Chapter 10

After we closed the bet, Spot had to finish selling his papers, so I left to explore Brooklyn a little more. I walked deeper into the neighborhood, trying to find something fun to do. All I could see were taverns and saloons; nothing that I was interested in.

Deeper in the city, the word hadn’t gotten around yet that I had talked to Spot Conlon. The Newsies here gave me the same glares, and the same comments. Just from talking to Spot for those few minutes, I knew that he was feared in Brooklyn, perhaps in the rest of New York as well.

Despite the comments and looks that I received, I was very happy. As I walked down the street, I hummed Gypsy Rover, feeling on top of the world. I stopped on a street corner to buy a cup of coffee. I felt relaxed as I sipped at the scalding liquid, the minor headache that I usually had disappearing. I had been addicted to coffee ever since I had first tried it, but I almost never got a cup.

To get rid of the stares and comments, I ducked into an alley to drink my coffee. I leaned against the brick wall of the building, thinking about my day. Sure, I hadn’t gotten anything productive done, and I’d managed to blow all but a nickel of my money, but the trip had made me happy.

I was very glad that I had become friends; well not really friends. It was more like Spot Conlon and I had a mutual agreement that we wouldn’t bother each other. I thought that it was a very good thing to have Spot Conlon on my side.

Spot was the type of person that just dripped an air of danger. From my short conversation with him, he exuded arrogance, sarcasm, and coldness. Oh yes, Spot Conlon just oozed arrogance. He was the meanest, toughest, most feared person in Brooklyn, and he knew it.

I was savoring the last few drops of the gritty liquid when I heard a low chuckle behind me. I whirled around, holding the tin cup up in a threatening gesture. Out of the shadows of the alley came a man that I recognized from the Hawkins’ party. He was one of the men who had congratulated Mister Hawkins on hiring me. He was dressed extremely well, all gold pocket watch chains, silk ties, and top hats. He held a pimp cane with an elaborate golden tip.

He smiled and chuckled. The sound made my blood run cold. “Say, I know you, don’t I? You’re that darling little maid from the party.” I kept the cup ready to throw as he continued. As he spoke, two men dressed like him, but without the cane, came in to cover his flanks. “How much does Mister Hawkins pay you for a day’s work?”

I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. Why did it matter to him? “A day’s wages is fifteen cents. Why?”

He examined the golden tip of his cane as he spoke. “That’s not an awful lot. How would you like to work for me? You could earn upwards of ten dollars a day.”

I could feel my eyes widen as my resolve crumbled and I lowered the cup. Ten dollars was a lot of money, even to earn it once. But to earn it every day? I’d be rich! “But who are you? What kind of work would I be doing?”

He chuckled, that same blood chilling sound and he tapped the cane on the ground. “All in good time, my dear. We just need you to come with us.”

I shook my head, raising the cup again. “I’m not going with anyone until you tell me what my work will be.”

As he spoke, his lackeys put on brass knuckles. “We require you to come with us first.”

I decided that enough was enough, so I threw the cup, hiked up my skirts; no longer caring about my modesty, and ran. I screamed for the police as the men made chase, but the policemen turned around, ignoring me. I tried to lose them as I took a winding path through the alleys, but they stayed on me. My shoes hadn’t been built for running, so I kept tripping over myself and I stumbled through the streets. I kept screaming as I went, desperate for somebody, anybody to hear me and care.

I could never get very far ahead of my pursuers, and I sustained many glancing blows to the back of my head. I tipped over a bunch of trashcans in another alley, desperate to slow them down. I couldn’t run anymore and I stopped at the end of the alley, gasping for breath with my blood pounding in my ears and my hands braced on my knees. I put a hand to the back of my head and it came back slick with fresh, bright red blood.

They were over the trashcans and upon me before I could get moving again. The two men wearing brass knuckles held me by my forearms, lifting me up into the air. I fought to get out like a wild thing, biting their fingers, using my elbows, raking my nails down their arms, and kicking, trying to hit soft spots. I eventually wrestled myself away, but before I could run, the man with the cane swung it, opening a deep gash above my eyebrow. I managed to get in a few feeble punches before they wrestled me to the ground for good.

My screams got quieter and quieter as I lost a lot of blood. Eventually my throat was so hoarse that I couldn’t scream anymore and I just lay on the ground, struggling uselessly as they beat me.

I was praying that my suffering would end soon, and I even welcomed death if it meant the end of the pain.

I actually sighed in relief when the edges of my vision started to go fuzzy and black. I thought that I could hear the voice of and angel; although I found it odd that the angel had a New York accent. “Get ya hands off da goil!”

Reviews

[E. Ryan Miller]

The action in this chapter is good. At first I thought the premise of it was a bit far-fetched, but upon further thought, I think it's reasonable.
Your second paragraph: "Deeper in the city, the word hadn’t gotten around yet that I had talked to Spot Conlon. The Newsies here gave me the same glares, and the same comments. Just from talking to Spot for those few minutes, I knew that he was feared in Brooklyn, perhaps in the rest of New York as well.", doesn't make sense. You say "the word /hadn't/ gotten around yet, but the boys are still staring and what have you.
Otherwise, very enjoyable.