Violent Dreams
Eight
Dawn crept in through the window. "Gee," Kloppman said sarcastically, "ain't you two cute together?"
Jack sat up, realizing he'd drifted off on Race's bed at some point. He wondered how long ago... "Ah, shaddup, Kloppman," he moaned, and glanced over at Race, who was playing solitaire now.
"Yeah, yeah. Outta bed, ya slacker. You too, Race, get up..." He turned around and stole the pillow out from under Mush, who groaned. "There's papes ta sell, you layabouts, it's time to get up, up I said, outta bed..."
They groaned their way over to the bathroom and began to wash up. Race almost cracked a smile. He hadn't gotten sleep, of course, but he felt... Refreshed, somehow. How late had they stayed up playing poker?
And more importantly, how much money had he won off them?
Nah, he told himself, it ain't more important, not really.
He felt almost back to normal. Getting it off his chest had helped. Some. He still found himself watching everyone else in the mirror while he shaved, making sure no one could come up behind him—Definitely ain't normal.—but at least he wasn't scared of his own shadow anymore. Not quite.
The group passed Kloppman, grabbed a quick handout breakfast from the nuns, and lined up for papers. Snitch dutifully read the headline aloud; Lerror still hadn't been captured. Race shuddered, Jack put a hand on his shoulder, and they waited to buy their papers.
"You sellin' at the tracks today?" Snitch asked eagerly.
"You still set on tryin' ta catch Lerror?"
"Sure thing, if I can. Hundred an' fifty dollar reward, you'se crazy if you don' wanna sell at the tracks jus' in case."
Race opened his mouth to answer, but Blink cut him off. "He ain't crazy." He glared at Snitch defiantly, and Mush threw an arm around Race. Snitch gave them a strange look, but shrugged a little.
"Yeah," Mush yawned. "You sellin' with us again today?"
Race debated, then nodded. No reason to press his luck; he was feeling a bit better and he didn't want to run into Lerror by accident and make it start again.
"Yeah, I guess," Race answered.
"Two days inna row you ain't goin' ta Sheepshead? You feelin' okay?" Snitch asked curiously.
"Course he ain't, he was screamin' 'is head off all last night, 'member?" Skittery pointed out, elbowing Snitch as he spoke.
"Yeah, what was that, Race? You looked like you'd seen a ghost or somethin' when Jack woke you up."
Race shrugged. He had no idea what to say to that. He felt like he'd seen a ghost. But Jack smacked Snitch on the back of his head and told him to leave it alone, and then the window opened for business. Race had to spot Mush and Blink some cash, having won most of theirs, but didn't mind.
Race set out with everyone else and they met David and Les at the gate; they took off with Jack and left Race to sell with Blink and Mush. The three wandered aimlessly for a bit, looking for somewhere unoccupied, and then Race stopped abruptly and pointed over at a building.
"New York City Jail?" Mush asked, slowly sounding out the words carved in stone over the top of the doorway. "So?"
Race glanced at the day's front page article, skimmed it until he saw what he was looking for. Christopher Lerror remains under close watch in the New York City Jail, while police continue to search for his brother. "He's in there," Race murmured and started towards the building.
"So?" Mush said again.
Race shrugged. "I gotta..." he trailed off. "I guess I am crazy. But he—I'd be dead if he hadn't—" He stopped. "I gotta find out why he helped me."
Mush and Blink exchanged links. "You sure that's a good idea, Race?" Blink asked. "I mean... If it wasn't for him—"
"It wasn't him. It was his brother," Race said, "and he helped me. I gotta know why."
"Awright," Mush finally said, hesitantly. "I guess... If you gotta know, but don't... I mean, will they let you see him, you think?"
"I don't know." Race shrugged. "But I can try, right?"
"Sure."
"I guess we'll wait around here..." Blink agreed. "Try an' do some sellin'."
*
It turned out that getting to see a prisoner who was already in the City Jail was fairly easy; the difficult part would have been getting him to the right jail. But the police wanted to keep a better eye on him until his brother was captured again, so they'd moved him into the City Jail, and it was easy to get to talk to him.
He glanced down at the book he was supposed to sign in to. "You know how to write?" the policeman watching asked.
Race nodded, not sure what to put down, and not able to use his real name. Hesitantly, he wrote Tony Higgins, since he doubted they'd accept Racetrack.
"Chris Lerror says he doesn't want to see any reporters," the policeman warned.
"Do I look like a reporter?" Race answered.
He tapped the next column. "How do you know him? What business are you here on?"
"Uh." Race glanced at what the other things in the column said, and echoed most of them. Friend, he wrote for relation; Casual visit, he put it the second. The policeman shrugged and led him through the jail, into a series of hallways that then turned into a thin alley between barred jail cells. Most of them had tough looking prisoners staring out; Race could hear the chatter further down, but everyone went silent when they walked by.
They stopped at one cell and unlocked it. The policeman gestured in, and Race stepped in. The door shut and locked behind him. "I'll be back in a few," the officer said.
Christopher Lerror looked up, started. He looked like he was in his late thirties, with light brown hair, and Race backed up until he could feel cold bars at his back when he saw the criminal. A thousand memories shot through his mind and he was momentarily paralyzed, then took a deep breath.
Lerror stared at him. "Who are you?"
"Tony Higgins," Racetrack said, his voice breaking. His throat felt very dry.
"I don't remember any Tony Hig..." He trailed off. "Anthony Higgins?"
"Yeah."
"You—" he stopped again. "Anthony."
"Yes."
"That Anthony?"
"Yeah."
Racetrack crossed his arms nervously, wishing he could start playing with his cards, but feeling too awkward to move at all.
They stood in silence for a minute.
"So," Lerror finally said. "You want something, Tony Higgins?"
"Just wanted to know why."
"Why what?"
"Why... Why'd you help?"
"Help you? Or help Tom?"
"Both."
Lerror nodded and stared off into space for a minute. Finally, he started talking, and Race tapped his fingers against his knees nervously.
"Tom was my brother. I didn't like what we were doing but... I never thought he'd really go through with it, and I never thought it would get so out of hand... Oh, Christ, I never thought he'd hurt anyone, I never thought—I never thought he'd kill anyone." He shrugged a little, but couldn't look up at Racetrack. "And I helped you because I guess... I mean, Tom had lost it, totally lost it. And Nicola was already dead, and so when he started talking about getting rid of... Anthony... I knew he was serious by then, and I couldn't...
"You know, I've barely slept in the past seven years. I can't... Whenever I close my eyes, I see Nicola's body hit the wall, and the floor, and the blood, and Anthony's face, and..."
"Insomnia," Racetrack murmured.
"Yeah."
"I can't sleep, neither. I dream about the basement..."
"I'm sorry. I mean, I know saying it isn't... It can't do anything, but... Oh, Christ, I'm sorry."
"It ruined my life," Racetrack said, mostly to himself. "I mean... I had a family, I was a pretty smart kid, I... After... I never went home."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "I guess my dad didn't care so much if he wouldn't pay. And it was my fault... I mean, Nick was protecting me... How could my parents...?"
"It wasn't your fault. It was Tom's, it was mine for helping him, it was nothing to do with you or Nicola."
"But three months..."
"No one thought Tom would hurt him, your father was tying to find you," Chris said. "He didn't want to let Tom... Us... Get away with it. But they wanted you back, they were worried, they must think you're dead..."
"Yeah. But it's like..." Race trailed off for a second, trying to gather his thoughts; everything felt so scattered and strange. It didn't even feel like he was having this conversation; it was like someone else was talking to Chris Lerror while he watched and listened.
He started again. "It's like... Anthony might's well be dead, he an' I ain't the same no more. He was a good kid, I guess, but he ain't me. I don' even remember how ta be him, so it's not like I could jus' go back ta bein' him. Not like I could just go back there."
Chris nodded slowly. Race wondered if he really understood, and tried to look at it from anyone else's point of view: he had a well off family, who would be grateful to know he was even alive, he could go back to having three meals a day and a roof over his head without breaking his back working to get them. He could almost hear the way everyone else would laugh at him, call him crazy for refusing to go back to that.
Maybe I am crazy...
But it was just like he'd tried to explain to Chris: Anthony Verdi might as well be dead. Racetrack just couldn't picture returning home and immediately being overcome with love for his parents; he barely even remembered them, let alone loved them. And they had let him sit in that basement for three months... And Nicola had died... And not only could he not imagine fitting with their world, since the newsie lifestyle was now the only lifestyle he understood how to live, but he figured they probably wouldn't even want him back. Not when Nicola had died for him...
"Will you be okay?" Chris asked, shaking Racetrack out of his thoughts.
Race shrugged. "I guess. I'll survive. I'm real good at that now."
"I guess you would be, huh," Chris commented humorlessly. "I'm sorry I can't help you."
"Yeah, well... I'm alive, so you already did." He shuddered a little.
"Wish I could do more." Chris shook his head. "Never meant it to happen, I never did... I wish we could start again."
Racetrack nodded. "Yeah. That would be nice." He heard the sound of people getting abruptly quiet, and then the policeman appeared.
"You done?" the officer asked.
"Uh...yeah," Racetrack said. He looked back at Chris. "Look, I got friends waiting for me, I oughtta..."
Chris nodded. "Yeah, ok. Uh..."
Race was surprised to find he wasn't shaking anymore. He looked over at Chris, caught his eye, and sighed. "Yeah. Well... Bye, then."
"Bye. Good luck."
And with that he followed the policeman back out of the prison, and glanced around until he found Mush and Blink selling on one of the far corners. He waved a little and walked up to join them, accepted a pile of newspapers from Mush, and headed across the street to sell. He felt kind of dazed, still, and was pretty sure that Mush and Blink could tell; every time he glanced over at them, Mush was watching him, looking concerned. Of course, as soon as Mush caught him watching as he was watched, Mush would guiltily turn away.
Race had to smile at that, just a tiny bit. For all his instincts might have told him to be wary, there was almost no way not to trust Mush. He glanced over again, between customers, and saw Blink saying something, elbowing Mush in the ribs and grinning, which meant it was probably a dirty joke he'd just remembered. Mush smiled and laughed a little, and shook his head in vague wonder of where Blink got things like that, and then they turned back to shouting headlines, back to back, almost touching.
The unstoppable team, across the street. While Race stood on his corner alone, watching.
He gave them a very slight smile, more sad than anything else, and turned his attention back to his own selling. That was just the way his life was, though he wondered sometimes if it had to be that way... With everything that had happened lately. He had to wonder... What would it be like if he could just start again?
*
Four hours of sleep, and the next morning, Racetrack had energy. He hadn't felt so good in a week, at least; it wasn't much sleep but it had been solid and he hadn't dreamed of anything at all. He was all smiles and jokes as the group got ready for the day and made their way to the distribution office, a genuine spring in his step.
"Look at this weather," he crowed, inhaling deeply. "Look at the sky, there ain't a cloud in it. It's so nice out."
Jack raised an eyebrow and Mush and Blink threw each other confused looks, and Racetrack noticed—he noticed everything—but he didn't care. He grinned.
"You ever seen a sky that blue, Snitch?" he asked as Snitch tried to read the headlines. "I ain't never, that's for sure."
"What is wrong with you, Higgins?" Skittery asked dully.
"Stop being such a dope, Skitts my lad." Racetrack punched Skittery's shoulder. "'S a fine morning out."
He saw Mush lean over to Jack. "'S he gonna be like this every time he gets some sleep?"
Jack laughed a little. "Sure hope so."
Racetrack stopped pounding on Skittery's arm, and Skittery straightened his shirt with all the dignity he could muster, and Snitch read the headlines. Another sighting of Lerror, but there was no real news. The papers were just milking the story now.
He turned to Race. "Race, can Skitts an' I—"
"Uh, no," Race answered. "I ain't been to the track in days, an' it's my sellin' spot."
Snitch grumbled and Skittery rolled his eyes and Racetrack bounced off to the front of the line. He couldn't believe how good he felt. The spring air felt nice this early, before all the heat of the city built up and it got too hot to move. And he was actually genuinely cheerful, and he felt confident enough to head back to the racetrack. A rumor wasn't enough to stop him.
"You sure you'll be all right, Race? At the track?" Jack asked, as they walked over to the gate to meet David and Les.
"I think so. I got some shut eye last night, Cowboy. It was great. I ain't felt this good in ages. I got sleep at night an' everything."
"You're a weird one, Race." But Jack caught Race's eye and they both knew he hadn't said crazy deliberately.
"Well, whatever you says, Jack. Ta ta, my lad."
Following behind Jack, Mush asked, "Has he ever called anyone 'lad' before?"
"What's got into him?" David added, watching as Racetrack hopped a trolley.
*
They sky stayed blue and the tracks were flooded with people. Race only had to spice the headline up a little; since the story mentioned the racetrack, people were desperate to read it. He'd bought seventy papers and fifty of them were gone by lunch. He hoisted the remaining papers up onto his shoulder and stepped into line for one of the venders.
"Your usual, Higgins?"
Race nodded, and then added, "Actually, today I'll take it with all the toppings, I think."
"Oh yeah? You having a good day?"
"I definitely had a good night." Race smirked.
The vendor whistled. "I figured you for a lady killer, kid. That's three cents extra."
Race dutifully forked out three extra cents and let the vendor—one of the many who knew him on sight, one of the few who knew him by name—keep up his illusions that Racetrack had been with a girl. That was a happy enough illusion.
Race took a seat in the stands, papers in his lap, and eagerly ate his hotdog. It tasted much better than he'd expected, and he watched the gathering for the next race intently, annoyed anytime someone stepped in his way.
Until he saw the figure. The right height, the right weight, the right face. He dropped his hotdog and stood, papers slipping off his lap, and stared. But Thomas Lerror didn't notice him, he was watching the race.
A thousand images flooded through his mind. His parents, somehow, his brother, Chris Lerror in jail, blood, vomit, and he felt the bile rise in his throat. But he locked it down.
He'd escaped from jail. And the son of a bitch deserved to be in jail.
"Hey!" Racetrack heard himself yelling at the top of his lungs, barely aware of what he was doing. "Hey, it's Lerror from the papers. It's the killer!"
He pointed frantically and the next thing he knew, people flooded past him, around him, yelling and shouting and he could barely see and had to stand on his tiptoes. But Lerror took off, looking panicked, and someone tripped him and he kept scrambling forward, but then one of the bulls was there and grabbed him, sent them both flying down onto the seats. And another was there, and another. Racetrack hadn't realized how many policemen were even at the race, and then realized they were probably there looking for the escaped prisoner.
People were yelling even louder than they did for the races, as two of the policemen handcuffed Lerror and marched him out of the racetrack. And the third began to scan the stands, looking around for something, Racetrack realized, then his eyes went wide as the policeman stopped on him. "Hey, you—kid!"
But Racetrack took off, leaving his papers behind, and didn't stop until he was safely hidden under the bleachers, where he could hear the uproar settle down.
He leaned back against a support beam and took a deep breath.
He felt his hands shake slightly and saw Lerror's face in his mind, but reached for his cards and laid out a game of solitaire, and told himself that Lerror was in jail again. Lerror wouldn't be able to hurt him again, or kill anyone again.
It was over.
*
"Racetrack, Racetrack, didja see?"
"Was you there? Did you get a look at it?"
"What happened, Race, we all heard about—"
"C'mon, tell us—"
"Racetrack—"
"Hey, hey!" Jack yelled, stepping in front of Racetrack as he was swarmed by newsboys. "Let the guy sit down, huh?" Then, aside to Race, "Uh... did you see?"
Racetrack pulled his hat off and wiped a little sweat way from his forehead. "Yeah," he said casually, "I saw it. I saw the whole thing." He raised an eyebrow and smirked at the onlookers, who had gone silent, and he wondered how the news of the arrest had traveled so quickly.
"Well?" someone finally burst out. "Tell us about it!"
"Hmm." Racetrack walked through the room and took a seat at an old, wooden table, battered from years of use. He pulled out his cards and shuffled thoughtfully. "Maybe I will."
"Racetrack, c'mon..."
"But first," he smirked, "who wants to play poker?"
*
"So, uh," Jack mumbled, sitting down on Race's bunk, glancing around like he was the paranoid one. "I gotta ask... did that Verdi kid recognize him, like Snitch said?"
Race shrugged. "Nah. Rumors say it was just some newsboy."
"You left that out when you told us."
"Yeah, well..."
"You don't want the reward?"
"Nah. I don't want to have to... I don't want people to know, I mean. About me. Who I was."
Jack nodded. "Okay, well... Good going, Race. You did good."
"I know." Race grinned. "I'm too excited to sleep."
"Figures." But Jack smiled. "'Night, Race."
"'Night, Jack."
And Racetrack's hands weren't shaking as he shuffled the cards, preparing to play solitaire.