A Snatch Fanfiction by Taryn "Jnco" Wander'r

Aka L0C, Space Cadet First Class

Email: [email protected] or [email protected]

My website: http://www.angelfire.com/ok2/WayfarersPost

Legalities: "Snatch" Was written and directed, and is therefore owned, by the incredible, talented, wonderful, living god himself Guy Ritchie. I love you Guy. Never change, Guy. Please don't sue, Guy. That's right, all the wonderful characters of Turkish, Tommy, Gorgeous George, and Brick Top belong to Guy. What they do in the story 'Diamond in the Rough', though, belongs to me. So, this story is copyright 2001 Taryn "Jnco" Wander'r. All the original characters herein copyright 2001 Taryn "Jnco" Wander'r Please do not post this story anywhere unless you write [email protected] and ask me first. Also, do not change anything in this story, or make any money off it.

Author's Note: Did anyone else think Tommy was incredibly cute? I did. : - ) I know all you Brad Pitt fans want me to throw in Mickey somewhere, and I want to, believe me, I do, but this story takes place, like, seven years before the movie, so that just wouldn't make sense. I don't think there are any spoilers, but here's a warning- it's a bit slashy. Okay, it's a lot slashy. It's not actually slash, and it's perfectly okay if you're under eighteen, but there is two guys who are interested in each other. Okay? Okay. Also, this is only supposed to be about four or five chapters long. So it's guaranteed to be finished. I promise. : - ) By the way, for simplicity, The Gun and Gorgeous George are Turkish's only boxers at this point. I'm Canadian, and this takes place in London, so please excuse any errors in detail.

DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 1/4

What do I know about diamonds? I'm a boxing promoter. That's it. That's all. Just me and my fighters, and Tommy. Tommy was my partner. That doesn't mean we hold hands and take windy walks. It means I try to keep him out of more trouble than he inflicts on me.

Wait…I should start at the beginning.

I didn't always run the business from a gypsy caravan in an old parking garage, you know. Eventually, that just became convenient for me. But I'm getting ahead of myself again.

London. 1993. A huge swarming mess of races and cultures, wet umbrellas and people with dogs. Damned dogs.

I was walking home from training one day. The newest kid in my ring, Gorgeous George. Of course, back then he actually lived up to the name. Too small yet for the heavyweights, but that would change, and of course, nobody cared about that in the world of unlicensed boxing. Back then Gorgeous had all his hair, and all his teeth, and none of that obnoxious headfat. Good kid, too, willing to learn. Had this nasty habit of running into the opponent head-on.

So I was walking home, in the rain, clutching my shoddy piss-poor black jacket to me, holding my precious carton of milk. Ah, milk. I was at a time in my life when I had stopped caring about anything, really, least of all myself- I didn't drink stuff like milk often. Maybe it was fate that the day I started taking care of myself I was given a reason to.

I came across an alley fight. Of course, I had seen plenty of street fights in my life- this wasn't exactly Sloane Square where I lived. It wasn't exactly Brixton either, but it was getting there.

It was an unfair fight, really, at least I could pick up on that much. This huge ugly mother of a man beating on a small, flinchy little kid. Not really a kid…but not a man, either.

So I drained the last of my milk and was going to walk in there, ever so calmly, and put an end to the unfairness, when I saw what was really going on. First of all, this huge ugly mother was really a huge ugly mother of a man, and the kid wasn't really putting up any kind of a fight or defending himself. He just sort of let it happen.

Now this, I thought, was the most despicable of all, but by the time I had processed this, the huge ugly mother of a man was done with his work and was sort of waddling down the alley in a self-satisfied sort of way. And this poor flinchy kid, he was just sort of slumped in the side of the alley, his blood running into the rainwater.

I stood there, shivering, in the rain in the alley, and sighed. Now this was a predicament. I always hated dogs, especially stray dogs, and cats. Gorgeous also had this nasty habit of taking in stray kittens, Jesus, it was the most annoying thing in the world. There's nothing more pathetic than a grown man, one who's into unlicensed boxing of all things, to be had by a helpless stray animal.

But what do I call this? A stray boy? And leave him there to hemorrhage to death? That would just be cruel.

So, reluctantly, I put an arm around the kid's waist and pulled one of his arms over my head. At least to get him in out of the rain.

Gorgeous George came by to the flat later, when I called him and told him what happened. I needed help putting the kid to bed- or whatever I was supposed to do with him.

Gorgeous was sporting a nasty black eye and had one of those breathing strips over his nose. He grinned at me, an awkward, bloody grin, and proudly showed off his first gap.

"Check it out, Turkish." He smiled at me. "Didn't even realize it was missing 'til I spit it out after t'fight." He was whistling slightly. It was sort of annoying.

"Ah, Jesus suffering fuck!" He whistled at me as he entered the flat and saw the kid slumped into one of the armchairs. "Where'd ye find t'is, t'en, Turkish?"

"In an alley. Beaten to a pulp by some oversized thug. Help me out, will ya?"

We started with the kid's shoes, piling them with my own. He was dressed horribly for the weather, really, for any London weather. His ratty old Converse sneakers, worn old jeans and an old blue bowling shirt. It's a wonder the kid didn't freeze to death.

"My Christ. Who would do t'is do a kid, eh?"

"Oversized thugs, apparently." We got the kid out of the jeans and shirt until he was just in his boxers, revealing a crisscrossing of scars and bruises.

"Bloody fuck." Gorgeous whistled again. "Worse t'an t'Gun's last fight."

I remembered that fight- Brick Top had ordered that The Gun win, to accommodate the bets he had made, and the guy kept getting up after falling until he managed to beat the other guy down. Right after he was proclaimed winner he passed out for a good two days.

We got some warm water and washed the blood from the kid's face, cleaning out the worst of his cuts. The kid had this huge frame but was skinny as all hell. Jesus. I found an old T-shirt and we dressed him in it, awkwardly, and tucked him into my bed.

"Well this was awkward," I muttered when all was said and done, and me and Gorgeous sat at the kitchen table, idly playing poker with my pornographic cards, neither of us really paying attention to any of it. There were only so many bare breasts one could see before you got completely bored of them.

"What're ye gonna do when he wakes up?" George asked.

"I dunno. Give him something to eat and bring him home, I guess."

"Doesn't look like he has a home."

"He has to have a home."

"Well, it doesn't look like he wants to go home." George whistled through the gap in his teeth and put down his hand. "I've seen boys like that, Turkish. I was a boy like that. I never went home."

"Then what did you do?"

"I found ye."

That stopped me. It had never occurred to me that I had possibly derived Gorgeous George from a comfortable life. He just sort of showed up.

"What do you mean?" I asked slowly.

"I never had a good home, Turkish, it's sort of obvious. I don't like getting into it. You won't want to hear it. But the only thing I was good at was fighting. Eventually I ran away and sort of picked out a living on the streets. Then I found ye." He grinned again. "And now I'm t'fine boxer you see before ye."

I sighed. "It's not that easy, George. He's not much of a fighter. I saw him today."

"T'en ye'll find something else for him to do."

"Like what? Run the slots?" I owned, had for a while, an old run-down arcade next to the lot where The Gun and, soon, Gorgeous George fought. I had a bunch of slot machines that could be making money, 'cept I had no one to run them.

"Maybe. Who knows?"

I glared at him over my cards. "No. He's going home. It's decided."

"Oh, Turkish," George looked defeated. "What's happened to ye? You're so distanced now. Like t'only thing you saw in me was t'is vicious fighter, and you don't see t'at in t'is kid, so you're throwing him away. Trust me, he don't want t'go home."

I didn't have a response. "You gotsta look past t'sleaze and bruises, Turkish. There's probably a good kid under all t'at. You gotsta look for t'diamond in t'rough."

I glanced at the kid, then back at Gorgeous. "I don't know anything about diamonds, Gorgeous. I'm a boxing promoter."

"Whatever," Gorgeous stood up and put on his jacket. "Well I'm leaving. I don't want to hear anymore. I'll see ye tomorrow, right?" He grinned. "Unless you're too busy taking care of your boy."

"He not my-" Gorgeous was already gone. I sighed and leaned back and wondered about what I had gotten myself into.

The night wore on. I couldn't sleep. First of all, there was a bruised and beaten boy, whom I had recently discovered was also fevered, in my bed. Second, the couch was inadequate when all I could think about was the boy in my bed.

So I pulled up a chair, cracked a bottle of beer, and watched him. Better to be here when he wakes up, anyway.

Have I ever told you about my wife? I guess not. Ah, she was beautiful. Happy, too, when things were good. Then I made the wrong move, took the wrong turn, we hit a lorry. She died on impact. Car was totaled. Still hadn't gotten a new one.

I lost my job after that, couldn't concentrate on anything. Went into the unlicensed boxing profession. Got mixed up with Brick Top and the like. My life was no longer about real estate or keeping my wife happy. More like trying to stay alive in a haze of fights and alcohol. If there was anything to stay alive for.

The boy on my bed stirred, and interrupted my thoughts. He groaned a bit, writhed, and eventually opened his eyes to stare at me.

He had dark eyes. Big, dark, innocent eyes. Hurt. Had this mop of curly black hair.

He gasped, and sat up quickly, then clutched at his sides when the burn from the bruises sunk in.

"'Bout time you joined us." I said.

He stared at me, then down at himself.

"What happened to my clothes?" He asked. Had this soft sort of worried voice.

"Took them off. They were wet." He flinched, then nodded. So I was right about the flinchiness. Suddenly he leapt out of the bed and bolted for the door.

"Hey!" I called after him. Surprisingly, he turned back. "You're not going anywhere right now. You're sick. When you're better I'll take you home."

"Home?"

"Yeah. What's your name? Do you live in the East End?"

He slowly stepped towards me, sort of dazed. He yawned.

"Didja hear me? Where do you live?"

"I…I don't really live anywhere."

I groaned. Gorgeous had been right. This was harder than I thought.

"What's your name?" I started again.

He looked at me again, those dark, big eyes. "Whatever-you-want-it-to-be…" He murmured, sort of like a mantra.

I just decided to pretend I didn't hear it so I wouldn't even have to think about it.

"What's your name?" I asked again.

He flinched. Again. "…Paul."

"What's your real name?"

He was surprised. "…James."

I gave him a look.

He sighed. "Tommy," He muttered.

"Good." I put my beer on the table and regarded him. This was much more awkward than I ever would have thought.

The boy, definitely a boy, yawned again. "My parents named me after a gun." He added, defiantly.

"Yeah. Sure they did. Sit down, Tommy." He did, and I was surprised that he would do what I said so quickly. He yawned again. "Stay with me, Tommy. You have a concussion. You can't go to sleep for a while."

"'Til when?" He asked.

"I…I dunno. For a while. A few hours. We'll play cards or something, okay? But then you should sleep, because you got a fever. Okay?" Tommy nodded. "Aren't you going to ask me what my name is?"

He blinked at me, like it hadn't even crossed his mind. "What's…what's your name?"

"Turkish."

Tommy laughed at this, the way everyone laughed when I told them my name. He looked at me, waiting for the truth.

"That's really my name, Tommy."

Instantly he was frightened. "Oh."

"You mind telling me what you were doing in that alley?"

"Why?" Suspicious.

"Well I gotta tell your parents something."

The mop of dark curls lowered. "My parents won't care. They kicked me out."

Bang on, Gorgeous.

"So who was that man in the alley?"

The kid blushed. "That was…that was my dealer." He straightened up, defiant again. "I deal drugs for him."

I scowled. "Drugs." Tommy's face fell, instantly he was contrite. "Drugs are the stupidest way to make money on the streets, kid. I mean, do something else with your time, Tommy, firearms, black market, gambling, not drugs."

Tommy went back to staring at his bare feet.

"This dealer guy," I went on. "He's not going to be looking for you anywhere, is he?"

Tommy made a 'pfft' sound. "Probably not."

"Do you have any drugs on you right now?"

"No. He took them all away. My money too."

"Do you do drugs?"

"No!" Tommy stared up at me, defiant. "I just…sell them."

"To who?"

"Kids."

"Little kids?"

"No!" Again he was affronted. "Kids…my age."

"How old are you, Tommy?"

He shrugged. "Twenty."

"Most twenty year olds I know don't refer to themselves as kids."

"Seventeen."

"You sure? I would've pegged you at fifteen, sixteen tops."

"I'm seventeen." He stared at me like I was stupid. "I'll be eighteen in two months."

"That's great. And what am I going to do with you until then?"

He shrugged. "I don't care." But somehow, his voice gave away that he did.

This got me. We sat in silence for a while, me staring at him, him staring at his feet, until he looked up at me again, pleading.

"Can I have something to eat?"

And those six little words did me in. And I think I felt what Gorgeous felt each time he saw a helpless little kitten in the street. And since then I've had a reason to live.

Eventually I slept. After I made Tommy a sandwich and we played a few rounds of some miscellaneous card game, me having to poke him awake every time he drifted off. Finally I figured enough time had passed and I let him go back to bed.

I dreamt odd dreams that night. Dreams that Suzy was still alive.

It was raining in my dream, and her and me were in bed, dozing, listening to the rain hit the windows softly. I sighed and shifted, holding her closer. Bent my head, to the crook of her neck, like I always did, and inhaled. God, I loved the way she smelled.

And then I woke up. I just lay there on the couch, my arms wrapped around the bulk of the blanket, and blinked. A light rain occasionally pattered against the windows; I could hear the traffic in the streets below.

Damn. Morning.

I sat up blearily, and wondered off-handedly how Gorgeous' nose was doing. He was having his first fight in a few days, his debut into the world of unlicensed boxing. 'Course, he'd probably just break his nose again, so why did I even care?

Standing up and stretching in the late morning light, I flicked on the telly and flopped back down on the couch.

Why the hell was I sleeping on the couch?

Oh yes…that's right.

I sighed and turned the telly off. Daytime soaps, anyway. Rubbish.

Put my trousers on. Turned on the kettle for a cup of tea. Then I wandered over to where the bed was and regarded Tommy.

I had a nice flat, for a black market salary, anyway. I didn't move after Suzy died. I moved the bed, an old iron-framed monster, into the huge main room. Everything sort of connected into itself- the kitchen, the living room, the…place where the bed was. The bathroom was off to the side, near the wide windows.

I left all of her things in that bedroom. The only bedroom the flat had. I left all her old clothes in boxes and all her trinkets and valued possessions where they were. All the old photo albums of us, stacked in there. Suzy had been a photographer- there used to be her old black and white photos adorning the flat's drab walls.

They were in the old bedroom, too, closed off to the rest of the world. Life was for the living. I really should have sold all those old things, but I didn't have the heart. So I just put it out where I couldn't be reminded of her.

Instead, on the walls, I had pathetic old lady paintings of flowers and ocean-scapes and other such piddling crap I really didn't care about. Down in the office, over the safe in the wall, where I kept all the money I owned...and some of Suzy's diamonds…was an old, disgusting painting of a Saint Michael the Archangel. I mean, seriously. Who actually paints this stuff?

I was pondering this when the kettle started whistling and I made my tea. I stood there, staring out the window, with my cup of tea, as was beginning to become the norm. I read somewhere that the typical citizen of Britain, and this includes Scotland and Wales and Northern Ireland, drinks an average of seven cups of tea a day. I downed the cup and poured another and figured I must have made up a lot of that average. Me and the Queen. Sitting around, thinking about things that could never be, drinking our tea.

The funny thing was, I didn't even really like tea. I just drank it. There was really nothing much else to do. Caffeine'll kill you, you know. Just as bad as tobacco or alcohol or heroin. Eats at the liver.

Maybe that's what I was trying to do. Slowly kill myself. Me and the Queen- she mustn't have a whole lot to live for.

Of course, I drank quite a bit of milk. When I was feeling down, I'd buy a six pack and a box of tea bags. When I was feeling particularly good, which wasn't often, I'd get a carton of milk and maybe throw in a vegetable or two. Usually I downed the milk and let the vegetables go rotten, and then I'd be back to square one- beer at night, tea in the morning. At least beer and tea bags don't go bad. At least, I don't think so. Not that it would matter, seeing as I was trying to kill myself and all.

An impatient kicking of sheets and a soft moan interrupted my thoughts. I turned back to Tommy and sat on the edge of the bed.

The sheets were twisted around him like he was a mummy or something, his brow was furrowed. He bit his lip in his sleep and moaned a little more, pitiful.

I sighed, put the back of my hand to his cheek. Jesus. Hotter than a freaking supernova.

Well, he couldn't possibly be comfortable twisted up as he were. I gently untangled him from the sheets and lightly pulled them over him. Then, taking a moment to take another drink of tea, I ran the cold water into a pot I had sitting around for some reason, and put a dishcloth in it.

See, as much as I hated to admit it, I didn't really like to see anyone suffering. Unless, of course, it was for a good reason. When The Gun beat the living shite out of some cocky kid who thought he was Mohammad frickin' Ali, that was classic. But this was different. A flinchy, fevered kid with more eyelashes than muscle trembling and crying out in his sleep was very different.

I still maintained that one should not pick up stray dogs. But, I realized now, people were different.

"Shhh," I murmured softly, like he could hear me or something. I softly washed his face down, hoping to bring down his fever somewhat. I turned the sheets down a bit, lifted up the shirt he wore, and dabbed at his burning chest, wincing at the bruises and scrapes I found there.

Eventually Tommy calmed down, and fell back into an uneventful, silent slumber.

I pulled the blankets back over him and opened one of the windows slightly. The sounds of the rain and the city always helped me sleep.

I buttoned up a shirt over me and sat in an armchair, staring out the window at the building across from us, an artists' flat, and nursed my third cup of tea. The telephone rang.

"Turkish," I said around the teacup.

"I'm goin' to t'lot now. Are ye comin'?" Gorgeous George whistled at me from the other end.

"The lot? To spar?" I glanced back at the sleeping bundle on my bed.

"Aye, Turkish, I got my fight t'morrow."

"Jesus! That soon?"

"Yes, Turkish….where 'ave ye been?"

"I don't think I can leave Tommy. He hasn't woken up yet."

"Tommy?"

I sighed. "The boy I found last night, Gorgeous. Tommy."

"So boy's gotta name, then?"

"Yes. I would've thought that was obvious."

"Well, bring 'im along." Gorgeous George seemed to think it was acceptable to share our unlicensed boxing profession with just anyone.

"I can't, George. He's got a bad fever…I don't think I should leave him." I sighed. "Can't take him to hospital, I wouldn't know what to tell them."

"So he doesn't have a home, does he? I was roight!"

"Shut up, George. I'm going to find him a home."

"Easier said t'an done, mate," Gorgeous said whistled at me. "Hey, t'Gun's done and gotten t'caravan, eh?"

"That quick? From where?" I had asked The Gun to find me a caravan to put in the lot to run the business from, mostly so I could separate work from home and further sink into my sad stupor. Drinking my tea.

"Pykie camp."

"Pykies? I thought The Gun hated gypsies."

"He does, but it were t'ere and it were cheap." I could hear him grinning. "Gypsies ain't all t'at bad, Turkish. T'ey t'rew a dog inta t'bargain."

Oh Jesus. Another damned dog.

"What did The Gun do with the dog?"

"What else? Gave it t'me. I named 'im Isaac." I could hear the pride in George's voice.

"Well, that's good for you, Gorgeous. Anyways, I can't come down. You were right. Too busy taking care of Tommy. Spar with The Gun and whatever, and we'll talk tomorrow before your fight, okay?"

"Whatever ye say, Turkish."

I hung up the telephone and glanced to where Tommy was lying. He was looking up at me with those big dark eyes.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked as I poured him a glass of water.

"Few minutes," Tommy mumbled. "You're going to send me away?" He asked, all flinchy-like.

"'F course," I pushed the glass into his hands. "Drink it. All of it. I can't very well keep you here."

Tommy kept looking at me over his glass as he downed it, and handed it back. "Of course not," he said noncommittally. He started to get up, but I pushed him back down, and held a hand to his forehead.

"You're staying in bed all day. You've got a horrible fever. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

I grinned at this. Nobody had ever called me sir, ever. "Hey, do you have your own clothes or whatever?"

"What do you mean?" Tommy glanced up at me.

"I mean, where is your stuff, your clothes and your…other possessions. You must have some, you couldn't have just lived with the same shirt and jeans forever." I sat on the edge of the bed and held his gaze. "I'm not buying you new clothes."

"Well…I have some stuff tucked away in the warehouse where I lived with some guys…" Aha! "But it's probably gone now,"

I reached over and grabbed a pen from the bedside table. "Where is this warehouse? I'll get your things."

He looked up at me, suspicious. But he broke and told me.

"Good. I'll go get your things today-"

"It's a rough spot." He interrupted me. "Those guys…they're tough."

"Tough like you?" I smirked. Tommy's face fell. "I can take care of myself, Tommy."

"Okay," he mumbled.

"I'll get your things, pick up some groceries, and when I get back, we'll talk about finding you a place to live, alright?"

Tommy nodded solemnly.

I picked up my keys and stopped at the door. "I'm going to lock the door so no one can get in. You just go to sleep, alright? Don't answer the door for anyone, I'll let myself in." Tommy's noncommittal 'yes sir' was the last thing I heard when I shut the door.

I came back maybe an hour later, a small red duffel over my shoulder and a few grocery bags in my hands.

I let myself into the flat to find Tommy wrapped up in his blankets, lying on the couch watching some cartoon.

"I thought I told you to stay in bed," I reprimanded as I shut the door behind me with my food and dumped my bags on the kitchen table.

"I got bored," Tommy whined. "Besides, I'm still lying down."

I put some of the groceries into the refrigerator and tossed the rest into a nearby cupboard. "Let's see what you've got here," I zipped open the duffel and saw the meager possessions inside- a few shirts, a sweater, and a very old, very torn pair of khakis. "Looks like I am going to have to buy you some clothes." No underwear, even. "You really are the epitome of a street boy, ain't you? A regular Oliver Twist."

"Did they give you Antwerp?"

"What?"

Tommy reached out to me and I tossed him the bag. He reached around inside out and triumphantly pulled out a small, ratty teddy bear.

"Antwerp!"

Jesus. A teddy bear.

"Antwerp?" I asked, leaning back on the table. "Isn't that where diamonds come from?" All of Suzy's diamonds had come from Antwerp.

"I don't know. Is it?"

I shrugged, leaving Tommy and Antwerp to watch their cartoons. I found a phone book and pulled it out, not really knowing what I was looking for.

"I suppose you're too old for foster care, then,"

"I'll be eighteen in two months!" Tommy said, affronted. "I can take care of myself. Government wouldn't want me anyway,"

"And how would you take care of yourself?"

"I'd get my own flat," He said proudly.

"With what money?"

Tommy thought for a moment. "I could work for you," He suggested, hopefully.

"You don't know what I do, kid."

"What do you do, Turkish?"

I glanced at him. "You don't want to know." I reached over and grabbed the remote, turning off the telly. "Get some sleep."

"Yes, sir," He mumbled.

I left him there on the couch while I called around, not really knowing what I was trying to find. No place for him to live, yet, anyway. I was torn between legitimately wanting to find him a home and not wanting to accidentally send him through a cycle of social workers and group homes that he would never get out of.

There was one such home that offered classes, though, for a very small fee, to young people whom didn't live with them. Sort of like a special school. Perhaps it was unlicensed, too. That was the impression I got talking to the woman who ran it. But they would learn life skills, a few academic subjects of course, and a trade of their choice.

At least this way he would learn something useful instead of selling drugs or begging or washing windows like he had been doing prior. At least this way he could get a job doing something respectable somewhere and eventually get his own flat and be out of my life.

Dammit. At this rate I'd have to take care of him for months. Perhaps he could get a job on the side anyway. Maybe he could run the slots.

That's horrible, I thought. He's much too young to be working in a casino.

Jesus, Turkish! Another side of me argues. It's an illegal operation, anyway. What do you care if he's too young? Brick Top's probably got five-year-olds serving drinks in his casinos, anyway.

Yes, and I've always aspired to be like Brick Top, I thought bitterly.

I would have to talk to Tommy tomorrow about it. I was already sort of holding him here against his will, may as well see what he really wanted to do.

Gorgeous George dropped by, unexpected, after I made pending arrangements with the woman at the Majesty Group Home, as it was called.

He was dragging a mattress behind him, and grinning like an idiot.

"What the hell is this?" I said, incredulously.

"Fer Tommy," Gorgeous whistled, pushing past me with the mattress, glancing at where Tommy was napping on the couch. "I figured he needed a place t'sleep t'at wasn't yer bed," He winked at me. I ignored it.

"So you went out and bought him a mattress?"

"Oh, no," he dumped it in a corner. "I found 't in a dumpster."

"What?"

"T's alroight, Turkish. Was outside a respek-table lookin' place. I don't t'ink it's diseased or nothing. Got no stains on 't."

"Somebody could have been killed on this mattress, George," I pointed out. "Or raped. Or lost their virginity. Or shot drugs. Or birthed a baby. Or-"

"But t' point is, 't's here now, roight?" Gorgeous George grinned a gap-toothed grin at me. "Don't t'ink it's got bugs or nothin'. Just wrap 't up in some sheets. Ye said ye found him in an alley, roight?"

I sighed. "Yeah. And he was living in a warehouse with a gang of rat-boys."

"T'ere, see, I think he'll roight 'preciate a dumpster-mattress. Eh?" He nudged me. "Well, I'll be off. I'll see ye t'morow, Turkish, big night!"

And he left. Left me with a mattress he found in a dumpster.

Tommy, on the other hand, was delighted when he saw it after his nap.

"Does this mean you're not going to send me away?" He asked excitedly as he helped me put some sheets on the dumpster-mattress.

I sighed. Seems I'd been doing a lot of that lately. "If you're going to stay here, and it's still not decided, Tommy, you're going to go to school. And you're going to do get a job, too. You're gonna have to pay for yourself."

"I can work for you?" He grinned at me.

"No!" I shook me head. "You're going to get a job at a gas station or a restaurant or something."

"Oh…okay." Tommy went back to what he was doing. "It's okay. I can be good, Turkish. I can learn how to cook or something…I'm really good around the house. I'll be quiet, too, I promise."

"Well…" I stood and regarded him, staring up at me apprehensively. "Come and eat, then."

"I'm not hungry," He said as I set out the two plates of a meager meal before him.

"You don't have to eat a whole lot, Tommy. Here, just a small piece of chicken and some vegetables. Your body needs nutrients to fight off that virus." I poured him some water.

"I thought it was starve a fever, feed a cold. Oh…maybe it was the other way 'round," Tommy said quietly as he sat across from me.

"I don't know. And I don't care. Eat your dinner." I dug into mine, not really in the mood for nutrients, either. Right at that moment I'd have rather sunk into the couch with some beer and Monty Python reruns.

Across from me, Tommy clasped his hands and bowed his head. "Thank you, chicken, for dying so we could eat you."

That night I lay awake and listened to the sounds of Tommy breathing, accompanied by the occasional cough. He shivered, and it got worse and louder.

Afraid he was getting really sick all over again, I sat up. "Tommy?"

Tommy gasped and held his breath, at least that was what it sounded like, but it still didn't stop the occasional tremble or sob coming through.

I got out of bed and made my way across the room. "Tommy?" The sniffles and sobs got worse. I knelt beside his mattress and put my hand on his shoulder. "Tommy, what's wrong?"

He was on his side, facing away from me, hugging Antwerp to him furiously. "Nothing, Turkish, I'm sorry I woke you,"

"No," I turned him and put my hand to his forehead. His fever was going down, at least. "What's wrong?"

Tommy stared up at me, eyes huge in his head. He angrily wiped a tear away. "I was just…I was just scared, Turkish."

"Of what? Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, I…I was scared…just when you called me…It's just that you've been so nice to me, and I was scared that…"

"Tommy, calm down." I stayed where I was until the sobbing ceased.

"It's…it's nothing, Turkish. I'm sorry," He turned and hugged Antwerp to him again, rubbing his cheek against the little bear's head, and I suddenly realized that he was doing to the teddy what he wished someone would do to him for once.

I sighed and lifted Tommy until he was sitting, he was surprisingly light, and held him close. "It's okay. Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you, Tommy."

Tommy sobbed against me and slowly stopped trembling, started breathing again. He looked up at me. "Please don't send me away, Turkish. I'll go to school and I'll get a job and I'll help out at home…I won't be any trouble, I promise. In fact, I'll shut up right now." He then firmly clamped his mouth shut.

I sighed and laid him back down. "I'll think about it," I told him. "You just worry about going to sleep and getting better. And I'm…I'm going to bed,"

Tommy nodded at me, determination strong in his eyes.

I wandered back to bed and fell asleep listening to the sounds of Tommy trying desperately not to make any noise.

"I look like a yuppie," He complained.

The next day, I had deemed Tommy well enough to get out of bed, shower, and dress. I ended up giving him a few of my old things, slacks and shirts, until we got some more of his own stuff.

"You look respectable," I told him. I regarded him for a moment. "I guess I can't very well leave you here, can I?"

Tommy grinned at me, and I realized that he did have a rather nice smile. "Please let me come with you?"

I sighed and thought how Gorgeous George was going to be gloating about this later. "It's no place for a boy like you," I told him.

"I'm not a boy," There was that scowl again. "And I'm not innocent. Trust me."

I uncrossed my arms and tried to stare him down. He had a very determined stare, however, and I failed. "Fine. Put on a sweater. It's cold."

We walked down to the lot and I told him what the lot and The Gun and Gorgeous George and I were all about. His eyes really widened when he took in the implications of the unlicensed boxing world. I wondered what I was getting into.

"You just be quiet and stay by me, you hear?" Tommy nodded, solemnly.

A crowd was already gathering in the lot, where the makeshift wooden ring had already been set up. Mostly low-class, blue-collar betters who were out to see an honest fight. Not the highbrow, vicious hardcore dealers that were often the audience for any of the fights we put on for Brick Top, his clientele. Somebody would almost always end up dead at the end of one of those fights, and not the fighters either.

I liked this way better.

"Turkish!" Gorgeous called out to me as I entered the lot with Tommy in tow. "Do ye like it?" He gestured at the small caravan in the far corner of the lot, our new office.

"It looks fine," I hesitantly told him. "Is it going to last?"

"Oh, fer a few years t'least." Gorgeous grinned that gap-toothed grin. "Is t'is Tommy t'en?" He ruffled the kid's hair, as much as it could be ruffled. "Good lookin' boy, t'at!" He threw a few mock punches at Tommy, who grinned back at him.

"Are you ready for this fight, George?" I asked in all seriousness.

"Ready as I'll ever be, Turkish." He smiled, a little apprehensively. "It'll be good fun, this,"

A little while later, the fight started. Me and Tommy stood a little ways behind, on some old garbage cans, watching. Gorgeous George was winning, a few well-aimed punches at the opponent's face and the blood was flowing freely. The crowd went wild.

I glanced over at Tommy. He was in rapture, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Dammit. Now I had ruined him. The same way Brick Top had ruined me. Now there was no turning back.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

After the fight was over and Gorgeous had won, we were using the caravan for the first time, to patch up his many wounds and bruises.

"Didja see t'at, boy, didja?" Gorgeous was excited as all hell, delirious and probably missing a bunch of brain cells. Tommy grinned back at him and showed no squeamishness at wiping away the blood from the boxer's face. "Pow! Bang!" Gorgeous carried on. "Out like a light!"

"I've ruined you now, haven't I?" I asked Tommy quietly. "Now that you know what I do…you won' t leave now, will you?"

Tommy bit his lip. "I could like this, Turkish. I could do this." He applied a band-aide to one of George's face cuts. "Maybe one day I can fight-"

"No!" I interrupted him. "You can stay with me, you can work for me, but you are not going to box. Not under me, anyway. You hear me?"

He nodded solemnly. I sighed. Gorgeous grinned at me, now missing another tooth.

"Then you can stay. And you can run the slots, I'll show you how. But you have to promise that you'll study hard and do good so one day you can get outta here. You hear?"

Tommy nodded, big eyes bright. "I promise, Turkish." He hesitated for a moment, then lunged forward and hugged me, tightly. "Thank you, Turkish."

I sighed and looked down at him. "Let's go home, kid."

To be continued in Chapter 2/4

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