse.
Getting a better look at her, he saw that she had dark hair that had been pinned up once, though thick, wavy strands had fallen free; she left them there, hanging in her face as if she couldn't be bothered in fixing it up. She sniffed, wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand and straightened up, ready to turn away from him. She had nothing else to say to David.
Still, she was crying. There was no doubt about that. And whether or not it was his fault, David discovered his weakness: he couldn't leave a girl in such obvious distress on her own. He was almost willing to do anything to stop her from looking so upset. It wasn't often he saw a woman cry. His mother was a strong woman, and his sister just like Esther. He last remembered Sarah crying when Jack Kelly first left for Santa Fe—before he came back—and then when Jack ended their summer courtship later that year. Both times had left David feeling uncomfortable and sorry that he couldn't do more for her.
He felt exactly the same watching this girl cry now.
Clearing his throat, he searched for the right words to say. When he couldn't, he settled on blurting out: "Um… is there anything I can do for you?"
The girl stopped. Her tears were still welling up in her eyes but confronted with David's sincerity, she did not shed them; instead, she narrowed her eyes shrewdly as she asked suspiciously, "Why would you help me? What would you want from me?"
That was the last thing David expected her to say. To think he was just trying to be kind. "What? Nothing!" he said hurriedly, holding his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "I just… I was just wondering, that's all," he added, "and I'm sorry if you thought I was too forward. I just wanted to help."
She blinked away her tears and sniffed once, her arms wrapped around the bosom of her dress. Without looking away from David—who was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable under the weight of her stare—she at last demanded, "What's your name?"
"It's David," he answered, grateful that the question had been an easy one; from the steely glint in her eyes, he expected a doozy when she opened her mouth again. Then, because she still hadn't turned away from, and it seemed like she wasn't about to say anything else, he asked genially, "What's yours?"
She didn't answer right away, and though he heard a whistle in the background and part of David wondered if that was the train heading out West, another part of him was waiting with unfounded interest for the girl's response. Just as the whistle died, he heard her offer it simply:
"Vanessa."
On that morning David woke up earlier than he normally did, his arm automatically reaching out for his wife at his side. His hands closed on nothing; the sheet was warm but cooling. The spring breeze blew in gently, wafting Vanessa's perfume around the room. She was gone but she hadn't been gone for long. She had a knack for waking up mere moments before he did, always with enough time to slide out of the small bed they shared, light the candle she kept next to her flowers—an anniversary gift from David she never had the heart to throw away—and start cooking the breakfast meal before David was even dressed.
David Jacobs smiled to himself as he absently patted his curly hair. He was a very lucky man indeed.
Grunting as he stretched contentedly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. They were tangled in the sheets and it took him a moment to free himself. He nearly tripped, laughing at his clumsiness as he picked the ends of the sheet off the floor and draped it back over the bed. After washing up and changing into a freshened suit for his role as office clerk to one of the long-timed established attorneys on this side of town, David blew out the candle on the dresser top. No matter how many times he told Vanessa it wasn't necessary, that he could find his way around their quaint bedroom with his eyes closed, she always insisted on leaving some light for him.
He didn't quite understand why it had to be a candle, either. In the four room apartment they just managed to afford on his salary—one with two bedrooms, a kitchen and a room for sanitation—the quarters had been wired for electrical light when the apartment house first opened. But, like David, he knew Vanessa had grown up for a time in the City slums where a candle was worth nearly as much as a scrap of bread. For all the convenience the new-fangled light provided, she couldn't help but leave her trust in an honest to goodness wax candle. Regardless of how often he told her not to worry about him.
Sometimes David longed to tell her that she was the light that lit up his life. He didn't, though. As sweet as his young bride could be, he knew better than to drown her in his own stickiness. She would never allow it. So he kept those thoughts to himself and, as he met her over the stove in the tiny square kitchen, he just gave her a quick peck on her cheek.
"What was that for?" she murmured, tending to a pot of porridge.
He answered her with a nonchalant shrug. "Just for being you, I guess."
A girlish smile fluttered across her face. David had judged her right: a small token of affection was the perfect amount of affection to show towards a woman like Vanessa. But then she swatted him away playfully, hitting him in the side with her cooking rag. "Take a seat. I'll have breakfast ready in a few minutes."
"You know you don't have to do this every morning," he said, effortlessly dodging a second swipe as he headed toward the table.
"Of course I do," she countered, turning around to meet him. "I'm your wife. What good am I if I don't prepare breakfast for my husband?"
I'm your wife. My husband. Even after a whole year of that being true, it always sounded so strange to hear her saying so. Strange, but in a good way. As Vanessa spun back, stirring the breakfast with a wooden spoon, he was secretly thankful for her words. Sometimes he wondered if she felt rushed into marriage, rushed into promising herself to a simple office clerk for the rest of her life.
Then she would smile that earnest smile, leave that candle lit for him every morning, wake up ever earlier to serve him breakfast before he set out for work… and he knew that, in her own way, Vanessa was as happy with him as he was besotted with her.
David watched her intently, spying her profile from across the small kitchen. He thought he might be biased, but he didn't think there was a more beautiful woman in all of New York than his wife.
She had a sharp jaw but a delicate nose, a contrast that left her striking. Her skin was fair, her wavy hair dark. Vanessa refused to attend to the coiffure fashion of the day; instead, she kept her hair pinned back in the same simple manner that she had worn on the day they had met. She'd traded her old grey dress for a longer one, cream-colored and better fitting. A slender girl, the material showed off her slight curves in a way that David never failed to appreciate.
The skirt swished around her bare ankles as she moved from the stovetop to the cutting board set up next to it. She picked up a knife carefully. "Here, let me slice you some fruit while your porridge finishes cooking," she said, already putting the knife to a fresh apple she conjured from out of nowhere.
"The doctor said that fruit is very good for you," he agreed, hoping Vanessa might take the hint and join him at the breakfast table for once. She rarely did, either breaking fast before David rose or after he left for the office. And lately she'd been paler than usual, her step a little slower than it used to be. He didn't want to draw attention to it, but it had been worrying him the past few weeks. Perhaps a little bit of breakfast, a breakfast he could witness her eat, would bring some color back to her cheeks. "Won't you join me?"
"Maybe I will, but I'm not very hungry."
"Did you eat already?"
She shook her head, keeping her face away from him. "Not yet, David."
"But you will?" he said, hoping he didn't sound like a nag.
Vanessa glanced over her shoulder then, a queer expression on her face. Before David could say anything, she brought her smile back to her face. "I'll slice a second apple right now if it'll make you happy."
"Very happy."
She nodded, produced a second apple and turned both her attention and her knife to slice it. Her action signaled the end of the conversation—at least on her end. David, however, he watched her curiously, biding his time and biting his tongue. When she had turned around, facing him under the dim electric light she minded in the kitchen, she looked even paler than before. Worry lines creased her forehead; worry lines that took too long to fade when he smiled.
There was certainly something on her mind, and David wondered if he should try to get her to talk about it. As kind and loving as Vanessa was to him, even more so after their marriage, it was hard for her to lose a lifetime worth of habits she developed living in a New York City slum. Always one to watch out for herself first, it had taken him years to earn her trust, to get her to think of them as a pair working together rather than a young woman facing the world alone.
In the end, David decided to keep quiet for the moment. Despite her silence and short answers—which was usual while she was cooking, seeing how it took most of her attention to keep it from burning—Vanessa was still in a pleasant mood. Prone to falling into even deeper silences, moping fits when the fancy struck her, he didn't want to cause her any unnecessary upset.
Promising to keep his an eye on his wife, making a vow to speak to her about her strange behavior if it lasted much longer, David took his seat at the table.
At first he kept his affection for the Irish girl a secret from everyone: from his parents, his brother, his sister… even from Vanessa herself. He remembered how his mother had been against Sarah seeing Jack for the same reasons he feared bringing Vanessa home. She was an Irish Catholic, first of all, and an orphan, too. She wasn't like him or his family, but he couldn't find it in himself to care about something like that. He loved her, and he hoped that would be enough.
He knew his mother secretly thought of Jack Kelly—thought of all the newsies, in fact—as a boy who'd gone to the bad. She worried over his influence on her two sons, and fretted that such a delinquent would woo her good Jewish daughter away from the family. Esther Jacobs had never been more relieved than when Jack left, and David was afraid to upset her again by announcing his pursuing of a girl that, in every way, reminded him of Jack.
Well, he allowed, thinking of a stolen kiss outside of her tenement, perhaps not in every way.
But when that first meeting led to a second a week later, and weekly meetings turned to months where David couldn't let a single day go by without seeing her, finding some reason to visit her at the Girls' Home, just to see her hazel eyes light up… when he couldn't keep his feelings from her any longer, and he couldn't keep her from his family any longer, David brought Vanessa home—
—where Meyer called her a beautiful young lady and Esther warmly invited her to sit at the kitchen table for a bowl of hearty soup. Sarah asked Vanessa to look at her tatted lace and offer her opinion. Les brought out his marbles and tried to get her involved in a fast game.
And David knew then that it was meant to be.
While Vanessa finished tending to breakfast, David reached over the table and grabbed the newspaper that had been sitting on her side. It was a copy of the New York World, the evening edition from the night before. He had stopped and bought a copy from the newsie who peddled on the same corner where his office building stood, but he hadn't had the chance to read it before supper. Taking advantage of the cozy quiet before he had to eat up and dash out, he started to read the headlines.
They seemed better than the ones he used to shout out when he sold newspapers himself. More sensational somehow, and the writers hadn't had to resort to using words like love nest or nude. As Vanessa sat a plate of sliced apples before him and he picked one up and took a small bite, he wondered if there was anything left in them to improve.
But the stories themselves were dull. David found himself munching absently on his apples while he waited for his porridge to be cooked and for his wife to maybe take a seat before he had to leave. And that's when he caught sight of the date: April 16, 1905. Six days until the 21st—no, he remembered, this was yesterday's paper. Five days. He couldn't believe it.
"Only five more days," he mumbled to himself, hardly aware he had even spoken.
"What was that, David?"
"Oh, nothing, dear," he lied, "nothing really." He folded the newspaper up neatly and pushed it away from him.
Because, of course, it was something. Five days now… was it really so close? It must be. For all the lies you could find in a New York paper, the writers and the editors were pretty good at getting the date right. So five days… after five years, there were only five days left.
Would the others remember?
He barely remembered himself. For the first year it was always on his mind, and why not? Even now he could remember the sight of all that money shoved hastily inside that dropped bag. But then Jack took off and no one knew where to find Oscar and David had met Vanessa…
Would they remember? He hadn't seen Jack Kelly in four years. He hadn't heard anything from Oscar Delancey in close to five. Race… Race would remember. With a small smile, David thought he wouldn't be surprised at all to find that Racetrack Higgins was waiting just outside of Duane Street now, planning on spending those five days guarding the brick wall.
Then there was Spot. David's smile dipped down into a slight frown as his thoughts turned to Spot. It was a frown Vanessa noticed as she set his steaming porridge in front of him. But she didn't mention it, though she mirrored it slightly, and David was grateful for her gift of silence. He immediately reached for his spoon, poising it over the hot breakfast, his thoughts back to Spot Conlon.
Even if Spot remembered, David doubted he would care. David didn't blame him, either. It was too soon for all of them; he knew Spot felt the pain worse, the pain and, for no real reason, the guilt. Still, he'd been there that night five years ago, he'd kept the secret as well as any of the rest of them. Spot deserved his share. Of them all, no one needed it more.
Making up his mind just then to visit Spot at the first available opportunity—when the office closed for the night, but before he returned home for supper—David pushed the newspaper away at last and placed his attention where it belonged: his breakfast. Delicious as always, if just a little cooler than his liking for his dallying, he ate it quickly, knowing he was later than he should've been.
Vanessa was just sitting down to enjoy her own meal, a smaller portion of porridge with cinnamon sprinkled on top, just as David jumped up from his seat; there was no apple in sight, but at least she was eating something. Grabbing the newspaper and folding it so that it tucked neatly underneath his arm, he placed his free hand lovingly on the top of his wife's head, bending down to kiss her sweetly on the lips this time. She tasted like cinnamon already.
She smiled, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on his arm. "Is it time for you to go so soon?"
"Mr. Wagner will be furious if I'm late," he told her apologetically. Mr. Wagner was a respected attorney, one who demanded much from his clerks—including punctuality.
"I know. But maybe he'll let you home early for a change?"
David chuckled. "I think you're thinking too highly of him, Vanessa. If he lets us clerks out one minute before the office closes, that's one minute too soon in his opinion."
"He works you too hard," she sighed, a small frown crossing her face, wrinkles creasing her forehead.
"But he pays more than he should," he added quickly, feeling a sudden desire to wipe that frown from her face. He always hated it whenever his wife looked upset and, like always, he found himself eager to make her happy again. "Look what we have," he told her, gesturing around them both as he walked backwards towards the door. He really was late, but he couldn't leave while Vanessa was frowning into her porridge. "We have more than enough, and even if I didn't have all this, all I'd ever want is you. I have you."
His words, genuine and heartfelt as they were, did what they were meant to do. Vanessa's frown wavered, a pleased grin taking its place. "And I have you."
David swallowed back his contented sigh. "But not until tonight," he said, his hand resting on the door, and his feet planted against the ground as if he wanted to stay. Not that he could—he couldn't, not unless he wanted the office manager to find reasons to ask him to leave his desk—but, for reasons he couldn't full understand, he wanted to stay home. He just didn't want to leave Vanessa home alone again.
Maybe, when the next five days passed and, after five years, one-fifths of a fortune could be his, maybe then David wouldn't have to leave her side ever again.
He certainly wouldn't have to worry about being on time to work then.
It had been three years since that fateful day down at the train yard and David still wondered sometimes what it was that had caused Vanessa to cry that afternoon so long ago. He gave up trying to find out himself, though he had his suspicions. She refused to talk about it, and he didn't want to push her. In the time since they'd known each other, first as friends, then as something more, he'd never seen her cry again so he knew that, whatever it was, it was probably something better left unknown.
But sometimes, when they were at a vaudeville show, or maybe sitting down to an early supper together, Vanessa's smile would dip and a distant, faraway look would come to her eyes. David knew then that whatever had happened, whoever had left her alone that afternoon, it still haunted her. The memory of her tears would rush over him at those times and, like that first day, David promised he would do whatever he could to keep her smiling.
And when he finally plucked up enough courage to ask her to become his wife, he promised her even more—
It had been a handful of hours since David left for the office. Vanessa had busied herself with cleaning up after breakfast, washing the laundry in the tub and darning a pair of socks that had David's big toe poking out of a hole before she got her hands on them. She was just about to go up to the rooftop and hang some of the washing to dry on the line when there came a brisk knock at the door.
Leaving the laundry where it was, Vanessa smoothed the front of her skirt absently before patting the back of her hair, ensuring each strand was neatly in place. She eyed the door curiously as she approached it. It would be quite some time until David returned home for supper, and Les, David's younger brother, had to still be in lessons. He couldn't possibly be visiting. It had been months since Spot last stopped by—not that she blamed him, of course.
But if it wasn't one of them, who could it be?
She glanced out of the peephole, her eyes widened, and she unlocked the door, frantic fingers fumbling with the lock. She pulled the door partway open, managing to only stick her head out into the hall. Her voice wavered only a bit as she said, "Good afternoon."
There was a young man in the doorway, roughly her age or maybe a few years older. Broad-shouldered and tall, tanned and ruggedly handsome, he tipped his faded cowboy hat in her direction. His big brown eyes twinkled as he looked down at her. "Do I have the honor of addressing Mrs. David Jacobs?"
Vanessa was hugging the edge of the door, gazing up at the man. His voice was as deep and as gravelly as she would've expected. She paused for a moment and then, "Yes."
He placed one broad hand on the doorway. "Is Mr. Jacobs in?"
Another pause and then, "No."
His hand dwarfed hers as he gently overlaid it, prying her fingers delicately away from her grip on the door. Just as gently he eased the door open; Vanessa never resisted. He moved quickly for a big man, sliding the door open wide enough to allow him to slip inside of her apartment.
"Good," he murmured, "I was hoping you'd say that."
And, reaching behind him, he pulled the door closed behind and turned the lock without giving her a chance to say another word. When he glanced up, a wolfish smile on his face, he was pleased to see that, though hesitant as always, Vanessa was already giving him a glowing smile in return.
—but more than he could ever give her himself.
Chapter 3: Spot Tries to Forget
Chapter Text
Five
April 17, 1905
As David loosened his tie just enough to let him breathe easier, he couldn't help but think that perhaps Vanessa had given Mr. Wagner even more credit than he initially thought. Though the office officially closed at six, it was already well past six and David counted himself lucky that the old skin-flint was finally letting him get away now.
Not that David really had much cause to complain about his boss other than the nights where Mr. Wagner, busy on a case or just wanting to milk his clerks for all they had in them, kept the staff long after and it took him that much longer before he could make it home to Vanessa. Mr. Wagner was, in all, a fair boss, and while he expected much from those in his office, the wages were much better than any factory job could offer—especially for a clerk who'd been working there for nearly three years. He could afford their apartment on his wages, plenty of food for the table so they never went hungry, and even a new dress whenever Vanessa wanted one. He couldn't ask for more.
Still, that didn't stop him from wishing sometimes that Mr. Wagner would take pity on his workers and close the office just a little earlier. Late as it was now, David had promised himself at breakfast that he would share a quick visit with Spot before going home for supper with his wife. He told himself he would and that was precisely what he was about to do. Because, if he didn't, would he ever find the time to remind Spot in time? A man had to have some priorities, and if he didn't keep the promises to himself, how long would it take before he broke the promises he made to Vanessa?
But perhaps he would stop at a shop on his way back to the apartment and buy Vanessa a gift to make up for his uncharacteristic lateness. If he did, he would certainly feel better about making this quick detour before he headed back home. If he did, Vanessa might not be so cross for being left alone so long. She had a sweet tooth, and even the smallest piece of chocolate might satisfy her.
Pleased with his plan, David started off to meet Spot. Once upon a time he would have had to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge—maybe even pause halfway in order to scream over the side—and venture a few blocks inside the neighboring borough if he wanted to speak with Spot Conlon. Not anymore. For more than three years—if not a little longer—Spot had, albeit regrettably it seemed, called Manhattan home.
David knew Spot used to lodge in a crowded boarding house on the Lower East Side, a place where bachelors and young married couples could afford a room and a hot, hearty meal at every supper. He'd lost track of where Spot was sleeping these days, but that didn't matter.
He knew where Spot lived.
It was a warm summer day, early June when the humidity and the stink of the city hadn't rolled in just yet and it was possible for a boy and his girl to sit together on a rooftop if they could, overlooking the streets below, content and cozy. David had led Vanessa up by the hand and set her right next to the edge, making sure to stand beside her; being up so high made her both giddy and dizzy and he wanted to assure her that, no matter what, he would keep her safe.
There was a content silence between the pair, David smiling and Vanessa staring downward, her hazel eyes wide and shining. They were happy, and for a few reasons. Having graduated at the top of his class, David received a job offer as a low-level clerk in an attorney's office not too far from his apartment. The pay started at a higher wage than he expected, with room to grow if a young man was ready and willing to learn. As a reward, he bought Vanessa a new dress, a pale blue one that offset her features nicely; it was the dress she would wear when Sarah was married in a few weeks.
Despite the turmoil Sarah's announcement had made, despite his mother's upset and his father's shame that she chose an Irish boy over a Jewish son, David was still pleased for Sarah, and glad that she was happy with her own choice. Still, he could hardly believe it: his sister was to be wed in less than a month.
His sister was going to become Mrs. Liam Conlon.
It had been quite the surprise when it was discovered that, shortly following the ending of her courtship with Jack Kelly, Sarah had found a beau in Brooklyn's own, Spot Conlon. The two of them kept it hidden for too long in David's opinion, almost more than a year, and now that Sarah had just turned eighteen, his headstrong sister insisted that she be allowed to marry Spot. Mama cried and Papa pleaded but none of that changed her mind or her determination: Sarah was to marry Spot, and that was that.
The only problem at times, it seemed, was Spot himself. Oh, he said he loved Sarah and David knew that that had to be true, but there were moments where David had to question Spot's devotion. Moments like what was about to happen…
The sound of the heeled shoes clacking against the stairs and the quick opening and subsequent closing of the rooftop door was enough to jar David out of the lull he was experiencing just then. Following Vanessa's lead, he turned away from the edge of the rooftop only to find Sarah in a right state as she hurried toward them.
"Oh, David," she breathed, and her voice sounded thick, her words coming quickly, "I'm so glad I found you."
"What is it, Sarah? What's wrong?"
She didn't even have to say it, though she did; he knew the answer just from the worry written all over her pretty face. "It's Spot," she told him, her fingers kneading the folds of her skirt restlessly. "He was supposed to meet me here to finish up our planning, but he never showed. I'm worried."
David bit back a sigh. And Sarah had to wonder why her parents thought Spot an unsuitable match for their only daughter? "Are you sure he knew? It could've slipped his mind."
Sarah shook her head, her long, dark hair swaying in the heavy breeze. "I reminded him last night. He promised he'd be here. David, do you think you could help me find him?"
"I—"
"Go, David," Vanessa murmured. "I'll stay with your sister."
That was all he needed to hear. "Yes, of course I will," he said, nodding assuredly, though inwardly he was beaming at Vanessa's support.
He kept his features neutral, however, in an attempt to keep Sarah from slipping from her obvious worry into a full-blown upset. There was a hint of tears in her chocolate-brown eyes that David would have done anything to keep from trickling down his sister's face—including braving some of the area's seediest pubs in search of his sister's beau.
Because, if David knew Spot Conlon—and by now he felt that he had a good handle on the Irish boy's temper and constitution— he knew exactly where to go to find him.
This wasn't the first time David had gone this way, down past the New York World building he remembered fondly, down past the well-deserved nicknamed Newspaper Row, all the way to the end of Park Row. There was a saloon at the corner, and though David had no cause to turn to drink himself, he'd had plenty reason to visit the establishment.
It was an old-fashioned saloon, the sort that opened up at dawn, and closed only when the last patron finally staggered away from the bar. He could even understand part of its charm, if he forgot for a moment that he was a young married man with a loving wife and a nice home to return to; it wasn't easy, but he could do it. Saloons like this one offered nickel beers and whiskey for not much more, and lunch was even free as long as you bought a beer with it. It was the perfect place for a bachelor—or for someone like Spot Conlon.
He had to cough when he first walked inside, the inside too dark and too smoky for him to breathe freely. The saloon was crowded, men of all shapes and sizes occupying the stools or sharing a table, a joke or maybe a song. The noise was nearly deafening, a din that rivaled some of the more raucous lunches at Tibby's Diner from his youth. It was definitely not the type of place that David would go unless he had no other choice.
But a promise was a promise, even if he only promised himself. A man was nothing without his word, and David understood that; it was lesson he learned that summer he sold papers as a newsboy, and it was one of the most important ones he learned outside of his classroom. So, pulling his handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, wiping his mouth and taking one more deep, clean breath, he stowed the handkerchief away and plunged into the busy, smoke-filled entryway of the saloon.
The long stretch of the bar was set up to his right, countless stools—most filled but there were some empty, which was odd given it was supper time—dotted the side closest to David. Plenty of tables kept the inside more like a maze that he had to navigate as he tried to recognize his old friend from among the crowd. Once he got used to the smell of the liquor and the tobacco smoke, David found it was rather pleasant inside; the rich smells of the saloon's supper cooking wafted by him and, aware that he hadn't had anything to eat since lunch, his stomach grumbled. He wondered what meal Vanessa would have prepared for him for when he returned, and he decided that he would find Spot, remind him about what was happening in five days, and then be on his way.
His eyes found his quarry then, though it wasn't as easy as he expected it to be. He had thought that Spot would be alone, but he wasn't, and that was why it had taken him so long to spy him. Instead, sitting at a table amidst a circle of three women, Spot looked a lot happier than he had the last time David saw him.
No one bothered the slim, wiry boy that sat in the corner of the saloon, nursing his third whiskey and acting as if, for all he cared, there wasn't another soul in the rowdy room. Spot Conlon didn't have the reputation in some of the Manhattan dives that followed him around Brooklyn like a curse, but there was a hardened expression on his boyish features, a cold look in his pale eyes that warned some of the men just to leave him alone.
He'd arrived inside shortly after the noon meal, shunning the offer of a plate or a nickel beer in favor of the ten-cent whiskey. After downing the first one—without even chasing it with water or buttermilk—like a man with a fire in his belly, and a dire thirst that needed to be quenched, he sipped at his second, savoring the taste, the burn that was even worse than before. After ordering his third off the saloonkeeper, he slunk to that far corner and there he stayed.
That was precisely where David found him.
He hadn't travelled to Brooklyn in search of Spot, choosing to visit the saloons on the Lower East Side first. He'd stopped inside three before this last one, where he nearly got involved in a fight in the first, and was propositioned by a girl called Pretty Kitty in the second before an uneventful trip a block over led him to this saloon right at the end of Newspaper Row. David actually felt quite foolish that it took him so long to get to this establishment. It was one he passed daily when he sold newspapers alongside Jack Kelly and Les, and it was nestled just past the newspaper buildings that ran up and down Park Row. A perfect spot for Spot to hide out in.
But why was he hiding out?
Sticking his chin out, striding towards Spot as if he didn't notice that half the saloon's patrons were watching him with either an interested or a blood-shot eye, David walked right up to Spot's table and cleared his throat noisily.
Spot never even lifted his head. "So, ya found me, Mouth. Ya want a dollar? Or can I get ya a drink?"
"I'm not thirsty."
"Oh, that's right. You're one of them teetotaler pansies. I forgot. Well, here's to you," Spot said, mockingly toasting David before tilting his head back and downing the rest of the murky contents in his glass in one big gulp.
David had to work to keep a look of pure distaste from crossing his face. "Sarah sent me looking for you, Spot. You have her very worried."
That was enough to wipe the smirk from Spot's. "What is she doin', worryin' 'bout me?"
"Because… and I can't say I understand why right now… because she loves you."
Spot slammed his glass down on the tabletop; it was only by a stroke of good fortune that it didn't shatter into a million pieces as a result. "Not you," he sneered, a touch of a slur finding its way to his voice, "not from you, too. I know I don't deserve a girl like Sarah, but I'll damned if I sit here and hear the Walkin' Mouth tell me that."
Ah, thought David, so that was what it was all about. No less than a little upset himself, he echoed the fury in Spot's tone. "Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?"
Spot didn't answer him. On the tabletop, his fingers were curled into a tight fist, trembling.
David let out a hollow laugh. It had started out a pleasant enough day; now look at how it changed. He'd had to leave Vanessa behind with Sarah while he went looking for Spot in a dark, smoky tavern. And why? All because Spot felt sorry for himself—but that wasn't it, was it? He laughed again. "I never thought I'd see the day Spot Conlon would be so afraid."
"I ain't afraid of nothin'!"
"Not even of getting married?" Spot pursed his lips, scowling, and David knew he'd gotten it right. He sighed. "She loves you, you know she does, and whether you… you or anyone… thinks you're worthy of my sister, Sarah chose you. Shouldn't that be enough?"
Spot's only response was to huff, reach out for his empty glass and, with a quick snapping of his fingers, let the barman know he was ready for another drink.
But David wasn't about to let that happen. He hadn't given up a peaceful day with Vanessa to trawl about dirty pubs only to return home to Sarah empty-handed. With reflexes not dulled by whiskey, he grabbed the glass from between Spot's fingers and hefted on his arm. "No. Come with me. It's time for you to go see Sarah."
Most surprisingly—considering he almost expected Spot to take a swing at him for taking his glass—Spot barely resisted. He swayed once as David's pull brought him to his feet before regaining his balance and blinking twice; immediately after, it was as if he'd never touched a drop. "I'll go," he said, the slur all but gone as he warned, "but if you ever tell her—"
"You have my word," David assured him, moving out of striking range just in case. That had ended a lot easier than he expected, but he definitely wasn't the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth. "You know you can trust me with any secrets."
Of course, David decided, it was easier to think that Spot looked happy when he was watching him from halfway across the saloon. Up close he looked tired and when one of the girls leaned in to whisper against his ear, he had to swallow a frown before waving her away.
They were working girls, girls of the oldest profession; from the way their hair was piled on top of their heads to the overdone make-up and the revealing dresses, there was no denying what sort of women were sitting with Spot at his table. The sight of them made the prim David purse his lips in disapproval as he stopped a few steps away from the table's edge. There was a thick wax candle on the wall behind him, the light leaving a shadow that fell across the middle of the table.
The shadow didn't fail to catch Spot's attention. He turned away from the blonde girl at his left in order to find the cause of the shadow that darkened the tabletop. When his eyes met David, he stared unblinkingly for a few seconds before he nodded. Then, with an air of dismissal about him, he said pointedly, "Night, girls."
The first one, a blonde girl whose face looked younger than the rouge would suggest, glared at David while she reluctantly got up from the table. The redhead closest to David gave him an exaggerated wink while the third woman, a brunette with a slight squint, patted Spot's hand and rose royally from her seat. To her, it was as if no one else was there—especially not the strait-laced young man standing there with a frown on his face.
David waited until they sauntered away from the table before he asked, "Friends of yours?"
Spot nodded at the recently vacated table. David shook his head and remained standing. Spot shrugged. "Not really."
"That blonde one looked pretty cozy," David said, referring to the one who had kept her lips at Spot's ear.
But Spot waved his hand absently, brushing aside David's complaint. "Mabel? She's harmless. The girls, they feel bad for me, Dave, want to make me forget. So I talk to 'em, listen to 'em, but that's all I want and that's all they'll get." Spot lifted his eyes up again, glaring curiously at David. The silence that followed was telling. "What, don't believe me?"
"I believe you, Spot."
He'd tried once, when Spot stopped calling him Mouth and called him David instead, he tried to follow Sarah's lead and refer to Spot by his given name: Liam. All he got was a sucker punch to his cheek for his trouble, and despite knowing each other for more than five years, David only ever called him by his childhood nickname. Spot wouldn't have it any other way.
Spot was still staring upward and, even in the dim lighting of the saloon, David could see that his eyes were rimmed with red. His lips were pulled into a smirk, but it was an empty expression; the smirk didn't meet his eyes, and only because it was Spot did David think of it as a smirk rather than a sad smile.
"Come with me, Dave," he said, rising up from the table and leading the way to the bar. "Let me buy you a drink."
David had long given up trying to explain to Spot that he didn't touch the stuff. He also knew it would be just as useless to try and convince Spot that he didn't need another drink, either. Though it was hard to, David knew Spot well enough to tell when he'd had too much and when it was a good idea to stop. The only problem was getting Spot to agree.
Wordlessly, David followed Spot to the bar. A big, beefy, balding man with one hell of a mustache was standing there, wiping down the countertop with a dingy rag. "Another whiskey?" he asked.
"No water this time, Charlie."
"You got it, Spot."
Spot was a regular and, unlike some of the other bums who barely left the saloon, he usually paid his tab without much of a hassle. Charlie immediately reached for another glass, pouring a liberal amount of his second best whiskey inside before sliding it across the countertop towards Spot's waiting hand. Spot accepted it with a nod.
"Ya know," he said after taking a sip and waiting for the barman to serve another customer at the other end of the counter, "I was wonderin' when you'd find me. I knew ya would, see… honest," he drawled, tapping his nose with his pointer finger before waving at David. "If it was Race, I never woulda seen him… but you, Dave… I've been waitin'. Hell, my money was on last week. What happened?"
It was with a sheepish sort of grin that David admitted, "I forgot."
Spot sighed. "Lucky guy. There's plenty of things I wish I could forget."
"Well, did you?"
"Mm?" Spot had the glass back to his lips, letting the whiskey trickle down his throat. He lived for the burn. "Did I what?" he asked when the rest of the glass had been swallowed. He smacked his lips, wondering where Charlie was for another fill.
"Did you forget? About the…" David paused, making sure no one was listening in on their conversation. It was hard to tell, there were so many people in the saloon, but it was loud enough that he figured, by dropping his voice, they were safe. After five years of holding onto the secret, he didn't want to be the one to blow it with only five days left. "About the money?"
"The money? No… I didn't forget."
"Oh." It was clear that David hadn't expected that answer. "Then you'll be there? At midnight?"
"No."
"No?"
"No, Dave, I ain't goin'."
"Why not?" David asked incredulously.
"Because," explained Spot, his expression blank as he leaned back on his stool, staring at a point past David, "what good will it do me? Money's money, Dave, and I've gotten by for five years without worryin' 'bout boyhood games and stolen satchels. It can't bring Sarah back—"
"Yes, but neither can sitting in a saloon with… with hussies as your only companions, while you leave the rest of us to wonder what's become of you!"
Spot snorted. "None of you really care 'bout me, and I don't blame ya. Go get your money, Dave, and just forget about me. You're good at that."
David couldn't take it anymore. He was tired, it was a long day, he was hungry, he knew Vanessa was probably wondering where he was and now… now Spot was making him feel guilty, making him feel like a louse for being a success and for even thinking about claiming his share of their hidden fortune. Didn't Spot think he missed Sarah just as much as him?
Scoffing, barely aware that he was drawing attention from some of the other men at the bar, David remarked heatedly, "Sarah would be ashamed to see you hiding like this."
"Don't you mention her to me," Spot erupted in a sudden burst of anger, knocking his empty glass aside, rising quickly from his seat as if preparing to go nose to nose with David. "You have no right—"
"I was her brother," David cut in, standing his ground. Gone were the days when he was a fifteen year old boy first meeting the fabled Spot Conlon, the most feared newsie in all of New York. He was a twenty-one year old man now, and he'd seen Spot at his highest and at his lowest… staring down at Spot, he wasn't sure how much lower he could get. This was worse than he expected. He understood the anger and the hurt, but the continued guilt made Spot reckless. It was no wonder they barely saw each other anymore. When a fight was inevitable, there was no use in bothering.
"So?" Spot challenged, but he remembered himself, too. There was no bite to his voice, only sorrow, as he sunk back into his seat. Drinking or not, guilty and alone or not, he knew he couldn't hit David Jacobs. He hadn't spent all those years protecting Sarah's brother only to start beating on him now. "I was her husband, Dave, but that didn't help her in the end, did it?"
David felt a stab of remorse as Spot looked visibly defeated, slumping into his seat. He decided to try another course. "Why don't you come with me, Spot? Vanessa was just saying how she misses you coming around. I'm sure she'll have more than enough supper cooking, we have a spare room… stay with us."
"No thanks, I'd rather drown here."
Shaking his head, David wished Spot would just be sensible for once. This wasn't the first time he'd come looking for Sarah's husband in a saloon, or a pub, or even a tavern. It wasn't the first time he had to try to talk some sense into the Irishman when drink had already taken its hold, either, but he certainly hoped it was the last. "Spot Conlon," he said, "always the stubborn one."
"I ain't bein' stubborn," Spot argued, "I'm doin' my penance."
"Penance for what?"
It was at that precise moment that Charlie decided to come back to their end of the bar. He held the whiskey bottle out to Spot, silently offering to pour, but Spot just waved him away again. By the time Charlie picked up his rag and busied himself with wiping out a glass, David knew he would never get an answer out of Spot.
Not that he needed to. He already had a pretty good idea what Spot would've said.
Still, he had to ask: "Penance in a saloon?"
"I'll be damned if I ever set foot in a church again."
The edge to his voice was so sharp that David felt he would cut himself if continued in that line of questioning. Besides, he wasn't sure he even wanted to know. But just then he did know that Spot had had more than enough whiskey; if there was ever a chance to get him out of the saloon, it would be now. And, based on their conversation, based on Spot's stubborn streak—penance or no penance—David would feel even guiltier if he left his sister's husband behind. Especially when the drunken Spot was intent on giving up his claim to that money. He obviously didn't know what he was doing and it was up to David to keep his interests at heart.
"Come with me," he tried again, "at least for the night. It's one night free boarding, Spot, and we can always talk about this again come morning. Please?"
It might've been that last word, but Spot actually stopped and thought about it for a moment. "If I go, do ya promise to shut that mouth of yours for the rest of the night?"
David nodded.
"Then I'll go." Spot climbed down off of his stool steadily, no sign that he'd had any whiskey at all. He pulled his hat down low, hiding those red-rimmed eyes, but the brim of his cap wasn't low enough to hide the faint shark-like smirk tugging at his lips. And David suddenly understood that, for all the guilt and the pain he knew, Spot wasn't as dumb as he looked. He might've been drunk, but even after an afternoon in the saloon, he could still manage to outwit the educated office clerk.
That was the Spot Conlon he knew so well. He had a brain—and more than half of one.
"Wait," David said then, stopping Spot from heading towards the exit. Remembering his idea of getting a gift for Vanessa, he turned to look at Charlie who was standing across the countertop from them again. "Is there a shop in here?"
The big barman said nothing but jerked his thumb to a corner in the back. David thanked him and hurried in that direction, heading straight towards a counter set up on the far side. There was a hefty sort of woman standing there, all apple-shaped cheeks and a big, cheery smile. Plump and ruddy, her reddish hair pulled back with thin wisps falling in her face, it was a safe guess that she was the saloonkeeper's wife.
"Good evening," David greeted, his eyes roaming over the wares laid out in front of him. He caught sight of a package of bon-bons and pointed one slender finger at it. "Can I have one of those, please?"
"One box of wife pacifiers for the good sir," the woman said cheekily, reaching for the chocolates and turning to wrap them up. "That'll be five cents."
Nodding as he reached in his pocket, David had pulled out a handful of coins when an unexpected voice coming from behind gave him a start. He just barely managed to hold onto his money, though his visible jump caused a snicker or two.
"Oh, don't be such a nickel nurser, Dave," teased Spot. David glanced over his shoulder to see that Spot was leaning against a table right behind him, watching his exchange with the woman at the counter. He didn't know that Spot had followed him and part of him wondered why he was surprised. "Why not spring for two?" Spot continued. "Say one's from me, a thank you for havin' me over."
He had to admit that Spot had a point. True to what David had told him earlier, Vanessa was fond of Spot—or, rather, she took pity on him—but that didn't mean it would make her very happy to have him show up to supper unannounced. All that chocolate could go a long way to keeping her happy—especially when he couldn't shake the feeling that his wife had been less so lately.
David held a second nickel out. "Better make it two."
Mere days remained until the wedding, and it took every ounce of cunning and courage Spot Conlon possessed not to just throw his cap in and run off like Cowboy did a couple of summers back. Only the memory of Sarah's younger brother—of David, the Walking Mouth, himself—hunting him down in the tavern, hinting that he was a coward afraid of getting married… only his pride kept him from giving up.
It had been such a selfish thing, a stupid thing, convincing Sarah to go against her parent's wishes simply to marry him. He couldn't provide for her. He was still a child, she was still a child… what had he been thinking? Both of them were just eighteen, with little more than a couple of dollars to start a household together. How did he expect to support a wife when his newfound factory job barely left him enough for boarding fare and a hot supper every night?
Sarah was too good for him. He'd always thought so. Too pretty, too kind, too innocent, even. Look at her. She refused to share his bed—his moth-eaten, damp, smelly bed at Madame Gille's boarding house—until they were married, and maybe it was his hormones that were more in control than his sanity, because making her his wife sounded a lot more appetizing than spending another night alone.
At least, it had. But that was before he had to talk to her father and endure the cold looks from her mother. Before Sarah started sewing her wedding dress and asking him for his opinion on where she should put the lace. Before the numbers and the bills started adding up and Spot—who'd had a head for numbers, even if he never got the schooling the Jacobs' boys had had—began to understand that making it official with Sarah was costing him a lot more than a month's worth of nights with some of Brooklyn's finest whores.
How could he ever afford a wife?
And then it hit him. A spark of light amid the bleak future, Spot could hardly believe it had taken so long for him to remember—
Spot really was a model drunk. It would've been impossible to tell he was inebriated at all, apart from the glaze in his cyan eyes that hadn't faded; it was more noticeable among the redness underneath the gas lamps out front. There was no stumble as he followed David out of the saloon, no slur in his voice as he asked pointedly, "Say, I was just thinkin'… do ya even remember what chunk of wall it was Jack hid it all behind?"
That was the last thing that David expected him to say. It caused him a quick pause in his own steps as he thought about it. That night happened so long ago, and it had all happened so quickly. If he concentrated, he could see Duane Street as he remembered stretched out in front of him, and he could vaguely remember at what point Jack bent down and put the tip of Oscar's knife to the brick. But that was it. He'd never gone back purposely, and he wasn't positive he could find it again after five years.
"I'm not sure," he admitted at last. "Do you?"
Spot shook his head, the lie coming easily. "Nope. Never went back there after that, didn't want to make it look suspicious."
"Huh," David said, curious now. "Me, neither."
—exactly where he could get his hands on a good chunk of a fortune, and fast.
Chapter 4: Jack Experiences Guilt
Chapter Text
Five
April 17, 1905
The bacon in the pan sizzled as, for the second time that day, Vanessa stood in the kitchen, preparing a meal for a man she loved. But it wasn't for her husband she was cooking; David was at the office and she didn't expect him home for a couple of hours more at least. It wasn't David's hat that was hanging on a hook; a rugged and worn cowboy hat was perched in its place. It wasn't David's hands gripping her lightly around the waist as she turned the bacon over to make sure it wasn't burning.
And it certainly wasn't David's hot breath on her skin as the tall man hovering behind her breathed softly.
Vanessa shivered and, though she knew she should push him away, that she should turn him out of her home and pretend he'd never darkened her doorway again, she just couldn't find it in herself to do anything more than lean her back against his lean chest and echo his contented sigh.
He was bending his knees slightly, his strong jaw nestled against her neck and his chapped lips beside her ear. He breathed in, the intake of air tickling her skin, and murmured, "It smells delicious, Nessie. Almost as delicious as you do."
His compliment pleased her, tickling her fancy as much as her neck, and she grinned. She hated herself for letting him affect her like this, and she hated herself for doing this to David, even if her poor husband had no idea what went on when he wasn't around. But she grinned nonetheless, though she didn't turn to look at him as she said, "It's almost ready. Why don't you take a seat?"
He brushed the side of her neck with a quick kiss before letting her go. Vanessa touched that same spot with her free hand, daring a glance over her shoulder just as he was about to sit down.
Her heart nearly skipped a beat when she saw the chair he had chosen. "No, not that one," she cried, louder than she ought to have. "That's David's chair."
And Jack Kelly, inches away from the seat of his trousers meeting the wooden seat of the chair, met the panicked look in Vanessa's eyes and promptly froze. She was fretting, her voice gone high when she mentioned her husband's name; hearing David's name spill from her lips was enough to cause the slightest of guilty pangs to hit him. Without a word, he nodded and stood back up.
She let out a strangled sound, a sigh of relief mingled with an embarrassed laugh. Visibly flustered, she shook her head, keeping her gaze down on the bacon pan as she tended to the meat with more vigor than before. "I'm sorry, Jack, I didn't mean… it's just a chair—"
But he was already on his feet. "No, it's not," he interrupted, walking back to her side and placing one firm hand reassuringly on her shoulder. "You're right, that's David's chair, I understand." Taking his hand back, he moved and let it settle on the back of a different chair. "How's this one?"
Vanessa looked up at him, grateful he did understand. "Yes… yes, it's fine."
And Jack sat down, Vanessa returning her attention to the stovetop, both left to marvel over what had just happened—and whether her worry and his guilt really had anything to do with a simple wooden chair.
It didn't, they both knew it didn't. Still, in a way, Jack rather thought it might be, but not because the chair was a chair. It was David Jacobs' chair, this was David Jacobs' home, Vanessa was David Jacobs' wife. He knew how guilty it made her feel every time she let him into David's home and gave herself over to a man that wasn't her husband—hell, it made Jack feel guiltier than he expected, too, and he knew adultery was a grave sin—but they just couldn't help themselves. Jack couldn't help himself. He wasn't even sure he would if he could. If it made Vanessa feel better to deny him some small thing that belonged to David, he understood.
It was for that same reason, he knew, that she refused to lie with him in the marriage bed she shared with David. Though, of course, that hadn't stopped her from leading him to the empty cot in the spare room.
Looking back on it, Jack Kelly decided that the strike last summer was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him.
By the time the newsboy strike of 1899 was over, Jack was a hero in the lodging house and a legend on the street. He'd all but guaranteed another year at least of selling papes; already past eighteen, a dreary future in the factories was still a long ways away as he stubbornly continued to hawk headlines and improve the truth.
It was much easier to show his face on the street, too, when he didn't have to look over his shoulder and watch out for the smug, beady grin of the old Refuge warden Snyder. Thanks to Bryan Denton's interest in the strike and his appeal to the governor, Snyder was rotting in jail and Jack had his freedom—as well as a ride out West he chose not to take.
And that wasn't all the strike gave him…
He'd never known what it was like to have a family, not really, not until he met David Jacobs and his little brother Les. David brought him home and his parents welcomed Jack in, sharing their meals with him and even offering a roof over his head once or twice. Now that the truth about his past was out there, he didn't have to hide his jealousy or pretend that it didn't warm his heart to be included. For once, he could pretend he belonged.
Then there was Sarah. Sarah, David's older sister, was a pretty, smart girl who caught Jack's eye and became another reason why he was always hanging around the Jacobs' apartment. He stayed for her when Roosevelt gave him a way out as much as for any other reason. There was a spark, and though she never asked him to stay, he couldn't leave. She was everything he ever wanted… until the time came when he wanted more than she was willing to give.
Still, that wasn't all that came out of the strike.
It was at the end of the strike, after he'd gone scab and back again, after he borrowed Pulitzer's press and turned it against the man, it was when he was handing out some of the Newsie Banners on his own when he first met Vanessa. She was working washing laundry, a too-thin girl with red and raw hands and dark hair kept out of her face with a kerchief. She took one of the papers he offered her with fingers that always seemed damp; the edge of the paper wrinkled and the ink bled where she touched it.
He asked her if she could read and, though she didn't answer him, her eyes skimmed the sheet and when she was done, she laughed. The article had made her laugh—and it was the most beautiful laugh he ever heard, a loud laugh, heartfelt and not shy or demure at all. She laughed and then, with a smart remark, she thrust the crumpled paper back into his ink-stained hands and returned to her laundry.
Jack remembered her laugh when the newsies ended up winning the strike and, at the time, he half wanted to go back and tell the washer girl how it all had ended. But he never did, though her laugh haunted him, until another refusal from Sarah sent him looking for comfort elsewhere. He couldn't explain why, he never understood how he got there, but one afternoon he found himself back at the same place where he first met the girl who did the laundry. The memory of her laugh in his ears, he boldly knocked on the back door.
She answered with a small grin and surprise in her hazel eyes. "It's you again," she said, sounding pleased.
"It's me," he agreed.
And she laughed.
It didn't take him long to learn that the washer girl, a feisty girl called Vanessa, was as intrigued by him as he was by her. There was a spark there that rivaled the one he felt with Sarah, and he made it his point to make this girl his. And, seeing as how she wasn't the type of girl who said no, it ended up being much easier than he expected.
Yes, he thought one night, leading Vanessa by the hand to an empty room in back, the strike had been very good to him indeed.
Jack was leaning back in his seat, comfortable and cozy; knowing this wasn't David's usual chair made it even more inviting. It could be his chair, his table, his kitchen. Vanessa could've been his wife—
—but no, he thought, that was the wrong road to go down. Why not just revel in the present, revel in the certain knowledge that, while the cat's away, the mice will play? This might all really belong to David Jacobs but for now, for this one perfect moment, it was Jack's.
He was loose, relaxed, languishing in the chair like a lord in his throne, his eyes closed and a satisfied smirk at home on his rugged face. He took a deep breath. This was the reason he kept coming back here. The smell of bacon in the air, the scent of Vanessa's perfume on his skin… it was perfect. And he knew that he shouldn't keep returning, he probably should never have come at all when he found out about David and Vanessa—but he did, and he wasn't quite sure he regretted his rash actions.
Seeing his old flame again hadn't been on his mind when he first came back. But a chance meeting with Racetrack down at Sheepshead Bay—or not so chance, he had to admit, since he'd gone to the tracks specifically in search of Race—told him where he could find David… and his new wife. Jack had been interested, especially since the only wedding he'd known about was between Spot and Sarah Conlon, and had innocently asked a few questions. He just never expected to discover that David's bride's name had been Vanessa Sawyer.
"Darn!"
Jack's eyes sprang open, his thoughts interrupted by Vanessa's cry. Did she just say darn? "Is somethin' the matter?"
"The bacon fat," she answered, wrapping her hand in a dish cloth, "it spat at me."
He was on his feet in an instant. Standing over her, Jack held out his hand, gesturing for her to show him. "Here, let me," he told her when she hesitated. "I won't bite."
Looking slightly ashamed, Vanessa slowly removed her left hand from beneath the folds of the damp cloth and let her palm rest against Jack's. He couldn't help but notice that her wedding ring was missing, but he wasn't surprised. Since the first afternoon when they met secretly in her apartment, Vanessa always removed her wedding ring when he visited her. Jack never saw her do it, either. It was just gone whenever he looked for it.
There were pink spots on her hand where the sizzle of the bacon fat had hit her. Lowering his lips to her hand, Jack blew on them carefully. Vanessa shivered, he felt the trembles against his palm, and he asked, "Better?"
"Yes, thank you."
She didn't take her hand back right away, leaving it to rest where it was. Jack wasn't in any hurry to move back to the table, enjoying the warmth of Vanessa's skin up against his again. Her fingers weren't as callused as he remembered, but the reminder of her old life was there. Rubbing his fingertips alongside the rough edge of her hand, he wondered if Vanessa had really changed as much in the last four years as it appeared.
He knew he had.
Jack never meant to be away so long, but whenever he decided to head back to Manhattan, there always seemed to be some sort of reason—some sort of excuse—as to why he just couldn't. Now, standing close to Vanessa, he wondered whatever had made those reasons seem so pressing, so important. He wondered why he had stayed away, thought he knew damn well why he left, and he worried about when he would have to go again.
Who knows how long the two of them would have stood there together, especially since there wasn't much time left until David was due home, if it hadn't been for the sudden unpleasant smell that filled the small kitchen. It was an acrid odor, foul. Jack coughed and Vanessa's eyes widened, both of them realizing at the same time where it was coming from.
Vanessa was the first to move. "Oh, the bacon," she cried, hustling back to the stovetop. A cloud of black smoke hovered lazily over the pan. Using the dishcloth still in her grasp, she waved away the smoke and removed the pan from the flame. She frowned then, transferring the burnt meat to a spare plate she had sat on the side. Poking at it with the spoon, she said mournfully, "I'm so sorry, Jack, it was overdone."
"I'm sure it'll be much better than anything I'm used to," he assured her quickly. She looked so upset, it was the least he could do. And, as if to prove he meant it, he saw back down at the table to await his meal.
After trying to scrape as much black off the bacon rind as she could, Vanessa piled the meat between thick slabs of day-old bread and brought one plate over to the table. She set it in front of Jack, a tentative expression on her worry-filled face. "I hope it's not too burnt."
Jack eagerly pulled the plate close to him before noticing that there wasn't one for Vanessa. "Aren't you havin' any?"
"I'm not very hungry. You go ahead."
"You really should eat something, Ness."
Her answering grin was light-hearted but short-lived. "You sound like my—you sound like David."
Jack knew exactly why her grin had slipped away like that, and he wasn't sure he blamed her. She was always so careful not to call him her husband, as if every time she acknowledged the truth, it only made it all the more real that David was her husband, she was his wife yet she was sleeping with Jack.
Worse, Jack was sleeping with his David's wife.
He felt those traitorous pangs of guilt attack his stomach but the sort of life he led made it easy—almost too easy—for him to push them aside, maybe imagine he never felt them at all. He swallowed, pretended that it didn't bother him in the least that his girl was a married woman, and picked up his sandwich. A portion of his appetite returned and he took a bite.
"I can see where he's comin' from, too. You're gettin' to be a little thin," he told her around a mouthful of bacon, "and you're too damn pale."
"I haven't really been feeling so well lately," she admitted. And it showed. There were dark circles under her eyes that hadn't been there when Jack first arrived a month ago, and her skin was a whiter shade of pale; the contrast was even more striking when he noticed that the color had faded from her cheeks and her lips, leaving her as wan as a ghost.
Jack swallowed, barely noticing the charred taste. There was that obnoxious guilt again. Where was it coming from? He'd done many things, many bad things, and it never affected him like it was affecting him now. And it wasn't just guilt over David—he was hurting Vanessa, too. In the month since he arrived back in New York, in the month since he saw Vanessa again for the first time in years, their hidden affair had certainly taken its toll on her.
Pushing the guilt aside, he asked, "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing to worry over," she said, nervously playing with the front of her skirt. "I'm fine, really."
It was quite obviously something, and Vanessa was certainly less than fine, but Jack knew better than to say another word on it. Instead, he nodded at the chair next to him—opposite of David's, he thought it to be hers. "Won't you at least sit with me?"
"Sit with you? Yes… yes, of course."
She threw her dishcloth on the counter, smoothed her dress absently and took the seat opposite of Jack. It wasn't the seat he expected her to take, and he raised an eyebrow as he lifted his sandwich back up to his mouth. But she said nothing; Vanessa just sat with him at the table, her fidgeting hands folded tightly in her lap as she watched him eat.
It was only when he was done, when he'd washed his sandwich down with the glass of cool water Vanessa had retrieved for him and finally pushed his plate away, that she spoke up again.
"Tell me, Jack… how much longer will you stay?"
Jack wiped his mouth with his hand before placing both of his palms against the edge of the table. "Why?" he asked, sounding a lot quieter, a lot calmer, than he wanted to. That wasn't what he was expecting her to ask. "Ya want me to leave, is that it?"
"No!" Vanessa's voice came out shrill and she took a moment to compose herself. "I mean, no, Jack… it isn't that. It's just… you never told me why you returned at all—"
He frowned. "Vanessa, I thought I told you—"
"You've told me nothing, and I accepted that. You have nothing to explain to me… but it would be nice…" Her voice trailed to a close. But then she bucked up and with a hint of the fiery girl she'd been when he left, "Yes, it would be nice if you answered me just once, Jack. You couldn't expect me to wait for you—"
"I never expected that," interjected Jack, coldly.
"You say so, but if that wasn't true, why would you have come?"
"I was looking for Davey."
"And yet it's been a month and all you've seen here is me," Vanessa pointed out, and it was the truth. Jack had just hoped that she'd never be able to figure that one out on her own.
He should've expected more from her, but he hadn't. She had seemed so different that he was able to forget how Vanessa could be. But not now. Hints of the girl he used to know, manipulative and desperate for affection but, more than anything, alone… it all began to shine through as she watched him unblinkingly from across the table.
She lost that nervous edge that plagued her as she continued, "I was just wondering… if you're really looking for David, you can come by for dinner one night and talk to him. It would do him well to see a familiar face and then…"
"And then what? Leave and just sneak back over another day? After I looked Dave in the eye, you want me to come back to you?" When Vanessa said nothing, he sneered, "I see. So you don't want me comin' around, is that it? Or do ya want him to find out?"
She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, interpreting his question as the threat he obviously meant. "Never!"
He certainly had to give her credit now: he always thought she was smart, and her recent actions proved she could still be a selfish, sneaky girl, no matter how respectable her marriage made her look, or how proper she was now in a comfortable apartment with a real stove and working lights. She was still Vanessa Sawyer, she was still the girl he used to bed in the quarantine rooms in the Lodging House and the woman he laid with in her husband's home.
She was still his Nessie, and he knew what she was saying and just how to keep her from saying it again.
"Ya don't want him to know about us now, and I understand. I sure as hell ain't gonna be the one to tell my old pal that I'm screwin' his good little wife. It wasn't my idea when I came here," he said, lying through his teeth, "and I don't know how you can think it was. 'Cause I know ya, Nessie, and I can see ya think I came here for old time's sake. I wanted to see Davey but I found you. I was happy,.. but maybe I shouldn't have been."
It was nice to pawn his guilt off onto someone else for a change. There was a slight pink tint in her normally pale face as she lowered both her hand and her gaze. "Oh, Jack, I'm sorry—" Vanessa began.
But Jack just shook his head as he pushed his seat back and abruptly rose from the table. "You have nothing to be sorry about."
He was the one who should've been sorry, even if he wasn't.
Jack Kelly was a bummer, a scabber, a louse. A coward. Hell, he wasn't even really Jack Kelly, was he?
For six months he visited Vanessa wherever she found work: first at the laundry, then at a sweatshop, then selling flowers on the corner and even as she took in sewing at her room in the Girls' Home. For six months he watched Sarah forget about him in favor of Spot Conlon, all the while knowing her sympathy was wasted when he already had another girl waiting for him. For six months he kept his relationship with Vanessa to himself, promising her everything, knowing it would take years until he could hold true to his word. Five years, in fact, and he could set them up right.
Except, he didn't have five years to wait.
When Vanessa first came to him with her worries , her fears, Jack was already making plans. Always the sort of man who looked out for himself front and foremost, he recognized that kinship in Vanessa and knew she would understand what he had to do—she wouldn't like it, but she wouldn't be able to blame him. And even when her worries turned out to be nothing, Jack was too far gone to even think about staying.
So he penned three letters that last afternoon, three letters that he paid a penny to Tumbler to deliver; three letters to three people he couldn't find it in himself to say goodbye to. He wrote to David, telling him it was time he left. He wrote to Kloppman, thanking the old superintendent and asking him to keep an eye on the newsies who still called the Lodging House home. And he wrote to Vanessa a lie:
Nessie,
I should've stuck around long enough to tell you I was leaving, but I couldn't. An opportunity came along and I grabbed it. Like I always said, seize the day! I've always wanted to go out West, go to Santa Fe, and I'm going. My train leaves today. Maybe once I'm there I can find us a nice place to live and I can send back for you. You'd like it out there. Everything's bigger.
Jack
It was a lie, surely as his name was Jack Kelly or that his parents had gone out West themselves in the hopes of finding a nice ranch before they sent back for their only son. His words were a lie, but they were a lie he could let Vanessa believe in—and maybe, just maybe, he could believe them himself.
So he gave Tumbler three pennies and sent him off with the letters, hoping they'd be delivered long after he was gone; it was for that reason he sent the younger boy, knowing him to be less reliable than, say, Snipeshooter or Boots. But Tumbler was timely and two of those letters sent their recipients running after Jack. It was with his letter in hand that David hurried down to the train yard, and it was hers that Vanessa folded up and tucked into the skirt of her pocket just in time for him to bump into her innocently.
He didn't reach for his hat on its peg, nor did he leave and go towards the front door. Striding purposely, as if he could leave Vanessa's questions behind him, he headed for the spare room in the apartment. He had hoped she wouldn't follow him, it always made it that much easier to go, but there was no such luck. Without a word, Vanessa left the table behind her and followed him in.
It was a quaint room, the smallest in the apartment, barely large enough to hold the freshly made cot and a battered nightstand. Still, it was cozy and Vanessa kept enough fresh flowers on the tiny table to keep it fresh. When she walked inside, the smell of peonies embraced her; normally one of her favorites, just then they made her nauseous.
Or, perhaps, that was her guilt.
Jack was sitting at the edge of the bed, leaning against the pillow as he reached for the first of his two boots. He'd removed them almost immediately after he arrived, kicking them off in his passion, but now he wanted them on his feet so that he could go.
Vanessa hovered in the doorway as if by standing there, she could keep him from heading out. "It's not that… I don't want you to leave."
Jack snorted and reached underneath the cot for his second boot. "Ya got a funny way of showin' it, Nessie."
"I don't want you to leave," she said again, "so I've been thinking…"
That caught his attention. He paused, looked up and cocked his head to the side. "Yeah?"
Taking heart in his interest, Vanessa rushed into the room. Her bare feet padded against the floor, the hem of her skirt swishing around her ankles as she hurried. She stopped when she was standing before him. "Instead of leaving," she asked, hope in her voice, "why don't you stay?"
"Stay where? Wait… here?" Jack's laugh was hollow, a laugh for the sake of filling the ensuing silence. He waved his hand as if he was dismissing the ridiculous idea before jamming his second boot onto his foot. Him? Stay with Vanessa and David? What a laugh!
Vanessa wasn't laughing, though Jack's sent her moving away from him. Sounding like a child, she crossed her hands in front of her and insisted, "You could."
"No," he said, just as firmly, "I couldn't"
His answering tone was terse and sharp, warning her against continuing. But Vanessa couldn't stop. "We have the room. I've often thought of taking in a boarder to help with the rent, and you wouldn't have to go back to that flophouse. Listen to me, Jack," she implored, for Jack was shaking his head, leaning over as he laced up both his boots, "I… I know David wouldn't mind. He's your friend—"
"He was my friend."
"And I was your girl," she countered, "but here you are. Won't you even tell David you've come back? He misses you, I know he misses you."
He turned to look at her sharply. "Does he know?"
She shook her head. "No, Jack. I've never told him about the past… but, still, he talks of you regardless. He doesn't know, and he'll never know because I'll never want to hurt him that way. But you could stay…"
"Vanessa… you know I can't."
It seemed like she knew that, too; it just took Jack saying it again for her to give up. Like a balloon that had lost its air, Vanessa deflated then, exhaling softly as she folded her skirt underneath her and sat down at the other end of the bed. "I know."
He couldn't really explain what he was doing here. All he knew was that, ever since he discovered the truth, discovered what had become of Vanessa Sawyer, Jack knew he couldn't leave New York without seeing her one last time. Maybe it was a pride thing, maybe it was a kick in the pants… maybe Jack wanted to torture himself by seeing what he could've had… whatever it was, Jack followed the address good old Race gave him and hoped that, when he arrived, David wasn't the one who opened the door.
It was in a much nicer apartment building than he ever expected Dave to be able to afford, and for a moment he was sorely tempted to take a trip down to Duane Street and just make sure that David hadn't dipped into that money. Not that he would've blamed him, either. A girl like Vanessa… well, it's what he would've done if he hadn't had it in him to leave.
His steps were heavy, his boots pounding the stairs as he climbed up slowly. He went up five flights, turned out on the landing and headed straight for the first door on the right. If Racetrack was to be trusted, that door would lead to the Jacobs' apartment. It took him a few minutes when he arrived to buck up enough nerve to actually knock—worse, it took even longer for someone to answer. Jack fought the urge to remove his hat, spit in his hand and smooth his hair down as he watched the handle turn.
And there she was. Vanessa. She looked exactly the way he remembered, but undeniably more attractive. She looked softer, almost, and she wasn't as thin as she was. She looked healthy. Beautiful. He sniffed tentatively. Vanessa was wearing the same perfume. Jack's heart dropped down to his boots. What was he doing here?
He didn't say anything and neither did she , and for one horrible moment he wondered if she had forgotten him. Then she exhaled, a quiet sigh, and he knew that she knew him. He could feel her gaze on him, and he dropped his eyes accordingly. They landed on the simple band encircling the slender ring finger on her left hand.
Jack's shoulders slumped. "You really married him, didn't you?"—
Vanessa looked so disappointed that, for a moment, Jack felt like a rat for laughing at her suggestion. Her idea was so fanciful, so ridiculous, that he couldn't even believe for a moment that she was actually serious about inviting him to stay with her and her husband. But she was, wasn't she? She had to be. Why else was she pouting like that?
Scooting over, Jack stopped when he was sitting right next to her, his thigh brushing against her thigh. He placed his hand on top of her right thigh. "This would have to stop." Jack didn't have to say anything more. They both knew exactly what he was talking about.
Her hazel eyes glanced down at his hand. The way it settled so naturally, so possessively on her leg, the way it felt so familiar… the way it was inching further up… She shook her head hesitantly, lifting her gaze so that she was staring at the blank wall opposite her. "Yes."
"Do you want it to stop?"
Vanessa paused, her hands folded at her left side, her fingers kneading against each other. She still wasn't looking at him, though she couldn't keep her eyes away from his traveling hand as she admitted: "I love him, Jack."
He'd expected as much, though he'd be lying if he thought it didn't matter. Jack would never admit it, but he'd often imagined in the past few weeks that since Vanessa had been so quick to rekindle their childhood romance, perhaps her marriage to David was nothing more than an elaborate façade. Or, at least, he'd hoped that that was true… but, no matter how much he pretended otherwise, he knew that her words were heartfelt and real. He took his hand away from her and smoothly ran the back of it across his mouth before running his fingers through his thick hair.
Still, Jack had to ask: "Do you, Nessie? Do you really?"
"He does right by me," she said simply, "and he loves me."
This was it, Jack's big moment. The time when he could tell her how stupid of a kid he'd been to leave her like that, how reckless of a man he was to fool around with her now that she was married to another. Maybe it would lessen his guilt, maybe it would make up for the intent in his mind to visit her again in a few days… maybe it would do nothing at all, but he had to try.
He took a deep breath. "I love you."
And both of them knew he hardly meant it.
"You did." Her smile wasn't hesitant this time, just sad. "Seems like we're both stuck in the past, Jack."
—"You really left."
Chapter 5: Vanessa's Unexpected Guest
Chapter Text
Five
April 17, 1905
David and Spot were walking down Park Row in companionable silence—or, at least, it was companionable enough until David realized that this was the longest he'd been alone with Spot since Sarah died. Then it was just awkward.
Spot hadn't said another word since he asked about the money and its hiding place and David wondered if that meant that Spot wanted to head towards Duane Street, maybe look around the old brick wall a few days early. They had both said they hadn't gone back there since that night five years ago—though, David thought guiltily, he'd been lying—and he worried that Spot would go that way first before following David to the apartment he shared with Vanessa. But when the turn came that would take them on to Duane and Spot ignored it, David felt a little more relaxed than he had. Not much, but enough.
Without the brick wall and what lay hidden behind it left to worry about, David felt the strange silence coming off his companion gnaw at him, begging for his attention. He tried to ignore it, choosing to stay quiet, until he couldn't help himself any longer. He liked words, he liked to talk, and if he could get Spot to open up, it might be easier to forget that the strong bond that had once brought them together—namely Sarah, David's sister and Spot's wife—was no longer there.
David cleared his throat in order to get Spot's attention and said almost conversationally, "I remember you were working at a factory. Are you still there?"
It was a safe enough question but the pause that followed it was a chilly pause and suddenly David knew that he had said the wrong thing—and he had. Spot sneered and spit on the ground. "Your memory is shit, Dave," he said icily, "if ya don't remember those bums tossed me out when Sarah got sick."
David very nearly kicked himself for bringing up the past like that, so callously, so unknowingly; it had been the only thing he could think of to say, to begin a conversation and get Spot talking. But now he felt foolish. Of course he remembered. It was only a few months ago, after all. When Sarah took ill and Spot devoted as much time as he could—and more, felt his supervisor down at the factory—tending to her at her bedside, he was replaced at his machine almost immediately. Not the Spot minded; the twelve hour shift in front of his machine, doing the same, repetitive, boring action over and over again was enough to drive any man mad.
Swallowing back the apologies that threatened to escape, David said nothing. Spot wasn't the sort to believe him, anyway.
But if there was one thing David's question accomplished it was this: it got Spot talking. He went a couple steps forward before saying suddenly, "The docks, Dave."
David gave a little start. He had no idea what that meant. "The docks?"
"Yeah. I'm a dockworker now, workin' when they need me, if that's what you wanted to know. No matter how bad business is or how often I go without a job, hell, I'll never work in a factory again."
There was an edge to his voice that warned David about saying anything more. But when had David ever heeded a warning? "Which docks?" he asked.
And, despite himself, Spot smirked. "East River, where else?"
"Brooklyn?" David was genuinely surprised. As far as he knew, Spot had been living on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge, in this borough, ever since Sarah refused to move to Brooklyn. "Did you move back?"
"No."
The question was on the tip of his tongue: Then why work there? But before David asked it, he realized he already knew the answer. Brooklyn used to be Spot's home and she'd always been good to him. She still offered him pay when he needed it, and David could just see Spot as a dockworker, walking the wooden boards the same way he used to lord over them when he was Spot Conlon, the most feared newsie in New York. But it wasn't his home now. Despite having buried Sarah at the end of last year, Manhattan was his home. And, stubborn or not, he wouldn't leave.
David closed his mouth then, determined not to say another word or give himself a chance to stick his foot in it until Spot had sobered up. He had his suspicions that maybe Spot wasn't as drunk as he pretended—or maybe he was so far gone that he was coming back a teetotaler—but it was a safer bet to wait and bring up Sarah when whiskey wasn't clouding his senses, bringing out emotions in the Irishman he'd never dare exhibit in a sober state.
But just because he was done with the conversation, that didn't mean Spot was.
"So, have ya heard from Jack yet, seen him around?"
He changed the subject so abruptly that David had to admit that it wasn't that he was changing it at all. It was true that he'd been avoiding Spot for the last few months because it hurt to watch him grieve for his sister, but now the two of them were brought back together for the same reason: the bag of money they'd had a part in finding five years ago.
Jack… that was a name he hadn't heard in awhile. And, yes, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought Jack would have arrived in town by now. Ever since Jack took off so suddenly like he had, David expected his return to be just as sudden—but he never came back. Not when Kloppman died two years ago, not when Sarah and Spot were wed, not even when he married Vanessa last year. He tried sending Jack an invitation to the last address Jack was known to be at—some place in Connecticut that he didn't need an education to know was nowhere near Santa Fe—but it had been returned to sender; Jack never showed. After that he gave up on him. Why not? Jack gave up on them.
Not that he could tell Spot all that. He simply said, "No, I haven't. Have you?"
"Nope. Strange, huh? You'd think he'd be here already. Hell, it was his idea." Spot huffed, but there was something in the way he'd mentioned Jack that made David think that there was more to it than that. It was too accepting, too nonchalant. That wasn't Spot Conlon's style at all. However, before David could point that out, Spot continued, "Okay, so no Jack. How about Delancey?"
This time David just shook his head.
"Yeah, me neither. But I've seen Race around."
That caught his attention. He hadn't seen Racetrack Higgins in ages—in fact, not since he showed up at the small wedding party last year with a wrapped bottle of gin in one hand, a cigar in the other and deck of marked cards sticking out of the back of his trousers. "Really?"
"Oh, yeah. All the time. He's been after me lately to visit him at his place. He's like you, David, pityin' me now 'cause Sarah's gone," he explained, his blunt words bringing a hint of color to David's face and an urge to defend himself that he couldn't follow through on since, well, he did pity Spot in a way. "But maybe now I will… 'cept I say I when I know it's gonna have to be a we."
"We?" David parroted back.
"You came to find me. I ain't got half an idea where to find Delancey and if Jack wants his share, he'll be there. But I know where to find Race. I don't see why we can't stop by his place and just, ya know, remind him. You and me, we can go together."
"That's a great idea, Spot. So you're going to go with me then, too? At midnight?"
"Don't act so surprised. And why not? I don't want it but I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't need it." Spot shrugged and it seemed as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders as he straightened up; he was still shorter than David but without him hunching over slightly, it wasn't so noticeable. "'Sides, you was right. Sarah would've been ashamed by the way I'm actin'."
Then, before David could answer to that, Spot pointed up at the building in front of them. Without him realizing it, Spot had taken over the lead and brought him right to David's place. "That your window?" he asked. "The one with the candle in it?"
David glanced up at the facade of the building. Quite a few of the windows were lit, even a couple with candles like Vanessa was in the habit of using, but his eyes were drawn to the pinprick of a flame on the fifth floor. There was a candle in the window, a light meant for him. He nodded. "Yes. Vanessa must be waiting; she always lights a candle for me."
Spot sighed. When he spoke, there was no guilt or bitterness in his tone, only sadness. "You're a lucky man, Davey," he muttered. "She must really love ya."
And David, the tiny flame reflected in his blue eyes, swallowed a small grin and refused to say anything. He agreed with Spot, and he knew Vanessa loved him, but there wasn't enough money in the world to get him to boast and brag with his sister's widower by his side.
He didn't know when their friendship turned into something more. All David knew was that rarely did a day go by when he didn't find some excuse to visit with Vanessa, if only to just spend a few stolen moments with her and remind himself she was real, that she really existed. He wasn't sure what they shared between them now, whether it was as serious as he imagined it to be or if their courtship would abruptly end the way Sarah and Jack's had, but he was enjoying it while he lasted. He was willing to sacrifice everything he had for her—he just couldn't be sure if she felt the same way.
Whatever it was, the day had come when David finally brought her home to meet his family. His heart swelled at the memory: his brother offering his prized marbles out to the girl, Sarah showing her a stitch she'd only managed to master herself, his mother's accepting smile, his father's proud nod. It had been one of the best days he'd ever spent and now, standing alongside her on the fire escape outside that window to his apartment, he couldn't keep his eyes from glancing at her profile as discretely as he could.
Or, at least he thought he was glancing discretely...
"What?" Vanessa asked suddenly, turning to look at him. She raised her hand to her face and wiped at her cheek. "Is there a smudge there or something?"
"No, no, no," he answered quickly, feeling the heat rising in his face. He hadn't meant to be caught staring. "There's nothing… you're beautiful, Vanessa."
"Beautiful?" she asked with a coy smile. He noticed she glanced behind her to check and see if anyone was hovering near the window. They were alone, and she said just as coyly, "Do you really think so?" And he realized that, for the first time ever, he'd actually said to her exactly what he was thinking.
Which, of course meant that, in response to her question, the most he was able to get out was a mixture of embarrassed pauses and all the wrong words. David was glad no one else was around to hear him make such a fool of himself. "I was just… I mean, you know I care for you, Vanessa, and… you see—"
Vanessa laughed, a loud laugh that pierced the night air and set the butterflies in David's stomach flapping. "What is it, David? Spit it out already." She shook her head. "For such an educated boy, you sure do stumble over your words sometimes."
And so he blurted out: "I love you."
Her laughter ceased, her mouth opened slightly as she unblinkingly met his earnest stare. The flush in his cheeks intensified, flaring up like a lit match, and he started to talk, started to take back what it was that he said. But Vanessa stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.
"I… I think I feel the same," she said then, the words tumbling out quickly as if she thought that she should say them now or she'd never say them at all. She dared a glance straight into his eyes, even held his gaze for a few seconds before she looked down over the railing, staring down at the streets far below.
And though David's heart started to beat so loud he could hear the rhythm pounding in his ears, and a boyish grin split across his face at hearing her speak in such a way, there was no doubt in his mind that Vanessa was only saying what she knew he wanted to hear. There was no doubt that she didn't mean it—or, at least, not the way David meant it—but that didn't mean that she never would.
He was going to do everything he could to make sure she did.
The door was unlocked when they arrived at it. David exhaled in relief as the knob turned under his hand. The instant Spot had spied the candle burning in the window, he thought that Vanessa might have given up on him and gone to bed without waiting to see him. It wasn't as late as he expected it to be—a quick look at his watch revealed it was just past eight—but it was much later than he usually arrived. Whatever it was, he couldn't say he was anxious for her reaction.
The sound of the door creaking slowly open must've caught Vanessa's attention because no sooner had David pushed the door inward and taken one step over the threshold, she came rushing out of their bedroom. She held a wooden spoon out like a weapon, brandishing it the same way Les used to play-fight with his old wood-hewn sword. When she saw that it was her husband, she lowered the hand gripping the spoon, clasping its twin over her chest.
"Oh, David, it's you! I thought…" Vanessa began but then she shook her head as if it didn't matter what she had thought. "Where have you been? I was so worried... dinner was ready over an hour ago. I've been waiting for you and, goodness, I should put the stew back on so that it's hot."
Vanessa started to turn around and move towards the kitchen but David caught her lightly by the wrist. She tensed under his touch and he took that to mean she was angrier about his tardiness than she let on, covering up her upset with an anxiousness that both reminded him of his mother and made him wonder if, perhaps, Vanessa was spending too much time alone.
She looked back up at him curiously and he took the opportunity to kiss her gently on her forehead, hoping to calm her and, if he was lucky, sidestep her questions before she remembered later that she asked him any at all. One of the main reasons why David stayed away from saloons like the one he found Spot in was because he didn't think his wife would approve; the last thing he wanted to do when she was already acting so queerly was give her more fuel when her long-buried temper finally rose to the surface.
"You know how Mr. Wagner can be," he said evenly, going with the working class's long-held habit of blaming his employer first, "and then I had to go ahead and make a short stop after he finally closed up for the night. See, I've brought you some chocolates—"
"One of them's from me, Dave, don't forget to tell her that."
"—and I've even brought you a guest," he finished, suddenly second guessing the brilliance of bringing Spot back with him to his home. It had seemed the right thing to do, watching Spot cradle his empty whiskey glass in the dark, smoky saloon; now, standing under the brighter lights in his apartment, he wondered if he would've been better off reminding Spot about the date like he meant to and leaving the young Irishman to his vices and his drink.
But he couldn't do that. Deep down he knew Vanessa would understand. He grinned sheepishly as he held the two packages of bon-bons out to her. They were both a gift and a bribe. From the way her hazel eyes lit up when she spied the box, he figured it had been a smart choice. "Spot's right," he said, moving aside so that Spot could follow him in and shut the door behind them. "It was his idea to buy a spare."
Vanessa's lips went from the downturn of a worried frown to a pursed expression as she wordlessly questioned her husband's actions. David shrugged and she nodded, finally allowing herself a small smile. She accepted the bon-bons from David. "Thank you, David. And you, Spot… it's good to see you. Have you been well?"
He eyed her intently, taking in her slim form, her pale complexion and the absently nervous way she kept pulling at the folds of her skirt. "Better than you, I'm sure," he answered shortly, before sniffing the air. "Dave said something about dinner. What're we having?"
His words caused a little color to flood her cheeks but Vanessa managed to control her emotions. Spot had had it rough and if David was willing to give him another chance, invite him in and try to make something of the man, then who was she to say anything against it? It was the least she could do. Bolstered by David's encouraging nod behind Spot, Vanessa led the way into the kitchen and gestured to the pot on the stove. "Beef stew," she said, "and there's plenty for everyone."
The stew had long been finished and after a quick simmer, she ladled out three bowls. David was already sitting in his chair, Spot sitting beside him in the one that Jack Kelly had occupied mere hours before. With her husband at the table, Vanessa resumed her regular seat. After a quick bowing of their heads and thanks, the three of them started to eat.
While Spot wolfed his stew down and Vanessa twirled her spoon around the broth aimlessly, David got up from the table and went to the breadbox. Knowing it was the perfect addition to the meal, he took out the plate that had the day-old bread resting on it. There was less than there had been after last night's supper and he was glad. At least that meant that Vanessa must've had a hearty lunch that afternoon. Because of that, he chose not to say anything about the way she played with her stew more than she ate any of it.
Spot's appetite was limitless and he finished off three bowls before David had finished his first; Vanessa's remained barely touched. As David spooned himself out another helping, his hunger was limited by his rising concerns over Vanessa. He'd thought she'd been acting strange lately but this… the not eating, the quietness, the way she was even more worried about his absence than he thought she'd be… she wasn't just acting strange. She was acting like a stranger.
He couldn't understand what had happened in the hours since he last sat with her at the breakfast table; she'd been off-color but nowhere near as timid as she was now, watching him anxiously, throwing annoyed glances across the table and in Spot's direction when she didn't think David was looking. When had the change occurred? While he worked, Vanessa tended to the household duties like any wife should. She rarely left the apartment without him by her side—and what inside the apartment could make her withdraw like this?
It had to be Spot, David decided. She tried to put on a good face, act the part of the gracious hostess, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. And he just didn't know why.
Maybe he shouldn't have gone after Spot after the office closed. If he hadn't bought the newspaper last night, and if he hadn't seen the date this morning, would he have even remembered that the 21st of April was closing up on him? Probably, and he would've done the same exact thing: look for Spot and make sure that he got his fair share. Vanessa would understand why in the end. She may feel put out having a guest thrust upon her so unexpectedly, but the money he claimed in five days time may bring the old Vanessa back.
At least, he hoped it would.
So focused on his thoughts, David forgot all about his second helping of stew. It wasn't until his spoon slipped out from his lax fingers, dinging against the bowl and sending spatters of the dark broth onto the table that he remembered where he was, what he was doing and who he was sitting at the table with. He jerked, immediately reached for the dishcloth Vanessa brought with her to the table, and started to mop up where the stew spilt.
"Well, I think that's all for me. Thank you, Vanessa, and you, Dave. I think I'm goin' to hit the hay," Spot announced suddenly then, grabbing his hat from the table where he'd tossed it and sticking it under his arm. A quiet man himself, the silence from both David and his wife was enough to make even him uncomfortable; it was even worse when the Walking Mouth got all twitchy like that. "Ya got a tub, Dave?"
Thoughts all muddled and his concerned gaze locked on Vanessa's profile and the way she hardly responded to Spot's announcement, David just couldn't keep the small grin from curling his lip. "It's not porcelain," he said, tearing his attention away from his wife so that he could face Spot, "but it's a tub."
"Boilin' water?"
"As hot as you'd like."
For the first time that evening, Spot shared a genuine grin. It was slightly crooked, lopsided as the last of the drink showed up on his expression, but it was a grin and David was glad to see it. He'd been hard-pressed to see anything from guilt, shame and bitterness crossing Spot's face—and that was when he was sober, a rarity at that—ever since Sarah died; to see Spot so delighted over the prospect of a hot bath, David was willing to boil up some water himself.
But before he could offer to stoke a fire, Spot yawned and nodded curtly at him and Vanessa. "For now I'm beat. I'll take ya up on your offer of a tub tomorrow, if the lady of the house doesn't mind, that is."
Vanessa had been staring down at her bowl, using her spoon to play with the skim on the surface. When she realized that Spot had addressed her, she glanced up, that touch of color back to her cheeks. She blinked, gave her head a small, clearing shake, and adopted the prim smile she usually reserved for dinner at David's parents' home. "Of course, Spot. Whatever you'd like."
Spot's eyebrows raised but he didn't say anything as he shot a look in David's direction. But David was just as flabbergasted as he was. Something was obviously wrong with Vanessa—there had to be, if even Spot had noticed.
Vanessa Sawyer's parent had both died before she was thirteen years old and without anyone to support her, she moved from the slum in Five Points that she lived in from her childhood over to the Elizabeth Boardinghouse for Young Ladies. It was a marked improvement from the ash-filled cellars and the overcrowding in the Five Points, but the lodging fare enticed her to find some means to support herself.
David never asked her what she did to earn money, though she often spoke of long hours in a factory that left her hands still rough and callused. But she did nothing but sewing—which left her fingers tender and raw—when he met her, piecework and tatting so similar to the work Sarah took in to help the Jacobs' family. It was enough for her to get by on, but without a strict shift, it left plenty of time for him to try to see her.
Because Vanessa was an orphan with no family that neither he nor she knew of, it was much easier for him to do this. She didn't have a father for him to ask permission of first, or an eagle-eyed mother or aunt to chaperone their meetings and make sure that nothing David did was considered improper. He was free to call on her at her lodgings with her leave and later, she came to spend much of her free time at the Jacobs' family apartment. She was a saving grace when it came to Sarah's wedding to Spot, and in the years he'd been courting her, she was already accepted as part of his family. Therefore, it only made sense that a proposal would follow.
It had taken him weeks to work up the nerve to do this; the steady weight of the ring in his pocket did nothing to calm him as he rang for Vanessa to come down. It had taken him months before he scraped up enough in Mr. Wagner's employ to afford one that was worthy of Vanessa. He just hoped he'd done enough in the last few years to make sure her answer would be yes...
After David showed Spot to the spare bedroom, and Spot closed the door behind him in order to allow the Jacobses a touch of privacy, Vanessa immediately rose to clear the supper dishes from the table. David stayed seated in his chair, watching his wife bustle from the table to the kitchen and back. He waited until the table was empty and Vanessa was busying herself with her back to him—he waited until it was so obvious that she was ignoring him—before tapping the tips of his fingers against the tabletop in a play to get her attention.
"Vanessa… Ness," he said softly, and the pleading in his voice caused her to turn around, "I'm sorry. I never meant to be so late and I definitely didn't mean to bring Spot back with me. It just... it happened, and I'm sorry. I couldn't leave him there. Sarah, she—"
He stopped at the mention of his sister's name, unsure how to continue—and vaguely uneasy about whether or not Spot could hear them in the other room; it was the perfect moment for Vanessa to cut him off. Shaking her head, looking everywhere and anywhere but directly in her husband's searching gaze, she said just as quietly, "Don't be sorry. You did what you thought was best and I trust you. Spot's family, and we'll always stand by family."
David nodded but her words did little to assuage his ever-growing worries. "Then what is it? If not Spot, what's got you acting like this? And please don't tell me it's nothing. I know you, something's wrong and I can't figure out what it is. Is something on your mind? Did I do something wrong? Tell me, I'll do what I can to fix it."
The pleading in his voice almost pained her. Vanessa took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she stared past him, her gaze fixated on the wall behind him. "You didn't do anything wrong, David," she said at last. "Why must you worry so?"
"Because my wife won't look me in the eye. Isn't that cause to worry?"
"It's nothing," she insisted, forcing herself to look at him. She even chanced a small smile. "Honestly. It's a bit silly, really."
But David wasn't giving up just yet. "Tell me, please."
"It's just that… I've been thinking…"
"Yes?" he said encouragingly. "You know you can tell me anything."
Vanessa exhaled then and her words came out in a rush: "It's the spare room. I've been thinking about it lately and how we hardly ever use it. Why don't we take in a boarder?"
She looked so serious that he couldn't help but let out a short laugh in relief. All along he'd been worried that she was ill, or upset with him, or something… and all she was thinking about was the spare room in the apartment. What a silly thing to worry about! His wage covered their rent, and their rent included a fourth room. What did it matter if it went empty?
Then he noticed that she really meant it and he wished he could take back his laughter. She was watching him with a curious expression, earnestly waiting his response. "A boarder?" he repeated, trying to keep his voice neutral. "You mean, like Spot?"
Her eyes flitted down the hall and she frowned. "No… no, I didn't mean Spot."
"Then who?"
"I didn't have anyone in mind, David," she lied, lowering her eyes in the hopes he couldn't tell, "but wouldn't it be nice to have a little more money? I could do the washing and prepare meals for a boarder, David. It would be a whole other wage for a room that's been empty for too long."
It hit David then. The reason she was so listless lately, how pale she'd become, how desperate she was to be the perfect wife, and it was this: the two of them were married a year ago, on a beautiful March evening in 1904. Though he never dared mention it, he'd often thought they would have started their family by now. He knew Vanessa wanted children—when they first got married, she spoke of nothing else—and it was for that reason they chose to rent a four room apartment over the smaller, less expensive ones with only three rooms.
But a year had passed and she had yet to be with child. Up until recently, within the last month or so, it had been all she ever thought about. She stopped right around the time of their first anniversary; when the subject was dropped, David let it go. She would bring it up again when she was ready. And he would be there for her when she was.
"Is that what this is about? That the room… it's still empty? Because we haven't been married that long and we still have time. Plenty of time."
Vanessa's mouth dropped in obvious surprise. "It's… it's not that, David," she said and he had to believe her. But what was it then? He was about to go ahead and ask her that but, before he had, she shook her head and said, in a dismissing sort of voice, "Forget I said anything. Like I said, it was a silly idea. I won't mention it again."
And she was true to her word. Despite David's murmured apologies and attempts to get her to open up and talk to him, Vanessa finished clearing the table and headed towards the washroom, never saying another word to him at all.
David ran the side of his finger along the chipped mortar. If he hadn't seen Jack hack and saw at this very brick almost four years ago, he never would've thought anything of the jagged edge; instead, it looked like the others, the wornness just a touch from time. Indistinguishable. Indiscernible. There was no sign the large brick had ever once been disturbed since it was first laid down. To be honest, he was a little impressed—and just a touch concerned that he might have come to the wrong spot.
At any rate, He shouldn't be there. He knew that he shouldn't have come. It had only been three and a half years since that fateful night which meant that there was still a year and a half before he was due to be standing in this same spot. But he was there, and it was an act of a scared and worried young man that brought him to Duane Street that night.
It had been on a romantic whim, a foolish desire to follow in Spot Conlon's footsteps and take a young lady he loved to be his wife. After watching how happy Spot made his sister, David used the money he'd been saving to buy Vanessa a ring that she accepted with a sincerity he couldn't find it in him to doubt. She loved him, he believed her when she said so, and she wanted to become Mrs. David Jacobs.
But weddings were expensive. Renting a room together as a young married couple was expensive. He still lived with his parents and Les, but he would leave once he was wed to Vanessa... if he had the money. His wage was fair, and Mr. Wagner said there was always room for growth for an enterprising clerk, yet he couldn't deny that he wasn't confident that he could afford this new life on his salary.
And that was why, after the office closed for the night, David found himself skulking down Duane Street, knowing he shouldn't be there and wondering what damage would be done if he borrowed just enough money to make sure he could afford to give Vanessa the life he felt she deserved. She'd grown up in a tenement, scrapping for bread to survive. She promised herself she would never go back to that and David promised her that he wouldn't let her.
Only a little, he thought. He still remembered how much money was stuffed inside, how the coins and paper money spilled out of the sack when it was opened. No one would miss it, no one would ever have to know, and he could even replace it in time if his guilt got the better of him. His hand reached out again, his finger poised to grip the corner of the brick, before he suddenly felt the guilt rise up against him. He dropped his arm back to his side.
It wasn't right. Just like he thought all those years ago, it was stealing—and, this time, it was stealing from four other young men who trusted him with this secret. Besides, there was only a little time left. He could wait. Besides, Vanessa wasn't marrying him because he was in on the secret of a stash of money hidden away behind a brick wall. She was marrying him because she loved him—
David had never been able to deny Vanessa anything she wanted, not when they first met, not when she accepted his proposal, not even since they'd been married. But that was the problem, wasn't it? He wasn't sure what it was that she did want. Was it a child? Really a boarder? Or was money the only thing she desired? He didn't know, and he couldn't explain her behavior anymore than he could understand it.
They were both young, and there was more than enough time for them to expand their little family. If renting out their room to a boarder gave her something to do with her days until the room was needed made her happy, he was willing to go along with her suggestions. And if all that mattered was the money, well, all she had to do was wait five more days and there would be plenty of that.
For just a moment he wondered if he should give in and tell Vanessa about the money. It was the one secret—the one secret—he'd ever kept from his wife. He'd given his word, he'd even spit-shook over it, and David had kept the secret for close to five years. He could wait five more days. Vanessa would understand. She always did.
That thought in mind, David headed towards their bedroom, removing his tie as he walked slowly inside. Vanessa had already finished washing up and had changed into her nightdress, ready to go to sleep. She was in the middle of turning down the bed when David slipped in and, with a gentle overlaying of his hand on hers, she stopped, the quilt slipping from her fingers.
He didn't know what to say, or how to put his thoughts into the right words. That was unusual for him but, then again, this was an usual situation.
David wanted to ask to see her smile and tell her not to worry, things were only going to get better for them. He wanted to apologize for bringing Spot home with him but he knew he shouldn't; whatever was bothering her, it had been bothering her before Spot reappeared in their lives. He wanted to assume his role as the man of the house and demand that she be honest with him, tell the truth and not keep it all to herself.
But he didn't. He couldn't. So he just sighed and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I love you, Vanessa."
"And I… I love you, too." She gave him a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You know I do."
It struck him then, almost like a shot to the chest, that there was something about the way she said that, something that seemed achingly familiar—but not in a good way. Though she smiled and, reaching over with her free hand, patted the top of his comfortingly, he couldn't help but think that, for the first time in years, maybe she wasn't telling him the truth.
She was only telling him what she thought should be true.
—wasn't she?
Chapter 6: Race's Place
Chapter Text
Five
April 18, 1905
It was times like these, when she questioned her devotion to one man and was absolutely concerned about her attraction to another, that Vanessa Jacobs strove to be the perfect wife she felt David deserved. If she could just show him how much she cared by doing the little things for him, maybe she could remind herself how much she did care. She loved David, she knew she did—but why was it so hard to remember that every time Jack came around?
It was quite clear that the guilt and the worries she struggled to hide had been on display last night for her husband and everyone else to see. Already regretting spending the afternoon with Jack, she'd been frightened when David returned later than usual. And, worse, he'd brought Spot with him.
It wasn't that she didn't like Spot—she did. He was a nice guy, even if he drank too much at times, and she'd pitied him when Sarah died so suddenly last year; she could hardly imagine how she would manage if David was taken away from her so cruelly like that. But how in the world could she explain it if Jack showed up at the apartment only to find Spot Conlon sleeping in the bed they normally shared? That thought had been running through her mind ever since David arrived with Spot in tow. It was no wonder David questioned her over how queer she was acting. The guilt and fear of being caught churned her belly, the queerness she felt was near overwhelming. It had been impossible to hide.
Still, when David fell asleep last night and Vanessa lay awake thinking, she knew then what she would have to do. Spot was staying, she wasn't sure for how long, and nothing was worth her affair with Jack coming to light. So, after serving David a nice, hot breakfast and kissing him before he left for work, Vanessa put on her hat and scurried down to the local courier. She dispatched a quick message for Jack Kelly at the room he was renting before hurrying right back home, mixed emotions hammering against her chest like the frantic beating of her heart.
It was then, relieved that Jack would get the message and stay away and then no one would have to know, only then that Vanessa came back to the apartment and started doing every little thing she could think of to prove to David that she was his wife, that she loved him and that there was absolutely, positively nothing for him to worry over. She proceeded to do all the washing, aired out the sheets—but not Spot's since he was still sleeping—fixed a button on one of David's shirts, and even pressed a pair of his trousers for another day. All that done, she turned her attention onto the kitchen next.
Despite the fog she was in yesterday, Vanessa was aware that David had eaten much of the remaining bread; partly because his crumbs had left a mess for her to clean, and mostly because she was afraid he might wonder what happened to the missing slabs that had made up Jack's bacon sandwiches. David loved hot bread, he said it reminded him of home, and since it was his mother's recipe, it should. If there was one thing that would help satisfy her husband, it was coming home to freshly baked bread. She had the ingredients, she had the time and she got to work.
Up to her elbows in dough, baking flour all over the front of her apron and everywhere else for that matter, she was too busy to notice it when Spot joined her in the kitchen. He walked silently, moving like a cat as he slipped noiselessly inside the small room. Vanessa never heard him, not until he murmured, "Mornin'."
His greeting gave her a start and she spun, her hands flying up to her face in surprise. Spot pulled a small, half-hearted smirk, keeping to his place just inside the kitchen.
His suspenders were hanging at his side, his undershirt untucked, his fair hair mussed as if he'd slept terribly. Lines marked his face, bags were under his eyes but there was a sharp glint in the cyan depths that betrayed his sloppy appearance. He'd slept far longer than he needed to, far longer than she would've expected, but he was awake now. Awake and watching her with such an unblinking expression it was as if he was looking straight through her. That made her uncomfortable, worse than his unkempt appearance, and she turned back around if only to escape his gaze.
"Good morning, Spot," she said, kneading her dough with more emphasis than was necessary. "There's some cold eggs if you'd like them," she added, gesturing with her elbow at the pan she left on the cooling burner after that morning's breakfast, "and I have plenty of fresh fruit if you're still hungry. David says fruit's good for you too, you should eat up."
"No, thanks. Actually, just a cup of coffee would be good."
"Milk, sugar?"
"When ya get used to drinkin' whiskey like water," he said bluntly, "you get even more used to drinkin' your coffee strong and black the next mornin'."
Vanessa had to fight to keep a disapproving look from crossing her face. For David's sake, if nothing else, she would behave herself. "And boiled is fine? That's how David takes it, boiled and right off the stove."
"Whatever ya got. Beggars can't be choosers, y'know. Want me to get the kettle?"
Wiping her hands with the bottom of her apron, Vanessa shook her head. "Leave it to me."
Not one to argue with a woman when it came to the kitchen, Spot sat down in the same seat he'd taken for supper and watched silently as Vanessa set out to make the coffee. After washing her hands free of the doughy muck, she filled up the kettle with water and coffee grounds, set it on the burner and waited patiently for the steam to make the kettle whistle. She didn't speak either, but the silence was a comfortable one. With something to occupy her, she could almost forget Spot was sitting behind her at the table.
When the kettle whistled and she knew the coffee had boiled enough to David's liking, she waited another minute or two more for the coffee to darken to a taste suitable for Spot's specifications—strong and black. Then, careful not to spill in too many of the grounds, she poured the coffee into a mug and brought it over to Spot.
"Thanks," he said, accepting the mug. He waited until she had turned around and had just put her palms back to her dough before he said loftily, "So, when are ya gonna tell him?"
"Hm? Tell who what?"
"Tell David. About Jack."
It was a good thing she was working on the dough rather than slicing up a hot loaf. The way her hands slipped, if she'd been holding onto a knife, she would've lost a finger. As it was, she banged her right hand against the countertop when she jerked, visibly shaken by Spot's words; folding it into a tight fist, grimacing as pain shot up her wrist, Vanessa took a deep breath before she said slowly, "I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you sure?"
There was something in his voice that enticed her to glance over her shoulder. And, when she did, what she saw caused her to gasp out loud—which she immediately regretted. She gave away too much in the sound.
In between two fingers Spot held the ends of a spent cigarette. How many times had they both seen Jack hand-roll his own with paper that looked just like that? And they both knew that David had never smoked a cigarette in his life; it was as equally obvious that it wasn't hers. But how could she have been so careless to let him leave that behind? She'd warned Jack more than once not to smoke a cigarette in her home in case the stench lingered and the scent of her flowers couldn't hide it. When had he left that behind?
Not… it was yesterday's, wasn't it?
Under the dusting of baking flour on her face, her cheeks lost all color as she paled. "Where did you get that?"
"Does it matter? We both know who it belongs to." Spot placed it on the table, frowning. "Dave's a good man, Vanessa. I've been watchin' his back for years, first 'cause Sarah asked me too, then because I knew he needed someone to. I just never thought he'd need someone to protect him from his own wife."
Vanessa was speechless. A hesitant finger reached out for the ends of the cigarette but she stopped when she was mere inches away. Drawing back as if she's been burned, she said softly, "You don't understand."
"And I don't wanna. I just want to make sure that this doesn't happen again."
He was only saying what she'd been telling herself from the beginning, but why did it mean so much more coming from someone else? She hung her head. "It never should've in the first place."
"Yeah." Pushing his seat away from the table, there was a strange look on his face as he got up: a calculating expression, a conspiratorial understanding in the down-turned lines of his frown. "Thanks for the coffee," he said, nodding at the untouched mug. "I think I'm gonna take that bath now."
Vanessa stood frozen as he left but sunk into her chair once the door shut behind him, hazel eyes drawn to the accusing stub like a moth drawn to a flame. The thing was this: it didn't really even matter that Spot knew. There was something about him, about the way he came to her to talk about it rather than go straight to David. She had nothing to fear from him. He wouldn't tell David, she was sure of it. Spot wouldn't think it was his place and, besides, he wouldn't want to hurt David like that. Not like she had.
The bread was all but forgotten as she chewed nervously at her bottom lip. She'd been fooling herself, that was all there was to it. Guilt didn't go away by ignoring it; baking bread for her husband didn't excuse her infidelity. Doing everything right could never make up for what she'd done that was so wrong.
No, it didn't matter that Spot knew. Vanessa knew, and that was enough.
It had been almost three years since the individual cities of New York—Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens and Staten Island—had been pushed together—consolidated, hah!—to create the Greater City of New York. Almost three years, but there were still those who respected the boundaries and knew when it was safe for a Brooklyn boy to head into Queens or where in the Bronx a Manhattan native could go if he wanted to have both of his legs when he left again.
Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly were two boys raised during a time when just walking down the wrong street could mean the end for you. It didn't matter what the city was called now, they were two boys who respected the old ways and knew where they were from: Jack, Manhattan, and Brooklyn for Spot. Hell, there were still times Spot flat-out refused to believe Brooklyn could be part of anything that wasn't his.
Which was precisely why, when Spot and Jack met up as they usually did to talk things over, they always chose to meet in the exact center of the Brooklyn Bridge. Halfway from Brooklyn, halfway from Manhattan, the two young leaders would talk about their boys, their sales and any rumbles of trouble from any of the other territories. Their uneasy alliance from last summer, when Spot and his Brooklyn boys came to the Manhattan boys' aid outside of the distribution center, had grown into something more powerful over time. Together, they were quite formidable.
Which was also why, when Jack and Sarah Jacobs broke things off at the end of the year, and Spot started seeing her not much later, Jack never said a word. Well, among other reasons…
For months they met at the center of the bridge but, no surprise, more and more these days they were edging closer to the Manhattan side. That morning Spot had even gone so far as to meet him at Newspaper Row, a couple of blocks over from the foot of the bridge. Together they talked about the morning edition—the headlines had been better and sales were up—and they talked about the latest rumors—Spot had his birds set up in Harlem, keeping an eye on their volatile leader—and they talked about a show down at Irving Hall they'd both managed to catch last week—Medda was vision of loveliness in blue. They talked about anything and everything except for the one thing neither had brought up in weeks.
Sarah.
Just as their meeting was winding down, just as Spot would normally be heading back to Brooklyn—even if Jack knew damn well that he wasn't going back yet—just as Jack thought he'd dodged that bullet again… that was when Spot glanced up at him and, looking him dead in the eye, said quite knowingly, "Who is she?"
"Who's who, Spot?" He should've been an actor, his innocence was that convincing.
But not convincing enough to fool an old pal. "The girl, Jacky Boy. Who is she?"
"I don't know what ya mean."
Spot scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ya haven't said one word 'bout me and Sarah. I've been waitin' and we both know that ain't like you. She was your girl but ya let her go, never sayin' nothin' when she chose me. That means only one thing: who is she?" When Jack didn't say anything, Spot continued to wheedle. "C'mon, I know ya better than that. What, don't trust me?"
"I trust ya, Spot." Jack sighed, suspecting he'd been caught. There was no way he could say anything else. To tell Spot Conlon he didn't trust him didn't just mean an end to their friendship. It meant an end to the Brooklyn-Manhattan alliance. "Vanessa, alright? Her name's Vanessa."
Spot's grin became suddenly shark-like and Jack knew he'd been caught. "Vanessa Sawyer." Then, in answer to the suspiciousness that flashed across Jack's face, his grin widened. "Birdies, Jacky. I got 'em all over."
It must've been a miracle. How else could he explain it? There it was, still minutes left until the clocks chimed six, and Mr. Wagner had given his office clerks leave to go home a little early. David could hardly contain his pleased smile as he followed young Jenkins out of the door. He'd make up for his tardiness yesterday by arriving home early today; if he could stop and buy Vanessa some of her favorite chocolates at the corner shop, all the better for him. Maybe he would even offer to help wash up after dinner.
And then he saw Spot Conlon leaning lazily against the thick, steel lamp pole perched just outside of the building. His back to the street, shrewd eyes narrowed on the exit, he'd been watching and waiting for David. When he saw him, Spot pushed his back off the pole, his hands in his pockets and his hat slung low enough to hide him from prying eyes.
David had paused when he caught sight of Spot. Once the other man started moving towards him, he lurched forward in an attempt to meet him halfway. "Spot?" he said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"We're going to go visit Race, remember?"
"You wanted to do that today?"
"Why not?" Spot asked conversationally. Pulling his right hand out of his pocket, he reached up and tugged on the brim of his faded old newsboy cap so that not even David could see his eyes—or so that he could avoid David's innocent blue eyes at all costs. "No time like the present."
David could already feel his plans for the evening slipping away; still, he gave it a good try. "But Vanessa… I didn't tell her I would be going out. I can't do that to her again."
"You don't have to. I told her we had somethin' to do and she wished us her best. Stop bein' such a worrywart."
Spot's scolding rang in his ears and he hoped none of his fellow clerks heard any part of that. He already had quite the reputation in the office for worrying, double- and triple-checking his ledgers often to ensure his figures always added up. Which they did—but only because, as David pointed out, he checked them often enough to prevent any careless errors. Glancing around, he saw that Mr. Wagner's uncharacteristic leniency and early dismissal had not been taken lightly; none of his employees, save for David, had lingered.
David let out a sigh of relief he quickly stifled when another glance revealed that Spot had already started to walk away. He'd gone half a block ahead of where David stood, taken aback by his quick pace. Clearly, Spot hadn't stopped at the saloon that day. He always walked faster when he was sober.
Lengthening his stride so he could catch up, David was a touch out of breath when he met Spot at the corner. A horse was crossing in front of them; it was a copper's horse which might've explained why Spot stopped, even if his impatient snort showed he wasn't too happy with pausing at all. The cop looked down his long nose at Spot, Spot glared back up at him and suddenly David envisioned himself waiting the five days to use Spot's share to buy him out of jail. But then the horse neighed, the cop rode off down the street and Spot started moving again. After only a second's hesitation, David followed him.
"So," he began, always one to start talking if only to hear the sound of his own voice, "how was your… er… your bath?"
As he walked, Spot turned his head slightly to his right; it was almost as if he couldn't believe the question. "It was good, Dave. I feel all clean now, thanks."
"And Vanessa… she didn't bother you?"
Spot was never big on beating around the bush. He should've known that was what it was about. Without even batting an eye, he said calmly, "Why don't you just come out with it? Ya want to know how she is, don't ya? Ya want me to rat her out, tell ya what she was up to while you was at work."
"It's not that," he began, sputtering at just how true Spot's accusations were, "I… you saw how she was acting last night."
"She's a dame. Don't you think your sister had her days where I couldn't make heads nor tails of her?"
"She did?"
"All the time," Spot answered with a shrug. He sounded so earnest that David had to believe him. "It's what dames do. So don't worry 'bout it. There ain't nothin' to worry about."
"Oh… thanks." That seemed to calm David down; at the very least, he wasn't anywhere near as twitchy. Heeding Spot's advice, David pushed his worries out of his head in favor of what they were going to do. "Where are we going now?"
"To Race's place," Spot reminded him. "He doesn't live that far from here."
David nodded. It made sense that Racetrack lived close by. Sheepshead Bay was still just a trolley ride away and, besides, with the exception of Jack and possibly Oscar Delancey, none of the others had moved more than a few blocks away from Duane Street. "It's been ages since I'd seen Race," he told Spot, "since the wedding, in fact."
Spot answered without thinking. "I remember. Sarah could hardly believe he showed up… and with half a bottle of gin inside of him!"
He laughed, and David followed, before both of them realized at the same exact time what Spot had said; worse, who Spot had brought up in so light-hearted a manner. David's laughter turned into a hurried cough which he covered up by lifting his hand to his mouth. Spot just shut his, took a deep breath in through his nose, and did not say another word.
They walked the rest of the way in that same awkward silence that followed them home yesterday evening.
There was a copper on the corner, swinging his night stick to and fro, daring any hooligans to show themselves while he was on the beat. It wasn't the most dangerous corner in the Lower East Side, not this far from Five Points, nor was it by any of the tenement slums full of murder, vice, sickness and death, and the bull had little to watch out for. It was quiet, the flickering flames coming off the gas lamps throwing shadows around, and he whistled "A Twilight Call" softly under his breath as he kept his watch.
But on another corner, one just a block over and hidden in the darkness, a lone figure stood, breathless. He kept his cap pulled down low, anxious fingers tapping nervously against his trousers, a half-smoked, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. Racetrack Higgins could see the cop and was damn glad that the copper couldn't see him back. His corner was just as empty, and his watch was as vigilant. His street was vacant which, for his purposes, suited him just fine.
He knew he shouldn't be doing this. If he had any shred of decency in him, he would've forgotten all about this place, all about the money, and just done what all the others promised to do: wait five years to split the loot five ways. But Race didn't have any decency left, just a feverish desire to take his money and run. He wasn't a crook, he didn't want any more than he had a claim to—okay, maybe he might dip into Oscar's stash some but Delancey deserved it—so why not? No one was around, David's conscience was nowhere to be found, they would never know…
They would never know.
Ducking down, tucking his chin into his chest, Race moved quickly, trying to make himself appear even smaller than he already was. The street was still empty, the lights were few and far between, and he was confident he'd made it without being seen.
He waited for only as long as it took him to remove the blunt knife from his vest pocket before he crouched down low in front of one particular brick in a long, unmistakable stretch of the wall. Jack's marks still visible to someone who knew where to look, he attacked them with the dull edge of his blade.
"Watcha doin', Race?"
Racetrack nearly swallowed his cigar. Straightening up quickly, brushing the mortar from his hands as his beady eyes searched the darkness, he saw what his nerves and his greed had blinded him to before: a not so tall figure leaning against the brick wall at the far end.
"Spot," he said, his voice oily and smooth as he hid the knife behind his back, "I didn't see ya there."
"Huh… seems like Jacky Boy owes me two bits."
It wasn't what Race expected him to say and he played along nicely. "Why's that?"
"He bet me that you'd make it five days before ya came back here for that money. I didn't think you'd even make it three." He jerked his head at the wall, nodding right at the exact place Race had been crouching in front of only a minute ago. "Looks like I was right."
"It's not what it looks like… yeah, okay, it is what it looks like… but five years, Spot? You're not really gonna listen to Mouth about that, are ya?"
"We shook on it," Spot said simply.
Race ignored that. "Why were you bettin' against me, anyway?"
"I only bet when I know I'm gonna win. Try not to be so predictable next time, Race. It's just money."
"Just money?" Race sounded pained, clasping one of his stubby hands over his heart. Lucky for him, it was the hand not holding the knife. "Don't say that."
There wasn't even a flicker of a humorous smile on Spot's face as he walked forward, moving closer to Race as silent as the grave, his hand outstretched and his lips drawn thin. Race gulped. Spot stopped a foot away from him, so close that he could smell the stale cigar smoke that clung to Race's vest. "Give me that knife," he demanded, his voice no higher than a whisper.
Racetrack was suddenly aware of the flimsy steel clasped between slick fingers. "What knife?" he asked. Even in the darkness he couldn't miss the way Spot's eyes narrowed dangerously, and his chuckle revealed more of his nervousness than he intended. Slowly, Race brought his hand back in front of him. "Oh… you mean this knife."
As quick as lightning, Spot shot his hand out and grabbed the knife by the blade; if it nicked him or sliced his hand in anyway, you would never know. He tucked it under his pale red suspender strap, placed securely beneath his cane. "I catch you around here again," he began, his every word dripping with the threat he meant, "this knife ain't gonna be stuck in the mortar, Race, it's gonna be stuck in you. And don't think the blade bein' as soft as your head'll stop me. It won't. Four shares of a fortune goes a lot farther than five, I'll tell ya."
"I… I hear ya, Spot. You won't be seein' me here again."
"That's what I thought," Spot said softly, menacingly, meaningfully.
And Racetrack realized what it was that made him so uncomfortable. It wasn't the threat, it wasn't the darkness, it wasn't even the way Spot appeared out of the shadows so silently like that… or maybe it was. It was the silence. Race liked it better when Spot was loud, his temper hot and his fists folded. This quiet Spot, this deadly serious Spot with an easy grip on Race's knife… he had Race damn near shaking in his plaid vest. But while he nodded, reluctantly agreeing with Spot and telling the other boy everything he wanted to hear, he couldn't help but think about the next time he could make it back to the wall and get the money.
Because he was going to. He just wasn't going to let Spot see him doing it. And once he had his money? Well, he'd grab more than enough to make sure that dull old knife would never find him.
The superintendent for Racetrack's building was far more accommodating than David would have expected. Maybe he recognized Spot as one of Race's—Tony's—friends, maybe he didn't think he had anything to worry about when it came to someone like David Jacobs, or maybe the old man didn't really care about who he let inside his apartments… either way, when David found him and explained who they were there to see, the man instructed them to go to the eighth floor and, as he put it, "make sure you tell that short bastard he needs to pay his rent, he's already overdue."
David, as per usual, was worried that Race wouldn't be home but, for some reason, Spot seemed convinced that they would find their old friend waiting for them inside. He confidently led the way through the tenement, stepping over a grey-haired sleeper in the first stairwell, dodging past two guys gearing up for a fight on the third and stopping to tip their hats at a ruddy-faced woman with two fair-haired children at her ankles on the sixth. By the time they finally reached the eighth floor, David was quite surprised to find that the floor was empty. It occurred to him that he had no idea which room belonged to Race but, without even a pause to find himself, Spot headed straight to a door and knocked.
The two men waited outside the closed door for a few moments before Spot folded his fist again and knocked even louder. A big man with a dark complexion poked his head out of his doorway a couple of rooms over, glowered when he caught sight of David and Spot in the hall, but said nothing. David lowered his gaze, Spot refused to acknowledge him, and the man huffed before disappearing back inside the doorway.
But Race still didn't answer.
They waited another minute before David exhaled softly. Frustrated, he said, "I didn't think he'd be home. Should we come back?"
In answer to the question, Spot reached out his hand to the door handle and gave it a quick turn. Instead of it being locked, it turned all the way around and Spot used the flat part of his palm to push the door open a few inches. "Or we can wait inside, if ya like," he said with a smirk.
David hesitated for only a second before nodding. "But only for a little bit. I don't want to go home too late."
"Whatever ya say, David."
Spot gave the door another push in order to open it wide enough to allow them to enter—but after a quick shove, it stuck fast. He paused, not expecting the door to stick, and proceeded to put his shoulder against the wood and heave. The door immediately flung inward, hitting the inside of the paper-thin wall with a crunch, and Spot stumbled and nearly fell inside the room. He caught himself in time, leaning against the door with his hand still wrapped around the handle. Then he got a look at what had caused the door to jam and he almost fell over again.
It was a disaster. There was no other word for it. Race's belongings were thrown everywhere, newspapers shredded, crumpled, ripped and torn, his furniture turned over… There was a side table lying on its back, the drawer pulled out and tossed somewhere else, its contents scattered on the floor. And that was just the front room. Veering off down the hall, glancing into the kitchen off to the side, Spot could see that the rest of the house was in as dire straits—if not worse!
"What the hell happened in here?" He stepped aside to allow David to follow him in. "Looks like a goddamn twister made its way through!"
And he was right. The level of destruction was high; this was no case of a sloppy man living alone in an apartment without a woman's touch. Maybe they could excuse the newspapers strewn everywhere if they weren't so ripped or tattered, and maybe they could understand why one chair was turned on its side… but not three. And was that one chair over there missing a leg? Spot looked down. Yes. The missing leg was what had kept the door from opening in the first place.
David's sharp intake of breath echoed in the wake of their unexpected surprise. Amidst the mess, there was no sign at all of Racetrack. "You don't think—"
"Shit, Davey, I don't know what to think." Spot kicked at a piece of torn newspaper that was balled up on the floor in front of him. "Here, why don't we look around? Maybe find a clue about what happened to Race's place?" The unsaid part of that suggestion followed: And maybe Race, but neither one of them said it out loud. Still, they were both thinking it.
"Okay," David agreed. "I'll be a right Sherlock Holmes."
Spot paused again, sparing a quick, curious glance over at David. "Who?"
"Never mind."
He was sitting at the table, newspapers piled in front of him, racing slips stacked haphazardly next to them. A bottle of gin was set before him, a full shot glass next to it, and Race's hand rested lightly on the rim. Fingers tapping lightly against the glass, he wondered if it was a smart idea to have another drink. His nerves were shot, every other second or two he was checking over his shoulder for only he knew what, and a sip might take the edge off of him. Just one more shot, it couldn't hurt, right? He was still alert. He was still aware.
His ears were still pricked, waiting for his front door to open.
See, it wasn't that Racetrack was a paranoid sort of fellow—no, but he did boast too much for his own good and sometimes opened his mouth when he damn well shouldn't. He didn't have to be paranoid to know that he was being followed, or that more than one of the local bookies down at Sheepshead was after him for money. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to flash his winnings around or make bets he couldn't afford, but Race was a gambler deep down with a gambler's soul and a gambler's propensity to be utterly reckless… especially with other people's money.
That day's newspaper was sitting in front of him; he bought one every day, overpaying whichever newsie sold it to him. The full shot of clear gin was resting on top of it, magnifying the date in the center. April 17, 1905. In five days, it would be April 21 and he wouldn't have to hide like this ever again.
Five days… all he had to do was wait five days, keep a straight face and demand whatever money was coming his way. And then, only then, would he be able to stop looking over his shoulder, waiting for a knife in the back or something even worse.
There was a soft snicking sound coming from behind him, the sound of the front door opening, and Race stiffened in his seat. Someone cleared their throat, Race turned around and, at once, he relaxed, leaning back in the wooden chair. His heart was thumping, his breath hitched, and his fingers itched to reach for his glass again. A long shadow fell at his feet and, from the gloom just outside of the kitchen, he made out a silhouette that was all too familiar.
"Oh," he said, and the relief in his voice was only too apparent. It wasn't who he expected to see, who he was afraid to see, and, for that, he was grateful. This guy… this guy was a friend. "It's you. What're ya doin' here?"
Without a word at first, he turned behind him and with one quick shove, pushed the front door closed. Then, taking two steps closer, he said lowly, "Why do ya think? It's about the money. You had to know I'd be comin', Race."
It was always about the money…
And, suddenly, Race realized that the word "friend" didn't mean what he thought it meant anymore. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood up; the sound of the clicking as the door closed echoed in his ears, more than the soft, whispered words from the man standing before him. He didn't feel safe sitting any longer and, nearly knocking his seat over in his haste to rise, he stood up.
"I… I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Save it. I've heard all that before."
Race knew it wouldn't work but it was worth a shot. Sighing in resignation, he decided to just tell the truth and get it over with. "I don't have anymore."
"Then get some," the other man snapped. "I know you can. Ya always can."
"I can't—but give me a coupla days," Race said quickly, thinking of the date. "Just five days. I'll have all the money you need."
There was a clucking of his tongue and a sigh, followed by a very slow, very solemn shaking of his head. If he didn't know better, Race might've thought his old friend really was sorry about what he was going to do. He was already reaching inside his jacket pocket as he moved closer inside the room.
"Sorry, Race—
"Hey, Dave, look at this."
Spot was standing in the kitchen which, from David's point of view, must've been the last place the intruder, if that's who had done this, had been. There was a table, but it was still standing, not on its side like the small wooden table in the front room. Newspapers were everywhere, just like the rest of the apartment, and it was one of those, crumpled but relatively whole, that Spot held in his hand.
But Spot wasn't looking at the newspaper he was holding. Instead, his eyes were drawn downwards at something still resting on top of the table. Unblinking. Uncomfortable. If David didn't think it was unlikely, he might've thought Spot looked a little… fearful, maybe? Apprehensive, definitely.
"What is it?" David asked quickly, as he sidestepped a broken chair before walking into the small kitchen and approaching the table. Glancing down, his heart skipped a beat when he saw precisely what had caught Spot's attention. There was a knife, a good, strong switchblade that was eerily familiar, sitting on top of the tabletop. But it wasn't a clean knife; it was stained, dark brown coating the steel blade in a way that sent shivers up and down David's spine. He froze.
Spot's next words were unnecessary: "I think it's a knife."
David's stomach turned, a queasy churning that caused him to swallow roughly in a bid to keep his lunch down. "But what's that all over it?" he asked, knowing the answer already, hoping he was wrong and praying that Spot would have some other perfectly reasonable explanation why a stained knife was hidden underneath a pile of newspapers, why Race's apartment was a mess, why Racetrack Higgins was nowhere to be found—
— and then Spot dashed all that to pieces with one quiet statement. "I… it's gotta be blood."
David was staring at the dried brown… something smeared all over the knife in horror, his complexion green and his hands trembling slightly at his side. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," he said weakly before the queasy feeling intensified and he folded over and vomited all over his freshly polished shoes.
—but I ain't waitin' five days."
Chapter 7: Skittery and Spirits
Chapter Text
Five
April 18, 1905
Jack held the scrap of paper loosely in his right hand, fingering the worn edge of the thick stock, absently playing along the crease before unfolding it and folding it in half again, not entirely too sure what he was doing. The note slipped from his grasp once, landing on the stained, rumpled bed sheet, and he left it there for just a heartbeat before snatching it back up and placing it against pursed lips. But he didn't read Vanessa's message another time. There was no need to. From the moment the uniformed messenger knocked at his door and delivered the message and he had read it and reread it and memorized it, he didn't have to read the words again. And yet, he just couldn't bring himself to throw it away.
Was this how Vanessa felt when Tumbler delivered Jack's letter all those years ago? Forgotten, pushed aside… worthless? Angry?
His first instinct had been to pull his boots on and head straight over to see her, regardless of what her note said, whether Spot Conlon was at the apartment with her at the moment or not. He didn't care. Jack had never been the sort of man to be denied anything he wanted; in fact, having Vanessa warn him not to come only made him want to see her more. He wasn't a kid any longer, he didn't have an uneasy alliance with Spot in Brooklyn to keep him in line. If he went back to see his lover a day after his last trip over, it was his business and his alone. It was his decision. He certainly didn't want a woman making it for him—or an old friend who'd never really been all that friendly in the first place.
He wanted to go, he wanted to hear Vanessa say she didn't want to see him—even though he knew she never would—and while he preferred not to allow Spot to find out what had been going on between him and Vanessa, he knew that there was a good chance Spot wouldn't stay inside long. From the information Race let slip when they met last month, Spot had become even more withdrawn than ever after his wife's death. There was a better chance of him finding Spot down at a local saloon over him actually spending the entire afternoon inside with David's wife.
Jack wanted to go—
—except that, when he sat down on the edge of the narrow, unmade bed, he never bent over to retrieve his shoes. He sat there, troubled brown eyes reading the message once and then reading it again until her loopy, shaky penmanship was burned into his memory. Then he folded the note, unsure of why he was unwilling to leave, fiddling with the scrap in preoccupation while he let the message run unbidden through his mind:
Mr. Jack Kelly,
My apologies, but I'm afraid I will have to postpone our luncheon this afternoon as I am entertaining a guest, Mr. Liam Conlon, my husband's sister's husband, while my husband is away.
Yours,
Mrs. David Jacobs
That didn't sound like the Vanessa he knew at all. It was forced, formal, educated—everything Vanessa had never been when they were together. Maybe she had really changed so drastically in those four years… It was easy to tell from the shaky hand that she'd been nervous, obviously upset as she penned the words. Still, she was clever in her own way for sending a message to warn that Spot was over while David was at work; clever, even if he didn't appreciate the warning she sent.
Besides, he mused, it could've been worse. Like the way she referred to Spot by his Christian name, she could've addressed the message to Mr. Francis Sullivan. Then Jack's thoughts soured and he realized that, if he hadn't run out on her all those years ago, she would've signed the note Mrs. Francis Sullivan. Then again, if he hadn't run out on her, she never would have had to send him such a message at all…
There was a knock at the door then, a loud frantic knock that jarred Jack from his thoughts. Who could that be? Hell, what time was it? He'd paid up for his week, he'd already seen the courier that brought him Vanessa's message, and no one besides her knew exactly which room he was renting during his stay in the city. The horse-faced woman who ran the boardinghouse only knocked when supper was done, or when she was ready for his washing? Was it that late? Folding up the note for the countless time, he slipped it into his pocket and, after grabbing his hat, headed across the tiny room.
His hat was old, he couldn't remember when he bought it—he knew it was after the strike, a replacement for the hat he gave to Les Jacobs—but it was a perfect fit for his head and it was out of place enough in the big city to make others think twice about who he was and what he was doing. Most people who saw the cowboy hat imagined him to be a yokel, a Western buffoon, but that's what Jack wanted them to think. It was a lot easier to lie to people and scam them when they never expected it from you.
Jack wasn't smart, but he could be pretty clever sometimes himself.
He placed his hat on his head, slipping from who Jack Kelly had been—a young idiot who had it bad for the first girl who'd been quick to jump into bed with him—to who Jack Kelly was now—a self-assured loner who managed to be both cautious yet impulsive at the same time. This wasn't the best part of town, this was the best flophouse he could afford to rent, and he adopted a preemptive sneer seconds before he pulled the door in.
The scowl slid off his face as a look of genuine surprise replaced it. There was a boy standing in front of his door, the red sleeve of his oversized uniform pushed back so he could knock. From the flattop cap to the off-white bag slung over one shoulder and crossing his entire body, the pale boy was obviously another messenger.
It wasn't the same boy who brought him Vanessa's earlier message, that much was obvious from first glance. This one had a younger face and a mischievous glint in his mud brown eyes that reminded Jack a little of Les when he first started to follow Jack's lead and con customers into buying papers. Short and thin, too small for his red messenger's uniform, the boy looked like one good gust of wind would knock him over.
"Got a message for Mr. Kelly."
It was strange. He was so surprised to open the door and find another messenger standing there that he never realized that there was only one reason one of the red-suited boys would have come back. "I already got one," Jack said without thinking, already patting his pocket for the piece of paper from earlier.
"Then there's another one," the courier replied stubbornly.
Jack stopped searching. "What do ya mean, another one? Why didn't I get it with the first one then?"
"Don't ask me, mister, I just deliver 'em. 'Sides, this one musta just came in."
"Let me see it."
He held out his hand expectantly, biting his tongue when the boy took his sweet time digging through his messenger bag in search of the note bearing his name. He knew the kid had had it just a second ago—how else would he have known the name or the address he had had to ride his bicycle towards?—and was only pretending he didn't so that he could annoy the older man. And it wasn't like he blamed him, either. As a boy, he would've done the same exact thing. But it didn't mean he had to like it.
The courier boy took another moment longer, Jack felt his sneer returning and his patience dwindling, and suddenly the note miraculously appeared. "Here you go."
Jack took the message much rougher than he needed to, ripping the folded stock card right out of the boy's hand. Once his fingers closed around it, though, he immediately knew something was wrong. Call it a hunch, call it a premonition, but he wasn't so impulsive as to open the note right away. The messenger boy stood on the threshold expectantly; Jack hardly noticed that he hadn't moved. Like that morning, he accepted his message and shut the door in the courier's face. Except, with the first message he'd been curious, unsure of who knew how to find him. Now… now he felt apprehensive and weary. He had half a mind to take the paper and put it to the tip of the oil lamp's flame before he ever read it.
But he didn't. He didn't even need to see his name scrawled in the same hand to know that Vanessa had sent him another message, and he didn't have to flip it open to know it would be bad news. The fact that she sent a second note through the courier services instead of walking to the boardinghouse herself was more than enough to tell him that.
Jack Kelly may be many things, a liar, a scamp, a thief, a self-interested bastard… but he wasn't a coward. Little things didn't scare him. It was only the real life-changers that sent him running, and he had four more days before he could take off this time.
With a quick breath, he flipped the folded scrap of paper open and read two words:
He knows.
Vanessa had been off color lately, pale and drawn when she was normally red-faced and alive. These days she was always frowning, hemming and hawing nervously whenever Jack came to visit until his visits went from nearly every day to once or twice a week. She never seemed happy to see him and after three visits with Vanessa acting as if his very touch made her ill, Jack found his temper beginning to prickle. He wasn't an angry young man, not anymore, and he allowed his considerable charm to take over as he enticed Vanessa to open up to him.
It didn't work.
He was just about ready to give up on her. He loved her—at least, he thought he did—but could he love a girl who glared at him one second, was on the verge of tears another and watched him apprehensively whenever he watched her back? This wasn't the Vanessa he knew, and he had no clue what he had done to send her away… or what he had to do to bring her back.
And then, just when he was about to stop seeing her altogether, Vanessa came looking for him.
He was on his way to Brooklyn, to a poker game that Spot set up on the other side of the bridge. With only a handful of dimes and nickels in his pocket and one of Race's marked decks in his back pocket, he was walking like the wealthiest man in all of New York. His head held high, his cocky, know-it-all grin in place, Jack strolled down the back alley streets of Manhattan like he owned them, only stopping when a girl with messy hair turned the corner and almost ran him down. It took him a split second to recognize that it was Vanessa; when he did, his reflexes caught her just before she knocked them both over.
"Vanessa? Nessie, what's wrong?"
Vanessa Sawyer wasn't a girl normally prone to emotional fits. She was lively and spirited, true, always with an opinion or two, but Jack could count the times he had seen her cry on one hand. And unless he was mistaken, there were tears welling up in the corners of her hazel eyes just then.
He caught her by her forearms, putting slight pressure against her skin as she breathed heavily. His touch seemed to calm her long enough for her to say, "I've been lookin' everywhere for you!"
"Well, ya found me. Mind tellin' me what's got you runnin' like that?"
She took a deep breath and her words spilled out in a rush: "I'm… I think I'm going to have a baby."
Jack could've have been more floored if she told him that she was coming to say goodbye because she was running off to live with Weasel. "What?" he exclaimed. "Are you… are ya sure?"
Vanessa pulled back away from him, the tears freezing where they were as her eyes glazed over and blazed in indignation. "I'm pretty damn sure, Jack. Mama wasn't around long, but she told me enough." Then she slumped, the anger fleeing as she folding in on herself, embracing her trim waist with her arms. "What… what are we going to do?"
The words were out before Jack even knew he said them: "Let's get hitched."
It was Vanessa's turn to exclaim in surprise. "What?"
"I mean it," he said smoothly, a handsome grin splitting his face. "Let's get hitched, Nessie. Married. Me and you."
"Really?" Her voice echoed the relief she obviously felt. Jack had opened his arms wide and inviting and she let herself fall into them willingly. "Oh, Jack, that's wonderful. I was so worried!"
And even while he held her close, felt her belly pressed up against his, Jack couldn't help but wonder how much money he would need to find the quickest train out of New York. There were still four years left until he would be rich, four years left until he could afford to upkeep a wife and a child, but that also meant there were still four years left before anyone would notice he'd had to return to that brick wall on Duane Street to fund his escape.
In the end he decided to go see Vanessa regardless of whether it was a good idea or not; the second note had been the kick in the pants he needed. When he was a kid, he'd tried to be something he wasn't and failed. There was no use trying to be smart now. David had been the brains of the operation… Jack was simply a creature of instinct, living and dying by his gut reactions. And while his gut was telling him it was the dumbest thing he could do to get involved with his old sweetheart—David's wife—this was one time he listened to the one thing that beat out his gut: his libido.
He knew it was foolish, especially following her latest note, but he couldn't help himself. For four years he regretted his rash actions, his fearful reaction to her announcement; for four years he played a never-ending game of "what if". What if Vanessa had really been pregnant and he'd had a child? What if she never told him at first and he never had cause to panic and flee? What if he didn't run? What if he stayed and married Vanessa like he offered?
Would he have the life David had now?
Jack had fooled himself into thinking he could still have it. Why else would he have gone back to visit her, not once but countless times since he finally returned to town? He had to see her again, if only to convince himself that he didn't imagine the spark of attraction that still existed between them. Spot didn't frighten him. Besides, Jack had kept Spot's secrets in the past. Now it was Spot's turn.
Keeping his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled low, Jack walked across town, making the same journey he'd made the afternoon before. He moved purposefully, his eyes watching, searching his surroundings as he crossed over to the other side of the street from the Jacobs' apartment building. He was being careful, just in case. There were times when he let his impetuous emotions get the better of him, but this wasn't one of them. In the last five years, Jack had matured enough to know when the time came for a little prudency.
His choice proved to be the right one when, as he stood opposite of the entryway, he glanced over just in time to see Spot leaving through the front door, whistling a tune only he could hear. He walked as if he didn't have a care in the world, but only someone who could be just as suspicious recognized the signs: the way Spot's eyes darted to and fro, the way he carried himself as if he was poised to fight at the drop of a hat, the way he walked slowly, giving the other passersby a wide berth. Spot was a former street kid, just like Jack, and there was no hiding a tough life.
And just then, as if he could feel the heat of Jack's gaze from across the street, Spot's head shot up and stared right at him. Their eyes met. Jack swore under his breath, his hands deep in his pockets clenching into fists.
Suddenly he was a boy of seventeen again, faced with crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge in order to convince Spot Conlon and his newsboys to join in on the Newsboy Strike of 1899. Back then he knew he would stand or fall by Spot's decision. It was like that now. Everything—David's happiness, Vanessa's marriage, Jack's opportunities—everything depended on what Spot did next.
Jack held his breath as he held Spot's gaze. He refused to blink, Spot barely moved at all and then, slowly but surely, Spot lifted his arm up. One finger was extended and there was no doubt what he meant: he was telling Jack to turn around and walk back down the way he came. Which, hating himself as he did it, was exactly what Jack Kelly did.
He was a grown man now, twenty-three and world-weary. Still, he felt like a dog with his tail between his legs as he turned his back on Vanessa's apartment building, knowing Spot's eagle-eye was watching as he slunk away. He would see Vanessa before long, he was certain about that, but he knew it would be pointless with Spot standing right there.
As he turned around smoothly, acting like it was his idea and not Spot's, Jack was reminded of that day nearly six years ago when he brought David and Boots with him into Brooklyn in order to enlist Spot and his boys' help. He'd left then, too, not knowing what the volatile Brooklyn leader was going to do, whether he was going to aid Jack or watch him fall. How he felt then… well, that was exactly how he felt now.
It had all come back around.
When Jack left Vanessa and all his troubles behind, he had every intention of heading to Santa Fe. Even now, all this time after he left, he still wasn't entirely sure how he ended up in New Haven, Connecticut, running numbers for some low-life gangster. It was as dark in the city, as stark, as lifeless… everything seemed so crowded, so stifled, and yet he felt like he was home.
Maybe that was why he couldn't leave. Not again.
He lived in a rat's nest, a small hovel that smelled worse than the bunkroom did on the hottest day in July. He shared it with too many people—people like him—though none of them stayed as long as Jack did. He was rising up the ranks in his group, which had been a feat in and of itself. It was tough, going from a leader to a mere follower, especially since he'd managed to stay out of some of the roughest gangs on the Lower East Side, but he survived. Jack Kelly was nothing if not a survivor.
Sometimes he thought of what had had really left behind. The friends, the memories, the opportunities… He thought about David, and he something tortured himself with thoughts of what Vanessa was doing or how Les was coping without him, and while he sometimes wanted to go back, he never did. He couldn't really explain it, but he didn't want any of them to know that he'd never gotten far; New Haven was no Santa Fe.
He wrote one letter since he left, a short note sent to Les Jacobs because he knew, no matter what he wrote, the kid would believe the lies. He just never expected that the return address would fall into anyone else's hands.
And then the invitation to Spot Conlon and Sarah Jacobs' upcoming wedding arrived and Jack felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. He didn't know what hurt worse: that his old pal was actually marrying his former girl, or that what they had was something he never would… though he could've once. It was a reminder, a sad, sorry reminder of the mistakes he made, the mistakes he lived with every day, and he felt like he'd been cut with a knife when he read the announcement.
But, at the very least, the fancy paper invitation made for good kindling when the fire burned low at night.
He didn't go back to the flophouse, the second-rate boarding house he was renting. For just a second he debated whether or not it would be worth the risk to wait for Spot to get far enough away before he could go back and see Vanessa. After her first message he knew she was worried; after the second, she was terrified. He wasn't too sure that he blamed her, either. It was one thing for Spot to rat him out to David since he was leaving anyway. Did he really want to leave Vanessa behind in a mess like that?
And, damn it, there was that guilt again.
There was no doubt in his mind what those two simple words meant: He knows. Spot knew about Jack being in town and, worse, he knew about his affair with David's wife. He was pretty damn sure that Spot wouldn't go running to David and blab straight away, but did that mean that he wouldn't tell anyone else? Who else could he tell?
There was only one other person who knew that Jack was in town. There was only one other person who knew that Jack had been given David and Vanessa's address—because, of course, he'd been the one to give it to him. And, just his luck, Race had told him when they met a month ago that he was the only one still in the habit of speaking to Spot since Sarah's death.
Without being able to visit Vanessa, Jack set off in search of Race. At the very least he could try to convince the short gambler not to tell anyone else that he'd seen him. He didn't plan on cutting out of town until the 21st at the earliest, so if he could try his best to keep everything under wraps until then, he was damn well going to. He wanted his share of that money, but he wasn't positive he could face David if he found out about him and Vanessa before then. And, well, Spot might hold his tongue. Race, he wasn't so sure about.
At first he stood on the east side of Ocean Avenue, wondering if he should've just given up and gone back to the boardinghouse after all. Sheepshead Bay Race Track was a huge complex, part of the Coney Island Jockey Club, and the racetrack Racetrack had been coming to for as long as he knew him; no surprise, this track was how young Anthony Higgins got his nickname. It was so large, and so crowded, that he doubted he would ever find Race if he spent the rest of the afternoon looking.
There were voices everywhere, screams and hollers and cheering as the betters picked their favorites and hoped their horses would finish in the lead. Sheepshead had two courses, a dirt track and a turf course, and there were ample people—men, women and children… but mostly men—surrounding both of them.
Sheepshead was just too busy, too noisy, and Jack had to wonder why Race liked to come to this place so damn much—.
"I won!" screamed someone from in front of him, their voice piercing in their excitement. "My horse finally came in first! I won! I'm rich! Rich, rich, rich, rich, rich… ya-hoo!"
—and then he remembered.
The thing was this: Jack Kelly always dreamed of becoming a real cowboy, a rancher out west. David Jacobs used to think he could follow in Bryan Denton's footsteps and become a respected reporter. Racetrack Higgins just wanted the chance to win it big at the track. As far as Jack knew, all three of them were still working toward their dreams, but only Race was close. Someone had to win, and the odds were that he'd win sometime.
It just wouldn't be that day, Jack decided, because, after strolling around the busy racetrack, there was no sign of the Racetrack he'd come all this way to see. Then again, he didn't see Race, but that didn't mean he didn't see anyone he recognized from the old days.
It was on his third trip around that he found him, standing against a fence just outside of the turf course. For a second, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Standing there, talking to a girl with her dark hair tied up in a loose bun and her back to Jack, there was a tall, thin brunet man with his thick hair done in a queer sort of wave across his forehead. Unlike many of the other men milling around, he didn't wear a hat but the slender cigarette hanging off the edge of his lip was one of many lighting up the crowd. He had his arms crossed over his chest, listening intently to what his companion was saying, frowning.
It was the frown he recognized more than anything.
"Skittery," he called, pushing through the people in front of him. "Skitts, that you?"
The man straightened upon hearing the name, his fingers flying up to his mouth to grab his cigarette before he used his whole hand to shield his eyes against the setting sun. His dark eyes roamed the faces of the people around him, but only when Jack pushed past a stout fellow in a derby and emerged only a few feet away did Skittery drop his guarded expression and let out a small laugh.
"Jack! It is Jack, isn't it? I can't believe it's you!"
Jack opened his arms wide. "In the flesh."
The girl Skittery had been talking to turned around when she heard Jack's voice. Obviously interested to see who Skittery had been talking to, she was facing Jack and he could get a good look at her. She was a petite girl, a head shorter than Skittery but just as slender and lithe. With almond-shaped brown eyes and sunkissed cheeks, she was a pretty girl that Jack would've remembered seeing before. And, obviously, the feeling was mutual. Her small pink lips were pursed in an appraising look as she met his eyes.
There was a soft lilt to her voice that sounded undeniably protective as she laid one quick hand on Skittery's sleeve. "Who's your friend?"
There was a flash of annoyance and a quick sigh coming from Skittery but it was gone before either of the other two had noticed. "Peg, this is Jack Kelly, the infamous Cowboy from my youth. Jack," he said, gesturing back to the girl, "this is Ellie Summers."
"Pegasus," she said, offering up her nickname with a quirked grin. She looked from Skittery to Jack and back. Opening her mouth to say something, she caught Skittery glancing at her pointedly from the corner of his eyes. She closed her mouth, absently stretched and flexed her fingers before folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I think it's about time I started heading out… Skittery." She paused, and Jack got the feeling that she had meant to call him another name before she thought better of it. "I'll see you later?"
Skittery nodded, inwardly pleased that she had caught his hint. "I have a coupla more questions about your tutor and the people she knows."
"Miss Addleton? I'm sure I can arrange an introduction later this evening if you're free."
"I'll meet you in town tonight," Skittery promised.
"Then I'll see you then." Peg moved close to Jack, almost bumping into him but not quite as she side-stepped a hoity-toity looking man with a moustache to rival Teddy Roosevelt's. "It was nice meeting you," she said, brushing his shoulder in an attempt to move past him.
"Uh… yeah," Jack said, a little taken aback by how quickly his appearance had sent her running off. Was it something he said? It had been a couple of days since he shaved and maybe he could've used a wash after walking all over that afternoon, but did he offend that much? Or was there something he missed?
Skittery was watching with narrowed eyes as she started to walk away but called out to her before she'd gotten too far. "Hey, hold on there, Peg."
She stopped, turning on her heel, her long black trumpet skirt wrapping around her calves as she spun. "What?"
"You know," Skittery said in a short, clipped voice. His arms were crossed warningly over his chest again. "C'mon, hand it over."
"I don't know what ya mean."
"Peg…"
"Oh, fine." Slipping her hand into the pocket of her skirt, she drew out Jack's wallet. She offered it to him with another word—well, to him, at least. With a backwards glance at Skittery, she mumbled, "You're no fun anymore."
"He's a friend. I've told ya before: Steal from who ya like, but not from my friends."
"Yeah, yeah," she replied, but there was a mischievous curve to her answering smile and both men had to wonder if she had gotten anything else, or who else her wandering fingers had attacked in recent times. Then, offering Skittery an impish grin and Jack a shrug of her shoulders, Pegasus moved away and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
Skittery watched her go until he could no longer spy her working her way through the unfortunate people surrounding her. "Sorry 'bout that. Peg's fingers have got a mind of their own, but she's a great girl."
"I let her get that," Jack lied automatically. He opened the wallet, checked to make sure the single dollar bill he had was in there, and slipped the wallet under his waistband over tucking it in his back pocket again. "I was just about to ask for it back."
Skittery would've rather swallowed his lit cigarette than admit that he knew Jack was lying. Pegasus always had that effect on people—they never imagined a girl looking so innocent had fingers that quick. Instead, calling a wide, friendly grin, he said in a surprised voice, "Jack… Jack Kelly. Cowboy. Wow. Never thought I'd see you 'round here again."
"I never expected to be back, Skitts. Ya look good," Jack said, reaching out and plucking at Skittery's grey shirt. "Grew out of the pink?"
Skittery had to bite back the frown as he smacked Jack's hand away, ignoring Jack's low chuckle at the same time. "Funny, Jack," he said dryly, patting the spot on his shirt where Jack had pulled at him. Six years after he discovered a soak in the washbasin had left his white underclothes pink, and he still hadn't lived it down. "Ya know, I still think it was you who dropped that rag of yours in the tub. Took me forever to buy a new suit." It took a little effort but he managed to turn his frown upside down. "I notice ya ain't wearin' your bandana, either."
"Guess I grew out of wantin' to be a cowboy." Then he remembered the old leather cowboy hat perched on his head. "Then again," he said, a genuine smirk tugging at his lips, "maybe not."
Skittery laughed then and Jack clapped him on the back and the two of them continued in their easy talk, two young men reliving old days, old times, Jack denying ever having anything to do with the accidental staining of Skittery's pink longjohns—he was lying—and Skittery, while reminiscing with the best of them, trying ever so nonchalantly to figure out just what the hell Jack Kelly was doing back in town.
It didn't work.
Jack, he decided, needed a more heavy-handed approach, a direct question that he couldn't conveniently ignore or even wiggle his way out of providing Skittery with any sort of information—and Skittery specialized in gathering information these days. He didn't answer when Skittery asked where he was staying or how long he'd been in town or which other fellows he'd seen since he'd come back. Jack was vague when the topic of David Jacobs and his new wife came up, and just the mention of Spot Conlon and his dead wife made a muscle in his cheek twitch—though, Skittery had to admit it might've been a bit callous to mention Jack's old flame like that.
Even a direct, "Whatcha doin' here, Jack?", didn't work the way he intended it to, though, in a quick flick of his brown eyes, searching the crowd over telling Skittery what he was doing in New York, Jack gave away the answer. Jack was at Sheepshead Bay Race Track, and it was only dumb luck that he found Skittery there; still, it was undeniable he was looking for someone.
And there was only one person he would've gone to Sheepshead to see.
Skittery Daniels had never been a big drinker. When he visited a bar, he busied himself with a smoke and a glass of water over ordering a whiskey or a gin like some of his pals. For one thing, it was cheaper; for another, he liked the power of being the only sober one in a group of unsuspecting drunkards. You never knew what a couple of drinks and an innocent question could tell a guy.
It had been his idea—it was always his idea. He caught up with Racetrack Higgins at the track earlier that afternoon, watched as Race made sizable bets on long-shot odds while never getting his pal to confess where he got the money to bet in the first place, and felt his envy and jealousy and goddamn curiosity well up until getting Race drunk was the only thing he could think of to do.
It worked to some extent, too. After one shot Race admitted he had some money coming to him, after two he admitted that Jack Kelly—now, that was a name Skittery hadn't heard in years—had something to do with it, and at the third he got paranoid, and rightly so, and that was the end of the conversation.
But that didn't mean that Skittery stopped trying.
He reached for the gin bottle, poured another quick shot and offered it out to Race. Despite his attempt to ply Race with the spirit and get him to finish what a loose tongue and little sense had begun that evening, Race smartly clammed up as soon as he realized he might've said too much. He looked surprised when Skittery gave him the shot and immediately reached in his pocket for some coins but Skittery stopped him. "It's on me," he said, pulling out a quarter and laying it on the counter.
Race's beady eyes swam in and out of focus, following the money and the tight-fisted grip Skittery held on it. "Thanks, Skitts," he said, punctuating the statement with a hiccup, "you're a real pal. I mean it… a great… just a great guy. I owe ya for this," he said, lifting the small glass up to his lips. Some of the liquor dribbled down his chin but he didn't notice. "When I… when I get mine… I'll remember my friends. I'll remember you."
Skittery dismissed Race's gratitude with a simple wave of his hand. This wasn't the first time Race had made mention of getting his, or of some future windfall he was expecting, and Skittery made sure to note it every time he did; that, coupled with the names and places he'd dropped earlier that evening was enough to peak Skittery's interest. A suspicious bastard by nature, all it took was a hint here, a clue there, and he knew that something was up. But he wasn't just suspicious—he was damn patient when he needed to be. Two shots and Race was talking, two more shots and Race was talking nonsense… you never knew when he'd come back around.
Besides, it was worth a quarter just to see what else Race was willing to say. "Hey, no problem, Race. Ain't that what friends are for? You can always catch me later."
And he meant it, too. Well, maybe not the friends part so much, but certainly the fact that he expected Race to pay him back before long. He would bide his time, he would wait, and in the end that gin was going to cost the short Irishman—
In his experience, Skittery knew that, when he didn't have alcohol to lower someone's inhibitions, silence could just as easily do the trick. A sturdy shot may entice someone to talk, but silence absolutely demanded it out of some people. There were those who would talk just to fill the gap, speak if only to hear the sound of their own voice. And Jack, Skittery remembered from their shared time in the old lodging house, was one of those people.
And they called him glum and dumb. He was neither. In fact, he was pretty damn smart, if he said so himself. They called him pessimistic. He was just realistic. He could read people.
Even after four years, he could still read Jack.
So when Skittery stopped talking, nodding only when something Jack said needed a response, saying not a word as Jack jumped from one topic of conversation to the next, he could see the discomfort his silence brought and knew it wouldn't be long. Eventually Jack stopped talking himself, no longer bothering to hide his desperation to find someone else that wasn't there, and Skittery had to wonder why he was the one the fellows had nicknamed Skittery.
Finally, when the silence—and it wasn't even that silent, Skittery considered, since there were countless people making bets behind them—got the better of him, Jack blurted out: "You don't know where Race lives, do ya? I was hopin' he'd be here, but… it might be easier just to check out his place."
Skittery shook his head. He knew it, too. It had to be Race… and it would've been that much easier if Jack had come clean with him in the first place. Not that he could help him, though. "Sorry, Jack," he said, "I've never really been there."
"Damn it."
Skittery shrugged. "I wouldn't really worry. Race is always here. If he ain't here now, he'll be around before long."
"Yeah, but I ain't gonna be 'round much longer," Jack told him, scowling. The silence had really gotten to him. "In fact, I'm supposed to be headin' out in about five days. I only paid up my boarding fare 'til then."
Skittery tucked the little nugget of information away for safe-keeping—finally—before coming up with a stroke of brilliance… at least, he thought it was brilliant. "I don't know where Race sleeps, but I know a couple of his haunts. You're gonna be here for five more days? Let me at least buy ya a drink tomorrow." Tomorrow was good. He was already booked for this evening and, if he hurried up, he could catch up with Peg before she got too far. "I'll take ya to one of the bars he likes and, hell, if we're lucky, we'll find him there."
Jack thought about it for a second. And why shouldn't he? Skittery was an old friend he hadn't seen in years, it was a coincidence—but a good one—that they met that afternoon, and what else did he have to look forward to tomorrow? Against all reason, he'd walked over to Vanessa's place today only to arrive just as Spot was walking out the front door. He was absolutely positive that he'd been seen, there was no denying that, and it would be a fool's errand if he dared go back again the next day. Maybe on Thursday. If not then, maybe Saturday… on Saturday he would have money and Spot wouldn't have any reason to hang around the Jacobs' apartment.
Skittery was standing there, silent again, patiently waiting for Jack's answer. Jack smirked. "You buyin'?" he asked.
"Sure," Skittery said with a short, easy smile. "Why not?"
And that, right there, should've been the first warning that something was wrong.
Skittery Daniels never paid.
—a fortune.
Chapter 8: Oscar is Found
Chapter Text
Five
April 19, 1905
David woke up early that morning. So early, in fact, that beyond the gauzy windows, he could see the night's sky twinkling over a city that never really went to sleep. The small bedroom was just as dark inside as it was outside. With Vanessa next to him, her soft, snuffling snores a comfort to him as he lie on his back, staring at the ceiling, he was awake even before his wife was. The candle was unlit, matches perched next to the base for when Vanessa needed them, but David ignored it. For the moment, at least, he enjoyed the blackness. It was easier to forget what he'd seen last night when his eyes swam in the darkness of his familiar room.
He didn't know how long he laid there, his thoughts returning to the night before and the discovery he and Spot had made. The two of them hadn't lingered in Race's apartment much longer after they found the knife, instead returning to a befuddled Vanessa who couldn't understand it when her husband turned down a plate of freshly baked bread. Spot turned in immediately, leaving David alone to convince Vanessa that nothing was wrong with him for a change. And Vanessa, recognizing that David was preoccupied but far too concerned over her conversation with Spot that morning, said nothing when David turned in not too long after Spot had.
Turning on his side, his eyes accustomed to the dark now, David watched his wife sleep as he struggled to keep his own breathing under control. She was huddled on her right side, tucked under a light blanket, her fingers gripping the edge so tightly that David doubted he could pry the material from her grasp. She was frowning in her sleep, a fitful rest, and the lines furrowing across her brow made David wonder if she was having nightmares as bad as his.
Last night, he'd dreamt of blood.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw that blood-stained knife and wondered: What happened to Race? He'd wanted to tell someone, he'd wanted to go look for Race immediately, but it was Spot who had calmed him down. What could they do at night when they had nothing to go on but a messy apartment and a stained knife? There was, thankfully, no body to be found, and everything could be explained. Maybe Race cut himself, maybe he had to rush down to the doctor to get bandaged up, maybe he tripped and fell and destroyed his entire apartment—
David couldn't take it anymore.
Propping himself up on his forearm, he leaned over and kissed Vanessa lightly on her forehead. She murmured in her sleep but David was pleased to see that her worried frown faded into a content smile as she pawed against the blanket before lifting her hand and sliding it under her pillow. Then she fell promptly back into a deep sleep. David smiled as she did before quietly slipping out from his blanket and off of the bed. He moved slowly, careful not to wake Vanessa up. For once, maybe he would be the one to leave a candle burning for her.
Treading softly, David reached inside his dresser for a new change of clothes. A freshly pressed pair of trousers was sitting on top and he grabbed them too before changing into them hastily. He would wash up later, since there was still some time before he had to go to work; certainly he didn't want to head into the kitchen in his night clothes. He did stop to light the candle first, checking to make sure that the cracking sound of the match being struck didn't disturb Vanessa, or the small, yellow flame didn't steal her from her slumber.
It didn't. Sighing, Vanessa simply rolled over, turning her back on the candle and on David, and fell right back asleep again. David let her. She needed her rest. She didn't look half as nervous, half as hunted when she was sleeping.
He walked barefoot out of the bedroom and into the hall, taking small, tentative steps in order not to wake up Spot, either. The door to his borrowed room was closed, and David moved on the balls of his feet until he passed, making his way toward the kitchen. It was then, though, as he got close and the abrupt smell of freshly boiled coffee slammed right into his nose, that he knew that his precautions were in vain. He didn't need to be careful about waking Spot up. Spot was already awake.
David couldn't disguise the groan he let out. The coffee's scent was so strong, so overpowering that his still queasy stomach jerked and he groaned in discomfort. The sound caught Spot's attention who, with his back to the doorway, hadn't heard David's stealthy approach until the small noise echoed around the calm and quiet kitchen.
Spot turned around and David noticed that he also hadn't bothered cleaning up just yet; unlike David, Spot was still wearing the same clothes he'd spent the last two nights in. He'd removed his shirt, wearing only his trousers, his patched union suit and his faded red suspenders over that. As a strange, sudden thought, David wondered if those were the same suspenders Spot had always worn as a boy. Come to think of it, the only time he remembered not seeing Spot wearing them was during his wedding to Sarah—and even then David's father had to fight to get him out of the ratty old things.
He must've been staring at the suspenders because Spot quirked his eyebrow and stared unblinkingly back until David realized it. His face felt flush, the strong coffee odor getting worse by the second, and David dropped his gaze to the floor. He swallowed once and waved his hand up slightly in a quick greeting. "Good morning, Spot."
"I'm makin' some coffee," Spot said simply, as if nothing had happened. "I was gonna wake ya up when I was done. Want some?"
David felt his stomach turn again in a way far too reminiscent of last night. "No, thank you."
Spot noticed the way his cheeks took on a greenish tint and he smirked. "What? Not feelin' any better?"
"I was, and then I smelled the coffee. It's a little… pungent this morning."
As if on cue, the kettle whistled its high-pitched shrill whistle and Spot immediately reached over to turn the flame on the stovetop down without even checking to make sure the coffee was done. "You're not gonna go ahead and puke again, are ya?" He shook his head as he removed the kettle from the burner next, chuckling as he reached for his mug, leaving the spare to sit unused on the countertop. "I didn't know blood did that to ya."
David managed a weak chuckle that paled in comparison to Spot's. "Me, neither." He couldn't hide his frown, either. In his opinion, it wasn't all that funny. He'd just gotten those shoes polished, too!
"C'mon, take a seat."
For just a moment, David imagined refusing Spot, maybe even rebuff the man as he stood in his own kitchen, the master of his house. He was a grown man; the time when he felt like he had to obey Spot had passed long ago, and even then there was a stubborn streak the Jacobs' possessed that made him almost contrary. For just a moment, David was going to remain standing… until the wafting odor of the strong coffee hit him and he felt another rolling wave of nausea strike him down. Feeling more than unsettled, David pulled his chair away from the table and sank into it like a straw man, all arms and legs and no strength.
But that didn't mean that Spot won. Or that David was going to let him off that easily. Surrounding his table in his apartment, he felt safer, though no less concerned, and he was aching to ask Spot what he made of their trip last night. They'd hardly spoken about what they found—or, rather, David had tried but Spot hadn't wanted to hear it as they made their quick escape from Race's apartment back to David's. Now, though, after a night's sleep, he wondered what Spot would have to say.
Except, it seemed, Spot was content to just sit there and sip absently at his coffee.
After a few quiet minutes that seemed to pass like hours David had to fight back the urge to scream—there was something about the silence that was making him mad. Normally one to sit back and enjoy the calm early mornings before he had to rush off to work, he realized that these were not normal circumstances and it was driving him absolutely batty that Spot was ignoring what had happened. He wished he could forget the state of Racetrack's home, the torn newspapers tossed everywhere, the stained knife hidden on the tabletop… he wished he could take back their impulsive journey over there, but he couldn't and so he wished instead for Spot to open up and help him figure it all out.
It was a pity Vanessa wouldn't let any liquor stay in the apartment. David was almost tempted to offer Spot some whiskey just to get him talking.
Spot was halfway done with his coffee, absently tracing the curve of the ceramic handle with his forefinger, when David first began to suspect he was stalling; he was staring off into space, blinking only once in a while, and he was almost certain Spot had the same thing on his mind that he had. He just wasn't about to admit it.
Well, David had had enough of that. It was getting late, it was getting close to the time he had to go to work and, with his luck, Vanessa could wake up at any moment and the conversation he'd hoped to have with Spot would be over before it was begun. Taking his opportunity before he thought better of it, David jumped in with one of the most pressing concerns, one that had been bothering him more than others ever since last night: "Do you really think it was a good idea not to go to the police?"
Spot looked up, almost surprised that David had broken the quiet with his question. He thought about what David had asked for a minute, leaving the other man to stew again in the quiet, before he said pointedly, "What would they have done? We tell a copper we just happened to go to Race's place, found the door open and walked in on a disaster? We'd be locked up right now, probably halfway to Sing Sing, and what kinda help would we be then?"
"But we are going to help, aren't we?"
Snorting under his breath, Spot closed his eyes momentarily. "Jeez, Davey, I know ya got a brain. Why don't ya use it sometimes?" When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that underneath the pale yellow manufactured light David's cheeks were tinged with pink.
"I don't know what you mean, Spot."
"Sure ya do."
And Spot was right, too—David just didn't want to tell him so. He knew it would've been a dumb move to go to the police, but David wasn't a criminal. Regardless of the corruption and the vice in the city, he was raised to believe that, when a crime was committed, you went to the police. Spot, obviously, had a very different education. And he was right. Thankfully, there was no body, just a vandalized apartment and an old switchblade. No body meant no crime, though there was a good chance that a copper could throw them in jail just for breaking into Race's apartment. They couldn't go to the police for help, but the two men were both stubborn enough—curious enough—loyal enough that they were going to get to the bottom of this themselves.
So, yes, David reasoned, they were going to help.
Now that left only the knife.
David cringed inwardly as the image of the rusted, stained knife flared up in his memory. Neither he nor Spot had picked it up, and they'd left it behind when they slipped back out of the apartment last night. In the light of the morning, David wondered if that had been a smart thing to do. He'd only got one good glance at it—he didn't need another after he got sick—but there was no denying that it struck a chord with him. He was almost certain he'd seen it before, or perhaps one like it. He just didn't know where.
His thoughts on the knife and where he might know it from, David hadn't realized that his cringe was so noticeable until Spot let out a small laugh.
"What's the matter?" he said in a considerably lighter tone. "Not gonna hurl again, are you?"
David knew that Spot's continual teasing was nothing more than a way for him to work out his frustrations. They were both upset, both worried over what they found in Race's place and while David regretted his weakness when it came to the sight of blood, he regretted it even more for Spot being the one to witness it. But because he knew Spot was as unsettled as what they found as he was, he said nothing.
Besides, it wasn't that. "I don't know… something we saw back there was odd—"
"Heh. No shit."
David ignored him. "—and it's been bothering me. And, no," he said before Spot could, "it wasn't the blood. But I think it does have something to do with the knife. I'm sure it does."
"What, didn't look sharp enough? 'Cause I would think the blood showed it was."
"No," David said slowly, wondering if Spot would understand what he meant if he told him that the switchblade they discovered looked familiar to him. He doubted it and decided not to even try. Shaking his head, he just said, "It's not that, either… I don't know. Maybe I'm just focusing on that so I don't have to worry about—"
Spot cut him off again with a steely glance. He slammed his mug down on the tabletop; lucky for him it didn't shatter or Vanessa would have had his head. "Race is fine," he said in a sharp voice that left little room for argument. "Stop thinkin' like that, Dave."
That was easier said than done.
Sarah Conlon died on a Monday. By Wednesday, she was buried. By Friday, her husband was missing.
Esther Jacobs was the first person Spot told when Sarah succumbed to her illness. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't stand being in the same room as his wife's cold body, her formerly-warm brown eyes glassy and lifeless as they stared unseeingly. He went straight to Sarah's mother, told her without having to say a word, and only returned to the apartment after Sarah had been covered by a sheet awaiting the ritual purification.
Sarah was a Jewish girl and Esther insisted she be buried like one. Spot didn't have it in him to argue. In fact, he secretly agreed that getting her buried as quickly as possible was the best thing for all of them. It was a mockery, sitting with Sarah's body while the spirit, the soul of his beloved wife had gone where he couldn't get to her. Every time he glanced at the still form, every time he thought he caught her chest rising and falling before chiding himself and reminding himself that she was dead, damn it, every time he wished that it had been him… it was just too much. Up until Monday, Spot had done everything he could have done just to keep her with him.
He would've done anything to get rid of her now.
She was buried in her favorite shawl, one she sewed herself, in a plain wooden box that Spot paid for himself; in every way except what most counted, Spot was buried with her. He stood with Les and David, her brothers, and said nothing as the prayers were murmured and the dirt scattered. When David, then Les both said a final farewell to their sister—pausing to rip a small tear on their right sleeves in memory of Sarah and her passing—Spot followed them to the edge of the grave. Esther had told him about the tradition known as keriah but Spot did his wife one better. Instead of ripping his good shirt, he bent down and, drawing something out of his pocket, tossed it on top of the coffin's lid. It landed with a thump and without a backward glance, he turned and walked away.
The old rusted key he wore as a street kid in Brooklyn was buried with Sarah. When they were alone, he always told that she held the key to his heart. In his last gift to his wife, he made sure she would always have it.
That was the last anyone saw of him following the funeral.
The seven-day period of mourning—shiva—was set to begin at the Jacobs' family apartment right after the burial. Esther and Meyer, along with Les, invited their neighbors in to sit with them that afternoon in honor of Sarah; David and Vanessa were going to stay the whole week. Spot was supposed to, too, but he never followed the family back. No one was surprised, they left the Irishman to mourn in his own way, but when Friday night came, Shabbat, and David could be excused from mourning, he immediately set out to find Spot.
From past experience, he went to the saloons first, the pubs, the taverns where Spot liked to go. Thinking back to the days before Sarah and Spot were married, he really thought he'd find him in the saloon on Newspaper Row… but he didn't. Spot wasn't in any of those places. The factory had dismissed him weeks ago, so he wasn't there, either. Nor was he at the apartment he shared with Sarah. Where had he gone?
David had had to wait until sundown before he could go looking for Spot and it was quickly closing on midnight by the time he finally realized where, if he was Spot and Vanessa had just been buried, he would go.
It was snowing, a soft, gentle wafting snow, when David arrived at the small cemetery where Sarah had been buried two days prior. It was empty, the wind blowing just enough to cause chills to erupt underneath his jacket, and David felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He didn't believe in ghosts, but that didn't mean he thought it was a good idea to go skulking around a cemetery at the dead of night.
And then he caught sight of a solitary figure standing next to a newly dug grave and knew that, good idea or not, it didn't only belong to him.
He headed straight towards the figure, took a deep breath that made the back of his throat burn from the cold and coughed out a single name: "Spot?"
There was no response but the specter was undeniably Spot Conlon. His silhouette was unmistakable, the downturn of his head, the gravesite he chose to stand beside. Then there was the fact that he was wearing the same clothes he wore on the day of Sarah's burial and David's stomach dropped. He had left the cemetery, hadn't he?
"I've been looking for you," he said, aware of how loud his voice sounded in the stillness of the snowy night. He lowered it considerably. "We expected you at the house."
Still nothing.
David took a tentative sniff. All he smelled was the brisk, crisp smell of the snow in the air but, if he tried, he could almost catch a whiff of a sickly sweet odor coming off of Spot. He sighed. Of course. "Have you… have you been drinking?"
That got Spot's attention. His head jerked up, his eyes visible as he turned his head sharply to look straight into David's. They were glazed over, red-rimmed and narrowed as he stared over at David. He cleared his throat but his voice sounded hoarse and raspy, like he hadn't slept in a week, when he snapped, "Leave me the hell alone."
Throwing one more glance at the mound of dirt, Spot jammed his hands in his pockets and turned away from David. Neither one of them said another word as Spot stormed away, leaving David alone at Sarah's grave to wonder whether the glaze in Spot's eyes was from the liquor or his tears.
David went to work because there was nothing else he could do. Spot stayed at the apartment because there was nowhere else he wanted to go.
Until, that is, he thought of a couple of old favors he could cash in and a couple of old birdies who were always up to finding out anything and everything they could whenever they were put up to it. Then, after rinsing out the kettle and his mug, pulling on his shirt and grabbing his hat, he silently followed David out through the front door before Vanessa Jacobs had even woken up.
Of course, David had no idea that Spot left the apartment not much longer after he had. So content in the knowledge that Spot would be home with Vanessa all afternoon—understandably, he was a bit apprehensive about leaving his wife alone—David was able to devote his attention to his ledgers and numbers and books once he arrived at the office. Or, rather, he tried to. It didn't really work like he intended.
Every time he tried to add up a column of figures he found himself remembering the ominous knife hidden under an old newspaper. When he went poring over musty old journals to look up a particular fact for Mr. Wagner, he got sidetracked as he wondered: in what scenario could Race's apartment get ransacked, a bloody blade left behind, his friend inexplicably missing… in what scenario could that mean that everything was all right?
David liked to consider himself something of an optimist, if a cautious and wary one at times, and even he knew that that was too much to hope for.
As hard as he tried to keep his mind on his work, it inevitably started to wander after a few moments, turning back to Race, back to Spot, back to Vanessa… his pen stopped scratching, his eyes closed momentarily as he pushed distressing images aside, and while his practical side warned him against worrying too much when not all facts were known, his worried side was much louder, much more vocal and it was drowning out both his common sense and his work ethic. David just couldn't stay focused; not even when his supervisor, the head clerk by the name of Jensen, called him out in front of his peers for making a foolish error in his sums could keep him from fretting. First Vanessa's behavior, then Race's absence… he thought he finally understood why a man like Spot Conlon sought out refuge in local saloons and corner pubs. Anything to make the thoughts stop.
It didn't stop him from his worrying, but he had enough pride in his work not to want to fail again. His ears ringing from Mr. Jensen's scolding, his cheeks hot and red with deserved embarrassment, David took back his ledger and retook his seat at his desk. Yet, no sooner had his trousers touched the wood did he immediately think of Spot again. He wondered how was doing and if he was keeping Vanessa safe and out of trouble back at the apartment.
There was one good thing about not having a lead, he decided as he forced himself to really pay attention to the scribbles and corrections on the sheaf of paper in front of him. No lead meant no reckless actions, no next step. They could wait until midnight on Friday to see if Race showed up. What else could they do? He wanted to help… but how? Besides, for the first time in three nights, David might actually be able to sit down to a dinner with his wife at a decent hour.
He should've known better than that.
As if he was trying to make up for his earlier goof, David threw himself into his work for the rest of the day—and was surprised to find that it was well past six thirty by the time Mr. Wagner left his stuffy office in order to dismiss his clerks. Amidst the grumbles of his fellow workers—young Jenkins' grumbles being the loudest—David grabbed his hat and hurried down, one of the first to take to the steps.
Glancing at his watch as he stepped out through the front door of the building, he was just telling himself that he would be home by seven at this rate when something made him look up and across the way. There was Spot, leaning lazily against the same pole as yesterday as if he hadn't a care in the world.
And there, realized David, went dinner.
He swallowed the frown that threatened to blossom, turning it into a puzzled quirk of a grin as he met Spot underneath the unlit gas lamp. It was a questioning grin, asking Spot what he was doing there—more importantly, why wasn't he back at the apartment with Vanessa like he said he would be—without him even having to say a word.
"I found him," Spot said by way of a greeting.
"Race?" David asked brightly, immediately forgiving Spot for showing up unexpected again—though maybe he should have been expecting him—in favor of the news his brother-in-law offered him. To say that Race being found was a worry off his mind was an understatement.
But Spot's dark expression was more than enough to shoot down David's hopes. "No, not Race. I found Delancey."
"Oscar?" David was confused. "Were you looking for him?"
"Of course. Dave, we went to see Race and, well, you remember what we found. We said it the other day, Jack will show up if he wants to, but no one's seen or heard from Delancey in ages. Don't that strike ya as suspicious? Three days until the 21st and Race's place is destroyed? He's disappeared? I don't know why ya wouldn't think to at least see if we could find Delancey and figure out what he's been up to."
Put like that, David had to admit that Spot had a very good point. "What did he say?"
"How the hell do I know? I didn't see him yet." Then, in answer to the perpetually confused expression that had taken up lodging on David's face, he sighed and said, "I was waitin' for you, genius."
"So where is he?"
"Surprise, surprise: he don't live too far from Duane Street." Spot jerked his chin toward the street behind David. "Ya wanna come with me to go and see him now?"
What else could he do? "I guess." He placed his hat over his head of thick brown curls. "Lead the way."
Vanessa would understand, he reminded himself as he followed after Spot. In a couple of days, when all this was over and he had one-fifth of that money to call his own, he would explain to his wife what had kept him so far from home all those days in a row. Perhaps a case of bon-bons, a new hat and as many dresses as she'd like would also go a long way to earning her forgiveness.
Oscar Delancey… it had been years since he saw one-half of the formidable Delancey Brother pair that used to tease and taunt the Manhattan newsies. In fact, the last time had been that night almost five years ago. Following the strike in late July of 1899, when Morris, Oscar and their Uncle Weas were run out of their jobs, all of the Delancey's seemed to up and vanish. It was just their luck that the only time Oscar decided to make an appearance was on April 21, 1900—right in time for him to be there when Spot dragged that bag of money into the deserted alleyway.
David never knew what brought Oscar in town that night, Oscar never said, but that was the last he saw of him. To be honest, he wouldn't have felt guilty if Oscar of the five—he pointedly thought five over four—didn't show Friday night. And that's why he didn't really get it. Why would Spot want to see Oscar so bad unless—
"Spot?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitated for a moment before asking, "Do you think Oscar might know what happened to Race?"
"I don't know, but it's worth a shot, ain't it?"
David finally understood. Regardless of whatever trouble a wise-cracking gambler could get himself into, there was the matter of the money. There were five people who knew that Race was coming into money: David, Spot, Oscar, Jack and Race himself. But only one of them was ever that handy with a knife.
The knife—
David gulped. "Um… Spot?"
"Yeah, Dave?" His annoyance was almost palpable. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't appreciate it every time David jerked him out of them.
"You remember that knife, don't you?"
Spot's thin lips were drawn into an even thinner line. They barely moved as he muttered, "How could I forget?"
David was surprised at how even his voice sounded, considering how fast his heart was beating. "Remember this morning how something about it got me thinking?"
"Yeah…"
"I remember now." He gulped, his traitorous stomach performing a small flip that made him only too grateful they weren't going home for dinner. "I remember where I've seen it before."
"Yeah? Well, don't hold out on me, Davey. Where'd ya see it?"
"You saw it, too. Five years ago, Duane Street. Spot, I think that was the knife Jack used to chip at the brick wall."
There was a sharp intake of breath as Spot caught on to what David was getting at. "And ya remember who gave him that switchblade, don't ya?"
They both said it at the same time: "Oscar Delancey."
Oscar Delancey wasn't a twitchy boy; nerves were never a problem for him. He hardly showed any fear, not even when the Crips gang started leaning on him and Morris to join, but there was something about the dark alley behind the Newsboy Lodging House on Duane Street. It was goddamn spooky. Leave it to that idiot Cowboy to pick the only hiding place in Manhattan that gave him the willies.
And that didn't have nothing on how he kept thinking he was being watched. Oscar kept looking over his shoulder, feeling like a mook every time he did. Morris was back at the apartment; besides, not even his brother knew why he went back to Manhattan when the sun went down. Except he wasn't calling on sweet June Whitaker tonight.
Damn it, but he shook. He gave his word that he wouldn't tell—not his brother, not his uncle, not his girl. He didn't tell, but what was he doing standing in front of the brick wall two weeks after a sack of money fell from the sky? And why was his switchblade flipped open and waiting in his hand?
He knew why.
And yet… yet he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Oscar knew exactly which brick it was—Jack Kelly was not a dab hand with a knife, and it was easy to tell which brick had been cut away from the others. He could reach behind the brick, grab just a handful, and no one would ever know.
But the thing was this: he would know. And damn it, he shook.
Before he thought better of what he was doing, before he talked himself into acting ever inch of the villain those newsies thought he was, Oscar flicked his blade closed and carefully slipped it back into his pocket. The way he saw it, he didn't have all that money two weeks ago and he didn't have it now. The other newsies wouldn't have it, either—between the four of them, he was pretty sure one would keep the rest away. And that was that. All there was left for him to do was wait.
Now, it was dark, but was it too late to pay a quick visit to June?
In the shadows, Spot and Jack stood together, watching, saying nothing. It was only when Oscar started off again, his hands in his pocket, his knife out of sight, that Jack betrayed their position by placing his cigarette in his mouth and, after a second of fumbling in his pockets, pulled out his matchbox and struck a match. The eruption of the small flame blinded him for a moment; his eyes adjusted, he let his cigarette and then shook out the thin wooden stick. All that remained was a tiny, fiery light of his embers, a glow that brightened when he took one long drag.
"I guess I owe you another two bits," he said, blowing the pale grey smoke out in a steady stream. "I was damn sure that he'd be first… well, after Race, I mean… to take some of that money. I can't believe he just left like that."
"Double or nothin', Jacky," Spot said, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "I never bet unless I know I'm gonna win."
Jack flicked his cigarette, sending the ashes dropping to the floor. He absently toed the dirt, scattering the ashes until there was no sign of them, wondering where in the world he was gonna come up with Spot's winnings. Rather than think of that—or the fortune just out of reach—he asked out loud, "How did ya know he wouldn't take none of it?"
In the darkness of their hideaway, Spot's teeth managed to gleam wickedly. "'Cause he knows I woulda killed him if he tried."
David wanted to ask Spot how he found Oscar, but he didn't. After he blurted out that the knife he saw at Race's was the one Oscar used to walk around with years ago Spot didn't say another word. He was silent, obviously thinking about what David's revelation could mean, and neither of them liked what it could mean.
He stayed a few steps behind Spot, unsure where they were going but unwilling to ask. His throat felt tight, his stomach jumpy and he had half a mind to let Spot confront Oscar on his own—but he didn't. What would Sarah say if she saw him acting like a coward, leaving her husband alone to face whatever dangers lay ahead? No. It was his turn to look after Spot now. Why else had he gone down to Spot's favorite saloon on Monday night?
Unlike Race's apartment, there wasn't any super waiting to let visitors inside. It was a standard tenement building, one that looked like the hundreds other in this part of the city, and the two men walked inside like they belonged there. David immediately turned to the stairs but Spot stopped him by grabbing his arm and pointing at one of two doors on the main floor. "That one," he said abruptly before strutting right over to it and banging on the door. His fist was clenched so tight as he knocked that his knuckles were white and David felt himself flinching away from Spot's barely contained anger. Without even having met up with Oscar again, he'd already decided he was responsible for whatever had happened to Racetrack.
When the door wasn't answered after a few seconds Spot's impatience got the better of him and he kicked the door once with the tip of his boot. David rushed over to him and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Spot shook him off, exhaling roughly, but by the time the door opened slowly inward, he was breathing softer.
In the last five years, Oscar had hardly changed. He was taller than David remembered, and he'd put on a few pounds, but there was something about him that screamed "Delancey" to him. Maybe it was that oily grin, that smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes… whatever it was, David knew him the second he saw him.
Oscar recognized them, too. "David, Liam—"
Spot's eyes blazed at the mention of his Christian name; he was already incensed, that was just the final straw. No sooner had the second syllable been said, he was already interrupting Oscar. "How did you—"
"Oscar!" cut in David quickly. There was that old familiar twinge in his cheek from the last time he decided to call Spot by his name. He had to calm him down, diffuse the situation, because how could they ask Oscar any questions of Spot went ahead and decked him first? "It's good to see you."
His jaw clamped shut and his hands still folded tight, Spot shot a warning glance at David that he met without blinking. Seeing David that serious, he calmed down. Slightly. "Yeah," he snapped, a small growl in the back of his throat making his words as harsh as meant them. "It's good, Delancey."
If Oscar noticed the look Spot and David shared, he didn't comment on it. Grinning widely, he held his hands out as he gestured at them. "I'd say the same but, hell, I guess I'd be lyin'." He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Let me guess. You're here 'bout the money."
"Something like that," Spot said through clenched teeth.
And there was that laugh again. "Don't worry 'bout me. I ain't interested."
"What?" Spot's surprise was so intense that he immediately forgot his anger.
David echoed it with a quick: "What do you mean?"
"The money," Oscar said with a shrug. "I don't want it. And, really, I ain't too keen on you two showin' your face around here. My wife… she doesn't like late visitors, and seein' how I kept my word and never gave up your secret, I can't really explain what you're doing here, can I?"
It was Spot's turn to laugh, a hard disbelieving laugh. "Your wife?"
"Yeah," Oscar answered, reaching behind him and pulling the door behind him closed. David hadn't even noticed that it was still open until it clicked shut. "You didn't think you were the only one to catch a girl, eh, Liam?"
"Oscar…" Spot began warningly, but David cut him off with a quick, "That's nice to hear, Oscar."
Oscar pointed at David's hand, waggling his finger in the direction of the simple band David wore on his left hand. "I see you got one, too. She a looker?"
David jerked at the blunt question and secretly wished he'd allowed Spot to hit him when he wanted to. "Um… yes?" What business of Oscar's was it if Vanessa was beautiful—which she was, of course, he mentally added—or if she was his? He opened his mouth to retort but stopped when Oscar held his hands up as if warding David off.
"I'm just kiddin' with ya, Davey," he joked. "Lighten up."
Spot's good humor was gone as quickly as it appeared. As if reminded what he was doing at this place by Oscar's casual mentions of Sarah and Vanessa, he stepped past David and said, "Have you seen Race?"
The question stumped Oscar and he took a moment before he answered. "Tony?" he asked, then he laughed that slick laugh of his again. "Oh, I get it. You're looking for him 'bout the money, too. Don't you worry, I don't think nothing's gonna stop him from goin' after his share. Hell, I would've forgotten 'bout it long ago if it wasn't for him poppin' up and remindin' me from time to time."
"You know Race?" David asked. He didn't know that. Strange, it was something that Race never mentioned.
"Yeah, and his mouth is still as smart as ever. I see him down at the track sometimes. Him and Benny are good friends. That's the guy ya want to talk to if you're lookin' for Tony."
"But you haven't seen him?"
Oscar waved his hand again. "Nope, not for ages. He goes for a drink sometimes, makes his bets, but I don't invite him around my family, and I don't got to his place. But Benny does."
And David realized suddenly that he believed Oscar was telling the truth. Maybe he was letting his memory of the Delancey boy cloud his judgment but he didn't remember Oscar actually being helpful, nor did he expect that he would answer the questions Spot had for him. It didn't sound like an act; it sounded like he meant it when he said he didn't want the money, or that he knew Race but didn't know where to find him. David couldn't help but think that Oscar had no idea what happened to Race. But Benny… this Benny guy did.
Spot, it seemed, was thinking along the same lines as David. Except, instead of feeling just a little glad that Oscar was being honest, he wanted to catch him in some kind of lie.
Sounding more casual than David though him capable, he asked, "One quick thing, Oscar, and then we'll be goin'. Ya still got that knife of yours?"
"Why do you ask?" he said. There was no suspicion, just honest curiosity.
"Humor me. Ya got it?"
Oscar kept the door open when he went back inside, allowing David and Spot to get a peek. It was similar in design to Race's apartment—well, without newspapers torn everywhere or furniture toppled on its side—with a tiny front room, a hall that led away to a small kitchen and, David assumed, the bedrooms. It was cozy, candles everywhere with a few small wooden blocks scattered along the edge of the hallway. He hardly had anytime to wonder why the blocks were there when David saw a boy with hair as dark as Oscar's come hurrying towards the toys. He looked to be about three or four years old, but there was enough resemblance between him and Oscar to figure that this was Oscar's son.
But before they could get a better look at the boy, Oscar returned, a puzzled look on his face. He stood in the doorway, blocking his son from their view, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Huh… ya know, it's not where I left it. Funny, last time I saw it was when Benny needed it…" He suddenly looked panicked as, for the first time, his easy smile slid off his face. "Shit, I hope I didn't leave it out. My wife'll kill me if one of our kids gets their hands on it." Oscar glanced back into his house in time for all three of them to notice a petite woman with big brown eyes watching from across the hall. Oscar nodded at her, she waved and vanished. "Was there anything else?" he asked, moving so that he was standing just inside the doorway, his hand holding the edge of the door. "'Cause, look, it was kinda nice seein' ya again but I'm happy now. Ya don't have to worry 'bout me. I'm not lookin' for none of that money. You'se guys… share it. I hope it makes ya as happy as I am."
The door slammed in their stunned faces, a quick close that told them that the conversation was over. Then, to add insult to injury, David was sure he heard the lock click as it turned before the muffled sounds of a woman asking questions about her husband's unexpected guests could be made out through the thin wooden door. Still, neither of the two men moved just yet.
"What the hell happened to him?" Spot's expression looked exactly the way David felt. "That ain't the Oscar Delancey I remember."
David had to smile in spite of himself. "He got married, Spot. He had a family. Five years is a long time. Are any of us the same anymore?"
It's not what he meant to do. Sure, he swiped Oscar's blade the last time he visited him and his lovely little family at their home, but that was just in case. He'd certainly never meant to use it for anything.
Race was already drunk when he got there. Maybe if he'd been sober, maybe if he'd realized just how damn serious he was, Race might've been able to rely on his self-preservation instincts and he could've avoided the whole thing. But he wasn't—he'd already taken in far too much gin, and the gin made him both slow and stupid. A bad combination at any time, but even worse when a dedicated man was out for answers.
All he'd wanted was for Race to finally fess up, tell him about his never-ending supply of money, how he got it and where he could get his hands on some. He knew Cowboy had something to do with it and, if what Race said last night had any truth to it—which was about a fifty-fifty chance, knowing Racetrack Higgins—than so did Oscar. He knew he could ask Oscar, and maybe he could even hunt Jack down if it came to it, but Race was his best chance. Enough gin, and he'd tell him anything; too much, and Race lost his nerve.
He'd taken too much that night.
Race never locked his door, figuring that if someone wanted to get in bad enough, they got in. It was only too easy to slip inside his apartment and find the dark-haired gambler with a half-empty bottle of gin and a jumpy disposition.
"Oh," Race said, when his dazed eyes narrowed on him in the gloom of night, recognizing him in a sudden rush of relief, "it's you. What're ya doin' here?"
He closed the door behind him. Whatever happened, whatever passed between them, he didn't want any witnesses to this conversation. "Why do ya think?" he said then, the click of the closed door, the satisfying turn of the lock, all of that behind him now. "It's about the money. You had to know I'd be comin', Race."
Race stood up but what did that matter? He was taller, he was stronger, he was insistent and, most of all, he was sober.
"I… I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Save it. I've heard all that before."
"I don't have any more." Race's shoulders slumped visibly, but it didn't matter. He was wasn't buying the defeated act, either.
"Then get some," he snapped. "I know you can. Ya always can."
"I can't—but give me a coupla days." He saw the way Race's beady eyes flitted to the table, glancing at the most recent newspaper lying on top of a pile of older ones. "Just five days. I'll have all the money you need."
And that was all he needed to hear. Five days… he only had five days to get to Race's stash of money before anyone else did. For a split second he wondered if he could get more information than that out of Race, but he knew he couldn't; he was lucky for Race to let slip that much with a belly full of gin like that. Even if he could, that might mean sharing with the others—and he wasn't the sort of fella who liked to share. A little info from Race, some more from Oscar, and he'd have it all to himself.
All of it.
He took Oscar's switchblade from out of his pocket then, flicking it open with an expertise that was all too eerie. "Sorry, Race, but I ain't waitin' five days," he said and—
Well that was that, Oscar decided. He'd been wondering if any of the other guys would come for him and wouldn't you know, with only a handful of days left, he had David Jacobs and Liam Conlon at his front door. What next? Tony Higgins knew better than to come round by the house and if he never saw Jack Kelly again, that would be too soon. Huh.
June didn't ask what that was about when Oscar went back to the kitchen, with a quick apology for his wife and a ruffling of his son's dark hair. His little girl, Sadie, was clinging to her mother's skirt; at two years old, she was interested in everything and anything her mother was doing, especially when June was fixing up supper. Oscar joined Roy at the table, stopped his boy from sloshing his jumper with juice and immediately forgot all about his visitors.
That is, until a few hours later. It was dark, supper had been both finished and cleaned up and the four Delancey's were sitting together: Oscar reading the newspaper, June sewing the lace onto a secondhand dress for Sadie, Sadie toddling after Roy while her brother moved cheekily out of the way of her sticky fingers. Sadie giggled though her eyes were drooping and it was just about the children's bedtime when there came a sudden, echoing knock that caused Oscar to lower his paper and June's eyes to widen in surprise.
She turned to look at her husband questioningly but Oscar was already climbing up from his chair.
He didn't know who he expected to find when he opened his door, but it certainly wasn't the man he expected. There, standing in front of him, was a tall man, thin, with dark hair done in a fancy wave that Oscar thought made him look like a pansy—not like he'd ever tell him that. There were just some things you don't tell a touchy man and making fun of his style was one of them.
"Benny? What are you doing here?"
"Let's talk, Oscar," the man said easily. Friendly. No trace of animosity whatsoever.
Oscar looked at Benny, trying to figure out what would've brought his pal to his home so late. But there was no answer there and he knew better than to keep on looking. Holding up a finger, he leaned around the open entryway in order to call back into the apartment. "Junie?" he called, knowing his wife could hear him from the doorway, "Benny's here. I'm just gonna go out for a minute. Tuck the kids into bed for me, will ya?" Her reply was muffled, but seeing how it wasn't in June Delancey's nature to argue against her husband, he knew what her answer would be. Reaching for his old black derby, Oscar patted it on top of his head. "Alright, I'm ready."
"Come with me," Benny said smoothly, "let's talk while we walk."
"Sure, pal."
But Benny never started to talk. And Oscar wasn't all that surprised.
This wasn't the first time Benny Daniels, a buddy of his from his days down at the track and the one damn newsie Oscar actually liked when he was a boy, came calling at his house. They had a lot in common—a realisitc approach to life that some thought of as glumness, a love of a good whiskey and rye, a one time job down at the linoleum factory that Oscar still kept but Benny was canned from ages ago... Sure, Oscar had a wife and children and Benny only worshipped dollar signs, but they were still pals. Oscar knew Benny pretty well.
He knew where they were going, too.
The Doctor's was a popular dive bar on Park Row that Oscar and Benny used to frequent after a long shift at the factory, or whenever Junie was bringing the kids to visit her mother for the evening. It was a notorious saloon, a place for panhandlers and crooks to try to con a nickel out of an honest man, but it served the best whiskey around. It had been ages since the two men had gone down that way, too, but Oscar could find The Doctor's with his eyes closed. And Benny, of course, was counted a regular among Burly Bohan's patrons.
In fact, Benny had been there that night last July when Jerry O'Connor pulled his revolver on Patrick Bohan. Oscar was there, too, though he ducked out of the brawl before it got too heated… but he'd never forgotten the way Benny folded his fist and tried to punch any inch of O'Connor he could reach. Benny was a good guy, a good pal, but there was a darkness in him that Oscar had seen that night—one that he never wanted to see again.
Which was why, when Benny asked to borrow his knife the other day, Oscar coughed it up no problem. Except… that knife. Why had David and Liam asked him about his knife? And where the hell was it?
"Hey, Ben," Oscar said, in an attempt to break up the curious quiet and bad memories, "did ya happen to see what I did with my knife when ya gave it back?"
And Benny, knowing exactly where he'd last seen Oscar's knife and that he hadn't given it back, just shook his head. He was still shaking his head as they walked right past the open door to The Doctor's.
—suddenly, Skittery realized he would do anything for money.
Chapter Text
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 15 th 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.
Notes:
From 09/02/10:
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.
Chapter 10: So Long
Chapter Text
Five
April 20, 1905
Like she'd done countless times before, Vanessa Jacobs woke up long before her husband. She wasn't all that surprised, either. When she finally gave up on sharing a hot supper with him last night and turned in, David still hadn't come back home yet. She vaguely remembered him kissing her cheek while she slept as he slipped under the covers; from the one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, Vanessa could see that he'd actually fallen asleep in his work clothes. Poor thing, she thought. He must've let himself in even later than she would've guessed.
There was still some time until David had to rise so Vanessa climbed out of their marriage bed slowly, careful not to wake him. It was her turn to strike a match and leave a candle burning for David. With a small smile shadowed by the candlelight, Vanessa thought of the light he left for her the morning before and wondered if he really understood why she always kept the candle on hand and the matches in reach.
She knew he had some funny idea about her time growing up in a Five Points' tenement which, in a way, was almost right. The flickering flame and the dribbles of cheap yellow tallow certainly were a touch of home, but it was more than that. For Vanessa, that simple stick of wax and wick was a sign of devotion—a devotion she never should've doubted, she thought with a pang—for her husband. As simple as that, she used the candle as a sign of the love she held for him. Vanessa may not be the type of woman who was comfortable telling him with words, but what she couldn't say with words, she hoped she said with her actions.
After lighting the candle and blowing out the match, Vanessa quickly traded her rumpled nightdress for the simple, pale frock she liked to wear when she had a full day of cooking ahead of her. She had no intention of letting David skip supper for the second night in a row. Having bought a roast off of the butcher yesterday, she planned on making a sturdy meal for her husband. Perhaps with some of his favorite food in his belly he would react more favorably to her news.
Perhaps with a full and content husband sitting opposite of her at the table Vanessa would finally find time to tell David about her trip across town on Tuesday.
Just as Vanessa reached down to pick up the worn nightdress and place it with the other washing, something on her dresser caught the flame and flashed, catching her eye. It was her treasured combs, a wedding gift from David. A pair of silver twist combs with etched edging on the end and fancy rhinestones decorating the outside, Vanessa always wondered how much they cost him and always feared that they cost too much. Still, she adored them nevertheless, though seeing them now left her with conflicted emotions.
She'd been wearing them the first afternoon she spent with Jack, back in March, when he whispered in her ear for her to let down her hair. She'd pulled the combs out then, experiencing that first familiar niggle of guilt, and stowed them away in a side drawer—where she promptly forgot them. She found them again last night while tidying Spot's room and resolved to start wearing the combs again.
Just as she resolved never to see Jack again.
With slow and deliberate care, Vanessa pinned her long hair up.
Apart from worrying about what hi-jinks Spot was involving poor David in, she had had a lot of time to think while she waited for her husband to come home. The visit to the hospital gave her plenty to mull over, as did Spot's discovery about her affair with Jack. And the more she thought about it, the stupider she felt. It was like she was a sixteen-year-old girl again, in love with the idea of being in love with Jack Kelly. Because it wasn't Vanessa Jacobs who let him into her home, into her bed, no, it was little Vanessa Sawyer who spread her legs because she thought he cared.
Now, just like then, she had to come to terms with the fact that Jack didn't really care.
Not like David cared.
God, she was a fool.
An unseasonable chill followed Vanessa past the closed door to Spot's bedroom and into the kitchen. Deciding a hot meal was in order, she grabbed a pot and started the water for porridge. Then, because David coming home so late could mean only one thing when Spot was around, she reached for the kettle next.
Whether it was from her absence in their bed, the smell of breakfast cooking or just old-fashioned guilt on his part for coming in after she went to bed, David didn't stay asleep that much longer than Vanessa had. She was just giving the porridge its final stirs when he poked his head into the kitchen hopefully and asked, "Breakfast?"
Vanessa had to allow herself a small smile. He looked like an eager little boy, the way his blue eyes were wide despite the dark circles underneath; his curly hair, flattened on side from the pillow—the side away from her since she knew he slept facing her—just added to the picture. Even if she felt she could be angry at him for staying out all night, she knew she never would.
"Hot porridge," she answered when she noticed his eyes straying to the wooden spoon in her hand. "And I saved you some chilled soup from last night for lunch."
It hadn't been her intent, but her words brought a shamed flush to his cheeks. "Vanessa, I'm so sorry—"
She cut him off with a quick tut and a wave of her spoon. "You just make sure you're home for supper tonight, hm? I'm making a roast."
He sighed. "You're wonderful."
"Breakfast will be ready in a moment," Vanessa told him, turning her back on him, turning back to the stove, hiding a pleased grin and a content happiness. The porridge was just about cooked, the steel-cut grain puffed up in the boiling water and tender. After giving it another stir, she lowered the flame on the stove and started to look through the cabinets for plates to serve the breakfast on.
David was taking his seat at the table when he noticed the fancy combs keeping Vanessa's hair up and out of her face. He made a sound of recognition in the back of her throat. "I remember those combs."
She'd just found a ceramic plate to use and was holding it loosely with her right hand when she heard David's comment. The other hand flew to up her hair, insistent fingers finding the sharp prongs of the comb's end before she let her fingertips rest lightly on the smooth side. "I love them."
"You haven't worn them in awhile," he observed innocently.
At his words, the plate slipped out of her right hand, landing with a crash on the counter where it cracked in half and splintered into a few large pieces. David started, his body jerked nervously before he realized where the sound had come from. Vanessa hurried to pick the plate up and, in her haste, grabbed one of the pieces by its sharp edge and—
"Ow!"
David stood up; he was at his wife's side before the first drops of blood started seeping out from the inch-long cut on the fleshy part of her palm. "Are you—oh," he gulped, "you're bleeding."
"I… I must've cut my hand on the plate."
It was a testament to the amount of love he had for Vanessa that, when he saw the blood, he merely turning a faint shade of green as he reached for a dishtowel. "I'll do it," he mumbled, using his trembling fingers to press the cloth to her cut.
It struck Vanessa then how alike this scene was to the other morning, the morning of Jack's visit and the sizzling bacon and the fat that spat at her hand. But with David it was different. He was awkward as he tended to her small cut, his fingers hesitant and shaky but undeniably gentle as he held the cloth to her palm. He wasn't sure of himself, he was never sure of himself where she was involved, and, still, it was an endearing trait. Just his touch, careful as it was, was enough to make her forget the pain as butterflies flapped away in the pit of her stomach.
David wasn't sure, he was never arrogant or cocky. He wasn't anything like Jack. How had she ever thought to compare them in the first place?
Such a fool…
"I'll wear them all the time now," Vanessa promised him impulsively, referring back to the combs as if her slip hadn't happened. It wasn't about the words she said anymore, she realized, it was about what they meant.
It took David a moment to understand that she was talking about the combs too; he'd forgotten all about them when Vanessa cried out. "They make you look beautiful… no," he corrected, the greenish tinge fading to an embarrassed pink as he told her, "you make them look stunning."
"Oh, David…" Suddenly, Vanessa knew that this was the perfect opportunity to talk with him. She didn't want to wait until dinner, she wanted to talk now. "David? There's something I have to tell you."
No other seven words could cause such a panic like those did. Letting go of her hand, David drew back, wary and alarmed. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Vanessa said quickly, calming him before anything else. "It's just that—"
And that's when Spot walked into the kitchen.
"You got some coffee boilin' for me, Dave?" He was rubbing his eyes as he came through the door, and when he lowered his hands and saw David and Vanessa standing tensed together by the stove, he stopped short. "Hey, uh, sorry if I'm walkin' in on something."
Vanessa patted her hair with her uninjured hand, moving swiftly away from her husband, mumbling something about breakfast almost being ready as she hurried back to tend to her pot. David watched her go, a forlorn expression dashing across his face before he turned his attention to Spot. "What's the matter, Spot?" he asked, caught off guard by the grimace Spot was sporting and the way he was shielding his eyes with his hand as if the artificial light in the kitchen was too bright.
Spot sank into his chosen chair at the table, both hands at his forehead. "What's that matter? I feel like I've been run over by a horse and the horse is still tramplin' on my brain, that's what's the matter. Gah!"
Wordlessly, Vanessa poured the boiled coffee into a mug she'd had prepared and brought it over to Spot. She sat it down quick, spinning away from the table immediately before Spot even realized what she had done. It wasn't that she was avoiding him actually, except that she was and had been trying her best to avoid him for days. Because every time he looked at her, every time she felt his cyan eyes boring straight back at her, Vanessa saw her mistakes, her indiscretions. He was a constant reminder of her foolishness and she was counting the days until he left and it was just her and David again.
When Jack would be back in New Haven again…
The clink of the mug against the tabletop caused Spot to spread his fingers so he could see. He dropped his hands and reached for the mug once he recognized the rich smell of a strong cup of coffee. "Thanks, Vanessa," he said immediately before testing the coffee and, having decided it was worth a slightly burned tongue, downing half the mug in three gulps. If he noticed how she only answered him with the quaintest of nods, he didn't say anything, leaving David to wonder what in the world happened between Spot and Vanessa when he was at the office.
There was no doubt in his mind that Spot's arrival kept Vanessa from telling him whatever it was she wanted to say.
David's expression was one of mild curiosity mixed with undeniable disapproval. It bothered him that Spot waltzed into the kitchen like that, killing any chance of Vanessa finally talking to him again, especially when it was Spot's fault that David arrived home so late last night. By the time he finally dragged Spot out of the Doctor's and managed to get him back to the apartment, Vanessa was already sleeping. It was the first time in the year they'd been married that she went to bed without him and it hurt him more than he would've expected.
But Spot, it seemed, was hurting more than the rest of them. He winced as Vanessa spooned the porridge onto the plate, his eyes closing as the breakfast plopped loudly against the ceramic center, and he held onto his mug like it was a lifeline. "I tell ya," he said out loud, breaking up the quiet in a voice that sounded rusty and tired, "I've had plenty of whiskey's in my time, and if those were straight whiskey and rye's Skittery kept slidin' me last night, then I'm Thomas Edison."
"You were acting a little strange last night," David said carefully, being drawn into the conversation against his better judgement. Unless he'd been imagining it, he could've sworn he heard a slight tsk-ing noise coming from the kitchen. Well, the cat was out of the bag, wasn't it? Good going, Spot.
Spot stopped, the mug halfway to his lips. "Strange how?"
David's eyes slid over so that it was obvious he was watching Vanessa. She had her back to them, but that didn't mean she wasn't listening to the conversation—and David wasn't quite sure he wanted to actually admit to his wife what had happened last night just yet. Not until after Friday, at least. Hoping Spot understood, he said, "Strange enough that you're going to need another cup of coffee, I think."
Groaning, Spot lifted his mug back up, drained the rest of the coffee and prayed to God that Vanessa would be an angel and bring him more. Just then he was willing to forgive her everything if only this pounding went away.
As if in answer to his silent prayer, Vanessa finished dishing out the porridge, two plates, and set them on the table, followed by two mugs of coffee, another for Spot and David's in his special blue mug. Then, because her appetite was scarce these days—and she'd been feeling quite ill these last few mornings—she rested her hand on David's shoulder, gave him a peck on the cheek and then, after throwing the stained dishtowel back to the counter, swept out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.
The door clicked shut with a finality behind her. The two men, spoons and mugs amazingly left untouched, met each other's eyes.
"And what the hell is wrong with her?" asked Spot bluntly.
David just shook his head. He certainly wished he knew—that, and that Spot had walked into the kitchen a few minutes later than he had.
It was a beautiful dress, pristine white with a high, throaty collar and lovely embroidered sleeves. It had a cinch waist and a skirt that flared out slightly at the ankles, just enough to make its wearer feel like a fairytale princess. Sarah had spent weeks gathering the material and months sewing the gown together. All that was left to do was for her to attach her lacework to the trim.
She kept it at her mother's house because that's where Sarah spent her mornings while Liam was at the factory. Even after they were married, she continued to tat lace and doilies in her spare time in order to add to his income; it was a relaxing pastime as she sat with her mother in the kitchen, Esther Jacobs tending to her washing and cooking, prattling on about grandchildren while Sarah's fingers worked. Knowing there wasn't much time left until the wedding, Sarah had brought her piecework home with her last night. Having finished it after supper, she resolved to bring the trim back to her mother's the next morning in order to finally finish Vanessa Sawyer's wedding dress.
But, it seemed, she wasn't the only one intent on visiting the dress.
Her mother was missing when Sarah arrived at the apartment, probably off to the grocer's or out taking a walk with Les before his morning lessons began. Sarah let herself in, as was her custom, only to find Vanessa sitting on the edge of the rocking chair that Sarah liked to use while she did her sewing. The dress was spread out across Vanessa's lap, her fingers ghosting over the material.
Sarah smiled as she set her bag down on the table. "Pretty, isn't it?"
Vanessa's head jerked up at the sound of Sarah's voice, guilt and surprise written all over her pale, wan face. She obviously hadn't realized that she was no longer alone in the apartment.
"I remember my dress," Sarah went on conversationally, "Mama made it for me as a gift, just like I'm doing for you. I couldn't wait to put it on, and when I took it off, I only wanted to wear it again." She paused, bending down slightly, one hand on her knee, the other reaching down to pick up the sleeve that was trailing along the floor. "Would you like to try it on again?"
"I… I can't."
Sarah's answer was as bright as Vanessa's was hesitant and gloomy. "Of course you can. David's not here to see you in it, it's just me. You can model it while I sew the finishing lace on."
"No, Sarah, you don't understand," Vanessa whispered mournfully and, for the first time, Sarah noticed the faded tracks of dried tears that ran down Vanessa's cheeks. This wasn't just an excitable bride unable to stay away from her dress—this was something else. "And it isn't that I don't appreciate all you've done for me, but I can't… I can't marry David."
"The wedding's in a week, Vanessa. You sure picked an awful time to get cold feet."
She shook her head. "I've known all along that I couldn't do it but seeing the dress today… it made it real somehow. I was fooling myself before, thinking it would work—but it won't." Vanessa was fingering the folds in the material, talking to the gown instead of Sarah, as if that made the admission easier.
And, suddenly, Sarah felt righteous anger well up in her on her younger brother's behalf. She reached out instinctively to take the gown back but Vanessa was too quick for her. Without actually touching it, she covered the bodice with her hands, silently denying Sarah. And Sarah, who had spent far too long over every stitch, couldn't bring herself to do anything to destroy it—not even out of anger. So, instead, she snapped quite unladylike: "What is it? My brother, he's not good enough for you?"
"I told you you didn't understand. Because that's not true at all. It's me."
"You?"
"Me," Vanessa agreed. "I'm not good enough for him." She sighed, anxiously pulling at a stray thread on the hem. Sarah longed to slap her hand away from the dress but something told her not to, it told her to wait. And then Vanessa murmured, "There was a boy…" and Sarah thought she might've just understood.
Adopting a kinder tone, Sarah told her, "There always is."
"I convinced myself I was in love with him… no," Vanessa corrected, "I was in love with him, but I convinced myself he was in love with me. And he wasn't," she announced vehemently, clenching her fists; luckily the dress was left alone, Vanessa's hands hanging at her side. "I don't think Jack ever cared about anyone himself."
Dread was instant, a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach at the name, but Sarah had always been a curious girl. She had to ask, "Jack?"
Vanessa spat out the name as if it were a dirty word: "Jack Kelly."
Sarah took in a sharp breath. But Vanessa, still staring at the wedding dress, unable to meet the prim and proper Sarah Conlon's eyes, acted as if she unheard it. She continued, "So, you see, I'm not fit to be any man's bride," all the while holding onto the dress. She wouldn't let go of it. And this time, Sarah didn't want to take it from her.
The women stayed in the small room together in silence, one having said too much, the other not sure what she should say at all.
Until—
"Do you love him?"
"What?"
"Do you love my brother?" Sarah asked again.
Vanessa didn't even have to think about it. "I… I do."
Sarah pursed her lips. She didn't say anything as she turned around and headed back towards the table, reaching for her bag and digging around until she had pulled out her piecework. The needle with its thread tale was looped carefully through the top of the lace and she held it delicately in her hand, motioning towards the dress. "Come now," she chided, "let's get this done. You're getting married in a week."
And, stubborn as always, Sarah Conlon left no room for argument.
Mr. Wagner was in rare form on Thursday. He had a big case coming up for one of Paul Kelly's thugs, some lowlife who was on the hook for murder, and it had fallen to Mr. Wagner to find a way to get him off. David wouldn't have even known what type of case it was except he overhead a whispered conversation between the head clerk Jensen and Madison, Mr. Wagner's assistant. It wasn't the sort of cases the firm went in for normally, and the office was in quite a state. Therefore, when six o'clock came and went without any dismissal, David wasn't surprised, just a little annoyed.
To his absolute relief, there was no sign of Spot Conlon standing outside of the office building when Mr. Wagner finally let the clerks leave for the evening. A quick peek at his pocketwatch told him that it was close to seven; willing to do just about anything not to miss Vanessa's dinner again, he very nearly ran the distance back to the apartment. He only stopped once, to buy a newspaper off of the corner newsie, and made it home within twenty minutes.
Dinner itself was also a strange affair. At first he thought that it would be just him and Vanessa and, perhaps, he could finally sit down and have a conversation with his wife. Except, once the meat had been served and Vanessa was plating the potatoes, Spot arrived and barked out a command for more coffee. It was the only words spoken since Vanessa seemed inclined to keep to herself and David didn't want to say anything to upset her. After she poured Spot's coffee out for him, they each sat down at the table and started to eat. At least Vanessa managed to eat a full meal for the first time in ages.
She was so pleased to see that David arrived just in time for her to slice the roast that she just smiled and nodded when he confessed that, yes, he'd made it home but, unfortunately, he had Spot had plans for after supper. She didn't ask any questions but that didn't stop him from promising to tell her all about their adventures afterward. He probably would've gone on and explained that he and Spot were meeting up with Skittery Daniels in order to look for Race except Spot had purposely crawled out of his bed at the start of the meal and sent warning glances across the table when David's lips started flapping much faster than they should have.
There was only one more day left, one more day to find Race, to get rid of Jack and recover a fortune. He didn't have to tell David to shut up—he knew. But on Saturday morning… well, that was another story.
David helped Vanessa clean up after the meal while Spot took a walk to clear his head. Then, when all that did was make him feel more lightheaded than before, he went and lay down until David asked him if he was ready to go. Spot rinsed his face in the washbasin, shook off the water droplets and grabbed his old newsboy cap. Then, hoping he could trust Skittery, he followed David out onto the dark New York streets and started off for Park Row.
It seemed like a good idea at the time to meet Skittery back at the same bar they were at last night. Skittery not only had something to do—someone to see—yesterday, but he wasn't free again until ten o'clock on Thursday night. Which was why, at a few minutes before ten, Spot and David stopped just outside of the Doctor's.
David nodded at the closed door but made no move to open it. "Do you think Skittery's already inside?"
Spot managed a small shrug, the tiniest of motions that didn't aggravate his headache. Even after all these hours his head was still pounding and there was a sharp, shooting pain behind his left eye whenever he dared open his lid more than a sliver. He'd asked Vanessa for another pot of coffee when the three of them sat down to supper after David got home, drinking big gulps in between bites of her succulent roast.
It had been years since he'd had a hangover this bad; he felt like a boy of sixteen again, stealing shots and a bottle of gin from back alley pubs and getting drunk with the fellas. If it wasn't for the ticking of the clock—one day more—and Skittery's promise of help, Spot would've been more than happy to crawl back into his borrowed bed and not come back out until his head was screwed on tight again.
David peeked inside but the windows were dark and smoky and he couldn't see anything. "Should we go in?"
"You can go in," Spot snapped. "I'm waitin' right here."
"Alright, then I'll wait with you."
It wasn't a surprise Spot was refusing to go inside the Doctor's again. Between sleeping it off and drinking more coffee than any man should, he'd come to the decision that there was something funny in his drink last night. He put it up to Tom Frizzell and his symbiotic partnership with Burly Bohan, the bar's owner. Maybe he shouldn't have told David about the King of the Panhandlers but, still, whatever Frizzell had put in Spot's drink was than anything Chicago's Mickey Finn could've come up with.
He barely remembered anything about last night. Well, no… he remembered Jack. He remembered the caught expression and the way he all but ran when David caught a whiff of Vanessa's perfume lingering on Jack's vest. The woman had promised it was over, and Spot wished he could believe her—but he smelled the perfume, too, and it was certainly fresh.
Damn it.
He remembered Skittery, too—why else would he be waiting there now? Right before things got a little… hazy, Spot distinctly remembered wanting to go off and find Racetrack. Every day he was missing, every day he thought of the knife, it was a day closer to accepting the inevitable. Except Spot Conlon wouldn't accept it, and if there was someone out there that was willing to help him locate his old pal, he'd take their help—even if it meant meeting Skittery at the Doctor's at ten o'clock in the hopes of finding Race before tomorrow.
But that was it. That was all he remembered about last night. Everything else was a big blank, and judging from David's queer behavior at breakfast, that was quite a bit of nothing he wasn't remembering.
And how the hell had David gotten him back to the apartment?
David was resting on the balls of his feet, nervous and antsy and watching the shady looking fellows that walked up and down this street, most of them turning to go inside the Doctor's after they'd gotten an eyeful of Spot and David. Spot was reminded of that night all those years ago—hell, of most nights when he tried to get David to do anything fun—by the way David stood by, worried and jumpy as if a cop was going to come by and ask him what he was doing.
He snorted. Yeah. Cops in this part of town? Not likely.
But his curiosity was aroused now. While they were still waiting for Skittery, Spot decided to ask, "How did we get back?" He raised his hand to his eyes, the throbbing even more intense as a terrible idea occurred to him. "Ah, hell, you didn't bring Jack back with us, did you, Dave? Vanessa—"
"No," David said, puzzled, "Jack left before we did." And then, because he always perked up whenever his wife was mentioned, he asked, "What do you mean, 'Vanessa'?"
Spot was relieved. One less thing to worry about. "Nothin'," he lied easily, "it's just that I didn't want ya gettin' in trouble on my account."
"Vanessa was already sleeping when we finally got you through the door."
"We?"
David hesitated for a moment, his one hand fiddling absently with the rim of his cap. "Did I forget to tell you that Skittery helped me walk you home?" he said, and there was something in the way he said it that told Spot that it wasn't that he forgot to tell him anything. "He offered to give me a hand before he left to see his, um, his lady friend."
"Oh. Ya know, that was pretty decent of Skittery. You gotta remind me to thank him."
"You can do that right now, Spot," David replied, pointing at a figure heading straight toward them.
It was Skittery. David glanced at his watch: ten o'clock. Right on time.
"Hey, fellas. It's good to see ya made it."
Faced with Skittery, Spot totally managed to forget wanting to say thanks. It wasn't something he was used to doing and, besides, there were more important things to worry about. Like Race. "You ready to go lookin' for Race?"
"Fact is, I think I found out where he is," Skittery said, "if you'll just follow me."
There was nothing else for them to do. They'd come out all this way to meet up with Skittery because he promised to help them find Race. If he said he had an idea where to look, well, that was a lot more than Spot and David had had ever since Oscar offered up the name of Benny. But "Benny" had turned out to be a dead end. It was nice to finally have another lead.
Neither one of them were willing to admit that maybe this was fruitless searching. At least, not yet—
—not until Skittery, after taking point and maneuvering past gangs on the corner, staking out their territory, homeless hookers calling out to them, crooked cops in the middle of taking their bribes… not until Skittery took them past all the vice on the late night streets without any worries, any concerns, any fears and led them straight to a familiar street that David had been purposely avoiding for years.
Duane Street.
He'd been thinking about this place, this stretch of wall exactly, for days now. Ever since he spied the date on the newspaper and remembered that the five year anniversary was falling on Friday night, David had been thinking about Duane Street and what was going to happen when he met up with four other men at midnight.
Why had Skittery brought them here? What did he know?
Why was he looking for Racetrack Higgins at Duane Street? Was he looking for him here or was it just a coincidence?
"Here we are," Skittery announced at last. It was dark and empty on this street, the back alley Jack had led four young boys too five years ago, and if it wasn't for all the time that had lapsed—or that there was an outsider with them—it could've been that same April night all over again.
Okay, David decided with a nervousness he couldn't quite explain, it wasn't a coincidence.
"Here? Why here?" Spot asked suspiciously, voicing the same concerns that David was struggling with. "Why the hell would Race be here?"
"Oh, he's not," Skittery admitted in a nice even tone. For all he was saying, he could've been discussing the weather and not a missing pal. "I decided it wasn't worth it to pretend no more. I know what I'm after."
"Pretend? Skittery, I don't think I understand."
"Call me Benny," he said in answer to David. "Most of my friends do… or, they used to. I don't have many friends left anymore."
"Benny? Then that means—"
"You did it," Spot interrupted. It was suddenly so clear… and maybe it would've been yesterday, too, if it wasn't for his drunken haze last night. He'd been fooling himself, thinking he could find Race after he found a knife at his place, but he'd been fooling himself even more when he thought a bummer like Skittery would every help anyone out without a price. "You got to Race."
"Killed him, ya mean? Yeah. Oscar, too."
"Oscar?" David said shrilly. Skittery's—Benny's—nonchalant confession was far too eerie, far too composed that it brought on a rush of panic inside David. A flash of Oscar's wife's big brown eyes, the little boy with his wooden blocks… Oscar's family. "When? We saw him last night!"
"We saw you last night," added Spot with a barely contained snarl.
"Did ya follow me?"
"What? No!"
Skittery shrugged again, absently reaching into his pocket. "You should've."
He pulled out a cigarette case, dented and careworn. It was bronze, two letters engraved on the bottom corner: A.K. Alfred Kloppman. David's eyebrow rose as he remembered the uproar so many years ago when Kloppman's cigarette case went missing, stolen right from the top of his supervisor's desk, and none of the boys in the lodging house knew where it went. Well, it seemed he knew where it had gone now. Somehow, following Skittery's admission, it seemed only fitting—and the least of his worries.
It was almost as if he and Spot were frozen. Neither of them moved, acting like a pair of cheap mannequins as Skittery chose a handrolled cigarette from his case, snapped it shut and made it disappear. Like a conjurer, a flame appeared from out of nowhere and he ignited the cigarette. "Ya know," he said quite conversationally, letting the cigarette settle in the corner of his mouth familiarly, "Race never could hold his gin."
Spot's fists clenched at the casual mention of Race. It hadn't hit him yet, it hadn't really sunk in what Skittery said, but it was starting to. Race… "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Don't tell me ya didn't wonder why I stopped here?"
Skittery inhaled deeply, causing the fire on the tip of his cigarette to flare a deep orangey-red; ash formed on the edge and, with a casual flick, he sent it scattered. His lips reared back, a vicious sort of smile playing on his lips as he exhaled, the smoke issuing out like a stream. "For a buck I might do anything," he confessed. "For a fortune, I would."
The morning routine inside the Newsboys' Lodging House at number 9 Duane Street was both hectic and familiar. Every morning the old supervisor, a man called Kloppman, he woke up the boys in their half-sized bunks, smacking feet and arms and any part of the body the growing boys let hang over the edge.
"Sell the papes! Sell the papes!" was his cry, an admonition, a way to rally the boys from their beds. He woke them all up with the sun, instilling a work ethic and bringing home the competition that a life on the streets was. There weren't that many papers and you had to get down to the distribution center to get your share otherwise you were out of luck and carrying the banner for the next few nights. And, while the bunks were tight and smelled something awful, it was definitely preferable to the stink of a hot, sweltering New York summer.
Skittery's bed was close to the door and he was usually one of the first woken up. He'd never been a morning person, though, and it was a running gag what he would yell out when Kloppman got him awake. That particular morning he called out, "Wha-? I didn't do it," which, considering it was Skittery talking, was pretty much a confession.
There was a row of washbasins, razors, mugs and mirrors just past the water closets at the far end of the bunkroom. Most of the younger boys argued over who got to use the tin washtub for a quick scrub, while the older boys painstakingly soaped up and shaved in an attempt to pass themselves off as a couple years younger. The smoother the skin, the better the sales, or something like that.
Not that it was all seriousness—not in a zoo like the lodging house. The orphans and runaways were like animals, laughing and joking and horsing around. They teased each other over their individual smells and their wet dreams of actually landing a dame and even flung a brush full of shaving cream at each other.
That morning the unfortunate victim of the shaving cream was Racetrack Higgins.
"Pass the towel!"
Skittery waved the towel in his hand up high, purposely out of Race's reach. The short newsboy was groping around blindly, the shaving cream stinging his eyes. Skittery was a head taller and, as he held out the towel, Race managed to walk right past him.
"For a buck I might," he offered without bothering to hide his vindictive snicker.
When he was a kid and the working boys of New York rose up against the newspaper giants, Spot was brash, reckless, a hot head. He led Brooklyn based on brains, heart and an ability to size up an opponent and fight dirtier than the other bastard. But time and a kind wife (not to mention losing his wife) had managed to mature Spot Conlon. He wanted nothing more than to lunge out, to strike, just like he had done when Jack turned scab and he felt betrayed.
But turning scab had nothing on murdering a buddy and it took every ounce of restraint not to jump Skittery and bring him down. He had to listen first, act second and maybe they could get out of this alive—all assuming that Skittery was telling the truth about Race and Oscar. And why wouldn't he? Besides, David was there, too, and Spot couldn't see another friend go. He needed to wait for the right moment to strike, to take Skittery down before he did something even crazier now.
David, on the other hand, he was stunned by Skittery's revelations. Stunned and confused at the same time. He just couldn't understand. "What? I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play dumb, Davey," Skittery scolded, "it doesn't suit you."
David turned red, indignant. Spot was eerily silent.
It was still Skittery's turn to make a move.
Because, you see, Skittery wasn't dumb. Between the two men, he knew which one was easier to manipulate. Like he thought at the bar last night, Spot was a force to be reckoned with, especially seeing as how he was actually sober for a chance. But David… David Jacobs was the sort of man who would fall to pieces if you knew which buttons to press. He'd managed to work Oscar over last night; now it was David's turn. And, like Oscar, he knew exactly who to threaten in order to get David to answer him.
"How 'bout this?" he said, turning his attention on David as if Spot wasn't even standing there. "Tell me what I want to know and I'll leave your wife out of this."
"My wife?" David gaped over at Skittery. "You don't—"
"Oh, but I do. You brought me to your home last night, Dave. You were stupid enough to let me in yourself. What? Don't think I can find my way back again?" He left his threat hanging there, unanswered. "So, ya wanna tell me now? Where's the money?"
This time there was no use denying it. There was no use pretending. And, even though the first thing both men wondered was: How did he know?, it all made sense when they thought of poor Racetrack and what too much gin inside of him could've let slip. But Skittery? Really? It was too much to believe.
It was just too much.
Skittery was impatient. He could read much into their silence and knew that David needed a little motivation, a little taste to see that he was serious. Dead serious. Reaching into his back pocket, Skittery pulled out a bundle of stained cloth. "Oscar wasn't usin' it, so I helped myself to it," he explained, slowly unwrapping the bundle. "You don't want me to use it again, do you?"
It was almost poetic, the way the moonlight managed to fall on the item that had been hidden inside the cloth. David and Spot's gazes were drawn to it, the moonlight glinting off the only part of the blade that wasn't covered in dried blood. It was the same knife that they found on Race's table—it was the knife that killed Racetrack Higgins.
They both realized it at the same time: Skittery had gone back for the knife.
The sight of the devilish blade was too much for them. "He was your friend!" Spot accused, breaking his silence at last, while David's ears caught up with his eyes. He saw the knife, finally understood what it meant and promptly hunched over and turned his head, revisiting Vanessa's dinner in a manner most unpleasant.
Skittery shrugged, ignoring the retching that came from David. He did, however, take a step back so that his shoes weren't ruined. "He didn't want to share."
"Why, I oughtta—"
"The only thing you ought to do is get me my money." It was hard to tell where he pulled it out from. One minute his hands were holding the cloth with the sickeningly familiar knife, the next he was handling a pistol with one while the knife hung in his left hand at his side. "Let's not make this any harder than it is, fellas."
When Spot saw the gun, he froze; David, having finished getting sick, was too busy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to notice it at first. But then he stood up just in time to come face to face with the barrel of Skittery's gun. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd just thrown up nearly everything there was in his stomach, the fear that overtook him at seeing the gun might've brought on a second round of heaving. As it was, he swallowed, grimaced at the foul taste in his mouth and tried his damndest to pretend he couldn't see the opening of the pistol only a few feet away from him.
"Put the gun away," David said shakily, surprised at how calm he sounded considering he was damn near shaking in his trousers, "there's no need for that. The knife, either."
"Oh, there's certainly need for this knife," Skittery replied. "You can use a knife like this for much more pleasant things, Dave. Like digging my money out from behind those bricks."
He knew everything.
Well aware that there was only one way out of this—and that he would have to do it, considering Spot was too angry and too tired to think with a clear head—he edged closer to Skittery, wary about the gun, his hand outstretched for the vile knife. His stomach was heaving anxiously and he feared he would vomit again when Skittery handed him the knife by the handle. It was work, and he only just managed to keep the bile in his belly down.
"Get me my money, Dave," Skittery repeated.
"Put the gun away," David retorted, much more bravely than he felt.
Skittery stood there for a moment, daringly meeting David's unblinking stare. Spot stood just behind David, poised to jump, poised to strike, but Skittery had only eyes for David. He could break him, and he would. But first he was going to give him the chance. "Call your dog off and I'll get rid of the gun," he countered.
Spot's harsh laugh was so much like a bark that it suited him being called David's dog. "Ha, 'fraid to take me on without your piece of metal, Benny?"
Skittery cocked the gun, aiming it right at Spot's chest. Playtime was over, and Spot was the only one of them that wasn't armed. "I'm warnin' ya, Conlon. There's five bullets in this gun now. I've only got to hit you once. You think you can dodge all five? Oscar didn't."
David held up a hand, keeping Spot from moving forward like he so desperately wanted to do, purposely standing in the way as if he were a shield. There was madness at work here; he didn't doubt for a moment that Skittery meant exactly what he said. "Spot, listen, it's just money. Stay here, I'll get it for him." He turned around. "Just, please, put the gun away first. We don't want any accidents."
Skittery thought about it for a moment. He looked from Spot's murderous gaze to David's pleading expression and finally nodded, before lowering the gun and tucking it out of sight. But it didn't go unnoticed by any of them that he never unprimed the pistol.
"Make it quick, Dave."
"Where is it, Oscar?" Benny asked suddenly as he stopped in his tracks. It was a strange spot to be sure, but chosen specifically. The less witnesses, he figured, the better.
"Where's what?"
"I think you know."
Oscar looked uneasily behind him. He could make out a couple of bodies in the shadows and he wasn't naïve enough to think they were just a couple of fellas out for a night stroll. Hell, he should've thought better than taking this walk with Benny as it was. Those were friends of his, though goons was a better name for them, and that was when he finally realized that maybe Benny wasn't as much his friend as he previously thought.
Turning back to look at Benny, Oscar nearly jumped to see that, somehow, Benny had pulled a pistol out. He wasn't aiming it anywhere in particular, instead weighing it in one hand before placing it in the other. It wasn't an out and out threat, but his meaning was clear: it could become one.
And Oscar was left to wonder how the hell Benny Daniels found out about the money.
When Oscar proceeded to ignore the question, Skittery lifted the pistol a little higher, his fingers smoothly stroking the length of the gun. "I meant to ask you," he said, sounding friendly but coming across as nothing but, "how's Junie? The kids? Maybe I should stop by and pay a visit."
It was like a knife to his gut, the mention of his family a cruel twist. Sure, he made a promise five years ago but to who? To four young men he'd never seen again. He didn't owe them anything, certainly not his loyalty. His family would always come first. "Duane Street, around the back of that damn lodging house. Your old pal, Cowboy, he carved a hole in the wall and stashed the money there. Alright?"
Benny smiled, a queer little smile that curved his lips but didn't quite meet his eyes. "See, now? Wasn't that easy?"
"I ain't after that money," Oscar told him, as if that made any difference at all.
"I understand," Benny answered absently, opening the barrel of his gun and checking on the number of bullets in the round. One… two… three… six. Six bullets, he counted with a satisfied smirk, and he flicked his wrist. The barrel rolled closed.
Oscar's eyes were narrowed on the pistol held confidently in Benny's hand. He knew Benny could be no good, he had friends in low places and friends who weren't really friends but enemies united by a single thing: money. And not only did Benny know about that found fortune, but he also knew that Oscar was involved. That's why those fellas were back there, he realized. Because could they allow Oscar to be involved?
"Fuck you, Benny," he muttered, jamming his hands in his pockets and purposely walking past Benny, walking as far away from those goons in the shadow as he could get. If he moved quick enough he could leave it all behind him, he was sure he could. Yelling at himself as he went, he refused to glance behind him, the lure of his wife and children beckoning him forward. He should've known better than to follow Benny out, to leave the safety and warmth of his home. He should've known better than to ever think a newsie—a newsie then and a grown thug now—could ever be good to him.
He should've known better than to turn his back on Benny Daniels and a gun.
"Hey, Oscar?"—
David sawed at the mortar, the same way he remembered Jack Kelly hacking away at the brick wall all those years ago. It was easier than he thought it would be, though, and in no time at all he had removed the bricks from their home, revealing a hiding place that kept a five year old secret stowed away.
He dropped the knife to the dirt and grabbed the bag, expecting it to be a lot heavier than it ended up being. There was dust and dirt and a stray spider or two clinging to the material and the clerk in him gave the bag a quick wipe before he stood up and walked back over to where Skittery and Spot were standing, facing off.
"Here," he said, thrusting the old bag at Skittery. "Take it."
Skittery weighed it in his hand, suspiciousness filling his features. "It feels kinda light."
David had been thinking the same thing himself but it had been five years, after all, and they'd all promised to leave the money alone until tomorrow night. Maybe he just remembered it being heavier. How was he supposed to know how much a fortune weighed?
Spot watched as Skittery held the bag out, a frown crossing his face. At that moment it wasn't about getting revenge; it was about getting out of there alive. "You've got your damn money, so we'll just be goin' now," he said loudly, grabbing David by the sleeve as he started to walk away.
"Not yet," Skittery snapped warningly, and both men stopped moving, "not until I see the money." And then, like a child ripping into his presents on Christmas morning, Skittery tore open the top of the bag and peered inside.
Time seemed to stand still, until—
Skittery's head snapped up with a vengeance, his eyes stormy and filled with hate. "You're jokin'. It's gotta be a joke. Where's my money, Davey?"
"What do you mean? That's all of it," David told him, an uneasiness creeping into the pit of his stomach. It was worse than the nausea. This was dread.
"This is all of it?" Skittery turned the bag over frantically, dumping the contents onto the street. A handful of crumpled bills fluttered out, forming a small pile at Skittery's feet—but it was a small pile. There was maybe a couple of hundred dollars there, that was all. "This is fucking it?" he cried, his dark eyes wild as he looked from David to Spot and back. He laughed, a high-pitched crazed squeal as he kicked the money away.
Then, as if the moment passed and Skittery—Benny—was a sane man again, he composed himself and gave the other two men a smile that made him look even madder than before. His laugh mellowed into a secretive chuckle. "What happened to my money, fellas?" he asked calmly. "Race said there was tons and tons. Does this look like tons and tons to you?"
David couldn't meet Skittery's eyes anymore; the insanity there burned too brightly, the lust and greed too much for him to take. Daring a quick glance at the money drifting along before settling back in the dirt, he calculated that that was maybe one-tenth of the amount of money that should've been stashed in that bag. He had to echo Skittery's questions: What happened to it all? He turned to look at Spot… and when he noticed the way that Spot was also staring unblinkingly at the dirt, watching the money with a strange look on his face, David had the sudden realization that, yes, he might not know what happened to it, and Skittery was willing to kill for it, but that didn't mean that no one knew where the fortune had gone.
"Spot," he murmured, trying to talk quiet enough that maybe Skittery wouldn't hear him, "do you know what happened to that money?"
It took a moment that seemed to last a lifetime but when Spot's answer came, it was spoken in defiance. "Doctors are expensive, Dave. Funerals, too."
"You mean… you took the money?"
"I'm sorry, but I needed it." Spot looked guilty but unrepentant. He jutted out his chin as if daring the two other men to say something of it. "Wouldn't you have done the same?"
And Spot was right. If it was Vanessa who was ill, he would've reached for that money in a heartbeat. He felt like a louse for never thinking to do the same for his sister. After all, it was only money—and what was money worth when a life was at stake? Lives like Race and Oscar, David thought and his stomach heaved one more time.
But Skittery, it seemed, disagreed with him. "You used my money to bury your whore of a wife?"
Spot's eyes sprang open. That was it, that was the last straw. There was nothing left for him to wait for. "You bastard! I'll kill ya for that, I'm gonna—"
"You'll never," Skittery tossed back coldly. The gun was suddenly in his hand again, lifted high and aimed before David had even recovered from Spot's admission or Skittery's slur against Sarah.
And that was when the shot rang out.
—"So long."
Chapter 11: Epilogue
Notes:
From 10.05.10:
Well, that's the end of this story. I don't really want to say much here - I'd rather let you guys dig right in - but I just wanted to let you know that this is the end and that if you have any questions at the end, feel free to leave them in a review and I'll get back to you in a reply. Also, this is the ending I had in mind since the first word I wrote for this story and, while I wish there was a way to change it now that it's done, that would be a disservice to the fic as a whole. After all, I knew what I was getting into when I started - hence the warnings - and... well, I won't say anything else. I'll leave that to you to discover with this last chapter ;)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Five
April 20, 1905
Spot Conlon recoiled as if he'd been hit—which, when the stain on his shirt began to blossom into a dark, glittering ruby red, David realized was exactly what had happened. The force of the bullet slamming into his chest lifted the wiry man up off of his feet; he wheeled backwards, stood frozen in time for a split second as the gun smoked and Skittery loomed and David shouted, and then fell hard to the ground.
David was shouting, screaming, yelling and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he paused to wonder who was making that dreadful noise—until he understood that he was—and why no one was coming—because no one would come. This was the sort of neighborhood where gunshots happened daily and even the youngest of children were accustomed to seeing corpses in the road. This was New York: it was dirty, it was gritty, it was real.
It was a place where bags of money could fall from the sky and where old friends pulled the trigger without even stopping to apologize.
Skittery lowered the gun just as Spot fell but David didn't even notice. It took a second for him to understand what had happened, and another for the shock to wear off enough to grant his legs the power to move. Never stopping to look behind him at Spot's assailant, forgetting entirely about that blasted pistol of his, David threw himself to the dirt, down on his knees at Spot's side.
Spot was breathing, but only just. It was laborious, a wet sort of gurgle mixed with the cheap breaths, and his eyes were barely open. He saw David, though, and his lips quirked halfheartedly in the last smirk Spot Conlon ever gave. "He got me… that bastard—"
"Hush, Spot—"
"Liam," he whispered.
That was when the tears sprang to David's eyes. "Hush, Liam," he said, his voice throaty and thick. It burned, and he fought to keep the tears back. Glancing down at Spot's chest, he saw where the bullet must've struck. It wasn't the heart—though it was too close—but there was already so much blood. It was everywhere.
For the first time in his life David merely noted the presence of blood as a fact. It didn't make him feel any sicker—how could he feel any sicker after watching his friend… his brother… be shot? Call it denial, call it hope, but David refused to believe that a simple gunshot wound could hurt Spot. He lay limp on the ground, his head in the dirt, and David carefully lifted and moved his body so that he was sitting almost upright.
"You're going to be alright, Liam," David told him, pointedly ignoring the dribble of blood welling at the corner of Spot's mouth, "just hold on and I'll bring you home again. You're going to be alright."
It took Spot longer to answer, his eyes drooping and his breath coming out harsher than before; the red circle on his chest was even bigger. "Sure, Mouth, I'ma be fine. You… you tell 'em."
And both men knew they were lying.
Skittery watched the scene, a silent spectator. The rush of adrenaline that propelled him to pull the trigger was slowly wearing off and he watched David tend to Spot with an interested eye. There was no remorse, however, no shame, and he only waited for Spot to die so that he could use David to find out who might've taken the rest of the money. And maybe then he would shoot David, too.
And it wasn't that Skittery liked shooting people, really. But the little money that was left was still strewn across the ground and he wanted it. Besides, David knew too much. He'd watched as Skittery pulled the trigger and shot Spot—and there was something in Skittery's self interest that told him it was a bum idea to leave any witnesses alive.
But at least he would leave David's pretty little wife out of all this. And making her a widow seemed like he'd be doing her a favor.
David searched his pockets frantically for a handkerchief, anything to stop the blood, but found nothing; he thought longingly of the dishtowel he'd pressed against Vanessa's palm during breakfast and wished he'd thought to bring one with him. But why? Why would he have? No one prepares for something like this.
Watching Spot bleed out, David thought he should've been prepared.
It had been a couple of minutes, far too long, and no one was coming. The blood wasn't stopping. Spot was hardly breathing anymore. And still… David felt like he had to do something. There had to be something for him to do. Except that there wasn't.
"Dave…"
This time he was almost hysterical. "Don't talk, Sp-Liam! Save your strength, alright, just hush!"
"It's okay… 's not your fault."
It seemed to take all the effort he had left, but Spot managed to open his eyes and look straight at David. There wasn't blame there anymore, there wasn't the sadness that had kept him weighed down this past year—no, there was something else. It was acceptance. David felt his heart break; he felt his heart stop.
"At least… I'm gonna…" Spot shuddered and, as those cyan eyes of his closed one last time, he breathed out a simple word: "Sarah."
And then he was still.
Spot Conlon was dead.
Spot died in David Jacobs' arms, and there was a peacefulness in his death that struck David as ironic; Spot had never been this at peace before, but he died with the softest of smiles on his face. He looked young, too, no worry lines and no anguish. And, well, that was because he was young—no one should die at twenty-one. Spot—Liam—Conlon hadn't even really lived yet. Why should he have died?
It was about the money. It had always been about the money.
Half of it, missing! Spot, dead!
Spot, who'd lost his life because he took the money to save his wife's. David wanted to take it all for Vanessa. Why was he still standing, just because he hadn't had the nerve? Who else was too greedy that they couldn't wait? Maybe that's how Jack was able to fund his trip to Santa Fe all those years ago. Oscar said he didn't want it now, but he sure wanted it then. And Race… Race's big mouth had brought this all on them—
—except it wasn't because he let slip about the money that he lay rotting who knew where, David understood. It was because there was any money in the first place that three men were already dead. Race, Oscar, Spot…
David felt dead, too.
Slowly, almost regretfully, he moved his body out from underneath the weight of Spot's. He was a small man whose very life made him large and David was surprised by how light he was and how easy it was to maneuver him. It was pointless to hold onto the body, David realized, and as a chill coursed down his back, he remembered the threat lurking behind him. But he didn't hurry. He took his time as he let Spot lay on his back, pausing to position his hands neatly over his torso.
Then, only then, did David turn around and confront Spot's murderer.
He didn't really know how it all happened. One moment he was staring down the barrel of the gun, the pistol was cocked with a sickening click, when suddenly the smell of gunpowder and the tangy, rust of blood filled the air and now there seemed to be no one else in the world anymore except for Skittery Daniels and David Jacobs.
At least he knew one thing: he knew who to blame.
Skittery was watching, his eyes darting from the spilled money to the haunted look on David's face and back. They were alone—not even the gunshot and David's screams were enough to get anyone to walk down this street as late as it was—and his palms itched, he licked his lips, tempted to drop to his knees and scramble for whatever money he could grab. It wasn't as much as he expected, but it was enough.
But first—
David was standing stock still, pain written in his eyes, a grim frown tugging on his lips. He wasn't blinking as he stared accusingly at Skittery, and he didn't say anything either.
Skittery broke the silence first. "How 'bout you, Dave?" he asked in soft, quiet tones. "Did you take my money, too?" And then he chanced a smile. "Nah, ya never would've had the stones for it."
The money… the money… the money…
His taunts rang like the echoing clang of an old grandfather clock; the leering smile on Skittery's face lent him strength. Then he did something neither one of them had ever expected: David dove at Skittery, jumping like a spring, throwing his entire weight against Skittery's legs.
And Skittery, whose eyes had strayed to the dirt one final time, watching the money instead of watching David, he didn't know that David had launched himself at his feet until his knees buckled and he tumbled, falling to the ground, trapped beneath David's weight. The wind had been knocked out of him, surprise at David's move overwhelming, and Skittery gasped, forgetting anything and everything except for the horrible sensation of falling.
He forgot to keep his grip on the damn gun.
The gun clattered against the dirt, landing just out of Skittery's reach; the metal hitting the ground was a jarring sound, reminding David and Skittery just what they were fighting for. Both men scrambled, untangling their limbs as they moved, each one desperate to be the first one to grab the gun. The knife was too far out of reach—it had to be the gun.
David succeeded first.
Skittery's taunts, Spot's last words, they all echoed in his ears. For years, Spot had been keeping an eye on him because Sarah wanted him to, but David had done his best in that time to watch over Spot in turn. He'd gone searching for Spot in the saloon when it seemed like Spot was going to back out of his wedding to David's sister, and he'd even found Spot lurking in the same bar four days ago…
Maybe he never should have.
Spot would still be alive.
"Whatcha gonna do, Dave?" Skittery asked, breathing heavily as he followed David's lead and slowly climbed to his feet. His fancy hairdo was mussed, long strands of once-curled hair falling into his eyes—eyes that were narrowed on the gun David now held. "Gonna shoot me? Gonna kill me?"
It was a struggle, but David kept his voice cold. Emotionless. Dead. "You killed Race. You killed Spot."
"And Oscar, too," Skittery added with a wry sort of grimace. "He was a Delancey, but we can't forget him."
"Why?" demanded David. He poised his finger over the trigger, a silent warning.
"Why what?"
David lifted the gun a little higher; he set his lips a little thinner. "I said why, Benny."
Skittery looked almost shaken, like he was surprised to hear such a question. Because, his expression seemed to say, wasn't it obvious? "It was the money, Dave. I wanted it and hell if I wasn't goin' to do everything I could to take it."
David sighed; it was a sigh of disbelief, a sigh of disgust. "All because of money…"
"It's money makes the world go round," Skittery shot back.
It was the last thing Skittery Daniels ever said.
David never knew if Skittery aimed that way on purpose, shooting Spot just above his heart to give him time to bleed out, to make both men suffer before he finally died. He never would've thought of Skittery as cruel before that night, but it seemed the sort of thing this Benny fellow would do.
David couldn't aim. He couldn't make Skittery suffer the way he longed to.
He shot him straight in the heart, a lucky shot.
Skittery fell in a crumpled heap, dead before he hit the dirt.
In a daze, he propped up Spot's lifeless body against the brick wall, taking care to position him in a respectful pose; if it wasn't for the bullet hole and the bloodstain, he could've been just another of New York's sleepers. His hat had shifted when he dropped and David carefully rearranged it, placing it over his heart instead of on his head. He couldn't look at the blood anymore.
He left Skittery in the dirt.
Skittery could rot on the side of the street for all he cared, but Spot… he deserved a proper burial. That much he knew. No matter what happened next, David was going to make sure he came back for Spot's body. Maybe he would ask Jack for help—if Jack wasn't already dead, too. It seemed like everybody was dead, so why wasn't he?
He didn't know what he was… but he knew where he had to go. He couldn't stay in this alley a minute longer. Sooner or later he would remember himself, the shock would wear off and David would have to come to terms with the fact that he'd just seen Spot Conlon shot to death—and killed a man himself. There was blood on his hands, Spot's and Skittery's, and more. If only he'd had the sense to turn that money in five years ago instead of hatching such a ridiculous plan… if only he had forgotten about it all…
If only…
He meant to drop the gun back to the dirt, leave it behind until he could come back for Spot, but he didn't. As if the metal was welded to his shaking fingers, the gun was still in his hand as he started the long, dazed walk back home.
This time there was no one to stop him from going to be with his wife.
It was late. There was a clock in the kitchen, and Vanessa could see that it was already well past eleven. She didn't expect David and Spot home just yet—they'd told her at dinner that they would be out late—but she was waiting up for her husband regardless. The more she thought about it, the more she couldn't wait to sit him down and talk to him. To apologize for the way she'd been acting, to tell him everything (well, maybe not everything), to admit that they would need the spare room at last…
It was late. She didn't know how much longer she would have to wait, but when she heard solemn steps as they led down the hall to her apartment door, she wondered if David had finished his secretive business up sooner than he expected. Then she heard the footsteps stop just outside, and hoped it was him. But the door didn't turn and the footsteps didn't go away and Vanessa's heart started to beat a little bit faster…
And then she heard the knocks. Three short knocks.
His signal.
Vanessa felt her stomach drop, and not in the good way that usually preceded Jack's visits. What was he doing there? She was in her nightdress but she refused to answer the door wearing only that. She didn't want to give Jack the wrong idea—their affair had gone on far too long as it was—so she returned to her bedroom first and grabbed a robe from her closet. Only then, when she was as proper as she was going to be, she went to the door. After one long, deep breath and a whispered prayer that it was just David, knocking because he thought the door was locked, Vanessa opened the door.
Another breath followed, a sharp intake of air. There was Jack, looking as roguishly handsome as always. A charming smile flashed across his face when the door was pulled inward; his eyes adopted a wolfish sort of look when he caught sight of Vanessa in her robe.
He cleared his throat, running his hand along the back of his neck. "Is Mr. Jacobs in?"
Vanessa sighed; there was no hint of the grin she wore the last time he asked the same question. "You know he's not. You wouldn't have dared come if you thought my husband was in."
Jack nearly flinched at the harshness of her tone; he actually did flinch when she called David her husband. She was right, too. He did know that Spot and David had left the apartment earlier—he'd been watching, waiting, and when it seemed like they wouldn't return for quite some time, he finally made his move.
It was just that he never expected her to react so poorly to his arrival. And to think he'd assumed her behavior yesterday was explainable. Then again, maybe it was. Vanessa certainly didn't seem happy to see him just then, either. A scowl that marred her pretty features, the hard set of her jaw, the way she crossed her arm over her chest as if protecting herself from him… this was hardly the Vanessa he remembered.
But even Vanessa's displeasure at seeing him now didn't stop him from asking, "Well, then can I come in?"
"I…" She fiddled with the band on her finger, a nervous twitch that ended with her palming the ring and dropping it into the front pocket of her robe in one quick, unnoticed motion. Old habits die hard. Still, she murmured, "I don't think that's such a good idea." Hundreds of reasons ran through her mind: It was late. David could be back any moment. She didn't want to do this anymore. Spot already knew. She loved her husband… hundreds of reasons ran through her mind but, confronted with Jack Kelly, she discovered she couldn't say any of them out loud, so she settled on asking, "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged, moving closer as if trying to push past her and into the apartment. "I had to come."
"Why?" she asked, firmly standing her ground. Unless he actually pushed her, she refused to let him in. Her heart may have wanted nothing more than to hold him, but her head was in control. She knew what she had to be done. It was the only option left for both of them. They weren't kids anymore, and it was time they started to act like it.
Jack had already figured something was different but it took Vanessa purposely keeping him from entering the apartment for him to understand just how stupid it had been to come by. But he had to. "Look, I've been thinkin'… y'know, ever since ya sent that note about Spot knowin', and then the way ya left me in the street… what does it matter? Maybe they should know. I've come for you, Nessie. I've come to ask you to leave with me."
"Jack, I—"
He held his hands up, interrupting her before she could get any further. No matter what, he'd come to say his piece, and he wasn't going to leave until he did. "Dave's been real good to ya, but I couldn't leave knowin' I didn't try. I never should've left you in the first place, I should've stayed… I'm sorry. But that doesn't change how I feel. You wanted to know why I never could face David? 'Cause I'd have to tell him I'm in love with his wife, that I want her all for myself. Maybe I'll tell him anyway. You could come with me then."
"You're leaving?" There was hesitance there. Her fingers intertwined, fidgeting, and, suddenly, Vanessa couldn't look at him anymore. Because the truth was this: regardless of everything else, she still didn't want Jack to leave.
Jack nodded. "I can't stay here. I got something to do tomorrow night, so does Dave, and I could tell him then. We could be happy, Nessie, we could start over. I'll have money, real money… I could take care of you. We could be a family."
"I… I can't."
"You could."
"No," she said, and there was something in this conversation that reminded them both of the last time they spoke in her bedroom. Except, this time, it was Jack trying to convince Vanessa to stay with him. "I can't."
"Why not?"
She bit down on her bottom lip, not quite meeting his eye. "I… because I'm going to have a baby."
"Hey, mister? You okay, mister?"
He heard the boy, the incessant nagging of a child too young to be out on the street this late, and ignored it. The David Jacobs he'd been when that evening started might've been touched to see the street urchin worry for him. He might've even offered a penny and a gentle guidance that the child shouldn't be caught out on the street.
But not now.
He moved slowly, like a phantom, apart from the world around him. He was home with Vanessa, he was back at Duane with Spot, he was everywhere and nowhere and he felt the insane urge to curl up into a ball and cry. It was slowly starting to register, everything that happened, but he didn't want to understand. He didn't want to understand what repercussions childish foolishness could have all these years later, and he didn't want to understand how much of it was his fault.
How many men had died because of him?
With every step he took, the guilt grew and grew. The soles padded heavily against the dirt. It's your fault. His breath echoed in the still, empty night. You did this. The voices of anyone else were drowned out by his own insistence. You killed them all. The way he saw it, sixteen year old David could've prevented all this if he hadn't let greed get the better of him. Twenty-one year old David was paying the price for it now.
Still, he kept moving forward. He knew there was only one place left for him now. He promised Vanessa he would always be there for her. He promised he would protect her. It didn't matter that Skittery was dead—his threat lived on.
He had to get to Vanessa.
It was like all the air had been knocked out of him. Jack exhaled roughly, rocking on his heels like he'd been struck, before he recovered, a handsome grin stretching across his tired face. "What? That's… that's great!"
But Vanessa, it seemed, didn't think it was so great. With her hands wrapped protectively around her midsection, her lips turned down in a serious frown, it was obvious that something was wrong—and, suddenly, Jack knew what it was: she didn't know. She had doubt. No, not about the baby… about the father. Vanessa was expecting a child but she wasn't sure if the father was her husband or her lover; after all, he first arrived at her doorstep nearly two months ago… it was possible, wasn't it? No wonder she'd been so off-color lately. He should've remembered her symptoms from the past. He should've been expecting this. She'd only gotten worse in the last week, really losing her appetite and withdrawing from everything in the last few days. How long could it have really been?
He should've known, but he didn't. Still, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind about the identity of the child's father. Jack was being given the second chance he always wanted. "It is great, Nessie," he said, reaching out and taking her hand. She stiffened, tensed by his touch, but she didn't pull away. "We really could be a family: me, you, and our baby."
At that, she did take her hand back. Vanessa shook her head, snorting under her breath. "A family… that's all you ever wanted but something you would never let yourself have. We could've had that once, but you didn't want it then. What makes you think it would be different this time? I know why you left before, Jack, you was scared—"
"I was not!"
"You were," she said simply, "and I forgive you for your cowardice. You brought me to David. And I already have my own family with him. He'll make a great father."
"But what if—"
"It won't matter," she interrupted decisively. There was no room in her expression for any arguments. "You're leaving, you said so yourself. I knew that's why you came back even before you said it. You're leaving and that's okay." And it was, she realized with a jolt. He was leaving, and it was the best for both of them.
Jack wasn't ready to give up entirely just yet. "I want you to come with me," he said again, his words feebler this time, his insistence only an echo.
Vanessa looked up at him, meeting him dead in the eye, for the first time since he arrived at her door. There were soft lines on her face, a well-meaning frown, but a hard, searching look in her eyes. Maybe, Jack thought, maybe she hadn't changed so much after all. "No, you don't," she said at last. "You think you do—but, tell me, would you still want me to come with you if I wasn't David's wife?"
Her question hit right at the heart of things. Did he love her because she'd been Vanessa Sawyer or because she was Vanessa Jacobs? He'd never thought of it like that before—and he refused to think about it like that now. It should be enough that he wanted her at all. Why bring David into it?
Besides the fact that David had been involved since the beginning…
"Davey always had himself a family," Jack said after a few seconds of telling silence. "Do ya know… I think I hated him for it. They invited me in, the Jacobses treated me like one of their own, and I think I always hated David a little for it. To know he has you, too… it's too much, Nessie. Why should he have it all?"
"Because he worked for it," she told him honestly. "Because he deserves it."
"And I don't?"
Vanessa didn't answer. She remembered a time when that pout, that lost look would've been enough to get her to lift her skirts—but not now. Jack hadn't grown up. He still wanted to be the seventeen year old boy he'd been when they met, but he couldn't be. And she couldn't allow his grudge with an old friend ruin three—no, she thought, four—lives.
Jack understood her silence as the answer she meant it to be. But, still, he wasn't ready to leave. "Can I have a kiss before I go?" he asked, sounding as sincere as he could, trying his best not to sound like a letch.
That threw her. She wrapped her robe tighter around her, followed by her arms, a warding gesture. "A what?"
"A kiss? For old times' sake? You'll… you'll never see me again, Vanessa. I gotta make it last." And he tossed in that winning smile the captured a young laundress's heart more than five years ago.
At that, she relaxed. She traced her lips with the tips of her index finger, frowning though it was only a quirk away from being a smile. "You were always the charmer," she murmured.
But when Jack's chocolate-colored eyes sparkled mischievously as he removed his hat and leaned in for a kiss, she found herself a little more than willing to fall prey to his charms.
It was like one of those nickelodeons, the moving pictures Les liked to go see. From his place at the end of the hall, David watched as the scene unfolded. He watched as the dark-haired, broad-chested man in the cowboy hat removed it and, his arm reaching around the slender woman, pulling her close, bowed his head in order to kiss her. Hesitantly at first, then with more force, she tilted her chin back and kissed him as hungrily. Her left hand reached up and threaded itself in his thick hair, and if that didn't hurt David enough, the sight of her bare finger was the last straw.
Her ring.
Vanessa had her hand out, her hand pressed to the back of another man's head, and he could see that she wasn't wearing her ring.
For the first time that evening, David felt the nausea return. His stomach turned, the back of his throat burned, but there were no tears now. He was beyond tears. He was beyond grief. Anger, though, anger he felt and, as he watched the two of them—so involved in their kiss, they never even knew he was there—he felt far angrier than he'd ever known. Worse, he felt betrayed. His wife and his old friend, sneaking around behind his back. It was like one of those dime novels Sarah used to read… except those stories always had a happy ending.
Not this one, he vowed.
It was over a year ago that they got married and he gave her that ring. He'd promised her everything—he'd promised her even more than that long before he knew she felt the same… but did she ever?—he'd promised her the moon and the stars and his undying devotion.
She promised to be his and his alone—
Vanessa broke her promises. Why shouldn't he?
Somewhere around him, David Jacobs heard the clock strike twelve; it might've been the apartment down the hall, it might've even been inside his head. But it wasn't the right midnight. It wasn't the twenty-first.
But it was, wasn't it?
The midnight bell tolled, bringing the twenty-first of April in with it. Five years to the day, and who was left standing?
Who would still be standing when the midnight bell tolled again?
He looked down at the gun in his hand, a ghost, seeing it, feeling the weight of it against his palm, but hardly aware that it was there at all. It was heavy, so very heavy, and he remembered exactly what Skittery had said—
Five bullets, he'd boasted. Five bullets had been inside the barrel when the night started.
Spot.
One.
Skittery.
Two.
He lifted the gun, slowly, slowly, holding it out in front of him, shaking. He didn't even remember bringing it with him as he went home but now, suddenly, it all made sense. He held the gun out, and neither Jack nor Vanessa saw him do it. It nearly dropped to the floor and after a moment's pause, he used his second hand to steady the gun. And he aimed. It was easier this time.
Jack Kelly.
Three.
"Jack!"
Her gasp, her shout, it pierced him, hitting straight to his heart as if he'd been shot instead. Gunpowder covering his hands, the skin tingling from the vibration of the metal, he lifted the gun again. He'd promised her the world, but what of her promises? She'd promised to love, honor, obey… but what did marriage vows mean when a wife removed her wedding band?
She turned towards him, crying, pleading, "David, please, no—"
He refused to listen now. He was done listening.
Vanessa.
Four.
Her scream echoed in his ears even after she fell. It reminded him that he was still alive, no matter how dead he felt inside, and he knew then that there was nothing else he could do.
Strangely enough, he wasn't worried at all.
'Til death do us part.
The mouth of the pistol was reassuringly cool against the feverish skin of his temple. A sheen of sweat slicked the underside of the trigger, his finger nearly slipped off, but he held onto it and, after one quick breath, his finger tugged.
David Jacobs.
Five.
Notes:
Well, here you go. Nine years after I first started posting this sucker here, I finally have the complete version of Five available on AO3. I hope you enjoyed it and, once again, thanks to ScratchConlon for sending the message that inspired me to finally finish uploading this fic. Way back then, I had a blast writing this and, even if I'm not writing original works and publishing them through Kindle Unlimited, I still have a huge soft spot for Newsies fic. I got my start here and, hopefully, one day I'll finally get the chance to write an original historical novel based on everything I learned while writing over a million words of Newsies fic ;)
-- stress
12.03.19
ScratchConlon on Chapter 1 Tue 03 Dec 2019 03:21AM UTC
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stress on Chapter 1 Tue 03 Dec 2019 03:55AM UTC
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ScratchConlon on Chapter 1 Tue 03 Dec 2019 09:54PM UTC
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Fizz (rizzjackkellys) on Chapter 11 Fri 27 Dec 2019 09:25PM UTC
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ArtemisLynn on Chapter 11 Sat 02 Mar 2024 06:26AM UTC
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