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Walking through Manhattan always left Spot aching. It wasn't from the trek across the bridge. He spent his whole workday on his feet; it wasn't that bad.
It was the memories. The reminders of who he was before Spot Conlon.
Every time he thought he was getting better, he'd catch a flash of an old storefront or see a face that looked a little too familiar and worry that he'd been caught. And the scars would open once again.
But if he was going to keep helping the boys with the strike, he was going to have to spend a lot more time on the island. It made sense to get reacquainted. Even if it stung.
He was making his way through the Lower East Side when he swore he heard a familiar voice over the din of the bustling street.
"Leave my sister alone!"
Was that Les? Spot began walking in the direction the voice came from.
“Stop it! Leave him alone!” a girl screamed.
That didn't sound good.
He ran around the corner.
It didn't look good either.
He was greeted by a mess of milk jugs and a fallen basket of lace scattered across the sidewalk.
It was Les, being tossed into the mud by a boy twice his size, one of the enforcers. Another was manhandling a girl into an alleyway.
Two versus one… Spot needed the high ground. He quietly climbed up an awning in record time. If he could get the drop on them... He would have to get closer. He needed to use the fire escapes.
Spot pulled himself up the ladder and started ducking and weaving from one escape to another with catlike grace. Keeping one eye on the action below, he watched as the girl wrenched herself out of the boy's grasp.
"You stupid ape," she spat out—voice dripping with disgust—before punching him. Her form was sloppy and she ended up clutching her fist in, but that didn't matter to Spot.
He could tell she was no Jack McAuliffe. This wasn't a fighter, at least physically. The punch wasn't carefully engineered to take the guy out. It was instinctual—pure passion manifested in one fast-moving fist. And boy did she have passion.
In that moment, she was the most beautiful woman Spot had ever seen.
Her attacker—who he could now see was one of the Delancey boys—was undeterred, chasing her deeper into the alleyway where it would be harder for her to get help.
"Run, Davey!" the girl cried as David apparently found Les.
Spot didn't check. Instead, he watched the Delanceys' body language. They weren't scared of his arrival. They welcomed it.
This wasn't about the girl. This was about the strike. This was a trap and David was about to fall for it—hook, line, and sinker.
Spot watched the shit-eating grins on their faces. The Delanceys thought they'd already won. But their plan missed a Spot.
"Oh, yeah, run, Davey," the red-shirt Delancey teased. Obvious bait. "We got the best part of your family right he—"
Spot jumped down, swinging his full body weight into the boy's gut. It was satisfying, getting him to finally shut up.
The other Delancey brother let go of the girl, running over to kick Spot—who was still getting his feet under him—in the shoulder. The cheap shot was the only hit the boy would get on him.
The dark-shirted Delancey was good with his knuckle duster, but Spot was even better with his cane. The skill difference—plus the added range of his weapon—meant that Spot made quick work of him.
Goon 1 dispatched, he spun around and helped Davey with the remaining brother. They watched as the Delanceys fled.
Spot silently vowed to never let them set foot in Brooklyn. They didn't deserve her.
"Spot," David wheezed out, clutching his side. "I didn’t know you were in town."
"Was checkin' in on the strike and figured I oughta see how the rest of the city was taking it." Spot turned back to the girl, trying not to sound too bashful as he asked, "You alright, Miss?"
"I’ll be okay," she reassured. Les was clinging to her skirts like she might disappear at any moment. "Thank you for what you did."
"This is Spot Conlon," Davey offered. "The King of Brooklyn."
"Sarah Jacobs," she introduced herself. A playful smile danced on her lips. "I don’t believe in kings."
There were a lot of folks that Spot wouldn't have tolerated that kind of talk from, but with her, with Sarah…
Protecting his pride suddenly felt so trivial. He was just glad to see her in good spirits again.
He grinned back at her. "What do I look like to you? The tooth fairy?"
Sarah shrugged, "Looks like you may have knocked a few out of the Delanceys'."
Spot raised his hands in mock surrender.
"I can’t claim all the credit. Helluva right hook you got there, Miss Jacobs."
"Call me Sarah."
"If you ever want a couple pointers, I'd be happy to help. No lady should have to go through something like that."
David leaned in, "I'm sure Les and I—"
Spot stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Look, I love you two but you're good kids. Not good fighters."
This time Sarah spoke for herself, "I might just take you up on that offer."
God, she was gorgeous. And now Spot had stared at her face long enough that he was able to place her.
"You were at the rally, weren’t ya?"
"Yes. So were you." When Spot nodded in response, she continued. "You didn’t introduce yourself to me."
"I figured you had enough boys botherin’ you."
"You don’t bother me."
Spot couldn't believe himself. He was blushing like a rookie newsboy. If David noticed, he was polite enough to not comment on it.
"Glad to hear it." The group started to walk out of the alley. "Besides, you and Jack looked close."
Sarah's eyes were downcast. "I don’t know. He’s not who I thought he was. At least not anymore."
Feeling especially bold—if asked, he would blame the adrenaline rush from the fight—Spot reached out and squeezed her hand, reassuring. He could feel her relax.
Les and Davey exchanged a look. Spot ignored them. "I’ve known Jack for years. Been real… close, ‘specially when I still lived here. I thought I knew him. Now…"
It was complicated. Messy as hell. There had been a time, long before the strike, when Spot had thought that Jack—with his angel face and dreams of Santa Fe–was better than them all. Then reality came crashing in and he realized that Jack Kelly was human. After the past week, Jack seemed even lower than that.
They made a right, turning onto a new street. A newsie was there, selling a stack of papes. The whole group bristled. A scab.
Spot narrowed his eyes. Even under a suit, he could've recognized the boy's silhouette from a mile away. He knew him too well.
Sarah tensed as she too made the connection.
"Speak of the devil," Spot muttered.
He could pinpoint the moment Jack saw Sarah, shoulders crumbling in shame. Jack turned his head, as if it was too painful to look at her—only to see Spot at her side. Jack somehow managed to look even sicker to his stomach.
When Jack first betrayed them, Spot wanted so badly to soak him. Now… he looked so goddamn miserable. Spot didn't feel anger anymore. Just pity. He missed the Cowboy he once knew. The one he once believed in. Maybe that Cowboy was still there underneath that suit and stack of papers. But Spot wasn't strong enough to excavate him. He could try, but he'd just end up choking on the fears and feelings in his chest.
He was a fighter, not a diplomat. But luckily there was one right by his side.
Maybe the gift of the gab ran in the Jacobs family. At the very least Sarah had the strength to speak when Spot couldn't.
"It's not too late."