So this one's a bit short, but I figured the update had taken way too
long to already, so I decided to just go ahead and post it. Enjoy, and
please review!
---
"Jack! Hey Jack, come 'ere, you got a telegram!"
Jack slowly rose from the toils of his landscaping duties and mopped his brow with his sleeve when he heard Mike's bellow from the house.
"What's goin' on?" he panted, not having clearly heard his boss' call.
"A telegram," Mike answered, handing him the envelope. "All the way from New York City. I'll be darned, I wonder what could be so important in New York that someone would wanna tell ya about it all the way out here."
Jack laughed as he opened the letter. "Don't worry, Mike, I'll tell ya all about it."
Mike blushed slightly as his wife called him back into the house to give Jack some privacy. "Oh well, I wouldn't wanna pry if it was somethin' private…"
Jack chuckled and shook his head as he pulled out the letter, his mood quickly changing as he read Race's urgent words.
Jack. There's war. People are dying. Blink's hurt. We need you. Please help.
Jack squinted his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, mulling over his choices. The guys really needed him back in New York. He had known something was wrong, he knew he should have gone back. But he couldn't go back now, he had already made his life.
Or had he? Was this really what he wanted? Toiling day after day for someone else, making a considerable amount of money and not even having anything to spend it on? He HAD been more free back in New York, he finally admitted to himself. The words "Blink's hurt" echoed maddeningly in his mind, and he knew what he had to do.
"Mike," he called, heading into the house and approaching his friend.
"What is it, Jack?" Mike asked, concerned, as he stood up from his work on a broken chair. "Bad news?"
Jack sighed and handed Mike the letter. "Yeah. Mike, I need to go back to New York. My friends need me, I should've never left."
Mike nodded understandingly and returned the paper to Jack, patting him on the back. "I know. I've been thinkin about this for awhile. You're a good worker, but I know you ain't happy here, Jack. Go back to New York. We'll be prayin for you." This blessing wasn't the only thing he gave his favorite ranch hand as he pressed a wad of bills into Jack's open palm.
Jack's eyes widened as his hand closed around the money and he extended it back to the other man. "Oh, no Mike, I couldn't--"
"Nonsense," Mike insisted. "Consider it your final paycheck. It's been great havin ya around, Jack. But I think your friends need ya more then we do."
Jack sighed and nodded in agreement, grudgingly but gratefully shoving the money into his pocket. "Thanks Mike. I-I'll never forget you," he murmured sincerely.
Mike sighed and gave Jack a somewhat sad smile, then pulled him into the kitchen. "Well come on, we can't send you on the train with an empty stomach. It's lunch time anyhow, come in and Edith'll fix us somethin to eat."
Jack pasted on a smile and followed Mike, gazing around at what he would be leaving, and reviewing in his mind's eye what he would be returning to. He knew it would be hard, but even more prominent in his mind was the knowledge that he had to do it.
---
Race was startled from his half-sleep as he heard the resolute knock on the large wooden door in the next room over. He nearly welcomed this excuse to take a quick break from his late night co-vigil with Preacher of Blink in the sick room, as he knew that even the loudest banging could never wake the seemingly comatose Kloppman this late at night.
He pulled himself to his feet, looking a mess but fully awake, and tip-toed down the hallway, carefully avoiding the infamous creaky boards. His curiosity at who in heaven's name could be on the doorstep this late at night was piqued, but he was also slightly scared, half-expecting an insane murderer on the other side of the door..
When he finally swung it open, he was slightly disappointed to see his two nervous-looking friends instead of the psycho-killer he had anticipated. "What are yous doin' here?"
Specs looked from Race's unforgiving eyes over to Skittery, waiting for any chance to make a run for it. Instead of running, however, Skittery's eyes were fixed on Race and he stepped forward slightly. "We wanna come back." He tried valiantly to hold his gaze fixed on Race, but he found himself thanking God for the thick darkness of the night. "We'se sorry, we was stupid, and we…we wanna come back."
Race's stare remained even and he folded his arms across his chest, breathing in deeply. The nerve of these boys, wanting to just waltz back into their lives after all the trauma and chaos they had caused. They were the reason so many had died, why Race had been sitting up all night with a near-dying Blink, why the little ones had to skip selling days on end and the others had to live in constant fear. Why should they be accepted back?
"Race, we know we'se been dumb, but we didn't mean nothin by it! Please, we'se gonna die out dere! Please, you gotta help us out." Skittery's gaze had turned to near pathetic pleading.
"Where's Snoddy." Race deliberately changed the subject, taking a deep breath as his eyelids suddenly became very heavy.
Skittery shook his head and shrugged defeatedly. "He left, ran off. He didn't wanna come back. But we do. Please Race. I don't wanna have to beg." He knew he was way beyond begging, but he had hoped to salvage at least a thread of dignity. No such luck…
Race dropped his head and wearily rubbed his temples with a sigh. "Alright. Fine. You guys can stay here for da night. But in da morning…well, we'll see. Get in here, ya bums."
---
Preacher was jerked awake as a heavy groan broke through Blink's lips. He quickly rushed to his patient's side with a cold compress and some clean towels.
"Blink, are you alright?" He pulled back the covers and examined the body for any wounds that had opened during the past few hours.
"Hurts," Blink moaned, eye still squeezed shut.
"Where does it hurt, buddy?" Preacher asked softly, pressing the cold cloth to Blink's burning forehead.
"Everywhere. Yeah, all over. Hurts. Don't feel good."
Preacher tried to keep the boy still as he shoved a bottle of whiskey to his lips. "Here you go, this'll make you feel better," he promised, meanwhile pressing a towel to the bleeding shoulder wound.
By the time the bottle was half-empty, Blink had quieted down and was nearly asleep, murmuring something about cole slaw and hedgehogs before Preacher sat back down.
There were a lot of injured boys in here, and Preacher knew there would be more if something didn't change soon. Unable to sleep, he spent the rest of the night in prayer.
---
"You ain't answerin my question. Let's try dis again." Cut slowed down and over-enunciated. "Did you kill any of them?"
"I. Don't. Know." Esco repeated wearily. "I toldja, we beat 'em to shreds, but we didn't exactly watch 'em die."
"So ya didn't finish da job, is that whatcha tellin me?"
"Well, not in so many words…" Esco resisted the urge to examine his fingernails. "But we'll finish the job. Don't you worry." He narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles as he thought of the bruises all over his body provided by the very boys that Cut had a grudge against. And Cut's grudge was his grudge, and Butch's, and the rest of the Bronx boys. So yes, the job would be finished…
---
"Jack! Hey Jack, come 'ere, you got a telegram!"
Jack slowly rose from the toils of his landscaping duties and mopped his brow with his sleeve when he heard Mike's bellow from the house.
"What's goin' on?" he panted, not having clearly heard his boss' call.
"A telegram," Mike answered, handing him the envelope. "All the way from New York City. I'll be darned, I wonder what could be so important in New York that someone would wanna tell ya about it all the way out here."
Jack laughed as he opened the letter. "Don't worry, Mike, I'll tell ya all about it."
Mike blushed slightly as his wife called him back into the house to give Jack some privacy. "Oh well, I wouldn't wanna pry if it was somethin' private…"
Jack chuckled and shook his head as he pulled out the letter, his mood quickly changing as he read Race's urgent words.
Jack. There's war. People are dying. Blink's hurt. We need you. Please help.
Jack squinted his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, mulling over his choices. The guys really needed him back in New York. He had known something was wrong, he knew he should have gone back. But he couldn't go back now, he had already made his life.
Or had he? Was this really what he wanted? Toiling day after day for someone else, making a considerable amount of money and not even having anything to spend it on? He HAD been more free back in New York, he finally admitted to himself. The words "Blink's hurt" echoed maddeningly in his mind, and he knew what he had to do.
"Mike," he called, heading into the house and approaching his friend.
"What is it, Jack?" Mike asked, concerned, as he stood up from his work on a broken chair. "Bad news?"
Jack sighed and handed Mike the letter. "Yeah. Mike, I need to go back to New York. My friends need me, I should've never left."
Mike nodded understandingly and returned the paper to Jack, patting him on the back. "I know. I've been thinkin about this for awhile. You're a good worker, but I know you ain't happy here, Jack. Go back to New York. We'll be prayin for you." This blessing wasn't the only thing he gave his favorite ranch hand as he pressed a wad of bills into Jack's open palm.
Jack's eyes widened as his hand closed around the money and he extended it back to the other man. "Oh, no Mike, I couldn't--"
"Nonsense," Mike insisted. "Consider it your final paycheck. It's been great havin ya around, Jack. But I think your friends need ya more then we do."
Jack sighed and nodded in agreement, grudgingly but gratefully shoving the money into his pocket. "Thanks Mike. I-I'll never forget you," he murmured sincerely.
Mike sighed and gave Jack a somewhat sad smile, then pulled him into the kitchen. "Well come on, we can't send you on the train with an empty stomach. It's lunch time anyhow, come in and Edith'll fix us somethin to eat."
Jack pasted on a smile and followed Mike, gazing around at what he would be leaving, and reviewing in his mind's eye what he would be returning to. He knew it would be hard, but even more prominent in his mind was the knowledge that he had to do it.
---
Race was startled from his half-sleep as he heard the resolute knock on the large wooden door in the next room over. He nearly welcomed this excuse to take a quick break from his late night co-vigil with Preacher of Blink in the sick room, as he knew that even the loudest banging could never wake the seemingly comatose Kloppman this late at night.
He pulled himself to his feet, looking a mess but fully awake, and tip-toed down the hallway, carefully avoiding the infamous creaky boards. His curiosity at who in heaven's name could be on the doorstep this late at night was piqued, but he was also slightly scared, half-expecting an insane murderer on the other side of the door..
When he finally swung it open, he was slightly disappointed to see his two nervous-looking friends instead of the psycho-killer he had anticipated. "What are yous doin' here?"
Specs looked from Race's unforgiving eyes over to Skittery, waiting for any chance to make a run for it. Instead of running, however, Skittery's eyes were fixed on Race and he stepped forward slightly. "We wanna come back." He tried valiantly to hold his gaze fixed on Race, but he found himself thanking God for the thick darkness of the night. "We'se sorry, we was stupid, and we…we wanna come back."
Race's stare remained even and he folded his arms across his chest, breathing in deeply. The nerve of these boys, wanting to just waltz back into their lives after all the trauma and chaos they had caused. They were the reason so many had died, why Race had been sitting up all night with a near-dying Blink, why the little ones had to skip selling days on end and the others had to live in constant fear. Why should they be accepted back?
"Race, we know we'se been dumb, but we didn't mean nothin by it! Please, we'se gonna die out dere! Please, you gotta help us out." Skittery's gaze had turned to near pathetic pleading.
"Where's Snoddy." Race deliberately changed the subject, taking a deep breath as his eyelids suddenly became very heavy.
Skittery shook his head and shrugged defeatedly. "He left, ran off. He didn't wanna come back. But we do. Please Race. I don't wanna have to beg." He knew he was way beyond begging, but he had hoped to salvage at least a thread of dignity. No such luck…
Race dropped his head and wearily rubbed his temples with a sigh. "Alright. Fine. You guys can stay here for da night. But in da morning…well, we'll see. Get in here, ya bums."
---
Preacher was jerked awake as a heavy groan broke through Blink's lips. He quickly rushed to his patient's side with a cold compress and some clean towels.
"Blink, are you alright?" He pulled back the covers and examined the body for any wounds that had opened during the past few hours.
"Hurts," Blink moaned, eye still squeezed shut.
"Where does it hurt, buddy?" Preacher asked softly, pressing the cold cloth to Blink's burning forehead.
"Everywhere. Yeah, all over. Hurts. Don't feel good."
Preacher tried to keep the boy still as he shoved a bottle of whiskey to his lips. "Here you go, this'll make you feel better," he promised, meanwhile pressing a towel to the bleeding shoulder wound.
By the time the bottle was half-empty, Blink had quieted down and was nearly asleep, murmuring something about cole slaw and hedgehogs before Preacher sat back down.
There were a lot of injured boys in here, and Preacher knew there would be more if something didn't change soon. Unable to sleep, he spent the rest of the night in prayer.
---
"You ain't answerin my question. Let's try dis again." Cut slowed down and over-enunciated. "Did you kill any of them?"
"I. Don't. Know." Esco repeated wearily. "I toldja, we beat 'em to shreds, but we didn't exactly watch 'em die."
"So ya didn't finish da job, is that whatcha tellin me?"
"Well, not in so many words…" Esco resisted the urge to examine his fingernails. "But we'll finish the job. Don't you worry." He narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles as he thought of the bruises all over his body provided by the very boys that Cut had a grudge against. And Cut's grudge was his grudge, and Butch's, and the rest of the Bronx boys. So yes, the job would be finished…