Gents & Dames
Eleven: I've Never Been In Love Before
Nick watched Sarah storm out guiltily. Nathan turned sharply and glared at him, and Nick literally dragged his feet as he walked up the hallway to meet him. Nathan immediately cuffed the back of his head, and Nick winced, though Nathan hadn't hit him very hard. It didn't actually hurt, but Nick got the message; he probably shouldn't have said anything.
But Sarah had looked so mad, and it was obvious she'd realized something was going on. He just hadn't seen the point in pretending when they all knew Nathan had been up to no good. And besides, he didn't like lying. It wasn't nice.
"You stupid sap," Nathan snapped and stomped off.
"You still want me to go track down Jack?" Nick asked, following him.
"What the hell's the point now? Jack'll never pay up. The bet's ruined." Nathan scowled. "We're back at square one, thanks to your big mouth, and I've got Conlon breathing down my neck and everyone else will be here soon. Thanks a lot, Nick."
"I'm sorry, Nathan. I didn't mean it. I just...I don't like to lie."
"You could at least learn when to keep your trap shut!"
"Sorry, Nathan. But she was so mad—"
"She wouldn't have been if you'd let me calm her down!"
"How were you gonna do that?" Nick asked.
Nathan scowled. "How the hell should I know what I'd have done? You went and ruined it. You ruined everything."
Nick tried very hard to keep his face neutral, but when Nathan looked at him and heaved a huge sigh, he realized he'd probably failed. He hadn't meant to ruin everything. He just hated it when people yelled.
"Don't worry about it, Nick," Nathan finally mumbled. "I'm just...frustrated, you know? I been trying to put together this game—this, this reunion—for weeks. And between Brannigan and Jack, it just don't look like it'll happen, now."
"You'll find a way to make it happen," Nick said optimistically.
"Yeah." Nathan took a deep breath. "I guess I'd better. Everyone came all the way here, and I don't think sitting around at Mindy's all night is what they came for."
"The cheesecake is awful good, though," Nick said, smiling. "Don't worry about it, Nathan, everyone just wants to see each other. They don't care if there's no game."
"Yeah, but..." He trailed off, looking around, and finally confided, "Look, if I don't start to get Thomas paid back soon, he's... Well, you seen how mad at me he always is. An' I don't want to take advantage of the guys, but if I can win just a little, you know, and find somewhere I can have the game from now on, it's worth something. I can't lose him, Nick. He's all I got."
Nick knew he was a sap, but couldn't help it. He broke into a grin and had to restrain himself from pulling Nathan into a hug. Instead, he said, "Well, what do we got to do to find somewhere, then? Just tell me what to do, Nate. I want to help."
Nathan smiled wanly. "I know you do, Nicky. I guess it's just...back to the streets. See if anyone can be bought off—but we can't pay upfront. We just gotta find somewhere, Nick. Anywhere."
Nick nodded. The city was huge. There had to be somewhere they could play; somewhere cheap and hidden, where Brannigan would never think to look. He just had to find it.
*
Public School No. 84 was a bust. Nathan had hosted a few games there—a janitor would leave the gymnasium unlocked so they could get in and out, and he'd do it for cheap, too. But when Nick had hung around waiting for him, he'd heard the bad news: Jonesy wanted to use the place, and he wanted to do it exclusively. He was no fan of competition, and he could afford to pay more than double what Nathan was.
McKlosky's Bar was another place where they had held the game on more than a few occasions. The bar had an absurdly large stockroom out back, packed with crates of booze. McKlosky himself had passed away years ago, but his widow was an old dame who saw the potential for profit everywhere. She'd been happy enough to let Nathan host the game in her stock room—for a reasonable cut. But she had also agreed to play lookout, a problem because she'd gotten so caught up in breaking up a bar brawl (Nick was amazed, for an old dame she moved fast) she hadn't noticed the plainclothes sneaking in. She sounded the alarm just in time, and everyone had run for it. No one got booked that night, thankfully, but it had been a close thing.
Mrs. McKlosky wasn't reliable enough, and Brannigan knew to watch her. The bar was a no-go.
As Nick haunted the streets, dodging cops when he saw them (certain Brannigan had told them all to keep an eye out for him, Nathan, and Benny), he began to give up hope. The warehouse they sometimes broke into had a new lock, and a sturdier one. The soup kitchen was condemned—they might have risked it, but a cop was standing outside looking around intently. Nick had spotted him and kept walking down the road, not stopping to look around.
Everywhere he turned, everywhere he went, another roadblock. He kicked a stone across some cobbles in frustration, not even bothering to look where he was anymore. He kept his eye open for bulls, and even sometimes bothered to look around to see if there were any derelict warehouses around. He let his feet carry him and didn't bother to pay much attention to the streets he was crossing over until his stomach began to grumble.
Then he looked up and his eyes widened. Without paying attention, he'd wandered downtown, past the Times building and its square, all the way to Newspaper Row. And his feet, consulting his stomach but not his brain, had carried him down to a familiar corner, where once upon a time there had been a cheap, greasy diner called Tibby's.
Tibby's was gone, though; Nick didn't know when it had closed its doors, but it its place was some kind of fabric shop. Instead of booths teeming with street kids, he saw bolts of different colored fabrics and a few sewing machines through the window. He sighed.
It was true; you could never go home again. And no matter what, this place had been part of his home—Tibby's, the Journal distribution office, and good ol' Number Nine Duane. He hadn't been back to this area in years, almost since he'd left it; it was just too depressing too look around and not see enough familiar faces. His friends had all been the older kids in the lodging house; he'd been one of the last to move out. There hadn't been anything left to stay for.
"Hey, Mister, buy a pape? It's me last one, I'm just tryin' to make enough to eat."
Nick broke into a grin and reached for a nickel in his wallet. The kid in front of him was young and skinny. He looked well-fed enough to Nick's eye (and years as a newsie himself had taught him the difference between a kid who was genuinely starving and one who was faking it for sympathy), but what was he going to do?
"Yeah, sure, here ya go," Nick said kindly. The kid handed him the paper and hurried off.
Now that Nick bothered around, he could see the street was teeming with newsboys. It was early evening, so most of the kids would be heading home. There must have been a place or two where they could eat around. He walked down a block, then another, keeping his eyes open for it, but the next thing he knew he was staring at the familiar square.
He almost gasped: it all looked the same. The kids were different, but he must have seen the house in this lighting a thousand times or more. He'd be strolling into the square with Blink and Race and Jack, and he never even stopped to look at it. But at that moment, Nick could swear the every cobble was familiar, every shingle hanging loose off the roof, even the shutter banging in the breeze. And the babble—
"Musta sold a hundred today, I swear!"
"Ya did not, ya bum, you only bought fifty."
"Hey, my marbles are missing!"
"I bet they are."
"No, someone stole 'em! I mean it!"
"Hey, you guys clear away, we need that puddle for a base! Come on, someone's gotta pitch, you guys, I ain't doin' it again..."
The kids even looked familiar. So the one with the buck teeth wasn't really Snitch; so no one had on a cowboy hat. He was staring at his childhood.
"Mister? You okay?"
The voice came from a youngster who'd been doing some kind of handstand, who stopped to stare at him. Nick nodded, smiling. "Yeah, kid, I'm great. I used to live here."
The kid regarded his suit, then said, "Nuh uh. You never sold a pape in your life, I'll bet."
"Did so." Nick couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Oh, eleven...twelve years ago, somewhere around there."
"Yeah, right." The kid's voice dripped amused disbelief. "Heck, you'd have been a striker, then."
"I was." Nick grinned. "Ain't never seen anything in my life as sweet as that crowd—you could hear Jack echo for miles when he yelled it. 'We beat 'em!'" Nick remembered. "An' the crowd—up in cheers, screaming at the top of our lungs. Deaf as he was, I bet even Pulitzer heard that."
A group of kids had gathered around.
"You really...?" the kid asked.
"Hey, I know," added another, slightly older, newsboy. He had pushed his way through the gathering crowd; he was tall and gangly and seemed to be made mostly of elbows and knees. But the kids all looked at him with expressions that were also familiar to Nick—mild awe and certainty that this kid had the answer.
Exactly how they'd all looked at Jack.
"Hmm?" Nick asked.
"If he was in the strike, Isaac'll know 'im, won't he?" the kid said. There was a general roar of agreement and excitement, and Nick couldn't suppress a smile, either. It felt good to think that kids today were still talking about what they'd done over a decade ago.
"Who's Isaac?" Nick asked, as he obligingly let the kids lead him across the square.
"He pretty much runs this joint," the skinny kid said. "And he says he was in the strike, too. He knows all about it." He pointed towards the lodging house. "He's right over there."
Nick squinted against the setting sun and followed the kid's finger, then broke into an illuminating grin. Isaac was sitting on the front stoop of the house itself, overseeing a game of marbles among some kids whose ages clearly hadn't yet hit the double digits. Nick recognized him instantly; his soft eyes and long nose gave him away even before Nick noticed the crutch resting on the stoop next to him or heard his still-distinct laugh. Nick couldn't have mistaken that laugh, not even after a decade.
"Crutchy!" he yelled jubilantly and broke into a jog, hurrying towards his friend. Isaac, hearing his childhood nickname, looked up—and upon spotting Nick broke smiled widely and waved.
Nick stopped in front of him and offered him a hand up, which Isaac accepted. It was a motion they'd gone through a million times, growing up; one of the boys hefted him to his feet while he grabbed for his crutch so he'd be able to stand firmly.
"Mush—Mush Myers! I don't believe my eyes! I ain't seen you in—in years, look at you! Nice suit, Mush, but last I knew you was workin' in a factory...?"
"Well, I was," Nick said. "But I didn't like it much...and I got a better offer," he added evasively, not sure how much Isaac knew about what had happened to Thomas in the years since he'd quit selling papers. He was sure he sounded shifty, like he was lying, but unlike Nathan and Sarah, Isaac didn't seem to notice. "I mean, it's just runnin' errands, but the pay's decent. What about you, you still hangin' around here?"
"Where else was I gonna go? Not a lot of jobs around for a gimp. One day, Kloppman just sort of asked me to help him out with some of the kids, and I been helpin' around here ever since." He shot Nick a grin. "It's a fine life, Mush."
"And Kloppman?" Nick asked, not expecting much.
"Well, he's blind as a bat and deaf as a post, but—"
"You mean he's still alive? He musta been 85 when I was here!"
"Sounds about right," Isaac said, leading the way inside the still-familiar building. Nick glanced around: the lights were brighter now, and the place had been painted. Some of the furniture was splintered and cracked, stuff that looked old enough that it could have been around when Nick lived there, but some pieces looked newer. Kloppman's old desk was still in its spot, and a dusty tome—the record book, which each kid signed in to every night—still sat on it, awaiting the evening's signatures.
"I had no idea! If I'd know, if I'd realized you were still here, I'd have come back to visit for sure."
"Nah," said Isaac. "No one comes back. I been here almost my whole life, and probably only three or four guys ever came visit after leaving."
"You don't miss everyone?"
"'Course I do. I miss my friends, and I miss my boys after they leave. But that's just the way it is."
Mush chewed on his lip for a second, then said, "You know who I work with? Racetrack and Blink."
"That's great!" Isaac answered, leading Nick back to what must have been his private room. "You know, I think I seen Dave in the papes a few times."
"Yeah," Nick agreed. "He's workin' on the library. I see him sometimes, too, just to say hi."
"I do miss 'em," Isaac said. They settled down in his room—Isaac into a comfortable looking chair, and Nick sat awkwardly on the neatly-made bed. "If they ever want to, you guys could come down here and say hi."
"We will." Nick smiled. "Definitely. Actually, a bunch of the other guys are coming into town to visit."
"When?" Isaac asked, his eyes lighting up.
"Well...tonight, really. Trouble is, we got nowhere to put 'em."
"What's that mean?"
Nick gave him the short version—he didn't mention Jack. Isaac had been as crushed as everyone else when Jack deserted them. He just explained about the game Nathan had promised everyone, how no matter where they tried to go, Brannigan was following them, how he'd find an excuse to arrest Thomas and Nathan even if they weren't playing anything illegal, unless they were well hidden.
Afterwards, Isaac said, "Interesting."
"Not quite the word I'd use for it."
"Well...It's just..." He glanced around, like he thought someone might be listening in. "Look, if this was just my place, I'd tell you guys to all come here in a second. It's just, Kloppman... He never got over Jack leaving."
"Most of us didn't."
"Nah, you guys are mad," Isaac said. "Kloppman, he...well, he always thought of Jack like a son. If there was one guy who I know he wishes would come back, it's Jack. I think seein' everyone else, but not Jack—well, he's pretty frail, you know? I don't know what he'd think of that."
"But what if Jack was with us?" Nick asked.
"Hmm..." Isaac said, thinking.
*
By the time Nick had made his way up to the Hotbox, a few gentlemen were already arriving for the evening's show. Mixed in with the crowd, Nick saw a few aged but still familiar faces. He smiled, but walked straight up to Nathan at the bar.
"Well?" Nathan asked tonelessly.
"I got some good news and some bad news," Nick said. "Good news is, I found us somewhere to have the game. Even better, the owner won't charge us nothin'!"
Nathan's eyes lit up. "That's great, Nicky! Where?"
Nick grinned. "Believe it or not...Ol' Nine Duane. Kloppman says he ain't never hosted a reunion before, and so what if there's a little illegal gambling going on while everyone catches up."
"You're a genius, Nicky, I mean that."
"Yeah, you won't in a second. I ain't told you the bad news yet."
"What's the bad news?"
Nick sighed. "Bad news is, Kloppman says no Jack...no deal."
Nathan groaned.