Beauty from Ashes

by Ash Villaflores

"An' we took the punkin' an' we started runnin'. We ran all the way to the fence at the brickyard, and my dadda picked me up and lifted me up I slid down an' he threw the punkin' over an' I caught it, but just barely. It almost smashed!" The little boy's soft brown eyes had grown larger and larger as he told the tale, and Joya laughed along with his mother, who was sitting with her arm around the little guy.

"So what happened to your dadda? And the mean, ugly dog?" Joya prodded, trying to match the boy's mischievious grin.

"Oh, my dadda - he's real strong an' real fast - an he just jumped over that fence. But he told me to keep runnin', cause dogs can jump, too, so we ran. An' that night we had dee-licious punkin' pie, right, Momma?"

The twenty-something mother simply nodded, while politely trying to stifle her laughter. Joya, on the other hand, let it out.

"What a wonderful storyteller you are, Stephen!" The four-year-old blushed, or at least, Joya would have sworn he did. Which only made her smile more.

"Excuse us," the mother, who had previously introduced herself as Mrs. Gregory Andrews, asked. "We need to find your dadda," she said to Stephen. He nodded and proceeded to rise up from the small table. Joya took that as a cue to leave. She gathered her small black silk purse and slid out of the booth, giving a glance to the land that was storming by outside the train window.

Walking carefully down the hallways, stepping aside for all passengers, male and female alike, she made it to her private compartment. She unlocked the sliding door with a long skeleton key and stepped inside, greeted by the ever-beautiful strains of her brother's viola. She set her purse on the end table beside 'her' bench, and pulled her long black hair down from its restraining tie, letting it fall in large, loose curls over and far past her shoulders. Joya sat down across from him, closed her eyes, and let the 'maestro', as she lovingly called him, play on and on.

Almost a full half hour went by with James bowing melodies of his own and his favorite pieces, making one beautiful medley out of them. Joya's lips stayed upturned in ecstasy, relaxing her and putting her mind at ease. And then he stopped.

"So, where have you been this afternoon?" he asked in his gentle voice, putting his viola in its case.

"I met a boy-" she started, and then caught the look of complete horror on David's face.

"Joiyan!" that was his name for her when he was upset. "Father told you-"

"Listen to the whole story, James," she said quietly. "I met a boy. He is four years old. His name is Stephen," slowly James calmed, taking several deep breaths. "He has such a wonderful family! His mother - well, she's beautiful! She has this sleek brown hair, a dark complexion, wonderful green eyes. She's so full of joy, and her husband, he seems just as wonderful!"

James listened to his sister go on, amused. She always spoke of the beauty around her, yet never paused to think of her own beauty. And she was beautiful. She could never think of herself as that, though, he knew. She was half-Filipino. 'And no man wants a half-bred.' At least, that's what she'd always said. That's what she'd heard all of her young life, by the ministers, the school teachers, the neighbors, even her mother's friends. It was easier for him, he was a man, after all. He had some respect because of that one unchangeable fact.

Suddenly, the train jerked somewhat violently, throwing the two siblings into their seats and out again. James's viola almost flew across the Pullman car, but he grabbed in the nick of time. Joya caught herself between the table in front and the luggage rack above, steadying herself.

Her eyes perked to a brighter shade of caramel as the train inched forward. "We're there, James! We're in Jersey City!"

He smiled at his sister's excitement. "We've probably been in New Jersey for quite a long time," he said. Then he realized what a grump he must have sounded like, and tried to soften it with, "I can't wait to see New York City."

The pair pulled their onboard belongings together, and waited for the trainsman to knock, allowing them to leave. Joya smoothed out her blue-gray dress and straightened the lace in her blouse which had been disheveled during her on-train excursions. She put on the fine matching hat, and tucked her long hair up into it, revealing a carefully-designed neck. James checked the polish on his shoes, then pulled a comb out of his long black traveling coat's pocket, smoothing out any cowlicks that had managed to grow during the day. They both were anticipating the welcoming party which had been promised, and knew that first impressions were of high importance. Finally, the knock came, and they both rose. Two young men came to carry the twins' luggage out, and one older gentleman offered Joya his arm. She took it as she'd been taught for the catillions back in Charleston, and allowed him to escort her through the hallways and down the steps, which she took with gingered care. "How dreadful it would be to trip while coming off the train, and twist an ankle!" she kept thinking to herself.

Setting foot on the platform, Joya gave her escort a gracious smile and and nod, then was joined by James. Their baggage was pulled out on a movable rack with great care, James overseeing the process. Joya surveyed the crowd carefully, hoping to be able to find their contact: one Miss Lola Hyatt. She inhaled deeply - struck by such strange smells of the city. She'd left the magnolias, honeysuckle and overwhelming sunshine and traded it for the intense smell of thousands of people, horses and dirt. Momentarily she questioned this gigantic move, but was reassured with the thought of attending the finest music conservatory in the United States.

"Sweet Joya?" James touched her elbow, which gave her a start. She turned an elegant head to her brother, and raised an eyebrow. "Do you want your cello in the back of the carriage when it arrives, or would you rather it in below?"

"In the back, if it will at all fit," she said. Distractedly, she looked about, "James? Where is Miss Hyatt? I'm curious to see if she'll know us from our performance in Boston..."

"I'm not quite sure, Joya. I'd think she'd know us - Father said she'd been to two consecutive nights. We haven't changed much in seven months," he said with a smile. Then, to the attendant, "Yes, please put the violins on the hanging rack...Oh, yes. That's perfect."

Joya turned her attention to her brother's directions, but just as she was to comment on the careful placing of her brother's guitar, an older-looking girl glided up next to her. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a fancy braid, and her crisp dark red dress hung perfectly off her tall frame. She had a air of carefulness about her, and a smile that could charm anyone. Joya returned the smile, and looked quickly over at James, who was hanging a satin bag of bows on the cart.

She turned immediately back to the girl and asked, "Are you with Miss Hyatt?"

The girl looked slightly confused. "No, I'm sorry. I was just going ask if you'd like to buy a paper."

"A...?" Joya's eyes narrowed, unsure of what was being asked of her. She focused on the stack of papers underneath the girl's left arm. Ah! A newspaper...this girl was selling newspapers? "Um...yes," she decided. "I'll take a newspaper."

"It's a penny," prompted the girl. As Joya reached into her money pouch discreetly, the girl looked her over. "Excuse me, Miss?"

"Yes?" Joya pulled out a penny and handed it to the girl, who in exchange gave a paper.

"Where are you from?"

"South Carolina."

"Well, welcome to Jersey," the girl greeted. "I'm Aspen. I hope the city finds you well."

"Why, thank you," Joya was taken by the girl's kindness. "James?" she asked, turning back to her brother. When she'd gotten his attention, she handed him the newspaper.

"Oh, where did you get that, Miss Villaflores?" a woman's voice asked. Joya looked up to see Miss Hyatt, a woman in her fifties, wearing a strikinly full cream-colored dress. Her red-going-white hair curled into a million ringlets falling from the hat that sat precariously on the very top of her head. "Well? Where did you get that paper?"

"Hello, Miss Hyatt," Joya smiled. "I bought it from a girl...she was just here..."

"Oh, dear child!" the woman sounded exasperated. She placed an aging arm around Joya's shoulders and shook her head. "Never buy anything from the streetrats. They're no good, and they will take you for everything you've got." She looked into Joya's light, naive eyes and sent her a grave, non-verbal admonshing. "There are lots of children or adults who pretend they're children, even, who just want to take your valuables. A lady of your monetary stature needs not worry about things like pickpockets, so just keep your purse to your person and all will be fine. Now! Mason!" she called to the carriage driver. "Hurry it up; let's get these beautiful children out of this circus train station and back up to the Conservatory."

James offered his hand to his sister as she climbed up into one of the largest black carriages she'd ever seen, and Joya allowed herself to become alive with the excitement of this new adventure called New York. The horses pulled out of Jefferson Station and began the trek to the Island of Manhattan.

"May I ask why we didn't arrive at Grand Central Station?" James asked, trying not to appear too tired of the long carriage ride.

"Vagabonds," was Miss Hyatt's tart reply from the front bench.

"Excuse me?" James asked, as he'd been hoping for a little more information than had been given.

"Vagabonds and ruffians! They're crawling all over Grand Central this late in the day. There are places that we don't go, and Grand Central this late in the day is one of them. Penn Station's the only station for our class, you know," she thought for a moment before adding, "Oh, I suppose you don't know. Yet. But you will learn the ways of New York society in no time - I know your father well, and I know you have the blood in you. You'll be just fine."

Joya, josteled by wooden wheels over bumpy cobblestone, pursed her lips and struggled to stay upright. She'd met Miss Hyatt previously, but she'd forgotten how fast the lady talked. The words just gushed out of her mouth, but every word was pronounced so carefully Joya could practically hear the dots on top of the 'i's. It struck Joya as humorous -- she wished to laugh, but knew how devistatingly rude that would be.

"Don't you beautiful children fret; we're almost to the Villiage. Now, when we arrive, you'll be introduced to several of your teachers, but as soon as possible we'll send you up to your rooms. James," Miss Hyatt's head was tossed pointedly over her shoulder towards the boy, "you'll have a roommate. His name is Patrick O'Dell. He's an Irish boy, here on scholarship. Sixteen years old. Plays the most uplifting flute. His family is quite poor, they have nine altogether, I think. Live in a tenament over in Brooklyn. If he ever asks you to go visiting with him, deary, don't. There's quite a bit of animosity that's been brewing for several years now - Brooklyn doesn't like Manhattan because back in '98 the two cities merged to become New York, and Brooklyn's not past the fact they're dependent on us - so just stay as far away from Brooklyn as you can. Those boys over there are tougher than nails, no breeding at all, and they'll catch on that you're one of us by the way you move your head. Now, that Patrick's a nice boy, just don't be going visiting with him, you understand?"

Wide-eyed, James nodded, "Yes, Ma'am, I understand completely."

"Now, that Patrick's got no mean streak in him himself, you see, he's such a musical find that we can look past all else and let him in our society. He can play it well, too. He'll do well in life, bring up his family's name, I'm sure of that. I spoke with your father and he's aware that you have a roommate - he said that if you minded you needed to be sure to tell me and we will get you a private room as soon as possible. You just seem like such a social boy, such a fine-mannered boy that I didn't think you'd mind. And you, Joya."

Joya's attention was toward the lady who now looked over her other shoulder.

"We haven't a roommate for you at the moment, dear girl, but if you're unhappy being alone, then we will just do some shifting around of the lessers and find you a room with a girl who I'm sure will be your dearest friend."

"Actually, James is my dearest friend," Joya spoke carefully. "And I think I'm a bit too used to having a room to myself that I would be quite the crumudgin if I had to share with another girl," she ended with a soft laugh.

"Oh!" Miss Hyatt cried, raising her hands to the heavens momentarily. "I'm just so glad you and your brother are such close keepers! That just brings hope to my soul!" she paused for half a second before, "Oh! That reminds me. Every student goes to church Sunday, unless they are seriously ill, and the doctor proves it. The Presbyterian Church of Greenwich Villiage is where the Protestants go, and St. Martin's Cathedral is for those Catholics. I suppose you're Protestant?"

"Yes, Ma'am," James said reluctantly. They'd never been the church types, really, but they'd gone to only a Baptist church back home. Neither of the twins new much about religion, much less the difference between Baptist and Presbyterian.

"No matter what, don't go down to the Lower East Side. Don't go to Brooklyn. Stay out of the Bronx. Watch out for Harlem...only go there under supervision...Even Queens is below you. Staten Island is alright - if - no, when - you are invited to the social events, notify me, we'll make sure you're well-prepared with knowledge of the politics and your company. James, make sure your sister doesn't wander around Central Park alone. Never buy food from the street or fish markets. Street things are unclean and dangerous. All our students over the age of fourteen have a wonderful amount of freedom, but remember, you're brought to us for not only musical and educational upbringing, but for polishing. All of our students come out as pillars of society, with class, and even if they have no breeding, they can sure pull it off. We want to make sure you're safe and well-rounded. And your education here at Mercer Conservatory is filled with experiences that will heighten your artistry. We go to the new Carnegie Hall once a week for the performances of all those whom you both are ingenues. You will have glorious opportunities to meet the orchestras and soloists." Joya and James gave each other a long look, both happy and overwhelmed. Miss Hyatt went on. "And as much as Lady Liberty beckons you, NEVER go visit her. Those horrible immigrants bring the White Death. Ah! Look! We're here now!"

The twins looked over the buildings that made up the Conservatory's block. Four seperate, beautiful stone buildings stood stately and patiently awaiting the twosome. The two opposing outside buildings were four stories high and identically designed. A series of slate steps led to the great oak and glass double doors on each of the outside buildings. Silver plated plaques to the left of each door labeled the buildings. The one on the left: "Beaulah J. Orrie Memorial" and then under it, in larger lettering: "Women's Dormatory". The one on the right: "William Kirkpatrick Neese Memorial" and, just as the other: "Men's Dormatory". Next to the women's dormatory was what Joya supposed was the two story educational building, and between that and men's dorm was Mercer Music Hall. The front facade of the inner-city buildings was beautified by perfectly landscaped gardens.

"Well, now," Mrs. Hyatt started up again, "let's go get acquainted with your new home, shall we?" James and Joya rose, and gracefully stepped out of the carriage. Mrs. Hyatt walked briskly ahead to the academic building, Joya and James following significantly slower. James sidled up next to his seemingly confident sister, and got her attention.

"Do you think she knows?" he asked quietly.

"You mean, about our father?" her head turned to study his face, and she slowed more.

"Yes."

"I suppose she doesn't - she doesn't act like it."

"Should we tell her?"

Joya thought a moment before answering, "Not yet, James. I'm sure he explained the situation to someone here. I mean, anyone who knows us and him must see that we're not...well, that something strange has happened. I think we should just get comfortable here, and test the waters before we make a final decision." They'd arrived at that the six stone steps that led up to the stately building.

"Alright," he said, separating from her a bit. They walked up the steps with their heads held high, with the help unloading their things and taking it to their respective dormatories.

They entered, and were both a bit overwhelmed by the welcome that awaited them. The educational building's first floor seemed more of a lobby with offices going as far back as the two could see. In the center of the lobby was a wide spiral staircase going up, and a few yards behind it, another going down. Lined up on either side of the foyer were about two dozen adults. Miss Hyatt proceeded to rattle off names, introducing the teacher of English and the teacher of Latin, and the teacher of advanced mathematics, and the teacher of botanical science. Also included in the roster were the music teachers, the residence directors, and the symphony conductor, Wilhelm Baher. With each face and name came eye contact, a nod and a polite smile from the twins. Soon they were whisked away by the residence directors, Nancy Gallagher and Rodney Jeffries to their rooms, where they were allowed to unpack and get settled in.

Joya was taken through the side door of the educational building and led through a secluded courtyard, flowering with plants of the late summer. Mrs.Gallagher was open and friendly, and Joya felt completely comfortable with her. She had a baby of fourteen months, which Joya had almost immediately offered to watch for her. Before going up to Joya's third story room, she saw the parlor and women's library, the formal dining room, the seven practice rooms, and Mrs. Gallagher's family suite, which were all on the first floor. Joya became quick friends with Cynthia, the baby, and was glad she'd made the proposal to the woman.

A few hours later Joya was resting on the large, soft bed. A rapping came to the door. Joya quickly sat up and grabbed the wooden brush that was on her nightstand, and carefully smoothed out her loose curls. She checked herself in the gilded mirror by the bedside, and postured herself as she opened the door.

"Miss Villaflores," a thin, very white upright-looking woman stood. "I am Mrs. Sheffield. I am sent to take you on the grand tour."

"Thank you," Joya said, offering a smile to the straight-faced woman. "May I have a few minutes to become more decent?"

"Of course," she said stiffly. Joya noticed how the woman's gray eyes scrutinized and criticized every inch of Joya's appearance. "Will five minutes be enough?"

"That should be perfect," replied Joya pleasantly. "Where shall I meet you? Downstairs, so you don't have to waste your time on the stairs again?"

"Yes," Joya noticed how the woman's tone hadn't changed a bit their whole conversation. This should prove to be a fun tour. "I'll be in parlor." With that, she turned and walked down the hall.

Joya watched, wide-eyed and jaw-dropped, at the woman's lack of happiness as she walked down the hall. Joya retreated back into her room, and hurried about, finally changing from her travelling clothes into a conservative dark maroon afternoon dress, and swirling her hair up into a bun once again. She hoped she looked alright; she knew she'd have to win the respect of Mrs. Sheffield, and more than likely some of the other residents of Mercer Conservatory.

Eight months zoomed by at Mercer Conservatory. Joya's weekdays were filled with classes and practice and after school work. She knew that the only way that she would be married is if she had a proper education, so she threw herself into her studies. Her recess from the constant brainwork were her hours of morning, afternoon, and evening music lessons and rehearsals. Every month the students performed at some of the most prestigious events and concert halls, sometimes travelling as far as Concord, Providence, Philadelphia or Baltimore in a weekend. On their weekends without performances, as promised, the students were taken to the grandest concertos or private, intimate sittings with world-reknowned musicians. Those were their evenings. Joya and James took special 'family time' every Saturday morning to explore their still new city. Quite often they found themselves in the taboo places, but they were careful and didn't stay too long.

Patrick, James' roommate, turned out to be a great friend. The two had hit it off immediately, and Joya was grateful that he had such a loyal and decent friend. A few other of the boys had readily accepted him as well, and it was obvious that he was happy. Things weren't quite so easy for Joya, however. She'd become a humanities student, watching the games that the girls played, the pretentious airs they put on for each other, and their flighty romantic endeavors. Not every girl in the school was this way - there were a few exceptions - one being Camilla Bradley, a deathy thin pianist of 16. Camilla was horribly shy, and every time she had to do a solo, even for class, her face would turn a ghastly shade of white and her neck would break out into nervous hives. Once she focused on her piece, the hives would disappear and her face would flush with a beautiful pink. Sometimes Camilla would play so passionately that her hair would start falling around her shoulders, and Joya swore that her brown eyes had a golden gleam to them. They'd become friends after two months of dancing skittishly around the idea: Joya didn't want to seem to eager, but wanted to draw the little girl in, and Camilla was very intimidated by Joya's open and strong personality. They started practicing music together, and had come to truly enjoy each other's company. Camilla opened up like a rose in a perfect spring, and Joya became more relaxed, and less judgemental about the other girls.

Joya's only other real friend was Isabel Giacoma . Bel played cello, and she'd been at the Conservatory since she was twelve, on a work scholarship. She'd been playing violin in her father's restaurant in Little Italy since before she could talk, and when Headmaster Carlisle of the Conservatory discovered her at ten years of age, he'd offered her father half scholarship until she graduated. Of course, her father had taken him up, and the work portion of Bel's deal was working as a teacher's aid, grading and filing papers, since she'd gotten older. Since she was so busy working an extra three hours a day, plus eight on the home Saturdays, she didn't have much time to go out with Joya and James. And Camilla was too frightened of all the wonderfully exciting things they might do on the spur of a moment, like catching a ragtime show, or making friends with hotel bellboys.

In their excursions they'd met a boy a little older than the two of them, Philip Anthony, who worked at the Surrey Hotel as a doorman and security guard. The boy worked from 4:00 AM until 1:00 PM every day, and Saturdays on his break, he would meet the twins at a close restaurant for breakfast. He insisted on being called 'Mess', because that's what the boys back at his place called him. It was quite the contradiction, thought Joya, because everything about him was neat, clean, and controlled. He was a newsboy when he was younger, but upon turning 18 a year before, he decided he'd try to get his life together. Mess had confessed that he'd had to lie several times to get the job, because no one wanted to hire newsies, no matter how nice they were, because of their reputation as theives, gamblers, and the violence learned on the streets. And a ritzy place like the Surrey certainly wouldn't consider it. The whole thing wasn't too hard, because he was quite the actor - he even worked down in Irving Hall occasionally, when the Swedish Meadowlark Medda Larkson needed a young man for a role.

He lived all the way up in East Harlem, in the newsboys' lodging house where he'd grown up. The owner hadn't had the heart to kick him out because he was always helpful and like a son. Mess looked after the younger kids, and still pledged his allegiance to the East Harlem boys. His best friends were Knuckles Callahan, the leader of the boys, Tommy McCoy and Hobo Rosenthal. Joya and James felt as if they knew they knew his three friends, because he spoke of them so much. Once, on an outing, Joya and James attempted to walk up to Harlem, but it was much further than they'd figured, and after getting lost one too many times, they gave up. They didn't understand why he'd choose to commute that far twice a day, but he seemed to enjoy it. He made enough money to take a cabbie every day, and he was tough enough looking that he'd only gotten jumped a dozen or so times - and most of those times he was able to 'whoop the bum's asses', as he liked to brag. He confided to them that he had been worked over three times by some Brooklyn boys, Breaker and Brick. When Mess was 16, he'd cheated the dangerous Spot Conlon out of some money in a rigged 'friendly' card game, and this instigated a war with entire Brooklyn clan. Spot hadn't let anyone forget it, not even after three years. Breaker wasn't so much the problem for Mess, because they were the of the same physical strength. Brick, however, having gotten his nickname by crushing walls, was what landed Mess in the Infirm more than once. All this talk of the dangers of Brooklyn fueled the fear of the twins, and they vowed never to walk across the separating bridge...well, all the way, that is.

Of course they walked half the way, because the view was so splendid, and the height was exhilarating. Once, at breakfast, Mess had brought along his friend Griff O'Malley, an 18-year-old newsboy friend who worked the East Village. Through their acquaintence with Griff, they came to meet the local Greenwich newsies. Griff introduced them to Wisecrack, and his girlfriend Star Light. Wisecrack and Star Light had invited Joya and James to lunch with them several times, and the twins had felt very accepted into the lives of the Greenwich newsies. Joya had come to know Dice and Spades, the leaders of the Greenwich Newsgirls, the ever-outgoing 5 feet tall Forget-Me-Not who could somehow always make Joya laugh, and the singers of the group, Nightengale and Willow. The two had occasionally spoken of a highly informal concert at the girls' lodging house, with Joya on piano accompanying Night. There was also Spritz, a girl who never failed to ask the right questions...Several times James or Joya almost slipped with their secrets, but they caught themselves in time. They knew that the newsies were wise to the fact they had secrets, but as Dice assured them, "We all have pasts. We gotta respect dat you got yours." Ragamuffin was the fastest girl in the Village - she was running from the time she got her papes in the morning till she trotted up the stairs of the lodging house at night - or so Joya'd been told. Rags was one of those people who Joya felt comfortable around in every situation. Another one of those people was Lorelei, who had the passion for children that Joya did. Joya first saw this in the way Lori treated seven-year-old Limerick, whose mother had given Lori charge of raising. The two were Irish, and had been sent to America to get away from the warring Ireland, in hopes that New York would prove to be a safer environment. It wasn't, but Lori kept Lim safe. Also in the Greenwich girls was Star Light's twin sister Star Bright, the German runaway Cricket, her antagonized sleeptalking bunkmate Scooter, the demure and withering Russian-speaking girl Snow. There were a few others that had come into Joya's life, and she came to respect and sometimes even envy the streetbound group of orphans and runaways.

Life was more about the other six days more than the recreational Saturdays. James was loving everything about the Conservatory, but Joya had enough run-ins with Mrs. Sheffield. The latest few had been instigated because Mrs. Sheffield had seen Joya and James with the working children. Miss Hyatt had heard of this, and, in a very doting mother method, she'd come to Joya's room one evening before practice and had warned her against communing with 'them'. Joya knew she should listen and obey, but she'd become so attached to a few that she couldn't just leave. She was infuriated by the snobbery, but held it in, and tried not to let it hinder her behavior. She'd talked to James about it a few times, and together they decided that ethically, they should stay beside their new friends. Mess had become one of James' best friends; he didn't want to break off such great comeraderie, and it was becoming more obvious that Mess had...affections...for Joya. She suspected it, but had written it off as friendliness.

It was again a Saturday, and James and Joya had been commenting on all of the changes their new city was going through. Like a child going into adolesence, the city was growing. Construction had begun on an underground train system stretching from Park Row of Manhattan, all the way up to the Kingsbridge Station in the Bronx. They'd read in one of the many papers they'd bought from a newsie friend, that a double-decker drawbridge was being built over the Harlem Ship Canal, and they'd vowed to go see the opening. Grand Central Station was also rumored to be in beginning stages of redesign, and so many aesthetically perfect buildings were being built all over the city. Joya had decided, as the large 80-something group of students from the Conservatory attended the grandest celebration known to modern man in Central Park to ring in 1900.

Vice President Theodore Roosevelt was coming to speak at a Republican gathering in Grammercy Park that night, and the twins had made plans with about 20 other people from the Conservatory to rally their support. Because the 'party', as it had been referred to all day, started at six, the twins had left the Conservatory earlier. They'd made plans the week before to meet Mess at a restaurant on LaGuardia, and then do some shopping for a new bow for James. Having spent some time in the East Village that morning and wandering into the upper parts of Little Italy, they walked back towards their part of the town, stopping to chat with Rags (who didn't hesitate to sell them a paper, even though they'd already bought the morning edition from Spritz and another from Wisecrack). Nearing the Isis Sandwich Shoppe, James remembered a reselling store that he'd wanted to check out around the corner.

"I suppose I'll go on to Isis and wait for Mess," Joya said. "I wouldn't want him to think we forgot him."

"You don't mind going alone?" James asked, hoping she didn't.

"Not at all," Joya smiled. "If you find what you're looking for, go ahead and buy it," she encouraged him. "We might have time to visit Harlem today with Mess!"

"Thank you, Joy. I won't be long, I promise," he smiled broadly and walked down Drury.

Joya neared the restaurant and grinned when she saw Mess walking towards her on the street. They met at the door and he greeted her with a quick kiss on her hand, which caused heat to rise in her cheeks.

"Where's Muse?" he asked, using his nickname for James.

"He went to look for a bow and some sheet music," she explained. "I hope you don't mind it's just me."

Mess just smiled and stared into her dark, almond-shaped eyes for a moment. His curvy lips straightened as much as they could, and he spoke quietly. "I don't mind at all."

She broke his admiring stare quickly and walked towards the door to the establishment. He opened it for her, and followed her in without another word. They found a booth next to the storefront, and exchanged conversation of their days, his work, and her schooling. They waited for James to arrive before ordering, and Joya prayed he'd come soon. She wasn't sure how she felt, being alone with such an attractive man...who seemed to be attracted to her. She trusted him with her life, but was afraid to render her heart so soon.

"So someday, when I get off work for a weekend, I'll come to one of your shows if that's okay," he promised, watching her every movement as if he were entranced.

Joya smiled, "That would be great! We'd love to have you come. James is trying to play a piano solo for one of the next shows...Oh, he's practicing so much! He's learned the Beowulf Movement on violin, and he hopes to fully transcribe it for piano to play next fall!"

He watched her eyes light and her eyebrows punctuate her words, and found his emotions matching hers as she spoke. He was grateful for a few minutes alone with her, and prayed James wouldn't come for a while. Mess was so completly engrossed with Joya's plans for James' birthday approaching next weekend, that he didn't notice when three burly boys walked in and sat down at a wall table opposite them. Joya, on the other hand, was quite aware of the stares she was receiving from the table of young men. She struggled with whether or not to mention it to her friend, but became so uncomfortable with the glares that she leaned forward, and with a touch of fear in her eyes, she asked, "Do you know what those boys are staring at?"

Mess, having automatically leaned forward when she had, looked around, and immediately knew who she was talking about. He stiffened, and his smile and amusement faded far too quickly for Joya's liking. "Come on," he ordered as gently as he could. "Let's blow this place." He offered her his hand as she slid out of the booth and joined him in leaving the restaurant.

He guided her out the door by the small of her back, and, touching her elbow, he led her out of view of the Isis windows. Looking behind him, he saw the boys heading towards the door hastily. Mess pulled her into an alley, and they picked up their pace. He found a building's outside fire escape that lead to a cellar, and hopped down. He reached up his hand to Joya and she obliged him, and he helped her down the ladderesque stairs. She got down four of the eleven, when he reached up and took her by her waist. She jumped the rest of the way, and he caught her, steadying her in her flat dress shoes.

"I don't understand," she said quietly. "What's the matter?"

"Eh, you're just too beautiful," he muttered. He pressed up to the escape wall, and she followed his lead, wishing her blue skirt wasn't quite so full.

"I truly doubt that's the case...Can you please explain? And I'd like the truth."

Mess sighed. "You know how I told you my problems a few years ago with Spot Conlon?" he asked. Joya nodded, and he licked his lips nervously. "Wull, dat's Breakah," Joya noticed his distinctively Harlem accent kicking in. "I just don't want nothin' happinin to ya." He turned to her, and searched her eyes for judgement or disapproval. He found none. And fell a little bit more for her.

"Crazy guns a comin', crazy roses goin'. Dance a jig and sing a song, and find a girl to string along," Mess sang as he walked up to Hugenot, where he caught a cab every night. The handlit streetlamps made light dance on the recently dampened streets. He continued to sing to himself as he looked down the street the way the cabbie always approached, but saw nothing except some steam rising from the streets and mist floating. "And your life..." his voice softened and slowed, "...is nothin' but..." he squinted his eyes and stared into the darkness "...a dream."

Nothing.

He shut his mouth so that his breath wouldn't make a sound. He pulled out his pocketwatch from his waistcoat, and checked the time. 2:45 AM. Mess resumed his singing of mutated songs and scat, and sat down hesitantly on on a wet streetside bench. A few minutes passed when he heard the sound of hooves on cobblestone. He rose, and straightened out his uniform. It was then that he realized something was wrong. Badly wrong. The hooves were not that of a tired but obedient hackney trotting his way down the Harlem streets, but disorganized and clattering from an uncontrolled animal. Mess ran out into the streets to see the horse and cab coming his way at great speed. He knew full well that a horse wouldn't trample a full grown human in his way unless he was mad, but instinctively Mess jumped out of the way, landing his bum hard on the street and his elbow on the curb. He looked up as the horse, a clean bay called "Caesar" galloped past the best he could with his shod feet slipping some on the worn stones, and was struck with horror at the passenger of the cab. It was only momentarily, but Mess got a good enough look. Damon, the driver, was slumped over the the back seat of the uncovered courier. Blood was visible, but Mess didn't know how much. He jumped up from the ground and thought for half a second before beginning to run in the direction that the horse had gone, but didn't get too far.

As he passed Monterrey's Delicatessen, he was stopped by a bat being swung into his chest. He crashed into the ground in a broken heap immediately, suddenly having no air in his lungs. He gasped and stared into the ground before hitting it again as the mysterious blugeoner smashed into his back with the bat. That led to a quick realization of what was happening, and anger growing. Enough seconds had lapsed that another blow was in order, and Mess was determined he was not going to play the fool any longer. He moved just enough to see his assailant with the corner of his eye. He grasped for a lungfull of air and grabbed the bat with both hands as it was flung towards his head, then sent the handled end into attacker's stomach, scraping his elbows sharply on a nasty piece of road during the move.

Still hanging onto the bat, Mess lept to his feet and finally got a look at the bad guy. "Holy -" he spat out. "You goddam sonuva -" and threw the bat far across the street. "You can't even fight for your damn self!" He stepped closer to Breaker and before the other boy could move, Mess grabbed him by the throat and followed the measure by a very steamed right hook."Where's your oaf?!?" Mess screamed at him. "Where's dat Brick o' yours? Dat brainless Brick o' yours?" He throttled Breaker with both hands.

"You," Mess said, not allowing Breaker to breathe.

"Are," he threw him to the ground.

"An," Mess slammed Breaker's head into the road.

"IDIOT!" he screamed, punching him squarely in the nose, causing blood to spew out of Breaker's nostrils. "What the hell did you do to Damon?" he demanded in heated revenge for his yearlong friend and driver.

Breaker moaned and looked up at Mess dazedly. When no response was offered, Mess straightened himself over the boy and lifted his foot above him. Mess stared down at Breaker as if asking should he thrust his whole weight into Breaker's abdomen. He opted to play the nice guy and set his foot back on the ground, completing his giant stance. "Did you kill him, you goddam idiot? Did you...?" Anger seeped from his being; the cold stare of his eyes sent chills into the ground under Breaker.

"I..." Breaker tried through the blood still streaming. "No."

Mess backed off a step or two to the side before landing one fast kick into Breaker's side. "You ass," Mess said bitterly, then spit forcefully onto the Brooklyn newsboy's face. "You ass." Mess backed away more and then turned, and ran to find Damon and the cab.

Joya sat upright on the edge of a backless chair, pushing and pulling her bow masterfully, gently rubbing horsehair across the strings of her violin. Harmonizing perfectly was Isabel's cello slowly keeping time and James' viola framing perfectly all over the place. Joya played melody accompanied by Camilla's pianistry, and the four worked on making sure every note of Pachelbel's Canon was well-laid and well-played. A loud creak caused the quartet to glance at the door, and a maid curtsied and announced, "Mr. Villaflores; Miss Villaflores: A Mr. Philip Anthony is calling. Need I tell him you're tied up?"

The music had stopped, and on the same instant James and Joya looked quickly at each other before setting their instruments down and rising in unison. They left the room with apologies to both Camilla and Isabel, and briskly walked to the front of Mercer Hall. Entering the lobby, the twins glanced around in hopes of seeing their friend, but he wasn't there. The maid had followed them out of the practice rooms, and spoke. "He's waiting outside. I didn't want to let the riffraff in," she said, feigning meekness.

Mess was sitting on the marble seat (which resembled a throne more than a park seat), clutching his stomach. James had made it out first, and his mouth fell open when he got a look at Mess' bruised and scraped body.

"Oh, my god!" Joya breathed, and rushed over to Mess' side. She reached a hand out to one of his bloodied cuts and touched it with such care that suddenly, he didn't feel any pain. It lasted for one glorious second, but he shuddered with the goodness of the feeling. "What happened?" she asked.

He told the story to them, and explained that he thought he had two broken ribs. The twins urged him to go inside to the infirmary, but he declined as gracefully as he could, explaining that he didn't want charity. He earned the broken bones, and he'd deal with them. James took initiative without regard to Mess' explanation, and went inside to get money to pay for the repairs and cleaning to Mess' uniform, leaving Joya to nurse the wounds of her friend as much as he'd allow. It was still early, and Joya had classes, so he let her go with promises that the three would meet for dinner that night.

Hardened eyes stared at the scene from a third-story classroom. Mrs. Sheffield snorted indignantly. "I knew what was to expect with orientals. I knew what to expect from twins. I knew what to expect from illegitamates. I warned the Board. This must be stopped." The harsh-statured woman turned from the chantilly-bordered window and made route to the Headmaster's office.

"We never construct a guideline without good reasoning," Headmaster Carlisle spoke as forcefully as a man could. He'd been rambling almost incoherently for the past forty-five minutes. Joya sat, eyes feigning alertness, and occasionally nodded when it sounded like he wanted her to. James did the same, but he was twiddling his thumbs so fast and so nervously that it made Joya want to jump up and hold his hands apart. She wondered if Headmaster Carlisle really knew what he was talking about, or if he was talking just because he liked the sound of his own voice. She wished there was some way she could record what he was saying, and then play it back to him a hundred times over and watch him agonize over his meaningless words and redundancies. She was bitter, she was angry, and she was on the verge of not caring.

James, on the other hand, was going to break. She foresaw this and despised him for it. He was really going to betray the friendship Mess and the other street children had given so generously to become a 'strong pillar of society'. Joya almost groaned aloud; if she heard that term or several others again she would just have to scream. That was all there was to it. It wasn't as if she minded reprimand or lectures all that much, but this was uncased, this was prejudiced, and this was downright stupid. Mess was not a threat to any of the Mercer students, she would say. No - don't call him Mess - call him Philip. Philip hasn't gotten us in any trouble, she would persist. She would, if she could.

"Yes, sir," James replied. Joya blinked her eyes several times, first adjusting to the sound of someone else's voice (for the first time in close to an hour), and then trying to figure out what exactly, or rather, generally, Headmaster Carlisle had asked of them.

"And you, young lady?" Carlisle gave her a piercing, prompting look. Nearly every emotion Joya had ever experienced wove through her instantly: pain, apathy, remorse, assuredness, fear, anger, confusion, rebellion, numbness, and excitement. She didn't know which emotion should provoke her answer.

"Sir," she faltered, she hesitated. "I think you..." she swallowed and furrowed her dark eyebrows and looked at the perfectly polished floor for quick answers. "I think, Sir," she inhaled quickly and looked back up to him, "I think you're right, Sir."

Immediately she kicked herself for selling out.

"Good," he replied, satisfied with his persuasiveness. "You two still must be punished. You may not go to the Nantucket concert this weekend. Instead, you will stay here under the supervision of Mrs. Sheffield."

The groan Joya had been holding in escaped in full at the sentence. James quickly turned to admonish his sister, and Joya felt the heat from the two men's eyes and searched for a way out. "I'm sorry, I feel...ill." As soon as the words had come, she felt as if she were truly going to throw up.

"You are dismissed," Carlisle nodded at both of them, "but realize you are both on probation. Know your father, if you call him that, is a mere telegraph away. I haven't had a problem sending children back from whence they came in the entire eighteen years I've been headmaster, and I don't intend to be yellow now. You may go."

Joya’s eyes lolled incoherently when she waited outside the door for her brother. She cocked her head to one side, sending a mass of long, dark hair over her shoulder. James came out to meet her, and she gave him a terribly helpless look.

His slanted shoulders and slanted eyes hung low and he shook his head. He started to walk down the back stairwell, and Joya followed, almost beside him. James shook his head and almost pouted, and upon reaching the landing, he turned to her. She noted how he looked as if he were going to cry or explode (she wasn’t sure which, exactly). He jutted his jaw out and pulled his upper lip in, like he did when he was composing or trying to figure out a hard math problem. Instantly, Joya was aware of what her brother was thinking. She refrained from giving him a knowledgeable smile, and checked for ears in the wall. Seeing no one about, in a hushed tone she asked, “So what are we going to do?”

“We’ll talk to Mess,” he nodded affirmatively, keeping his voice low to match hers, “and we’ll play it cool for a while, I suppose. Then, who knows? It’s a few months ‘til graduation, so we’ll be free to associate with whomever we please.”

“So how do you suggest we talk to Mess? We’re under the watchful eye of one Mrs. Sheffield for an indefinite amount of time,” Joya’s mind quickly explored the possibilities and opportunities they might have to get a message to Mess. James opened his mouth to speak, but Joya verbalized her thoughts before he could say anything. “Who sells around here?”

“What?” James stared at her blankly.

“Who sells newspapers around here?”

“Um…I don’t know…” he thought carefully for a minute. “Uh, Spritz does, I think. She has the corner of West Houston and Thompson sometimes.”

“No,” Joya shook her head, “Spritz asks too many questions.” She thought some, “Forget-Me-Not would keep one of us there too long, too. Anyway, she’s all the way on Wooster and Spring. Too far – it would arouse suspicion. Hey – who’s that girl that sells near Karlino’s?”

“The fresh market on Bond Street?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Perfect,” Joya said, “I’ll see you at dinner?” He nodded, and she parted her brother’s company.

The next morning, Joya took a stroll up to Bond Street. She spotted a yellow-haired girl with a stack of newspapers tucked under her arm, standing dangerously close to a rather large broom handle that was propped up against a cart of apples. Joya noticed the girl’s blue and white checked apron had a half an apple-shaped contour in one of the side pockets, and upon watching this girl for a minute, Joya saw her turn away from the cart owner and take a small, quick bite, chew fervently for a minute, swallow, and then resume hawking out headlines, like “President calls for govuhnah to take ovah! New Yawk’s own Teddy Roosevelt leads country!” Joya smiled, and reached into her purse to make sure her strategically placed note was in check next to her coin bag, and started across the street. The girl finished out a call, then smiled to see Joya walking towards her. “Good mornin’, Miss,” the newsgirl smiled what Joya figured was her most charming smile. “Can I offer ya a pape?” Joya noticed the girl’s striking gray eyes, and smiled. Without answering, she said, “Do you, perchance, know a newsgirl called Ragamuffin?”

The girl looked distrustfully at Joya, then asked, “Why? What’s it to ya, what we kids do, Lady?”

A bit astonished by the reply, Joya wondered how to ease the girl’s sudden doubts. “Rags is a friend of mine,” she offered. “I need to get a message to her. Do you know her?” The girl looked at her, still wary, but, obliged. “Do I know ‘er? She’s me bunkmate, Lady. What’s da message?”

Joya took out the note, which was written in miniscule letters and folded to fit under a quarter, and handed it to her while saying, “Yes, I’d like to buy a paper.” The girl handed a newspaper to Joya. “Thank you. Please tell her to get that note to Mess as fast as she can, alright?”

The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of the quarter, and she nodded, incredulous. “Criminy…Yeah, sure t’ing. Tell Rags ta get dis note to Mess,” she grinned happily. “Yes’m. Will do,” the girl placed the note and quarter securely in a small, deep pocket. Joya turned to leave, but the girl called after her, “Me name’s Broomstick, if ya needs anything else!”

To the girl, Joya smiled, but as she turned away, she rolled her eyes and muttered, “Yeah, act casual, that’s what they always say.” Taking the curve back to Broadway, she caught sight of Mrs. Sheffield, staring her down like a bird of prey does to its lunch. Joya inhaled deeply, then shot the best smile she could conjure to the sullen-faced lady, and pretended to thumb through her newly purchased newspaper. A laugh arouse from her when she read the actual story that Broomstick had been using as her call. Roosevelt was sent to Washington to settle a dispute on land ownership in the Adirondacks. “Newsies,” Joya said, under her breath. “Got to love them.”

“’Ey! DeSario!” Mess hollered. “De-Sa-ri-o!” He ran after an olive-skinned girl, with long, full black hair. “DeSario! Stop ‘r I’ll shoot!”

Storm DeSario, now within hearing distance, stopped quickly, which allowed Mess to slow to a walk. He caught his breath, smoothed his dark hair out, and straightened his shirt. DeSario, still unaware of who’d been chasing her, after her abrupt stop, had been devising a plan of attack. Her brow wrinkled a little, and Tiger Nicoletti, her compadre du jour, waited for a signal and an opportunity to throw a good left hook. DeSario summoned up her power to fight, and prepared for a good one. A sly, slighted grin formed on her lips, and she decided to enjoy this one.

The footsteps came closer, and she turned around slowly. Finding the handsome face of Mess instead of that of an enemy, her iron defenses melted immediately, and a sometimes-forgotten softness came into her voice as she said, “Ah! Antonio, mio amore.” To Tiger, she said, “Il ragazzo ritorna sempre.”

To which Nicoletti replied, “Si, sembra quell modo.” Mess had gotten to DeSario’s “Antonio, mio amore,” but no further. When DeSario laughed, in what seemed to be a response to Nicoletti’s remark, he shifted his gaze from one girl to the other, pretending not to know what they were saying. DeSario tossed a mildly degrading look at Mess, then to Nicoletti, “Saremo buone ragazze e dimentichiamo l’ itliano per questo ragazzo.”

“Yeah, why not?” Nicoletti winked an emerald eye at Mess.

“Ya know, when you two start speakin’ Italian, it drives me mad. Hell, I don’t even know if yer cussin’ me out, but it sure sounds good,” Mess flashed his charming smile at them. DeSario laughed. “So, Anthony, what you doin’, chasin’ down long, black-haired females again? I heard about your new girl, dis Villaflores chick. Tell me, amore, what’s the attraction?”

“I just can’t get past the likeness of you, Storm,” he bowed, took her hand, and kissed it. “Whenever I see her, I jus’ t’ink o’ you.”

DeSario playfully swatted at him, “Yeah, I’ll bet. I know you Anthony. You’re in love. It’s all ovah town.”

“What, you don’t believe me?” he waited for a response but only got a snort, affirming the disbelief. “So, it’s all ovah town, huh?” He didn’t wait for confirmation – he didn’t want to know any more. Then, to Tiger, he asked, “What’s she doin’ heah in Queens?”

“She’s takin’ care o’ some…” Nicoletti glanced furtively at DeSario “Business. Yeh. Takin’ care o’ business.”

“Business wit’ who?” Mess prompted.

Storm gave him a tough stare but conceded, “Business wit’ Montgomery.”

This hit Mess as strange. “Good ole Ace Montgom’ry? What you got ta deal wit’ Ace about? He’s a damn fine guy, DeSario.”

“Ace beat ‘er outta some,” again, Tiger glanced at Storm, “Er…marbles.”

“Right. Marbles,” Mess laughed. “Is dat all?” he waited for more. “Been havin’ some problems down heah wit’ Cabot Tate – he’s stirrin’ up some trouble wit’ da Brooklyn kids lately.”

Mess stiffened. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” DeSario watched him carefully.

Mess tried to be casual. “So why didn’t Lazy come down ‘ere ‘erself?” he asked, referring to Lazybones Johnson, the leader of the Bronx newsgirls.

“She’s not feelin’ too good, so she sent me down to be an – oh, what’s da English – help me out heah – ambasciatore –“

“Ambassador,” Tiger provided.

“Dat’s it – ambassador – an’ try ta tawk at Tate. Seems little Lezano ovaheard Tate tawkin’ ta da O’Neal kid about Splints…” Quickly, Mess tried to keep up with the girl’s references to Bronx newsies. Vinnie Lazano, a five-year-old kid. O’Neal – “Sandy” – the former Bronx boys’ leader’s brother. Splints – the guy who took leadership after Sandy’s brother was killed. Mess recalled some tension between Sandy and Splints…and he nodded for Storm to go on.

“So Cabot’s ovah on our side o’ da Rivah, tawkin’ big stuff, an’ da O’Neal kid’s getting’ riled up,” she paused. “I guess we’re just wantin’ ta pravent anythin’ from gettin’ outta hand, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Mess debated whether or not to go back to the topic of Brooklyn, and decided to get some benefit out of the conversation.

“So tell me, you said he’s stirrin’ up trouble in Brooklyn, too? What’s ‘e doin, playin’ menace to da boroughs?”

Tiger snickered, and Storm smiled. “You could say dat. Don’t know what’s gotten into dat boy, but he’s askin’ fer trouble. What about you, Anthony? What you doin’ all da way ovah heah in Queens? Ain’t dis a bit outta your jurisdiction?”

Mess sighed. “Dempsey’s gunnin’ fer me, I t’ink.”

This caught the girls’ attention. “Oh, yeah?” Storm asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah. Last night ‘e attacked me when I was waitin’ for da cabbie to go ta work. Near ‘bout killed the driver too.”

“Yeh, but you took care o’ ‘im, right? You can take ‘im, you’d win, hands down,” Storm inquired.

“Yeah, I took ‘im, but ‘e’s not da one I’m worried about. Brick’s da one who could snap me in half if ‘e so desired,” he grimaced, remembering the last attack Brick laid on him. “So I’m heah, in Queens, ‘cause its da last place dey’d look fer me. Dey’d check Long Island bafore dey’d check Queens.”

DeSario’s lips upturned at the mention of Long Island. She suddenly found herself very thirsty for some iced tea from the Island. Harper Garden restaurant was just across the street, and she knew she could find some of her beloved drink there. Her attention went back to Mess, “Hey, be careful, ya heah? You need anythin’? Any protection?”

Mess smiled. “Nah, I’ll be okay. If ya don’t heah word o’ me in a week or so, start to look fer me, though. Hey, can you do somethin’ fer me, Tiger?”

Nicoletti waited for the instructions.

“Could you not say an’thin’ about me bein’ heah, in Queens? If an’body asks, jess tell ‘em ya hoid from Indigo and Kleps while Indigo was down visitin’ Pie yessaday day dat I’m stayin’ up in Yonkahs till t’ings cool down in dis part of da city. Awright?” “Shoah, no problem, Mess.”

“T’anks. I best be runnin’ along. Mighty nice seein’ ya ladies. Oh – DeSario?”

“Sì, mio amore?”

“How’s dat Rise o’ yers?”

Storm blushed. “He’s fine, Anthony. Why’d’ ya ask?”

“Oh, jus’ wondrin’… ‘Ey, if t’ings evah go bad, lemme know. I’ll take care o’ ‘im for ya, okay?”

She smiled, “Grazie.”

Mess laughed. It was time to give up the act. “Nessun problema, bella. E lo significo.,” he monitored the expressions of the girls as they realized he wasn’t as dumb as he’d tried to appear. DeSario’s eyes narrowed. “You better watch it, Anthony. Lyin’s bad fer your health. Watch your back, Anthony. And remembah, what me girl Dare always says, ‘Dere’s always a tomorrow.’”

“I’ll do dat, Zucchero. An’ I’ll remembah what you always says, too, ‘Real friends help ya move bodies,” he laughed. “If I’m unfortunate but lucky, I’ll be needin’ yer help to do some body movin’ o’ me own.”

Storm looked troubled. “Did Iredell tell you ‘bout dat? Or was it Piker?”

“L' OH, cara signora, l' uomo deve mantenere i suoi segreti.”

“You little scoundrel,” she reached a fist into his face, and he wrapped his arms around her in a brotherly hug. “Arrivederci, mio cuore,” Storm told him.

“Arrivederci, signoras,” Mess smiled. Bowing gracefully to Nicoletti, Mess departed, looking for a place to stay the next few nights.

Nine o’clock was greeted by the chiming of Westershire Lutheran Church’s bells near the East Harlem Newsboys’ Lodging House. Ragamuffin ran, pretending she was racing the fastest newsie she knew, Spider McKennah. She saw the church’s steeple and caught her breath. She pulled her curly blonde hair back with her fingers and tried to look presentable. Admonishing herself silently for worrying about being pretty for the Harlem boys, she straightened and trotted up the stairs and knocked on the door.

“Yeah! Come on in!” someone called. She opened it, trying to appear collected, and walked into the sitting room, where she found several identifiable newsies spread out on couches and chairs and floor. Rags looked around, placing names on faces. Shiner. Chance. Hobo. Griffin. Memphis. Then there were the girls: Ruby, Imp, Sketch and Breathless. She mentally congratulated herself for remembering everyone.

“C’mon, Imp. Tell us somethin’ to write down!” Griffin prodded. The light brown-haired boy was poised over a handmade notebook; pages tied together with pieces of twine, and stared hopefully at Imp.

Imp shook her head. “I’m not a quotable person. No, wait. Don’t quote me on dat. Quote me when I’m not payin’ attention,” Imp blushed. Momentarily her freckles tried to disappear, but she regained composure quickly. “Uh, say dat ‘Home is wheah da heart is.’ No, dat’s stupid...Ruby? What should I say?”

The lively party queen Ruby Gallagher let a grin dance across her pretty face and threw her head back as if to let the words fall from the ceiling. “Say…that love is like a red, red rose…”

Memphis tossed a crumpled piece of notebook paper at Ruby, which she dodged. “Ain’t that a poem or somethin’?” his southern drawl made the girls swoon a little, and Griffin looked up at Rags.

“Heya, Raggedgirl!” he said cheerfully. “Tell me somethin’! We’re makin’ a hist’ry book – stuff ‘bout all the newsies for future gen’rations…can ya give me a word of wisdom or two?

“Don’t evah get yerself in a pasition wheah dere ain’t no escape, and always be ready to scream like yer on fiah,” she laughed lightly, the voice of experience coming through. “Amen ta dat!” Shiner called.

She shook off old memories. “So, uh, you guys seen Mess around?” “Anthony?” Breathless’ eyes twinkled for a brief second. “Why’re ya lookin’ for him?”

“I got a top secret message for him,” Rags held it out. “Don’t know who it’s from. Waited ‘round for him to show up at work taday, but to no avail. They said he wasn’t in yesterday, neidder. Figured he’d be here. I woulda come earlier, but the evenin’ edition came out, and I’m kinda low on money…” her voice trailed off.

Shiner and Memphis looked at each other, then at Chance.

“Rosenthal?” Chance asked. Hobo looked up. “You seen Mess?”

“Not lately. Last time I saw him was down by the East River.”

“You know what he was doin’ there, Rosenthal?” Ruby asked sweetly.

Hobo shook his head no, “Looked like he was goin’ to Queens. But we all know better dan dat,” Hobo smiled and tugged at his overall straps. The motion seemed to make his already poor stance worse.

“Ain’t no way Mess’d go to Queens,” Chance established. “Hates da place wid a passion.”

“Costello,” Rags looked around. “Is anyone else heah?”

“Eh, Paris and Doc are in da kitchen. Knuckles is in a conference wit’ Needle. Speil’s awready in bed. You wanna talk to ‘em?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Colteaux! Guerra! C’mere!”

Paris Colteaux poked his head in, his blue eyes showing laughter. “Ya gotta come see dis stuff, Imp!” he turned his head back to the kitchen. “Whatchyou call it, Doc?” He grinned back into the room. “He calls it ‘body wash’! Stuff smells good!”

Julio Guerra, otherwise known as Doc, came in with a vinegar bottle filled halfway with a milky substance. The fourteen-year-old boy looked up and with fondness said, “Heya, Rags! How you doin’?”

“I’m good, Guerra. You seen Mess lately? Eidder of ya’s?” “Naw,” Paris said absently, and made Imp and Sketch smell some of the tonic in the bottle.

“I saw him goin’ ovah da bridge around four or five taday. I sell ovah on da docks t’ll da evenin’ edition comes out,” Doc told them. “Why?”

“Mess seems ta be missin’, Kid,” Chance had worry written on his face.

“Mess? Missin’?” Doc panicked. Mess had been like a father…or older brother…sometimes like a best friend to him. “Well, what’re we gonna do ‘bout it?”

Costello shook his head, wondering the same thing. “Get Knuckles,” he commanded Paris, who immediately left the ‘body wash’ in the slightly amused care of Sketch.

A minute later, a curious newsboys’ leader walked through the sitting room door. “What’s dis all about?” Knuckles Callahan scratched his suntanned head through his brown hair, and his hazel eyes questioned his newsies and the girls alike. “Mess is missin’,” Ruby told him bluntly. “Didn’t show up at work today. Rags heah waited all day.”

Knuckles turned to Rags, who was still near the doorway. “Heya,” he tried to place her face. Figured she was from the south side of the Island. “What else ya know?”

She blinked her green eyes and shrugged. “Only dat he was last seen around four o’clock. Headin’ ta Queens.”

“What the -? Who saw ‘im?” Knuckles demanded, in disbelief.

“I did,” Doc spoke up. “No mistakin’. It was Mess.”

Knuckles exchanged a long, confused look with Chance. “What could drive ‘im ta Queens? He hates Queens? It’s so close ta Brooklyn…”

Memphis was trying desperately to piece this together, but to no avail. “Could somebody please tell me why hell would freeze over bafore Mess went ta Queens?

Imp spoke up. “Mess has a history of trouble wid da bulls ovah in Queens. And wid Brooklyn close enough, and the Queens newsies so familliah wid Brooklynites, it jus’ ain’t safe.”

“He got a few cops angry a while back,” Hobo supplied, beginning to grin, thinking about that night with his friend. “Mess don’t thief much, but when he does, he’s pretty careful. He just got a little strung out once and got…what’s da woid?”

“Rowdy.”

“T’anks, Rags. He got rowdy in a pub one night, caused a ruckus, an’ one o’ Conlon’s gimps was dere. Reported him to da bulls for some stuff dat he didn’t do, and now he’s one a da most wanted,” Hobo laughed lightly. “Like Queens bulls don’t got anything else ta do.”

Memphis figured something, or a few things, was missing in the story. He was right.

“What Rosenthal fergot ta tell ya was dat Mess was ‘seein’ one a da cop’s daughtas at da time,” Ruby finished. Memphis laughed. “That Anthony.”

“Yeah,” Breathless smirked. “Dat Anthony.” She took a drag of a newly lit cigarette and leaned back on an ottoman.

Presently, there came a heave to the lodging house door. In walked a slightly disheveled Hunter Price, his fair complexion a bit reddened from his trip out of his borough.

“Heya, Huntah,” Knuckles greeted him. “What you doin’ out so late?”

“Got a message for ya. From Faithie,” Hunter opened up his dirty leather bag that was strapped over his shoulders, pulled out a triple-folded piece of unprinted newsprint , candle wax having been dripped on the ends to make a wanton seal, and handed it to Knuckles. Turning his attention to his old friend Ragamuffin, he smiled. “What you doin’ all da way up heah?”

Rags looked around the room quickly, and seeing that no one else was going to speak, said, “Mess is missin’.”

“Mess?” Hunter tried to place the name but couldn’t. He propped himself up against the wall and waited for a little help.

“Mess Anthony,” Ruby told him. “Italian guy, nineteen, a little more dan six feet,” she cast Breathless a mischeivious look. “Good lookin’.”

Breathless caught the look and returned with a knowing smile. “Real good lookin’.” At that, both girls laughed.

“Does ‘e know DeSario? Wheah’s he from? Heah? Bronx? Wheah?” Hunter had an inkling.

“He’s from heah, Price,” Paris told him. “Yeah, he an’ DeSario go way back.”

Breathless muttered, “Way back to da Barrio.” Sketch overheard and acknowledged with a harrumph.

“Any reason he’d be in Queens?” Hunter asked.

Knuckles’ head shot up. “No reason. Why’d ya ask, Price?” Hunter shrugged. “I saw a guy matchin’ dat description today down neah Mulligan Road. He was tawkin’ ta DeSario an’ Nicoletti like he knew ‘im. Dat’s all.”

Knuckles looked down at the paper in his hand and scowled, rereading the message and thinking about Mess at the same time. Then he looked at Hunter again.

“You goin’ back ta Queens?” he asked sharply.

“Latah. Gotta go up to da Bronx house – Faithie’s sendin’ a message to Lazy an den one down ta Blue,” Price glanced over at Chance as he mentioned the boy’s sister.

“Do me a favah, Price?” Knuckles asked him.

“Shoah. What you need?”

“I’m gonna walk dese ladies home in about an hour or so. Can you ask DeSario if she saw Anthony? Get as much infamation outta ‘er as ya can, okay?”

“Awright,” Hunter nodded. “See yas latah,” he called to everyone else. “I should be dere by midnight, Callahan.”

Knuckles asked for the note Rags had dug out of her coverall’s pocket, and immediately retreated to ‘his’ office.

“I gotta be goin, you guys,” Rags told the other newsies. “Early mornin’. You need anythin’, though, you give us down in Greenwich a call, okay? And let me know if ya find Mess.”

Upon the promises to do those very things, Rags left and began her long trek down to the Lower West Side.

“Lazy, you ain’t goin’ nowheah, ‘cept back ta da Bronx” Splints gave her a disgustingly admonishing glare. “Youse as white as Forlani.”

Ruby, who’d been sitting on the divan with Tommy McCoy, shut her eyes at the mention of Luke’s name, and first tried not to get angry, then tried not to cry. McCoy put his arm around her and pulled her close to him, and she buried her face in his shoulder. That was over, she told herself. Mess was the one with the problem now.

Lazy looked at Splints for a minute, then matter-of-factly made a quick escape through the open window that she’d been standing next to. Splints and Blue Skies walked briskly to and through the door. “If Anthony’s in trouble, I ain’t gonna just sit on me ass and twiddle me thumbs,” she called back to them, walking towards Queensborough Bridge. She stopped and turned. “He may be one o’ theirs,” she gestured towards Blue Skies and Knuckles, who’d come outside, “but he’s part o’ da Bronx family too.” Lazy paused, turned an interesting shade of green, and then doubled over, emptying the contents of her stomach into a garbage pail. Wiping her mouth on a handkerchief, she stood up. “Ya kept me in lock-down all day, Splints. I don’t appreciate dat.” She smiled. “If I die, I promise ya I’ll go straight back to da Bronx.” To herself, she added, “Seein’ how it is hell an’ all.”

Blue Skies and Splints exchanged a look of frustration and disbelief, and then began to march after Lazy. Knuckles, Storm, Tommy, Fingers, Action, Liberty, Hunter and followed. Flash and Ruby watched the newly formed gang from the doorway a minute before Flash turned and headed up the stairs to the bunkroom. Ruby closed the door with a sigh, and followed the Harlem girls’ co-leader.

Flash marched into the bunkroom and went quickly to Spider’s bunk and shook her.

“What?” Spider asked, rather loudly.

“Shhh,” Flash quieted her. “Get dressed. You’ah goin’ ta Greenwich.”

Spider stared at McAllen as if she was insane. “What…?” She looked Ruby, eyes questioning Flash’s actions and mouth showing her horror at being woken up. Ruby nodded, and seeing the gravity in both Ruby and Flash’s eyes, Spider sat up. She sighed unhappily, but followed orders.

Flash told her the story and informed her of her assignment, with Ruby filling in here and there and verifying the matter. A little while later, after being drilled on what to do and say and putting on her brown bowler, Spider took off to Greenwich. After all, Mess was an old…friend.

Flash watched Spider run southward from the lodging house steps. She sat down and rested her head against the stone railing. Another sleepless night. She wondered what the message was Faith had sent to Blue. And she wondered what had happened to Mess. Storm had filled them in on the conversation in Queens, and confessed that she’d been worried about him. Tommy McCoy had shown up fairly upset, because he’d seen a distorted Breaker lurking around Harlem, asking the younger newsies questions.

Apparently, Mess had mangled Breaker’s face pretty badly, and Breaker was out for blood. No one really understood the vendetta Breaker had seemed to have against Mess, but Flash figured there was something deeper than just some stupid card game. Sure, the guy flew off the handle once in a while, and sometimes acted strongly without thinking, but Mess was harmless…unless provoked. Flash shook her head and pushed her brown hair out of her face. Looking up, her suspicions arose with her eyes. A boy was running down the street. She squinted to make out the figure.

“McAllen!” he called. He ran past a streetlamp, and her guard dropped. “McAllen!” he slowed and leaned on the wall, catching his breath. “Callahan still here?”

“No, Delanie. He ain’t. Left about twenty minutes ago. Whatcha need?”

“Hot damnation,” Sham panted and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Guerra told me Anthony was missin’.” Flash saw the traces of fear in Sham’s usually devious green eyes. “Said McCoy saw Dempsey ‘round. Dis ain’t good, McAllen. Dis is bad.”

“Knuckles, Flash, Lazy , Splints and some oddahs went ta Queens. Mess was last seen deah,” Flash told him.

“Oh, dear god,” Sham muttered. “’E’s hidin’ out, McAllen. ‘E knows Dempsey’s comin’, and…I don’t wanna think o’ it.” He considered what to do for a second. “I’m goin’ ta Midtown. Brennan’ll know what ta do,” he tried to breathe and scratched the back of his sweaty head.

“Sham, what’s Breakah got against Mess? Why all dis worry?” Flash demanded.

Sham measured lying, but that wasn’t going to help the situation. He exhaled deeply then started, “Ya hoid about Mess and my troubles with Conlon, right? Well, roughly ‘round the same time, Mess came into debt o’ Jake Stones, down in Brooklyn. Big debt. Unfair debt. Anthony wouldn’t pay up, hid out on the Lowah West Side. Ev’ry half-assed punk knew where ‘e was, so Stones sent Dempsey out to do some damage. Anthony saw it comin’, had a bad brawl with Dempsey, an’ came out on top. Dempsey went cryin’ ta Kaice, Kaice came back ready ta bust heads, for a reasonable fee, a coise,” Sham took a breath. “Anthony’s been on the run from ‘em evah since. Last night, Dempsey got moronic an’ attacked Anthony by ‘imself. Anthony got fed up. ‘E’s had it with that shit, ya know?”

Flash nodded.

“I saw Anthony early this aftahnoon. ‘Is rib’s broke, I felt it meself. Dempsey’s serious ‘bout getting’ rid o’ ‘im, McAllen.”

Her heart had begun to beat faster. She’s never been too close to Mess, but he was an old-school Harlem boy. There was a responsibility. “What good kin Brennan do?”

Delanie chortled. “Only change Conlon’s mind on anythin’. If Conlon’s set on votin’ Democratic, she’ll tawk ‘im into turnin’ Republican. Conlon wants ta wear red suspendahs, she’ll get ‘im ta weah blue,” he grinned widely. “She’s practically ‘is muddah,” he laughed wholeheartedly.

Flash shook her head and sighed. “Keep me informed.”

Sham nodded. “Shoah. Latah, Flash.” He went the same direction Spider had gone a few minutes before.

Flash sat back down on the steps and imagined what it would be like to have one calm week. “Eh, it’ll nevah happen.”

Leaning back on a chair, Joya stretched out and yawned. “It’s getting late, Jillian,” she looked at the younger girl, who with various books and notebooks, was sprawled out on Joya’s bed and still scribbling notes.

Jillian looked up pathetically at Joya. “I have to ace this test,” she whined.

Joya stood up and wiped some ink off of Jillian’s face. “Don’t say ‘ace’; it’s slang. And you’ll do fine. You’ve studied so much. You’re prepared. And I would testify in court for you on that,” Joya knelt down next to the bed, looking Jillian in the eye, and smiled.

Jillian sighed and rolled over. “Right. I’ll do fine,” she said, mimicking Joya. “Joya?” she rolled back over. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Joya laughed, a little too loudly, then quieted herself. “No,” she shook her head. “Never have, never will.”

“Me neither,” Jillian sat up, gathering her books. Casting a hateful look to the intimidating history book, she shut it quickly. “Thanks for helping me, Joya.”

“Anytime,” Joya helped Jillian gather her things. “That’s my job. I am kind of your tutor.”

“But you’re a better tutor than I’ve ever had before. I wish you were my teacher,” she paused, and then looked at Joya. “How come you don’t have a boyfriend? You’re really pretty.”

Joya shook her head. “I’m different. But thank you for saying that.”

Jillian shrugged her small shoulders. “Only the truth.”

Joya saw Jillian to the door. “Get some sleep. And I promise you’ll get passed the seventh grade.” Jillian left, and Joya got ready for bed. She thought of Mess; wondered what he’d thought when he’d gotten her message. She smiled at the thought of their friendship, and wondered when she’d get to see him again. A little while later she went to sleep, dreaming of home, her mother and her elder brother Kiam.

It was the time of night you get shaky. No matter how used you are to being up at that time of night, your body is switching gears at two thirty. Mess poured another cup of stale coffee and walked up the creaky stairs, pausing to let a tiny mouse scurry from a baseboard of the wall to a hole in a floorboard on a step. Paying it no mind and trying to make sure the hot coffee stayed into his cup, he made his way to his room. This hole-in-the-wall hotel offered little in the way of comfort, but had proved to be a good hiding place. Cheap, too. A dime a day and all the coffee you can drink. What more could a guy ask for? He knew what he’d ask for if he could. A girl sitting pretty in Greenwich Village who went by the name “Joya”. He opened the door and started inside the cubbyhole called a room when he noticed a burning-out cigarette on the floor of the entranceway. He raised an eyebrow. “Quello non era qui prima…? How did that? L’Oh, lo dimenticherò!” He shut the door, locked it behind him, and set the cup on the dresser to cool. He considered turning on the light, but went to the window instead, and stared out for a moment. He laughed, thinking of his conversation with Storm, and how his almost-forgotten first language had suddenly come back. Mess lay down on his bed and again kicked his shoes off. He wasn’t too fond of wearing the same clothes twice, or not bathing for more than a day, or being unshaven. He couldn’t wait till tomorrow when he could lift a razor off of some unassuming drunk in the hotel, and with his own money, get at least a fresh shirt. Relaxing some, he began to quote,
“The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.”

A second cigarette dropped to the worn-out floor, and Bacio furtively waited outside for the signal.

Mess closed his eyes and imagined going to work that night: the streetlamps all-aglow and the clatter of Caesar’s hooves against the stones as Damon told the story of the day.
“I see the lights of the village,
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:”

Wick shifted his weight silently in the barren closet, and flipped out the switchblade grasped in his sweaty palm. He listened to Mess, taking no pity on the fool who would double-cross Spot and then make bitter enemies out of Conlon’s adversaries.
“A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.”

Mess thought of Joya, and wondered what she was thinking, doing…if she was sleeping soundly…if she was having a nightmare…if she missed him at all.
“Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.”

Wick’s breathing quickened, the adrenaline began to pump from the bottom of his eyes to his shoulders. His knees felt like lead. That would pass, he knew, as the deed was put into motion. He carefully went through the choreography - every movement planned – and licked his lips.

“For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.”

Quietly, like a prayer, Mess went on,

“Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.”

Mess’s voice resigned to a more listless, monotone sound. It awakened Wick’s ears, and he became alert to the timing, listening carefully to Mess’s now obviously tired voice, and waiting for the perfect moment to start his attack.

“Such songs have the power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.”

Mess yawned. He couldn’t stifle it.

“Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty…”

Mess stopped, remembering Joya’s voice, and smiled tenderly.
“The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And silently steal away.”

Mess rolled over to face the window, and his eyes closed. He welcomed the blackness, the soothing darkness.

Hearing the slight shuffle, Wick placed a clammy hand on the inside of the closet door, and, with his foot, kicked the closet wall.

In the hall, Bacio put all conscience in the wastebasket behind him. He put his hand on the doorknob and noiselessly, skillfully picked the lock.

After kicking the wall, Wick immediately walked out of the closet, grabbed Mess, and put the knife to his throat. “Breathe and I’ll have yer head in Brooklyn and yer body in the Rivah.”

Mess stared up at the unknown character, coolly studying him. Heavy Brooklyn inflection, like he was covering up some other accent. Mess covered up his strictly Harlem ‘brogue’ with plain English so much that he was familiar with it. Mess searched the boy’s flaming eyes, and felt the knife pushing into his neck. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t twitch a toe. He played along and tried not to breathe.

About that time Mess noticed a giant looming behind the knife-wielding one. The huge guy just smiled at Mess and poured the contents of a small vial onto a handkerchief, then handed the kerchief to the boy who was practically on top of Mess.

“We will make des part painless, Antoine,” Wick smiled evilly, and covered Mess’ mouth and nose with the kerchief. Mess took a quick whiff of the handkerchief before being smothered.

Chloroform. Damn. What goes around comes around. He decided struggling would only bring his death closer than his liking, and before he could think anymore, he was out.

Anthony’s dark head fell onto the dirty pillow, and Wick straightened up. He nodded at Bacio and stepped back. Bacio balled up his huge hand into a fist, and with high velocity, he proceeded to break Mess’ jaw.

Icy eyes followed the figures of two burly, seedy-looking males carrying either a formidable sack of potatoes or a body. The typically silent young man stood in the shadows where he’d been waiting since dusk. He’d seen him go in. He’d seen them stalk him. He knew all of them.

Wick, the French guy, demanded something of Kiss, the Italian who also went by the name Bacio. The two conversed in French, and Pistol Conroy listened carefully, yet understood nothing. Blatantly, Kiss swung the burlap bag containing Mess over his shoulder, and they two vital boys walked down a block, where a cart was waiting. Pistol’s eyes zoomed in on the driver: Breaker Dempsey, or what was left of him.

As soon as the horse and cart had made enough noise, Pistol swung up on his ‘borrowed’ mount, a piebald gelding called Scout. He walked Scout out of the alleyway, sat up, and with much proficiency sat back on the horse, positioned his legs just so, and dug his heels into the horse’s side. The horse reluctantly picked up an astoundingly smooth trot, and then on command he went into a lope. Pistol guided Scout up through Queens to the borough’s boys’ lodging house.

“He said he was stayin in Yonkahs,” Tiger repeated for the fourth time in the past ten minutes, rubbing her bleary eyes. “Wid Kleps an –“

“Well he ain’t in Yonkahs,” Birdie Kelley was exasperated with her subordinate’s secret keeping. Birdie looked at Pepper Scarpino, who brushed his black woolen pants down nervously. “Peppah, tell ‘er Mess ain’t in in Yonkahs.”

Pepper tried to smooth his dark, curly hair out vainly. He shrugged, “Kleps was heah an’ she don’t know not’in’ about Mess bein’ anywheah, much less all da way in Yonkahs.”

“Geezus, Kelley, I don’t know,” Tiger spit out. She drooped her head to one side. “Kin I go back ta sleep now?”

DeSario stormed in the door. “Cut the crap, Nicoletti. Anthony’s in deep shit.”

Tiger began to quake at DeSario’s rage. She’d never seen Storm angry before, but she’d heard the tales. DeSario had the blood of two dead men on her hands, and little to no inhibition of adding to the body count.

Birdie stepped in front of Tiger, and Tiger tried to stop shaking while guarded by her leader. Birdie eyed Storm, and saw no violence, just angry concern. In her peripheral vision, she saw Blue Skies Costello and Lazybones Johnson, then looked up to find Action Monroe, Liberty Andriola and Fingers Mulcahy, all behind DeSario. Oh, God, she thought. This is the way to keep things calm. She took a deep breath and waited for someone to say something.

Blue Skies stepped up beside Storm. “Anthony’s got himself into something big with Dempsey. Been hidin’ out around heah. Any o’ yer girls seen anything?”

Birdie rolled her eyes. Faith Montgomery, Birdie’s second-in-command, sighed wearily and shook her head. She didn’t much appreciate being dragged out of bed this time of the morning by Hunter, who’d arrived about fifteen minutes before the girls. Birdie sat down and put her head in her hands before she looked at Blue and asked, “Why would ‘e come heah? He hates Queens.”

As Blue relayed the story to Faith and Birdie, Action crossed her arms and looked around the lobby. Fingers eyed a pretty little box sitting on an end table, and wondered how she could get a hold of it. DeSario stood; hands on her hips, tapping her foot, wishing Mess would just walk in the door for no good reason. Liberty became aggravated with DeSario’s foot tapping, which instigated a low-key argument between the two girls. And Lazy ran to the washroom after turning that interesting color of green again. Birdie finally agreed to let Blue, Storm, and Action question the Queens girls, since most of them had awaked from the racket.

Blue had just talked to a grumpy Rhythm O’Lay when Knuckles exploded into the room. She jumped out of her skin, and waited for an explanation. All the girls, minus Molly and Reflections, were wide-awake at the sight of Knuckles and his entourage consisting of McCoy, and the newly added Mac Scurelli, Tracker McCarthy, Globe Stafford, and Noah Kingston. The girls tried their best to cover up their nightclothes, but the boys were more interested in getting to Brooklyn.

“C’mon, Blue,” Knuckles commanded. “We’s goin’ ta Brooklyn.”

Blue Skies raised her eyebrows as if to say, ‘Oh, we are?’

Action took that moment to push aside Fingers and Liberty, who had been standing in front of her. “Like hell we’re goin’ ta Brooklyn,” she tossed Lazy a look that said ‘Over my dead body.’ Storm caught the look and stepped up to Action. “Yer goin’ ta Brooklyn, Monroe. Dat’s all dere is to it.”

Action stared Storm in the eye and shook her head slowly. “Ain’t no way in all of hell. I know what he’s gonna do,” she said, referring to Knuckles, or maybe Splints. “He’s gonna take us to Conlon. The only way I’ll be in front o’ Conlon is when he’s dead.” She stopped there, not leaving an opening to the reference of her own demise.

DeSario prepared to backhand Action. “Yes. You are,” she said definitively.

“Look, ladies,” Mac stepped in. “We don’t have time fer dis. Action, you stay if yer gonna be a pain in the ass othahwise. Somethin’ went down in my territory, an’ I ain’t about to let it slide.”

Action eyed the Queens co-leader and said nothing. Which was probably the very best thing to do at the time. It was meant to be intimidating, but it wasn’t.

“Birdie, Faith?” Mac turned, not even noticing Action’s disdainful glare. “You wit’ us?”

“We’ll be dere in a minute, Mac,” Faith said for the both of them. “If ya leave us ladies to do some clothes changin’.”

Everyone cleared out at Faith’s request, mostly waiting outside. Tracker was pumping himself up to do what he did best – find someone. Adrenaline started flowing through his body: he could practically taste it. When Faith and Birdie joined the group, Action staying behind in demonstration of her hatred for Conlon, Knuckles took charge.

“Pistol Conroy saw Mess bein’ abducted by two guys, names Wick and Kiss,” he started, suppressing his anger. “Said Mess was out cold. Pistol caught us back at the lodgin’ house, an’ he an’ Doze ran right went back to try an’ follow da trail,” saw the looks of concern in several of the girls’ eyes, and the somberness in the boys’. Lissen carefully. Storm, Noah, Libs, Lazy, Birdie – youse all wid me. We gonna go try ta talk ta Spot. Tracker’s goin’ down ta catch up wit’ Pistol an’ Doze. Mac, Splints, McCoy, Blue, Faith – you go wit’ Tracker. If…” he stopped himself. “When ya find Mess, send somebody back ta Spot’s, if we ain’t deah yet. Stake out the place until we gets deah, unless, a coise, Mess is definitely dyin’. I don’t want us stickin’ our noses in Brooklyn’s crap more den we hafta…”

Knuckles remembered carefully, silently the horrors caused when Forlani found out his hostage, Faith, had been rescued. “Undah da one circumstance o’ Mess dyin will any o’ you make a move. You all undahstand?”

Tracker’s group nodded. The whole dozen split up into their respective teams, intent on success.

The chloroform was wearing off, much to Mess’ chagrin. The more conscious he became, the harsher the silent swearing grew. And with the swearing, correlatively, anger. He was in the floor of the cart, fortunately unbound for the time being. There was an intense pounding in his head. He could sense it more in his left jaw, which, with every jostle of the cart, felt more and more like it was in two pieces. His tongue rested on the floor of his mouth, and upon moving it, he felt a loosened tooth. Taking into account his surroundings, Mess realized that someone was driving the two goons – the two were in the back with him. With some focus, he tried to get an idea of who it was. Well, scratch that: He had a good idea of who it was; he just needed confirmation. No one spoke much, which was probably good for Mess, considering the pain increased significantly every time the horse so much as snorted.

There was movement. Mess opened his eyes a slight and saw the one who’d smothered him jump over the seat to discuss something with Breaker. Mess used this as an opportunity. He pushed himself up and sat up, quite sardonically. This petrified the remaining monster momentarily, who let out an, “O!” which caught the attention of Breaker and the other guy.

Breaker pulled the horse to a stop, turned around and said “Looks like we got ourselves a live one. Kiss, take care o’ him.” The one sitting next to Mess waited for an okay by the other nameless guy, who nodded. Mess shut his eyes. This wasn’t going to be any fun, he could tell.

Kiss picked Mess up by the shirt and threw him out of the lugger. Mess landed hard, very unhappy about the whole situation, and rolled over. Kiss stood up above him and made the hugest fist Mess had ever had the displeasure of seeing.

Sighing, and knowing there was no escaping this, he looked up at Kiss. The guy looked familiar. Mess decided against spending time trying to place the face and instead, when seeing that cannonball called a fist coming towards his face moved slightly. The cannonball’s force hit the cheekbone instead of the temple, where it was aimed. Kiss did not seem to know this, probably because his hand was so massive. Mess decided to play dead, to be on the safer side of being truly dead. He rolled his eyes up, then back as far into his head as they’d go before closing his eyes almost completely, just like he’d seen happen to so many guys he’d fought. He went limp. Kiss and Breaker’s friend jumped out of the cart and helped Kiss put Mess back into the cart.

This time, Mess was face-up on the floor.

A few minutes later, the small wagon stopped again. Mess could hear everyone getting out, except Kiss’ friend. Breaker called, “Yo! Kaice! We got ‘im!” as Kiss’ friend slapped Mess in the face.

“Wake up, ye bastard! Wake up, ye home now.”

Mess pretended to disjointedly wake up, when he actually wanted to take this guy down and leave him for the pigeons. Temper, Anthony. Keep your temper, he told himself.

“Git up, ye louse!” The guy grabbed Mess and picked him up. Mess tottered like a drunken man, then feigned weakness in his knees. He saw Brick Kaice waking out of a small brick-repaired-with-wood building, grinning hatefully, and groaned. This is not going to be pretty. Hell, this is gonna be as ugly as Kaice ‘imself. Mess slowly, tactically gained steadiness, trying his best not to hint towards his capacity. He was escorted into the building that he predicted would be a torture chamber for an indefinite amount of time.

“Wick, c’mere,” Breaker called Wick into a shadowed corner, and Kiss slammed Mess down into a chair. Brick walked around Mess like a jackass, snorting and chuckling. Mess’ tolerance was growing thin, so as Brick came to pass in front of him, Mess stuck out one of his long legs, sending Brick falling into Kiss. Mess looked up like he was still dazed, and snickered. Brick turned around, the flames of Hades in his eyes and picked Mess up and slammed him into a wall.

Mess faltered as he tried to stand straight up. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He just wanted to be with Joya, showing her the skyline from atop the Holland Tunnel. “C’mere, Breakah,” Mess spit out, refraining from touching his pained jaw. He put his curvy lips together and tasted blood. “C’mere. I wanna see how bad I hurt ya.” Every movement struck him, disabling him to open his mouth more than an inch. But the pain subsided as Breaker stepped out from the shadows into the candlelight. A large, bloody grin spread across Mess’ face and he started laughing like a madman. “I nevah t’ought an’one could be more repulsive den you, Breakah. But you sure outdid yerself.” Sure, Mess ached, but he got distinct satisfaction in the sight of the now-mangled skull of Breaker Dempsey. He would’ve pitied Breaker, if he didn’t know him so well. Dempsey’s nose seemed to be almost disconnected from his face, and smashed into itself so he was pug-nosed. He made a mental note never to let anyone bigger or better than him hit him in the nose. His head, where Mess had slammed it into the ground, was still caked with blood, dirt and hair. It had been covered by a brown bowler in the cart…Mess understood why: it was pretty nauseating to look at.

“You did dis to me, Anthony,” Breaker snarled. “I didna appreciate it. An’ you won’t be laughin’ afta me buddies ‘r done wit’ you.”

“Eh, yer just jealous ‘cause now you’ll ‘ave even more problems attractin’ da ladies, an’ dat’s nevah been a problem fer me,” Mess swung his long hair out of his eyes to glare at Breaker. He tossed a look in the direction of Wick and Kiss. “So what, Signor Asshole? Da goons couldn’t take out da client, so da goons hired goons? Am I really too much fer ya?” he smirked, knowing full well Brick could rip his arms out without a second thought or straining a muscle.

“Yeah, yer too much, Anthony. Way too much,” Breaker walked up to the unharnessed Mess, looking him straight in the eye. Without breaking the threatening gaze, he said “Dis time tamorrah, yer gonna wish you was dead,” he turned around and took two steps back, before again turning. “Ya won’t be, but every ounce o’ yer sorry flesh is gonna be beggin’ fer it.”

So they weren’t planning on killing him. Just tearing him to shreds, like a down pillow the cat got happy with. Mess shrugged. “So go ‘head. What’s stoppin’ ya, Breakah? Ya got all yer jackassed thugs right heah. C’mon, ya gimp.” He measured Kiss, who was considerably shorter than his partner, but made up for his lack of height in bulging muscles. Mess’ cheekbone was going to be a nasty shade of purple for quite a while, and Mess really didn’t want any more compost from the guy. Nor Brick, actually. This Wick heavy, Mess sized up, and even though he was larger and more evil looking than Mess could ever hope to be, Mess could take him and still come out on top. He decided that he could escape with enough steam to make it to the Village if he only had to fight Breaker and Wick. But it didn’t look like that would be the case. Mess sobered, and decided to hold his tongue upon the harsh reality of not being able to hold his own in this situation. He desperately hoped fear hadn’t seeped into his eyes as he inclined his head in wishes of residing as a tower of strength.

Dempsey shook his head. “Ain’t ready fer dat, pretty boy. As much as you’d like it, you’re gonna be clear-headed enough to…Well, you’ll see.” With that, Breaker walked into an adjoining room followed by Wick, leaving Mess with the Goliaths.

Mess sighed, and sat back down. Watching Kiss, it hit him who he was. “Bacio Stefane,” Mess said, rather plainly. “I seen you box. Yer damn good,” Mess saw that the kid was struggling to understand. “Capice?”

Kiss looked up at the mention of his name, and tried to follow Mess’ English. “Capice, grazie,” he didn’t break a smile. In a heavily accented, low tone, he added, “It is Stefano,” and frowned.

Mess nodded. Great fellas, these were. He decided for his own health not to try to run or fight, and began to think of all those things you try to think of to make yourself forget about the darkness ahead. The happy thoughts to make you relax. Like Joya’s eyes. And funny things. Things that are so stupid they’d make you laugh. Like Breaker Dempsey himself. He yawned as much as the pain would let him. This was going to be one hell of a night.

Let's face it. Pistol and Doze lost the trail. Big time. They found each other; for that they were grateful. But they'd lost Mess. And they weren't quite sure where they were. They kind of just started walking, and had kept walking. Pistol figured they were close to either West or South Brooklyn - he could smell the East River. Pistol wore a deepening frown. And a girl, who'd been hopping roofs, following the two boys, had enjoyed the game.

Yer getting' warmer, she'd taunt silently. The boys would take a left. Coldah, idiots. They'd go straight. Freezin', dumbasses. Such a pleasant attitude Mincer had towards people.

The boys stopped. "Geez, Pistol, what time is it?" Doze asked, yawning. He leaned up against a fencepost and scowled.

Pistol shrugged. He had never been the talkative type, rarely handed information over unless it was urgent. He figured it was nearing four o'clock. Something on the rooftop caught his eye. It was a cigarette being lit. He tried to make out the figure, but couldn't.

"Must be somethin' pretty important," a female voice called. The shadow was talking to them. It wasn't a feminine voice by any means, but it was still female. Pistol watched the shadow walk the rooftop like a cat, preparing himself to do some talking. He knew her. He didn't like her much, but he knew her. Doze, sitting on the fencepost, rolled his eyes at the stranger and ran his fingers through his hair. As quickly as he could blink his eyes, the girl had jumped from the top of a two-story building to a wooden overhang before jumping to the ground a yard in front of Pistol. "Cohn-roy," she drawled his name out and gave what could be mistaken as a smile.

Pistol looked at her. It wasn't a glare. It wasn't blank. It wasn't expecting. It was the perfect combination of all of those. Without the slightest tinge of impatience to his voice he asked, "What you got for me, Jericho?"

Mincer shrugged, "Depends on what yer lookin' fer."

Doze eyed the girl he didn't know with extreme wariness. He cocked his head back and tried to look foreboding, watching her between the slits of his eyelids. She didn't take her eyes off of Pistol, but was fully aware of Doze's body language. He didn't taunt her. He couldn't if he had a knife to her throat. It's hard to frighten someone who has no qualms against death or pain. She turned to give him a stone-cold gaze. "How you doin', Malone?"

It struck him that it wasn't a pleasantry. She didn't seem to be the type for it. Instead, it was a threat. She knew him. She had the advantage. All he could do was act like it didn't matter. So he nodded carelessly. "I'm alright." He took her in. She was a black girl, she wasn't bad looking, and would've been much more attractive if she didn't have the air of hatred to her. Her fingernails were like talons, sharp weapons that couldn't be wrestled out of her hands. She was fairly tall, around eighteen, he'd guessed, and had the most lifeless eyes he'd ever encountered. Suddenly something came over him. Almost...pity. He let it slide, not wishing to get into anything beyond what the quest had already laid out.

She left him alone, and her eyes turned back to Pistol. "Yer eithah lookin' for Stones' boys, Valentino's 'party', or Stokah and Lee," her jaw set into a very well-fitted smug position. "I know ya know Stokah. Valentino's got relations up in Hahlem. But Stones.all I kin figguh is dat yer trailin' Dempsey's catch. Dat Anthony kid. Wassisname? Mess, right?" she blinked as innocently as a girl of her filthiness could muster.

Pistol knew what she was up to. He wasn't stupid. He had a little more insight than they liked to think. This was Mincer's way of returning a favor to Mess. Ever since he'd arrived in New York, he'd kept his mouth shut and ears open. He knew Mess had taken Mincer in his protection since Midnight Brennan had found her in Boerum Hill Park. Pistol figured that Mess had taken some responsibility for her, at least during her first few years. Otherwise, Mincer wouldn't have bothered to stop for Pistol to begin with. He decided to make this easier for him, and less degrading for her. He played along and nodded. He tossed a look at her that wasn't disapproving, nor supportive. "What's Switchblade doin' here?" he asked gruffly. His mind traveled to Switchblade's hard but phantom-like girlfriend Misery Lee. Pistol waited for an answer but was returned with an icy glower from Mincer.

"Thanks but no thanks, Cohn-roy," her thin lips were terse and her nostrils flared. "Save us both the bullshit, alright? No games. I hate games. Ya want me to take ya to Anthony, I'm goin'. Ya best follow quick, ya imbeciles," she sneered, throwing daggers at Doze with her eyes. She took a few steps and then disappeared from sight. "Ya gotta do bettah den dat, Cohn-roy," she jeered. Doze sighed his condemnation for their new partner, but followed Pistol, who'd already taken off after Mincer.

"Let's be a liddle loudah, why don't we?" Birdie whispered, trying her best not to fumble in the darkness that fell in the alleyway between the Brooklyn Lodging House and Crimson Red Tattoo Parlor. She grabbed the back of Knuckles' collar as he nearly crashed into an overturned trashcan.

"Geezus, Kelley," he managed. "Ya chokin' me!" She gave him a little push before letting go, and Liberty guided the once-again ailing Lazybones through by her elbow.

"Ise fine, Libs," she whispered, coughing a little. "I can hold it down."

"Shaddup!" Birdie shushed from her position of second in lead. Noah looked sheepishly at Birdie, keeping his mouth very closed and grimacing at the harshness of Birdie's tone.

"Ladies, will ya quit.Oh-damn," Knuckles stopped abruptly, head darting back from the window in which he'd just peered.

"I don't know why we're sneakin' around like some kinda misfits," Storm sighed. "Brooklyn ain't got nothin' on any o' us."

"Shaddup!" Birdie spun around and glowered at Storm. "Dere's somebody awake!" her voice was so low it was almost like she was mouthing the words instead of saying them.

Storm stalked up to peer over Knuckles' shoulder. Her eyes grew large and she whirled back around to scoff at Knuckles. "Oh, sweet-mothah-Mary," she genuflected in bad humor and then laughed. "It's Dove. For St. Pete's sake, it's Dove."

Lazy let out the kind of laugh that an ill person laughs when they can't help themselves, "Knuckles, what's Dove gonna say when 'e finds out you're scared o' him?"

Knuckles tossed Lazy a disdainful look. "It was dark. I couldn't tell who it was!" he defended himself. "I ain't scared o' Parker," he muttered as Storm went to the front door, followed by a much-humored Liberty and a groaning Birdie. Storm knocked on the door.

Immediately Dove Parker opened it. A big smile spread across his face as he saw Lazy and Storm, and he immediately looked over the Bronx girls for Annie. This caused a chortle from the group.

"Sorry, Dove, she ain't heah," Birdie laughed.

He tried not to redden and nodded, "Come on in," he said in a low tone. The group entered. "Most of da boys are asleep, 'cept Kipper, Jazz and me," he signaled towards the dining room, where Kipper and Jazz sat, looking curiously towards the door. "Pigeon and Lash are sleepin' in the sittin' room, so be quiet. Don't wanna get on their bad sides." Dove couldn't resist, and asked, "So, ah, why didn't Annie come?"

Liberty struggled against smiling, because the dirty blonde-haired Brooklyn boy looked hurt. "I don't think dis would be a good reason fer Mouse ta pay ya a visit," she started. "We gots some trouble brewin', assumin' it ain't already boilin', an' I don't think Mouse would be too safe."

Dove nodded; suddenly glad his sweet girlfriend Mouse McMullen hadn't come. "What's up?" he looked to Knuckles for answers.

"You know Mess Anthony, Parker?" Birdie asked him.

Dove laughed, "The question is, who in Brooklyn don't know Mess. He useta live around heah, before he started roamin' around and wound up in Harlem Refuge. Hung around here after he escaped," Dove glanced at Storm for corroboration. She nodded a little, letting him know it was okay for him to go on. "We all liked him, till he and Delanie figured they could pull one over on Conlon. Pretty stupid thing, riggin' and runnin' like he did. I know him. I think he's an okay guy, just gets a little dim sometimes. But dat was yeahs ago. Spot still ain't fond of him," Dove smirked a little, and reworded the last sentence. "It's pretty safe ta say he despises him, thinks he's a rat. So, why ya askin'?"

The group of visitors exchanged looks of revelation about their ill-omened excursion. Noah stood with his eyes narrowing behind his glasses, trying to think of the right words to say to persuade Spot into helping Mess, but almost gave into the unpromising situation.

"Anthony's gotten inta trouble again," Liberty began to explain. Knuckles let her go on and led the group up the stairs to the bunkroom. Dove watched them go, wanting to stop them. Spot had already had a bad week: he wasn't going to like this intrusion, and he was going to be very angry that they'd come to him asking help for Mess.

Knuckles stood, surveying the room, trying to figure out how to approach the sleeping Spot Conlon. Storm spotted the love of her life, Sunrise Morgan, his face buried in a pillow, and quietly made her way over to him. She woke him up gently. He turned over, and with the widest, most genuine and incredibly sleepy smile Knuckles had ever seen, he sat up and embraced Storm, giving her a very honest kiss. "Ya miss me dat much?" Rise looked remarkably touched and happy to see her. His eyes drifted to the doorway, and when he saw the expressions of those standing near it, his beam faded some. Rise got up and tried to tiptoe silently over to Knuckles, which proved to be difficult for the six-foot, broad-shouldered boy. His stealth was established as futile when the floorboard shifted under him, releasing the loudest, most inopportune CRRRRRRIIICCK. Rise scrunched up his face in shame, straightened, and turned to Spot's bunk, knowing that the fairly light sleeper would now be awake.

Much to his dismay, he was right. Spot was alert, his defenses were up, and by the look on his face as he propped himself up on an elbow, he was irate at the very sight of the guests. "What the hell?" He reached down and picked his cane up, which had been propped by his bedpost, and pulled one of his suspenders over his shoulder. "Callahan, Kelley, Johnson," he addressed the leaders loudly, waking up the whole bunkroom. The whole lodging house, for that matter. Within a minute, Pigeon and Lash had come up the stairs and were blocking the visitors' way out. Noah suddenly got very uncomfortable and began wondering why he was here at all. Surely Birdie didn't need him, really.

Lazybones groaned, because her illness had gotten a foothold at the most inconvenient time. She let out an exasperated sigh, and then was promptly accompanied by Storm to the washroom. A few moments they reappeared, and Rise ushered them downstairs, as Spot hopped off his bed, cursing under his breath. He strode up to Knuckles with 'I'm pissed at you' written on his face, "What's goin' on dat you can't take care of?" Conlon was so close to Knuckles' face, Knuckles could smell the herbed chicken that was still on his breath. Spot's clear blue eyes flashed with bitterness. It was something newsies from all over New York and Jersey had heard of, but only a few had ever seen.

Birdie looked over her shoulder to the hardened face of the usually jovial Lash Fraker, and then turned back to Spot, avoiding rolling her eyes. What could be going on that would be going on that would cause Spot to call in Fraker? It obviously hasn't anything to do with Mess.Sheesh, he's in a bad mood. Then, realizing she could be talking about one of several people in the bunkroom, she allowed herself to lighten up just enough so she wouldn't crack.

Knuckles gave Birdie a sidelong glance before starting. "Anthony got hisself in some trouble in Queens." He braced himself. This reaction wouldn't be good.

Spot's eyed narrowed even more as his glare fixed on Knuckles' pupils. Knuckles concentrated on not flinching and not breaking the stare. "Anthony's always got hisself in trouble, Callahan." Knuckles could hear Spot's teeth clench and grind a little. Everyone in the room probably could, it was so silent. "Why'd ya come heah," he started slowly, poignantly. "Couldn't Scurelli an' Kelley take-en care o' it?" he tossed his harsh glare at Birdie for a second before going back to Knuckles. "It's dere turf." He turned to Birdie, stepped back from Knuckles, and very deliberately placed himself an equal difference from both of them, but still looked accusingly at Birdie. "I guess dey couldn't. Need Brooklyn ta come wipe dere asses since dey can't do dere jobs right." The expression on his face was taunting Birdie. She opened her mouth to issue a retort, but thought it over and pressed her lips together, biting her tongue, quite literally.

Noah knew he hadn't gone unnoticed, but was grateful it appeared that way. He'd been taking in the whole exchange, thinking it through. Something was going down in Brooklyn - Lash wouldn't have been called in otherwise. Conlon wasn't about to help Mess, that was for certain, and Birdie suddenly looked ready to explode. A glimpse at Knuckles told him that he was pretty unhappy at Spot's allegations as Birdie was. He was about to say something when a blonde girl brushed past him to stand directly in front of Spot.

"What da hell's -" one of the newsboys started.

Midnight looked at him. "Watch your mouth." She gave momentary looks to both Birdie and Knuckles before giving a tired but soft look at Spot. "You've gotta help him, Conlon." She regulated her breathing and remembered why she hated that defiant stare so much. She pushed her hair back behind her ear and shifted her weight. "It was three years ago," she said emphatically.

Spot scowled at her, "It ain't even on my territory, Brennan."

"There's reason to believe he's been taken here, Conlon. Your friend Breaker, he's been snoopin' around Harlem, lookin' Mess."

Knuckles finished, "Pistol saw Breaker and two guys, Wick and Kiss, take him outta an inn at Queens. Didn't know if he was dead 'r not. Headed dis way. We got Tracker an' some oddahs out lookin' for 'em."

Noah could've sworn he heard Lash growl at the mention of Wick Mauvais. Fraken was always a good guy, he knew, but he could still do damage where needed.

Spot considered this. He didn't have anything on Dempsey. But Dempsey and Wick? That didn't sound good. He'd love to take Mauvais out once and for all. The jerk had presented enough problems to the community of Brooklyn than the regular scoundrel could dream of. He looked at Lash, whose eyes were brightening at the chance to go after Wick. He shifted his glare back to Midnight. "Brennan. Conference." He sauntered past the others, downstairs, and Midnight followed. Calling behind him he said, "Fraken, Kwek, you, too." The husky boys trailed wordlessly, to convene in Spot's 'office'.

About fifteen minutes later, Spot went upstairs mutely. Midnight reappeared and went into the dining room, where everyone who was awake had gathered. "Lazy, Storm, Liberty, Birdie, you're supposed to go to Storm's bar. Knuckles, you and Sham are supposed to go with Pigeon and Lash." Lash and Pigeon wasted no time, and gruffly made their exit, Lash smirking, thinking of what he was going to do with Mauvais the moment he got his hands on him. As the girls said their quick goodbyes, Midnight approached Noah. "Spot wanted you to see me back to Midtown." Noah nodded, and the two left. Dove and Rise went with the ladies to the Brooklyn Bridge Bar, where Lazybones Johnson promptly fell asleep. Unfortunately, most everyone else was to be awake for another good thirty-six hours.

Mincer's stride had not broken since picking up the two newsboys. Doze was still rather unhappy about their new traveling partner, but he'd kept his mouth shut, in fear of Pistol's actions. Mincer had intentionally led the boys back up towards the West Brooklyn Boys' House because of a hunch she'd had about finding some added help. As they passed the house, she passed glances into it, but everything seemed quiet. Well, quiet for a Brooklyn lodging house. She walked past, dissatisfied, but still being hounded by something that could only be described as a nagging feeling. Doze considered asking why exactly they hadn't stopped and asked Spot for a little assistance, but upon realizing what he was thinking, he merely understood, snorted and kept walking. Apparently the same sort of thought had crossed Pistol's mind as well, because as they moved beyond, the quiet boy glared at the house and suddenly snapped his head back towards their seemingly relaxed leader.

Two blocks or so later, Mincer caught sight of four boys standing in the middle of the street up ahead. She slowed her pace some as she eyed the group. She snorted as she recognized Knuckles Callahan and Sham Delanie standing with "her" boys, Lash and Pigeon. The approaching threesome had gained the attention of the mid-street strategy summit, and an audible groan was given by Sham.

"Aw, geez, Jackson." he muttered. Mincer let a sly grin slide across her face as she drew near Delanie. Sham threw his hands up in the air. "Hey, look, Jackson, I ain't causin' no trouble - I'se jus' heah ta -"

"Shaddup, Delanie," she tossed at him walking right past him. She paused at Knuckles. "Ya lookin' fer Anthony, yer followin' me."

That was all. She resumed her casual but quick walk, and Knuckles raised an eyebrow at Pistol, who nodded and continued following the girl. And the newly arranged seven-member band went looking for the trouble that was waiting for them.

Mess had fallen asleep in his chair. He almost laughed as he remembered Sham, who could pretty much fall asleep anywhere. The kid had even fallen asleep with his eyes open on more than one account. But then pain rushed back to his jaw and head. And he remembered his predicament. Hesitating before opening his eyes, in hopes that it might all be a bad dream, his ears tuned into a conversation in the next room.

"...and Villaflores is watchin' the Gallagher kid tomorrow morning before her first class, which is at nine," Mess recognized the voice to belong to the Knife-Wielding One. Mess opened his eyes just barely, a sick feeling sinking from the back of his throat to his stomach.

"Yeah, but what time?" Dempsey insisted.

"Seven o'clock," Wick replied. Mess heard a scuffle next to him, and figured either Kaice or Stefano had Mess duty.

"What time you movin' in on 'er?" Dempsey asked.

"We're leavin' at six. Ten minutes to de bridge, twenty from de bridge to City Hall, twenty across de park to dat section o' Bleecker. We don't want ta go too soon, 'cause we'll be seen at dat time o' de mornin'. Breakfast is served at seven, promptly. We arrive at ten till seven; let everyone else leave to go next door. De dining hall is in de base of de educations building. Bacio and I start in after breakfast is served. In four minutes de room where she is should be in flames - in fifteen, de whole building. All is good." Wick told him. He didn't add that he'd never actually seen Joya, since she'd been under a form of house arrest. This bothered him. "Dempsey, I am not happy about de time restraints." He was struggling to maintain a form of a New York accent, Mess reflected. "You should've given me two days."

Breaker snorted indignantly. "Well, ya shoah you can get her trapped in dere?" Wick must have nodded. "Good. Ya shoah you an' Kiss can outta dere aftah ya's she's cooked?"

Wick was in the middle of responding when a very livid Mess exploded into the room. He grabbed Wick before anyone knew what was happened, and tossed him headfirst into a corner. He threw over the table and swung at Breaker, but was caught by a strong arm pulling at his shoulder. This whirled Mess around, causing a very sorrowful meeting with Brick's fist and his left eye. Mess staggered back, and Breaker completed the action with a hard blow to his stomach. Mess fell to the ground, convulsing from sheer anger. In a short second he'd stood back up and was stalking towards Breaker again. Breaker didn't flinch - he had the edge on Mess. He met Mess' furious glare with a calm underhandedness.

"You ain't gonna touch Joya," Mess spat out. He grabbed Breaker by the shirt collar and just lifted him off the ground a hair. "No way in hell is you gonna lay one o' your nasty hands on 'er, you dirty bastard."

Wick had risen and stepped up behind Mess. "Dat - is - enough." He perked his eyebrows at Brick and Kiss, who each took one of Mess' arms and laid their fists deep and hard into him. Mess lay sprawled, feeling his consciousness drain as the blows fell more solid and incensed.

Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.

The cracks and thuds added to Mess' passionate hatred, one by one. He felt them all. His eyes were closing. His spirit was rising.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody but unbowed.

His eyes shot open as the gale of each assailant's strength continued. He was not going out like this. He was not going out without a fight. He was not going to let anything happen to Joya. He picked up his head in an effort to stand, but Brick laid a set of knuckles into his head, near his ear, throwing Mess's head onto a board laying underneath him. Mess stared at the board for a second, waiting for the moment to seize his only weapon.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It was now or never. As much as he hated the use of anything that deterred the fairness of mano a mano combat, he felt that this situation could be justified, seeing how it was four against one. He made the quick move, splintering his hand in the process, and slammed the two-by-four into Kaice's cranium with all the force he could muster. The plank split in two; Brick was out of the game, at least temporarily. Bacio pulled Mess up off the floor and sent his bleeding and broken body into the wall, where Mess tried to stand, but fell to his knees. Bacio let go of Mess.

He lay on the ground gasping. This is what it felt like to die. Bacio's foot went fast and terribly into Mess' side, knocking both wind and blood from Mess' mouth. In a little over two hours, if Mess didn't stop these jerks, Joya would pay for his sins. No. There was no way. He wasn't going to die. It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul. If he had anything to do with it, he was never going to die. And neither would Joya. So he hung there, after Bacio's beatings subsided, limp and pained and bleeding more than he imagined possible, and tried to think. His eyes weren't closing, but everything was going dark. The last thing he saw was the small, spreading pool of blood from his mouth.

Lash's mind was awake with every near-sordid action he could take out on his arch nemesis, as he watched Wick and Bacio go over some sketches. He loved his vantage point from the neighboring rooftop, where he, Pigeon and Mincer were lodged safely between a chimney and a drain wall. In the second alley behind the building where the thugs were holding Mess met Knuckles, Sham, Doze and Pistol.

"Dey shoah as hell can't stay in deah ferevah," Sham said, muffling his words as he lit the cigarette stuck between his sets of teeth. He took a puff and waited for Callahan's response.

Knuckles nodded slightly, a puckered, thoughtful look on his face. "Mess is in bad shape, though." He'd seen the torn and bruised body in the corner of the building, and barely recognized his friend and longtime newsboy. "We gotta get in dere, quick, 'cause if he's as busted up as he looks.well, we might not have no more Mess."

Sham scowled as he blew smoke out of his nose. Doze moved to lean back on the wall, waiting for some instructions or sleep, whichever would come first, but was caught by Pistol grabbing his arm. "Hush!" Knuckles said. The boys listened carefully for what Knuckles and Pistol had heard. Pistol's jaw clamped as the footfalls on the hard-packed dirt street.

Mincer jumped silently from her perch on the drain wall ledge at the sight of three others walking down Plymouth. Pigeon read her mind, as he seemed to be able to do, and took an unobserved glance down at the street. In a hushed voice he said, "They's okay. Just stop 'em." Mincer nodded and made her way to the street.

"They're around here somewhere," Tracker told Tommy and Splints. "Just be quiet," he whispered.

"McCahhrthy," a low voice rumbled. Tracker stopped immediately, turning to the corner where he'd heard his name.

Splints had instinctively stepped between Tracker and the cornered figure. He watched a trail of smoke from it's cigarette, and his black eyes didn't leave the small orange tip as the figure stepped out of the shadows. His mind raced to place the girl, but it availed none. She walked slowly up to the three wanderers, smirking slightly. "Dunromin, McCoy," she nodded at Splints and Tommy. "We got Mess covahed. Come wit' me. Dere's four of 'em. Big monkeys. Be damn quiet." She led them back the way she'd come, to Knuckles, Pistol, Sham and Doze.

Tracker glared at Doze and Pistol. "Ya coulda jes' come straight heah, boys. Yer trail took us all the way through Brooklyn and back."

"We done our best, Trackah. We ain't all as gifted as you. Jest don't tell me lady friends." Doze grinned, and Knuckles rolled his eyes.

"Speakin' a ladies," Knuckles began, "Wheah're Skies an' Faith?"

"We all went back to da Brooklyn lodgin' house, an' Jazz told us Spot'd sent Lazy an' da girls ta Storm's. So Mac took 'em back to da bar," Splints said quietly. "Wheah's Mess?"

Doze filled the new arrivals in on Mess' condition and the disgustingly simple plan to get Mess out and 'bust heads' where needed. Mincer had stayed down with the group of boys, but kept an eye on Pigeon, waiting for a signal. Sure enough, she got one. She raised a hand into the air, which somehow quieted the boys immediately. Pistol walked up behind her and without a sound, the two climbed up to the roof that had been claimed as the surveillance tower. Everyone on the roof ducked and Pistol motioned for those on the street to hide.

A few minutes later, Wick and Kiss had pulled out the waiting horse and cart and drove off, towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Wordlessly, Lash and Splints took off after them, and Pigeon took a good hard look into the one makeshift window into the building. Knuckles instructed Tracker to go with Lash and Splints, and he immediately left. Knuckles stared at Sham as his mind flipped through ideas quickly. The departures of Wick and Kiss made Mess' rescue considerably easier. He called everyone together down in the alley. Mincer took those moments to keep watch on the building while fading into the background. That was her one talent. She wanted to see what came of Mess, but she desired no credit. Or blame.

"Sham and Doze'll take care of Mess. I don't give a stitch about wheah ya take him just get him some help. Pistol, Pigeon - fix Kaice up real good. I don't want eithah him 'r Dempsey runnin' off too soon." Knuckles looked at Tommy. "You an' me's gonna handle Breakah." There were two doors in what seemed to be the three-roomed bayside shack. They split up and Knuckles started the invasion.

Mess hadn't moved much in over an hour. He'd come to, but not enough to do any talking, much less fighting. The tension in his body was released as soon as he saw Tommy McCoy start swinging at Breaker. He smiled a little and pushed himself halfway off the floor, leaning against the base of the wall for support. Sham leaned over to his childhood friend and a look of deep concern wrote itself across his face. He pulled the cotton over shirt he was wearing off and used it to clean up Mess' bloody face, but it was useless, since most of the blood had dried. "Ya know wheah dey went, Mess?" he asked as he and Doze picked Mess up off the floor.

Mess looked ready to die as he nodded. "Greenwich." As the word fell from his mouth, a tooth followed and he groaned. So much for lookin' good. "He's gonna kill Joya. Fire." He looked up as Breaker lay on the ground, Knuckles giving one final blow, for good measure. Pigeon and Pistol were still working Brick over, but Mess feebly noticed Kaice wasn't fighting back very much anymore.

Doze flopped Mess' arm around his shoulder and Sham looked up at Mess, who towered nearly half a foot over him. "Wheah in Greenwich? Wheah's Joya?"

Mess tried to stand up on his own, but had to lean back on Doze at once. He'd never been this weak before. He stammered before he could get the words out. "Mercer Street - the music conservat'ry." He closed his eyes and tried not to let his heart sink further.

Sham nodded, his head spinning with ideas. "Greenwich. Mercer Street Conservat'ry," he nodded. Then before anyone could stop him, he took off through the front door.

Pigeon let Brick drop to the floor as Sham split. He looked at Knuckles as if he'd been betrayed. "Wheah's he goin'?"

Knuckles snorted. "Ya nevah know wid Delanie." He turned back to the two sedated heavies and frowned. He started over to Breaker and began to drag him to the smaller room, which had a rod for the door. Pistol followed suit with Brick, and the two shut the door tightly, barring it. Knuckles inclined his chin to look at Pigeon. "Will ya stay heah? Keep 'em down until we can figure things out?" Pigeon nodded and Knuckles went to help Doze lug the fading-to-unconscious Mess. "What'd he say?"

Doze sighed. "Greenwich Village, Mercer Conservatory, Joya and fire."

This prompted a glare from Knuckles. He pieced it together with little help from the tiring Doze. Then he sent Pistol and Tommy to the girls house in Greenwich Village to tell Dice and Spades to get over to the conservatory, and he and Doze started down to an a few blocks down to get Mess cared for, in true Samaritan fashion.

Sham finger combed his hair and spat on his hands to help wipe some dirt off his face. He stared up at the small yet intimidating brick building and tried to push back his fears. The sun was rising silvered, and the atmosphere had a threatening grayness to it. He walked up the seven stairs to the door, took a deep breath, and did his darndest to look a little respectable. Oh, don't go yellah now, Delanie, he admonished himself. He hated cops. He really hated cops. And to walk into a station like this? Ah, hell, Delanie, just do it. Sham opened the door and strode inside, walking carefully, avoiding his usual saunter. No one was around the front desk - they were probably just opening the workday. His eyes were peeled wide open and he scratched his eyebrow, wondering what to do next. He saw a thirty-something woman walking down the hall, away from him, and he looked cautiously over the desk. A few sheets of paper caught his attention, and he searched the desktop for a pencil. Bingo. He grabbed them and scribbled a note.

He pushed the paper and pencil into plain sight, and anchored it with a paperweight. Smirking to himself, he left without detection. He took off running towards the Brooklyn Bridge as soon as he'd cleared the station, applauding himself on his fancy wording. He'd always been horrible at reading; finding most headlines too wordy, but he supposed all his years of carryin' the banner had helped him come up with a pretty decent vocabulary and his memory for spelling helped. A laugh escaped from his belly as he raced to the bridge, remembering Mess' personal uniformed antagonist, Sgt. Hanover, from Queens, and thanked Mess' lucky stars they were in Brooklyn now. If Hanover got word of Mess' existence.another laugh escaped. His cheer diminished quickly as he thought of Mess' new girl, and the fate that awaited her.

Pushing the curtains in her room back and sighing at the dreary coloring of the day, Joya flopped back onto her bed. She lay there for a minute, then rolled off and stood up, fretting in front of the mirror about her hair and a little blemish that was forming on her chin. Humming a tune that had been stuck in her head for the past day, she turned down the lantern that had been burning since her rise until it was of no danger. Grabbing her purse, she left the room, shutting the door behind her. She scurried down the stairs, and at the second floor landing she was met by Isabel.

"Where are you going this early, Joya?" Bel asked, noticing Joya's purse, which was typically locked up in her trunk.

She smiled at the pretty Italian girl. "It's James' birthday next week. Mrs. Gallagher and I are going shopping. It's a surprise - only a few of us know about it! Don't tell James. We even got Mrs. Sheffield's permission," she made the slightest face at the mention of the stern woman. "My brother Kiam and mother sent money to get him something really nice," her eyebrows perked. "I love birthdays. And Christmas. I love giving gifts."

Bel laughed with Joya. "So who's watching Cynthia? Don't you usually keep her mornings?"

Joya nodded, "Camilla's taking over for me this one day." They'd reached the first floor, and Isabel walked Joya to the Gallagher's suite. Joya knocked on the door, and was conducted in by the now two-year-old.

"Miss Joya!" Cynthia laughed as she was picked up. "Momma says you're not stayin' with me today," she blinked her big brown eyes at Joya, which made her heart melt.

"Aw, but I will tomorrow," she said gently. She walked further into the suite and saw Camilla sitting on the chaise lounge. The pallid girl smiled, apparently already drained from the morning's care. She laughed weakly. "I don't know how you keep up with her, Joya," she whispered. "So much energy! I fear I will make a horrid mother."

Joya and Bel laughed. "If you don't think you can do it, Camilla, I wouldn't want to oblige you."

"Oh, no, Joya," she cooed, and then smiled. "I can. For one day at least. Anyway, she's slightly ill, so we'll be inside."

Joya set Cynthia back on the ground and bent over to the little girl. "You'll do just as Miss Camilla says, right?" her eyes shone.

Cynthia nodded heartily. "Yes, ma'am, I will!" She flashed a sweet smile to Camilla, and very honestly said, "I'll be good. I promise!" Joya stood up and tossed a look at Camilla, to make sure she'd be all right. It looked as if all would be fine.

"Mother said you both were invited to dinner tonight, by the way," Isabel said. Joya smiled. She'd become so attached to the Giacoma family since her friendship with Bel had blossomed, and they'd taken her in as one of their own. Joya, James and Mess had become regulars in Le Quattro Cucine, the Giacoma's restaurant, and Joya suddenly wished it nighttime, so she could dive into a plate of antipasto salad. Camilla grinned at the prospect as well, and the young ladies set the time.

Bel rushed out to catch breakfast, and Nancy Gallagher finally appeared from her quarters. She gave Camilla some last-minute instructions for the two-hour job, and she and Joya made a stealthy exit out the suite's door into the courtyard. The two women set off in secrecy for scones and coffee and to begin their search for the perfect gift.

Wick watched a group of four girls scurry from the dormitory to the educational building. He looked at his watch. 7:14. He smiled at Bacio, who was sitting across from him at the window table. Bacio took another sip of his coffee and waited for instructions. Wick stood up as the girls disappeared into the building, and Bacio followed his superior's actions. The two burst into the women's residence. Bacio moved out quickly, locking and barricading windows and doors on the first floor. As he was securing all exits but theirs against courageous entrances or exits, Wick moved into the Gallagher's suite. Camilla had heard him coming and followed an instinct that something was awry. She quickly shoved Cynthia into the kitchen pantry and told her to stay in there, quiet, until she herself got her out. Cynthia was an unusually obedient child, and did as she was told.

With a laugh, Wick cased the area, and followed a sound to the kitchenette. Camilla turned from the pantry wielding cinnamon and a spatula, neither apt for fighting. "Joya Villaflores, I presume." The evil is his eyes was enough to dumbfound a grown man, and caused Camilla to surpass her whiteness into transparency. He took her by the arm and dragged her into the living room, where he tossed the trembling rag doll of a girl onto the chaise lounge. He grabbed her by the neck, causing tears to spill from her eyes. "Ye like fire, Joya?" He pulled out a silver plated cigarette lighter and held the flame an inch in front of her nose. Not releasing his taut grip on her throat, he put the flame to the chaise lounge. The smell of smoke deepened the fear in her eyes, but the cake was topped by Bacio's appearance in the suite.

Being very fragile and very faint of heart, Camilla fainted dead away one the burning couch. Wick pushed her onto the floor and bent over her. "As much as I'd lofe to stay an' watch de display, I must go, Joya." He looked her over and started out the suite's front door, Bacio having 'taken care' of the apartment's door and three windows.

Bacio caught up with him as they made their way calmly to the parlor. "The - child," Bacio struggled.

"Kiss, de child is not our concern," Bacio broke the glass off an oil lamp sitting atop a baby grand piano, and let the oil spill out over the polished piece of artwork. Again, he pulled out his lighter and ignited the piano, loving the smell of burning oil. One more fire to start, three minutes to start it. The two walked back to a practice room and tore lit the satin on a piano bench.

Joya had given her order to a waitress at an English cafe across the street from the rear side of the conservatory, when she caught sight of the fire. It took a second to register, but when the implications came, they hit her like a ton of bricks. Mrs. Gallagher didn't notice the girl's expression the moment before Joya bolted out of the cafe and across the street.

She tried the three rear exits to the women's dorms, including the emergency and suite exits, but all were jammed or blocked. A tall, sprawling angel oak stood nearby, and Joya quickly removed her petticoat and discarded it by the base of the tree, and began to climb the swooping, strong limbs. She made it to the second floor window within a minute using the limb, which girls used to sneak out of the dormitory after curfew. She pounded at the pane to loosen it from the outside, which miraculously worked. Climbing in, she ran for the stairwell.

Cynthia had crawled out of the pantry almost immediately after Wick and Bacio had left the apartment, and was furiously trying to wake Camilla by shaking her. Within a minute of Cynthia's tears and cries, Camilla came to. She was disoriented and the room was in flames. The smoke in her lungs felt black, and tarred, but she scooped Cynthia up in her arms and started out of the apartment, towards the front door. She grabbed a small towel hanging by the door as she passed, covering Cynthia's nose and mouth with it, so the little girl wouldn't have a better chance against the inhalation.

Wick and Bacio were coming out of the practice room as Camilla carried Cynthia out of the apartment. The two parties caught sight of each other as they rounded opposite sides of the staircase, and Camilla scurried up the stairs as fast as her tiny legs would carry her. Bacio and Wick were none too far behind, not so concerned about holding her back as making their own escape via a tree in the back.

Camilla screamed as she nearly collided with Joya, who was racing down the stairs. "Oh, Joya!" Camilla looked back at the two boys who had stopped a few feet away at the sight of the incidental savior.

"Camilla! Give me Cynthia," Joya took the crying child out of Camilla's arms, and Joya pushed Camilla on up the stairs, trailing her closely.

Wick stood in shock for a brief moment at his mistake, and Bacio watched the anger crawl across Wick's face. Wick took three steps at a time, and reached out and grabbed the real Joya by the waist, sending her falling back into him. "Are you Joya Villaflores?" he asked her, his breath tingling in her ears. She nodded and he released her, much to her surprise. Shoving her onto the remaining steps, he cocked his head at Joya. Bacio stepped over Joya, who was covering Cynthia with her body.

Since the fire had caught her attention, Joya had not once made a conscious thought. Now her mind was coming back to her, and she did the only thing she knew to do: Taking the little advantage the slant of the stairs had given her, she gave Bacio a hard kick in neck, sending him tumbling down the stairs. She picked up Cynthia and madly scrambled for her feet, seeing that Camilla had since disappeared somewhere on the second floor, hopefully escaping through the tree Joya had climbed up. But she hadn't. Instead, the scared girl had kept running up the stairs, making her way to the fourth floor. Joya saw the flash of the girl's white dress in the darkening building, and let out a terrified whimper, hesitating before making the decision to follow Camilla. If she dies, it will be on my hands. Wick was swift, but Joya was motivated and barely handicapped, even with skirts and a child in her arms. At the top of the stairwell, Camilla paused just long enough to realize what she'd done. She coughed a repeatedly, and watched the emerging Joya and covered Cynthia with terror. Her eyes fell to the young men - young monsters - behind, and she started moving again.

Again, Wick managed to get a hold of Joya. He pulled her close to himself, and she let go of Cynthia, who by divine instinct started after Cynthia. "If I'd known how beautiful you were," he sneered, picking her up with one arm and pressing his face against hers, "I would have spent some time gettin' ta know ya b'fore I set yer body on fire." He carried the now ultimately disgusted girl into the hall and set her down, pressing her against the painfully hot wall with his huge hand to her abdomen. "Dis is fer yer boyfriend Anthony," he derided, "Dis is what he gets fer makin' enemies wid me boss." Protracting the lighter again, he held it a half inch away from her nose, so close that her shaky breath made it dance. In a sudden rush of bravery, she pushed the giant back just enough for her to escape his stronghold, and follow the new screams of Cynthia. The floating ash was so thick it was blinding her, and the bright red and orange flames served no purpose but to make demons out of the pillars of smoke. She dared herself to enter the room that had to be the hiding place of the girl, but the now lone boy behind her urged her forward by his appalling presence. Tears streamed down her blackened face as she looked to the window, where Cynthia stood. The little girl was screaming at Camilla. Camilla. Oh, my god, oh, god, no. No. Please! Joya took one step into the room and the doorframe fell, ablaze, trapping her, and blocking Wick.

She suddenly was not concerned about her pursuer, nor the fire, but at the insubstantial girl standing on the windowsill. "Camilla!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, but it was too late. Her friend had made a desperate, bold leap from the fourth story window to the third story ledge, missing it by nearly a foot. Joya made it to the window just in time to watch her friend fall to her death on the hard pavement of the sidewalk. Petrified, she couldn't move her upper body from the window until she caught sight of Dice McKenzie and Ragamuffin Davies breaking away from the crowd of onlookers, heading for the neighboring office building.

Camilla had been in one of the street side rooms when she'd jumped, and Joya had a feeling that Dice and Rags were going to do something incredibly rash and incredibly heroic. In the same spirit, she snatched up Cynthia and without regard to flames or heat, battled her way to the side of the building.

Dice and Rags barged through the offices, which were being evacuated because of the fire next door. “There’s a window washer’s ladder over here somewhere,” Dice called to Rags, who was running just in front of her up to the third floor. You take one room, I’ll take the next, Davies,” the Greenwich leader called to her newsgirl. They searched the outsides of two offices before converging in a third, and finding the ladder.

“Shit! She’s insane!” Rags muttered as they pulled the extensional ladder inside from the window. She shook her head at Joya, who had made somehow made it onto the ledge, Cynthia in her arms, and was screaming down at the men who were urging her to jump into a huge blanket they had spread.

“Joya!” Dice called up, “We’re comin’! Stay deah!” The two girls groaned at how heavy the equipment had turned out to be, but hustled up to the fourth floor carrying the ladder.

Joya knew enough about the laws of physics to know without a shadow of a doubt, the both of them would not survive a fall into the makeshift safety net. So she clung to a scathing hot lead pipe with one hand, and a scared stiff and sobbing Cynthia with the other. She’d blocked out the screams from below – regardless of how helpful the people were trying to be, they frightened her. Finally Dice and Rags appeared in a parallel window and began extending the ladder. There were twenty-eight feet between two buildings, and the ladder reached thirty feet. The distance proved not to be a problem, but the leverage, or lack thereof, would throw things way off-kilter. She focused on watching the girls secure each of the six portions emotionlessly, and wondered how much longer her muscles would hold out. Her hand hurt so bad she couldn’t feel it anymore; she counted that a blessing. It was obvious what they wanted her to do, but with only a hand to hold onto the ladder rungs, making it across would be impossible. She jumped back inside the room, and let Cynthia down. Picking up her heavy overskirt, she did what she’d grown up seeing the Filipino women on her father’s plantation do when they had small children who needed to go to work with them. Tying the top layer of the skirt in a strong knot at her hip, she picked Cynthia back up and deposited her into the improvised Kangaroo pouch.

Wick had managed through the gate of flames to the room where Joya was at work. Another step into the room and he was able to see past the escaping smoke to the ladder being thrust from the next-door window, and watched Joya’s charred figure shifting back to the window.

“Just hold on to my waist really tight with your legs and arms, Cynnie,” Joya coaxed the little girl, who, for lack of a better thing to do, continued to obey like a saint. Leaning out again just in time to meet the pushed ladder with her newly freed hands, Joya took hold and firmly planted it on the ledge, then began a daring horizontal climb. Her trailing right foot had just made it to the second rung when she felt the heavy weight of Wick catching onto the ladder. Dreading the look over her shoulder, she took a glance and took aim with a strong kick, sending the aggressor back into the building. A second later, the conservatory side of the ladder was dropped and at a seemingly abnormal rate, they dropped vertically. Joya kept Cynthia close and slid an arm around the little girl, bringing her out of the pouch, and began the climb upwards in compliance to the shouts above. It was all over in a few flashes. Joya and Cynthia were pulled over the office window by some of the Greenwich boys, and then the eldest of the two girls promptly passed out due to what Doc Giovanni would call smoke inhalation and shock.

“For cryin’ out loud, lemme see ‘im!” Sham shouted at a nurse who appeared to be hard-of-hearing. The nurse, whose tag read Markson, walked on past with the team of other nurses and doctors and his pitiful, dispirited friend. Tossing indiscriminate curses at the professionals, he stalked back into the waiting room.

“Delanie, cheese it.” Knuckles gave his subordinate a look to incur surrender, and Sham shut his mouth into a scowl. He plopped down on an uncomfortable wooden bench and laid a glare into the opposing wall. Never the patient boy, he shifted and muttered nasty things about Knuckles’ lineage. A full two minutes passed before the front doors were shoved open and a slew of a dozen or so people piled through. Among the people were Greenwich Village’s Dice and Ragamuffin, and their own collaborators Lash and Splints. Dice watched a girl being taken in on a canvas-brace and then joined the boys in the lobby.

“So she’s alive?” Knuckles asked the Bronx leader, who looked at Lash for confirmation.

“Yeah, she’s alive,” Lash backed up Splints’ depleted nod. “Dice and Rags got to her first, and helped her outta the fire.”

Rags rolled her eyes and matched Delanie’s famous scowl with one of her own. “Not ev’rybody was dat lucky,” she muttered dryly.

“Whaddya mean, Davies?” Sham looked up at the blonde girl, whose expression conveyed her decision to say no more.

Dice covered for her friend and explained with difficulty to the boys who weren’t present at the fire that Joya’s friend had died. They returned with sad news that her old friend Mess had been badly beaten by thugs, and demanded, after an initial inspection and minimal treatment at a small Brooklyn clinic, he be brought to Manhattan.

“He was pretty damn ‘sistent dat we come heah,” Doze said, stifling a yawn.

Splints nodded. “I guess he wanted to be close by in case she got hurt.”

A burly Italian man opened the main doors again, and ushered what appeared to be his wife and daughter inside the hospital. Immediately following the family was an Asiatic boy, who seemed to be with the party. Ragamuffin stood and crossed to the short, full-girthed lady, and embraced her, then the girl. Upon recognizing the family, Lash stood and greeted them sullenly as well.

“The Giacomas,” Dice explained to Doze, who watched the gathering.

“They run a restaurant near our territory. Bel, the girl, is a friend of Joya’s. And the boy’s Joya’s brother, James.” Nearly an hour later the parish-appointed doctor came out with information on Mess, who was to be held overnight. After dredging out a report on Joya, the Giacomas made the decision that it would be best for her to stay the rest of the day and night under care as well. Mama Gina scattered the newsies, but let Dice and Knuckles stay. The street kids went back to their respective boroughs with reports, and friends of both of the injured took time to utter a wish or a prayer.

“’Eya, Kenzie, Doll,” Mess flashed a toothy grin for a moment before realizing how much that hurt. “’Ow ya doin’?” he asked, trying not to loose his debonair manner in the midst of brutality.

Dice glanced heavenward and snorted in reply. “Just cut it out, will ya?” She sat down next to her friend with enough force to serve as a warning should he try any show of bravado. She chucked a small, unhealthy bouquet to the bedside table and settled a stern look on him.

“Fer me? Aw, ‘Kenzie, ya shouldn’t’a…”

“They ain’t fer you, dirtbag,” she spat out. “They’re fer Villaflores.”

Mess’ behavior turned around one hundred and eighty degrees as he sobered. “Dey won’t lemme see ‘er, ‘Kenzie.”

“’Cause you ain’t well,” she replied effortlessly. “Neiddah is she.”

Mess sighed laboriously. “I jus’ wanna see ‘er fer a minute, let ‘er know…”

Dice cut him off again. “She ain’t conscious, Anthony.”

Mess blinked. “It’s been a…a…” he glanced at the grandfather clock that stood in the center against a wall in the mens’ ward. “Ovah a day…”

“Relax, ya big joik,” Sham appeared over Dice’s shoulder. “Dey say she’s jus’ sleepin’.” Out of principle, Dice tossed a fierce look at Sham, and then moved for him to take her place. As age-old mutual antagonists do, Sham made a face at Dice but obliged, sitting down and taking charge of overseeing Mess.

“I’ll let ya know when she comes ‘round,” Dice promised, heading for the door.

A few streaks of soot remained around Joya’s hairline and extremities. She rubbed at the filth under her fingernails and frowned as she waited for Nurse Jeffries to escort her out. The door opened and she moved to stand, but Nurse Jeffries did not enter.

“Mess,” she said, and watched with concern as the mangled boy entered the girls’ ward.

“’Ey,” he said quietly, toiling to approach her. He immediately sank to the bed, and she fought back the tears as he smiled a very black and green smile. “Dey’s lettin’ us bot’ out at da same time, ‘magine dat.”

She couldn’t bring herself to return his grin, and was relieved when Nurse Jeffries broke their uncomfortable silence by lending Joya and Mess both a hand as they stood. Waiting for their release papers to be signed, Mess touched a trail of smoke that ran down the side of her face. “Ash,” he christened her with a gentle smile.

Joya had taken up temporary residence at the Giacomas’ place after being released from the hospital almost two days prior, and Mama Gina had fitted her with a black dress of her eldest daughter’s to wear to the funeral. Bel tied Joya’s braid with a subdued ribbon and made sure her own skirt and blouse were tucked and creased appropriately. She offered a supportive smile and squeeze of the hand to Joya, and the girls turned as Mama Gina entered the small bedroom Bel usually shared with her sister Carmin.

“You both look very nice,” Mama Gina said gently, and took her girls into her arms. “Papa waits with the carriage.”

The ladies exited the residence from the rear, where not only the other members of the Giacoma family waited, but James and Mess, also. Extending a bandaged hand from atop the wagon, Mess helped Mama Gina into the cart first, then Bel, and then Joya. “’Mornin’, Ash,” he said softly, and slipped his nearly broken fingers between hers. She accepted and leaned her head against his shoulder, and wished the day be over quickly.

As they were dispensed outside the gate of Morningside Park’s Trinity Cemetery, the Giacomas and company were met with disapproving looks from the other funeral-goers. The family members walked to the gravesite as if they understood why they were being regarded with such cruel stares, but Joya looked at Mess with a pained inquisition.

“Don’t pay no mind,” he murmured in her ear, and hoped James could hear his advice as well. Joya did her very best to do as she was told, but that proved impossible as Mrs. Hyatt approached.

The aged woman glanced at Joya first, then to Mr. and Mrs. Giacoma. “It’s been requested you not attend the service,” she said, a tight, counterfeit sort of politeness soaking through in her words. Joya’s head jerked up to protest or question, Mess couldn’t discern which, but she kept her silent as Mrs. Hyatt explained tersely, “The police have ruled that the cause of the fire was no accident; that it was arson.” She looked pointedly at Joya as she said the word, and Joya blinked, uncomfortably. “The detectives have asked our help in determining the culprit,” and again flashed a barbed look at Joya, “and we believe he or she was involved with unsavory characters.”

This time, the trenchant glance was elongated, and directed towards Mess. He looked the part of a wrongdoer, disheveled and bruised to no end, even under his suit and straight tie.

Mess deflated, and Joya stared at the woman who she’d considered a leader aghast. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, clearly distressed. “I’m so sorry.” By this time Papa Dante was having words with Mrs. Hyatt, and Muse and Mess ushered Joya back out the cemetery gates, to 115th Street. Joya dropped to a stair leading up to the chapel’s side entrance, trembling. “They’re blaming me…”

“They’re blaming us,” James said, kneeling in front of his sister and resting a hand on her shoulder.

“It ain’t eiddah one o’ youse faults,” Mess said guiltily, not wishing to push the game of responsibility further, but unable to allow either of the twins to feel liable for what had happened. The approaching Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher ceased their conversation, and Joya rose to meet them, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Joya, my wife and I just wanted to say thank you,” Mr. Gallagher said soothingly. Joya’s eyes drifted to Cynthia, who was quiet in respect for the cheerless day, but reached out her arms to her former caretaker. Joya glanced at Mrs. Gallagher, who nodded her approval, and Cynthia went to Joya with a smile.

“I’m so sorry about…” Joya searched for the words that she couldn’t say. “…what happened.” She hugged Cynthia tightly before giving her back to her mother. Mrs. Gallagher consoled Joya with a tender embrace and kind words, all to which Mr. Gallagher endorsed with nods. The memorial service started, and the Giacomas collected the Villaflores twins and Mess, and departed abruptly.

“Whaddya mean dey ain’t gonna take our statements?” Sham hollered, outraged. “We knows who da…da…poipetratahs are an’…an’…”

“Dey ain’t takin’ our statements ‘cause we’s nuttin’ but lyin’ street trash ta dem,” Mess mumbled bitterly over his aching jaw. “Ours woids ain’t but dirt to ‘em…to ‘em we ain’t got no honor…”

Joya’s face crumpled for the easily the twelfth time that day, and she pulled her knees up under her chin, clutching her hands around them. Mess rubbed his broken hand across her back and pulled her close, not throwing care to the smarting from his ribs and arms. Mama Gina gave a sorrowful look to both her “babies” and stood from the booth where they’d gathered.

“How’s that pain killer working?” she asked Mess while looking for the bottle of aspirin tablets behind the counter.

He bit back a smart reply and nodded, “It’s aw right, Mama Gina. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“You’re a tough one, we know that,” Mama Gina replied almost derisively. “Your toughness got people hurt. You need a few more lessons, do you?” she chided. Mess quickly clamped his mouth shut. His eyes moved to the door as Rags and James walked in, his eyes narrowing when he saw the darkness in their faces.

“News from the Conservatory,” James said, animosity lining his announcement. “They’re heroes.”

Sham’s head snapped to look at Mess, then back at James. “Who’re heroes?”

“Kiss an’ Wick,” Rags spit out as she took a seat in the neighboring booth. “The bulls’re callin’ ‘em heroes.”

“What da hell?” Sham sputtered angrily. “How da hell?”

“They say that the boys went into the building to help Joya,” Muse explained sickly. “They figure that they both died in the fire, too.”

“Oh, caro Christ,” Mama Gina murmured disgracefully, holding forth the medicine and a new glass of water for Joya. She rattled off something in Italian that even Mess couldn’t comprehend, and sighed. “We’re opening in about ten minutes, bambini. You may stay, but act as patrons.” She nodded a signal to Bel, who’d been sitting quietly in the seat next to Joya. Bel squeezed Joya’s hand quickly as she stood, and cast a concerned look to Mess, then headed to the kitchen to wash up.

“I gotta get back to sellin’,” Rags told the remaining group, obviously still perturbed by the revelations of the day. “Annie said she’d make room for ya if ya need a change o’ scene or whatevah, Ash.”

“Thank you,” Joya nodded, still unused to her nickname.

“See ya, Davies,” Sham acknowledged the blonde’s departure with a nod and looked to James. “I’m guessin’ dat Griff an’ da boys in Green’ich are lettin’ you stay, too?”

James nodded. “Yes, and I think we’ll take up their offer.” He glanced sideways at Joya, who nodded in agreement.

Mess frowned a bit. “I was kinda ‘opin you’d considah takin’ residence in ‘Arlem, actually.”

Joya blinked, surprised, and swapped looks with James. “In Harlem?”

Mess nodded. “Yeah, ‘Arlem, wit’ da likes o’ us…” He glanced at Sham, who shook his head bemusedly. “Ain’t dat bad a place, an’ sellin’s decent. I tawked ta Skies an’ Flash an’ Mrs. E, an’ they have a bunk awl available for ya, Ash, an’ Muse ovah heah can bunk wit’ Hobo…It’s jus’ a suggestion…”

“An’ what?” Sham snickered at Mess, “Sell papes?”

More in the works! Stay tuned!