Robert Ramsey strolled down the streets of Harlem, well pleased with himself and the world. He had a good job as a copy boy for the New York Times, a smile from Maggie Murphy in the readers' room, and his first weeks wages in his pocket. He patted his jacket pocket contentedly, then frown. He patted it again, then reached inside and pulled the pocket inside out.
Two streets away, Fingers Mulcahy counted a roll of bills approvingly. Three dollars could keep her for two weeks - more if she stretched and didn't stop working because of one chance windfall. She'd done well for the first job pulled since she'd left jail. She folded the money, stuffed it under her innershirt. Only a very stupid pickpocket allowed her own money to be stolen. On a few occasions a sensible pickpocket with a regard for life and limb might hand her earnings over voluntarily, but Fingers would rather be outfought than outwitted.
"Miss?"A hand closed gently but firmly around her arm and turned her around. Fingers took in a well-muscled frame, a chin at least an inch above her head, a pair of broad shoulders and two frowning black eyes and decided not to fight.
"Yeah?" she replied, forcefully enough to show she was no weakling, but not so belligerently that it could be taken as a challenge.
"Doin' good business?" he asked.
Fingers turned this over in her mind. No friend of da toff, or of da bulls. I ain't hoid a 'stop, thief,' yet, so I must be on his territory. "So so," she retorted. "You?"
"Not bad when people ain't on my turf."
Fingers' head remained turned toward the man's face - quite handsome, she noted, with detachment - but she snuck a glance at the hand on his arm out of the corner of her eye. A bluff might just work with this one. The right bluff, that is. "Dis a warnin' or da boot?" she asked. "I ain't come ta start trouble. Jist lookin' fer a friend - Elaine - uh-" She racked her brain. "Gardner! Elaine Gardner, hoid of 'er?"
True, Elaine didn't quite qualify as a friend, although fellow prisoners of the State Home for Girls shared a bond of sorts. But Fingers knew no one else from Harlem, and the name might be useful- or she might be on da wrong side a some rivalry an' I'll be back in hot water. Still it was worth a try. And Fingers had confidence in her ability to bluff the girl herself if it came to that.
"Gardner, huh?" The arm didn't loosen, nor did the enigmatic expression change, but she had the feeling the tide had turned in her favor. "Don't believe I'se hoid of her." Mistrust, interest - and she almost thought she caught amusment as well.
"Yeah, I ain't hoid of Fingers Mulcahy, eidda. Don't know who da heck she is," Fingers replied. The man had begun escorting her down the street.
"Gypsy, ya gots company!" Ruby announced, teasingly.
Smoke joined her at the window. "Why I do believe it's Speedy Smithson!" she added in mock astonishment.
Gyspy groaned to herself. If she hadn't like Speedy so much, she'd be forced to strangle the man. She still wasn't sure about their relationship. She could feel her face turning red.
"Dat ain't da way ta act when yer beau's comin'!" Ruby chided playfully.
"Well, well, if she ain't blushin'!" Imp teased.
Gyspy tried to glare at them. She didn't find it at all funny. "Shaddup!"
Giggles ceased abruptly. For a moment she was startled. She hadn't expected her exclamation to work that well. Ruby, doing her best to appear nonchalant, was grinning past her at the door. "Evenin', Speedy. Who's yer friend?"
Searcher released a barely audible snicker as Gypsy turned, her face flaming. She fixed her attention on Speedy's companion, so as not to have to look at him. A vaguely familiar square face looked back at her from under a tangle of brown hair. She must know the girl from somewhere. Nearly six feet of angle and bone, the girl had a figure that stuck in the memory.
Fingers had expected to recognize Elaine from the Refuge, but the girl standing just behind her was even more familiar. So ev'yting dat rolls outta Brooklyn washes up heah?
"Gardener!" she hailed Gypsy brightly. "How's it rollin'? T'ought I'd say hi." She started forward, then looked down at the hand on her arm as if she hadn't noticed it before and back up at Speedy. He released her and she sat down on the nearest bed, holding out a hand to the girl who occupied it. "Fingers Mulcahy, at yer service. Won't be no trouble."
The girl raised an eyebrow, but shook. "Blue Skies Costello."
"An' I'se Flash," a brown eyed girl leaned down from the bunk above her and thrust her own hand forward. "Yer fearless an' beloved leadahs." A pillow flew across the room and nearly knocked her off the bunk.
"Right." Fingers smirked, shaking. She began to turn toward the girl who had first caught her attention.
"Fingers!" Ruby had crossed the room and hugged her impulsively.
Bemused, Fingers extracted herself. "Good ta see you, too, Gallagher."
"Whaddaya doin' heah? It's been ages!"
She shrugged and smirked again. "Jus' wanderin' aroun', ya know. T'ought I'd grace ya wit me glorious presence."
The pillow which Flash had retrieved, hit her in the back. Soon feathers were flying and words were lost until late that night.
"Ya stayin' heah tanight?" Ruby asked when everyone was too exhausted to lift another finger. "Da bunk under Spidah's is free." She waved at a bed near the window.
"Aw, why not?" Fingers replied nonchalantly. She had the money, courtesy of dear Mr. Ramsey, and it would be nice to get the feel of those rocks they called mattresses at the State Home out of her bones. "How much?"
"Fifteen cents," replied a sleepy voice from across the room.
"Ya can pay in da mornin'," added someone else - Flash, Fingers recalled. She prided herself on her memory.
"Great." She sank into the indicated bed and quickly fell asleep.
"Newspapers, huh?" she muttered sometime around five in the morning. The pickpocket threw a hand over her eyes and rolled out of bed grumbling. "I ain't sold a paper in awhile." Since she'd stayed with the newsies that night, she felt honorbound to spend one day selling with them. Well, not precisely with them, but . . . Fingers paid off her debts as early as possible. That way they didn't come back to haunt her.
"So, how've ya been?" Ruby asked, picking up a stack of newspapers.
"Fine," Fingers replied gruffly, shrugging her shoulders. "Home's as much a dump as evah."
She wasn't that bad a hand at selling papers, really. She'd win no prizes, though. And her six foot height helped not at all. Besides, as someone had once remarked to her, customers had trouble feeling sorry for anyone wearing an expression that sour. It would have been a discouraging experience if Fingers sold papes for a living. As it was, she sold twenty of her thirty papers and managed to collect a healthy interest from the customers she did find.
"Smithson," she muttered under her breath as she returned her unsold papers.
"Mmm? Speedy?" Ruby grinned, overhearing. "He's Gypsy's. Unfortunately."
Fingers rolled her eyes. "You ain't changed a bit, Gallagher."
Ruby flashed a smile. Speedy was going to be trouble if she stayed in Brooklyn. He seemed decent enough, but he'd also made it clear that Harlem was his territory. Fingers worked for no one not even people she liked.
"How was Brooklyn last time ya were there?" Ruby asked a little wistfully.
Fingers snorted. "Brooklyn. Same as evah. Startin' ta settle down." Taking a stack of evening papers, she headed off to explore the neighborhood.
"Now you goils know ta stick yer own territory," a voice warned cheerfully. It was not hostile, but carried the implication that it could become hostile at a moment's notice.
"Aw, ease off, Greaser," a second boy was saying nervously when she turned. Fingers eyes narrowed. She chose her fights; she hated having others choose for her.
"Naw, don't ease off, Greaser."
The second boy rolled his eyes up with a wince.
Fingers had a bloody nose when she met up with Ruby outside the Harlem lodging house that evening, and her right arm hung oddly at her side.
Flash raised an eyebrow. "Run into trouble?"
Fingers touched her nose gingerly. "Ain't bleedin' no more. I'se fine." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Gotta say, I don't t'ink too much a' Anderson's boys."
Ruby frowned. "Whaddaya mean?"
"Whadda dey been doin' dis time?" Flash groaned. Angel came laughing down the stairs to interrupt the conversation.
"Hey, goils, we gots company."
At the younger girl's expression, Ruby raised an eyebrow. "Male company?" she asked hopefully, winking.
The girl laughed again. "If Needle qualifies." She rolled her eyes, snickering.
"Hill was in anudda fight?" Flash crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, turning her eyes up to the ceiling.
"Flash, ya know betta dan dat!" Angel giggled, "Needle nevah fights!"
The Harlem leader snorted. "Dat's what I meant."
Fingers took in the conversation and scowled at a sudden suspicion. Ruby glanced at her. "C'mon, ya can wash up upstairs."
"I'se fine," Fingers replied, turning the glare on her, but following nonetheless.
A tall boy was lounging at ease in the bunkroom. He had a bird's nest of brown hair, a face full of freckles, a gap-toothed smile and two dark blue eyes which saved him from repulsiveness. He was also the pacifist from the fight that afternoon. When it had become obvious that the disagreement was going to devolve into violence, he'd taken off. His friend may not have had manners, but he did have guts. Fingers' eyes narrowed.
"Whadda you want?"
Chagrinned, the boy stood up, tipping his hat. "Ladies, I t'ink dis is me cue ta leave."
"Needle, ya didn't even tell us what happened!" a girl protested.
"Yer always welcome, love," Ruby added, shooting a sideways look at Fingers, but Needle slipped out the window with another grin.
The pickpocket crossed her arms, ignoring the tingling in her right. "He always dat big a coward?"
Angel laughed. "Usually."
Imp shrugged, laughing also. "He's Needle. Ya gotta love ‘im." She sat down. "So what happened between youse two?" she asked Fingers.
"A friend a’ his tried ta run me off." She crossed to the washroom to rinseher face.
Flash frowned, following. "Run ya off? Wheah was ya?"
Fingers grabbed a towel with the nonchalance of someone who had lived there years instead of hours and headed back to the bunkroom. "Hundred-foistStreet, pickin’ up some t’ings."
"Things? Would I be interested in these ‘things’?" asked a voice. Gardener preceded Speedy in, face slightly flushed.
"Smithson," Fingers looked through the folds of the towel at the boy. "Ya can’t get a percentage a’ information," she replied evenly. "An’ more dan dat ain’t yer business."
He inclined his head, holding her eyes, without making any of the more obvious retorts. Fingers opinion of him rose another notch. "When it becomes me business, we’ll tawk."
The pickpocket narrowed her eyes. "Right." She looked around, deciding a change of subject was in order. "Sellin’ papers ain’t da only t’ing ya dofer fun around heah, is it?"
Ruby glanced over her shoulder. "I’se meetin’ Memphis at the Corner Pocket in a few minutes if ya wanna come."
She didn’t bother asking who Memphis was. She’d find out soon enough. "Pool?" she wondered aloud at the name. "Why not?"
Among Fingers’ lesser known talents, was an expertise at the pool table. It was handy to have a few other skills besides picking pockets. Otherwise people started wondering what hidden abilities had allowed her to survive on the streets. She didn’t mind them wondering; she just preferred to be several blocks away with their money in her pockets when the thought began to cross their minds.
She nodded to her most recent opponent, who grinned ruefully and held out a hand. Ruby and her date were somewhere across the room. ‘Memphis’ had turned out to be tall, well-mannered, blond boy with a southern drawl and an attractive smile.
Fingers shook her head. Gallagher. She shook the man’s hand, patted him on the back and slipped outside for some fresh air and the chance to store the change she’d lifted from his jacket somewhere more secure.
"Heather, really, back in business so soon?" Fingers swore and twisted her arm around, but couldn’t dislodge the policeman’s hand.
"That’s hardly language for a young lady," chided the officer, taking hold of her other arm.
The reproof was lost on Fingers who continued muttering as the man snapped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists.
"I’d hate to have to add resisting arrest to the charges," he warned mildly.
Shoa he would. "Go ta hell, Lansing."
The only reply was a shove down the street. She stumbled and straightened her shoulders trying to get a foot between the lieutenant’s legs. Lansing deftly avoided her attempts at tripping him and steered her towards a paddywagon at the corner.
Flash glanced around the bunkroom. "Wheah’s da new goil . . . ah, Mulcahy?"
"Fingers doesn’t stick around one place too long," Ruby replied absently, brushing out her hair. "She’ll come back sometime."
"Well, if she wants us ta save a bunk for ‘er . . ." Flash muttered. "Anyways, O’Malley’s lookin’ for ‘er. Wants ta apologize fer his ‘ungentlemanly behavior.’"
Liberty laughed. "Mulcahy." She shook her head. "I doubt Greaser hit foist."
Fingers slumped in a chair beside the lieutenant’s desk scowling. Lansing had not removed the handcuffs yet – possibly because the last time he’d made that mistake, she’d punched him in the gut and bolted – so no position was comfortable. Lansing filed away forms as if it was his life’s dream to fill out paperwork. Fingers glowered at him, shifting in her seat, wriggling a hand towards the key ring at Lansing’s belt. Without looking up from writing, the lieutenant looped a finger through the key ring and transferred it to his far pocket. That was the problem with Lansing. He was good.
Of course, so was she.
Spider rarely used the front door of the lodging house. Occasionally though, to make Mrs. Evans less nervous about her well-being, she walked to the building, rather than hopping the rooftops.
Sometimes tradition is a good thing.
"Is it Miss McKennah?" said a pleasant voice as she turned down the street. "The last person I was hoping to see."
"Heya," Fingers nodded briefly and climbed in the window. She pulled her bundle from beneath ‘her’ bunk.
"Fingers," Ruby interrupted her packing. "Dere’s a cop downstairs lookin’ fer ya."
"Lansing," Sketch put in with a scowl. "’E won’t go away." "He keeps mentionin’ Spider, too. She ain’t gotten back yet."
The pickpocket swore. He hadn’t even followed her. He’d known where she’d come. Verity’s eyebrows lifted in amusement at her description of the policeman. Lansing wouldn’t have recognized himself. Fingers dropped the bundle and headed for the window. "I wasn’t heah," she snapped as she climbed out. One of the girls started to follow her. "Ain’t ya gonna take yer-" But she was already out of the alley.
Fifty-second precinct . . . Damn him! Fingers strode into the police station cursing all the way. "Bastard . . ."
She leaned on the front desk and told a startled sergeant, "If Lansing evah gets tired a’ lookin’ fer me, tell ‘im ta try his office."
Fingers flopped down at the lieutenant’s desk and glared at the walls. She hated police stations. She hated them almost as much as she hated the Refuge. Lansing’s desk was neatly kept, but she found a few papers to occupy her time there. Lilith Ann "Spider" McKennah, 16, 5’7" brown hair, hazel eyes . . . Damn him.
Some forty-five minutes later, Lansing stalked into the office. No doubt his fellows had enjoyed ribbing him about the ‘prisoner’ awaiting him. Fingers felt a small amount of satisfaction. "Miss Mulcahy," he shook his head, crossing his arms. "I’m afraid games of hide-and-seek will not amuse Judge Mayberry."
She snorted, gesturing at the office door. "Seemed ta amuse yer friends out dere."
The policeman grabbed her arm and hauled her out of his chair. Fingers contrived to look bored as he snapped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists and relocated her to another chair. "Now," he said pleasantly, "where were we?" He shuffled the papers on his desk and filed them away without looking at them.
"Ya ain’t gonna be able ta stick dat on McKennah," she glared back at him.
"Maybe not." Lansing smiled, unconcerned at the prospect. "But I’d be remiss in my duty if I didn’t try." Fingers folded her arms as well as she could while hampered by the handcuffs and stared at him coldly. "You may have had time to empty your pockets by now," he reflected to the ceiling, ostensibly changing the subject. "But I’m certain a search would reveal something."
"Go ta hell, Lansing." Fingers didn’t worry over her physical safety. Lansing, detestable as he was, was an honest cop. On the other hand, he wouldn’t consider sending her straight to the Refuge harming her; he’d call it a service to society.
"Unfortunately," he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, "prison does not seem to have the desired effect on you."
The pickpocket rolled her eyes and engaged in a thoughtful reflection on the lieutenant’s parentage.
"I think it’s time we tried something else." He stood up and smiled benevolently down on her. "Don’t you?"
Fingers held a good portion of the world in contempt and generally disliked much of the rest. A bare dozen warranted the accolade of ‘decency,’ but there were only three she actually hated.
Blue Skies had just given up the hunt for stragglers when Spider strolled into the bunkroom dusting herself off. "Well, it’s about time!" Flash threw up her hands.
"Bulls," Spider said in reply.
"So now we only got one missing," Skies said.
Fingers attacked the wall of the lodging house with all her energy. She hated cops. She hated cops; she hated Lansing; and as of right now she hated Harlem. She hated being trapped.
She'd prefer the Refuge, she'd said. Would McKennah? he'd said. Fingers cursed. She barely knew the girl. Would McKennah, would Gallagher, would Andriola, would Gardner? Damn, bulls . . .
She'd even have her liberty, he'd said. In name.
Bastard!
There were a few comments when she finally climbed in the window, carrying her own personal thunderstorm.
"Who'd ya kill?" Liberty asked flippantly.
"Go ta hell, Andriola." Fingers flopped down on her bunk, tore out her file and began filing away the skin of her fingertips. Damn Lansin' . . .
"Don't dat hurt?" asked a wide-eyed Angel.
Fingers ignored her and concentrated on imagining the file were a knife and its target was Lieutenant Lansing.
"Anyone seen my pocketwatch?" Blue Skies asked, digging through her things. Without looking up, Fingers reached a hand into her pocket and retrieved the watch, dangling it from the thin chain.
"Where-" Skies emerged from beneath her bunk, stood up and sighed. "Shoulda known," she said, taking it back.
"Slow," Fingers replied, then stood up. She dug a piece of paper from under her mattress and scowled at it before starting for the door.
"Goin' out, Fingers?"
"Obviously." She glared at the paper and stalked out of the building.
"Miss Mulcahy," Lansing greeted her from his office.
"Go ta hell, Lansin'," she replied, loudly enough for the rest of the department to hear.
The lieutenant smiled and waved a hand at the chair beside his desk. "Sit down." As she did so, he folded his arms. "So what have you been up to?"
"Tryin' ta break yer mudda outta da pound."
"Tsk, tsk. I'm a poor guardian. If your mother could hear you . . ."
"She'd be too drugged up ta understand," Fingers snapped. "I'm heah. Sign da damn paper, awready."
Lansing drew the parole form towards him. "Once I assure myself that you haven't been getting into trouble. I take an interest in my parolee's welfare."
Vividly, Fingers described things he'd be better served to take a interest in.
The lieutenant tsked again. "My dear girl, at least half of those acts are illegal. I'm an officer of the law. Now," he studied the form. "Name: Heather Mulcahy, Age: seventeen, Occupation: newsgirl, Former occupation: pickpocket, Domicile: Newsgirls' Lodging House, Harlem, Height: 5'11", Weight: 120 lb, Hair: Brown, Eyes: Brown, Last Meeting: October 14, 1900, Next Meeting: December 12, 1900, Parole Officer -" He raised his pen to sign with a flourish. "Lieutenant Alex Lansing."
With a smile, he looked up, handing her back the paper. "I'll drop in sometime before Thanksgiving and check up on you."
"Go ta hell."
"Bodyguards!" Fingers scowled. "I can take care a' meself."
"It's like jail," muttered Imp.
"At least we gotta choice about bein' heah," Flash said, hanging off of her bunk for no particular reason.
"You do."
Now, focus on the blinking Geocities
graphic . . . You will email
Fingers feedback! You will email Fingers feedback! Feedback is good. . .
