You Can't Erase It [Jack]

[Vice Ingram]

The sun was sinking lower in the sky. Vice clenched his jaw and braced himself against the red brick building, rubbing a strong, grimy hand across his forehead. He really didn't care about meeting with this infamous Jack Kelly, and he really didn't want to stand here waiting any longer. Didn't this guy realize he had better things to do than hang around discussing some rumble that was supposed to be taking place? Sure, Vice was always up for smashing a fist into some fool's face, but, not being much of a talker, he wasn't sure he cared all that much at present. Flexing his jaw, he sighed heavily. He'd been waiting this long, he might as well see what Kelly had to say.

He'd already met the leader of the Midtown newsies, and from what he could tell, Mike Greaser was as tough as they came. Vice would rather have been stabbed through the heart than ever admit that he felt almost a bit intimidated by the swarthy guy who'd come banging his fist at the lodging house a couple of days ago. From the looks of him, Vice had guessed Mike to be around his age. Eighteen. Nineteen. He couldn't tell. All Vice knew was that he had possessed a cool collectiveness far beyond his years, and he although he seemed dead set on convincing Vice to take his side, Vice also got the feeling that Mike wasn't going to cut anyone a lot of slack. But Vice didn't need slack. He got things right the first time.

Vice leaned his head back against the wall, tilting his chin up so he could survey the goings-on in the street before him. If Kelly didn't show up soon, he wouldn't get his little meeting. The newsie who'd brought Vice the message that the Manhattan leader wanted to meet him had been blunt, and Vice liked that. It was part of the reason he'd decided to give Jack a chance. But he would only get one shot. Vice stretched his hands. He liked having power.

[Jack Kelly]

As twilight neared, Jack Kelly glanced over his shoulder as he neared the Harlem lodging house. It was getting late, and he was on unfamiliar terf. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in Harlem, and he was trying to locate the lodging house based on what a little newsie who looked like he could hardly even spell his own name told him as he entered the borough. He was nearing it now, and he could see Vice standing outside against the wall, his blond hair a shock against the darkening sky. Jack knew he was late, but he didn't exactly regret it. He didn't rush for anybody, anyway. And then there was the reason he was late that ate at him even all these minutes after he'd left the lodging house fuming: he'd gotten into a huge falling out with his best friend.

Before he left, he'd been stopped by Racetrack, who looked more serious than he had in a long time. Racetrack, Jack knew, had tried to keep things as normal as possible among the newsies while Jack dealt with the abnormalities, which Jack had been grateful for. But right when Jack was about to step out for his meeting with Vice, he noticed a large group of his boys standing near the front desk: Race, Snoddy, Jake, Specs, Dutchy, Bumlets, Swifty, Boots and Crutchy were talking gravely, and they silenced once they saw him approach. An uneasy silence as Jack descended the stairs, and then Race stepped forward. "Jack."

"What, Race? I gotta go meet with Harlem..."

"Jack, we gotta talk..."

"Race, I don't got time to talk right now."

"Jack, c'mon. We gotta talk to you." Race didn't wait for a reply. "You haven't been youself lately. Too much of that, really. The boys agree; you haven't been a leader no more. You just been out in the other boroughs and locked up in the back room."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Jack, you haven't been our leader! All you been doin', we don't even know! It's gotta change Jack!"

"Whaddya mean, it's gotta change? What's gotta change? Nothin' has gotta change, Race. Everythin' is fine..."

The argument escalated, both of them getting angrier and angrier, until both looked ready to throw a punch, and Specs and Snoddy rushed forward to restrain them. Finally, Jack busted out of Snoddy's grip and head out the door, fuming, toward Harlem, leaving behind an enraged friend and eight upset newsboys.

He reached Vice and stood nearby, not getting in the boy's face. "Vice," he said, "good to see ya..."

[Vice Ingram]

Vice scanned the streets, searching for some newsie about his age. He wasn't at all sure how he would recognize the Manhattan leader. However, amidst the bustle of the still busy street, he spotted a young man, fairly tall, headed in his direction. This had to be him. He was wearing a red bandana around his neck, just as Vice had been told he would. Finally. Vice straightened up quickly, unwilling to be caught in any sort of contemplation. He didn't much value deep thought. In fact, he could only see its hindrance. It slowed you down.

Sure enough, the other boy was approaching him. He seemed worried, tired. In a way, distracted. Although it intrigued him, Vice let the thought go. There he went with the thinking again. He switched gears, embracing his irritation again. This Jack Kelly had better have something awfully good to say. He'd taken long enough to show up. Vice somehow doubted that he'd find Kelly's reasoning more appealing than Mike's, but who really knew? He'd been wrong before.

The boy stopped walking while he was still a considerable distance from where Vice stood, and Vice found himself slowly softening. He appreciated the small gesture. Perhaps they would have more in common than he had initially thought. But that was getting ahead of things. Vice forced his brain to slow down, clucked his tongue. He heard the boy's voice cut through the silence. "Vice, good to see ya..."

"Yeah?" He returned, still a bit unwilling to appear friendly. "Jack Kelly, I take it..."

[Jack Kelly]

"Yeah? Jack Kelly, I take it..."

"Yeah," Jack said with a curt nod. He had been prepared to be friendly, but immediately discarded that idea when he observed Vice's cold demeanor. He knew as a leader that when you had to talk to some of the other leaders, it was always best to go with what you knew. Jack was never too serious when it came to talking with Jordan Brody, and he never cracked a joke when talking to Spot Conlon, unless Spot did it first. Now that Vice had made clear this wasn't a social visit, Jack would be sure to act likewise. "Enjoying the high life?" he asked, referring to Vice's new ascension as leader. He knew a lot of people were vying for it: the contortionist called Stretch was the oldest Harlem newsie and wanted the spot, but he didn't have the nerve. Clearly, Vice had nerves of steel, and was good for the job.

"Sorry I'm late. There was a...situation back home." He didn't want to talk about it much, lest he should get angry about it again. He wanted to leave Race alone and do what he had to do like he planned all along. "But I didn't come here to talk about situations. I been meanin' to talk to Harlem soon as I could. Try to let you know what was goin' on." He'd been too overwhelmed with everything to really worry about making an appointment with Vice, but now it had become too urgent to ignore. Jack knew that Mike was looking for people to side with him, and he needed to talk to Spot as well before the persuasive Mike Greaser could convince him like he did Mitch in the Bronx.

He pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Vice. "What have you been hearing?" he asked.

[Vice Ingram]

It was funny, Vice thought as he survey the boy standing before him, how inaccurate intuition could be. After meeting Mike Greaser, Vice had often wondered about the leader of the Manhattan newsies, imagining him both a fool and somewhat faint-hearted, yet subconsciously aware of the goings-on around him. Of course, the thought had occurred to him that perhaps the reason he thought this was because Mike had gotten to him first. Mike. Vice managed to resist an involuntary shake of his head. Mike was powerful, he knew that, and Vice knew it would be wise to take his part, if only for the prevention of atrocities he didn't want to imagine. The responsibility of leadership was beginning to weigh heavily on him.

Shaking off the dark mood that was beginning to come over him, Vice turned his attention back to Jack Kelly. His assumptions had been wrong. One could tell from mere observation, that Jack Kelly was by no means a fool, nor did he lack any sort of courage or spunk. In fact, he seemed to possess an air of well-deserved control, a far cry from Mike's fear-driven respect. This was going to be a tough call.

"Yeah. Enjoying the high life?"
When Jack spoke again, Vice noticed a slight change in his tone, and, in contrast to Jack's now business-like regard, he felt himself softening, his guard lowering. He had to give him credit. There wasn't much cause for dislike at this point in time. Vice heard himself laugh, glad that it came easily and naturally, as Jack continued.

"Sorry I'm late. There was a...situation back home. But I didn't come here to talk about situations. I been meanin' to talk to Harlem soon as I could. Try to let you know what was goin' on."
Vice nodded, not looking yet at Jack. He needed to think. Glad when the other boy pulled out a cigarette, offering him one, Vice accepted without hesitation.

"What have you been hearing?"

Digging into his pocket, Vice's fingers found a match and he struck it quickly against the brick wall, the scratch and hiss it made strangely satisfactory in the dusky night air. The flame burned bright as he kindled it close to his hand, fumbling to light the cigarette. He then passed the match to Jack, letting his eyes finally rest on the boy's face, as if deciding to trust.

"Quite a few things, actually. But Mike beat you here. I'm a lot more filled in than you know," he replied bluntly, not willing to beat around the bush. He kept his tone friendly, open, but wanted Jack to know he was taking this seriously. "I wanna hear what you've got to say, Kelly. You're no girl, and I like that. 'Course, Mike ain't either..."
He let his voice trail off, a slight grin spreading across his face.

[Jack Kelly]

"Quite a few things, actually. But Mike beat you here. I'm a lot more filled in than you know."

Jack's face darkened suddenly. So Mike had been here, after all. Jack knew that he was kidding himself, if he thought Mike was just going to lie low and not try to get all the support he could. Jack certainly had to learn that he and Mike were almost the same person: they had been good enough friends in the beginning, hadn't they? And since the conflict began, Mike and Jack had proven that in many ways they could think the same way: both were stubborn, passionate and difficult to be around when angry. He knew as well that Mike was a persuasive son of a gun, and Jack would be hard-pressed to turn Vice's opinion around, if it had already been made.

Jack spoke. "So he talked to you?" he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. He took the match from Vice and lit his own cigarette. The flame burned his fingers and he waved it out and cast the match to the ground. Taking a long drag, he addressed Vice again. "What sorts of things did you hear?" He didn't want to start convincing Vice just yet. If he came on too strong people might think he was desperate. At this point, he was, but people better not think it. Better for them to think he was composed and he knew what he was doing.

"I wanna hear what you got to say, Kelly. You're no girl, and I like that. 'Course, Mike ain't either..."

Jack exhaled smoke as he thought for a moment. "Got that right," he said, almost distantly, not even sure himself what he meant. He turned back to Vice and tried to maintain his composure, knowing that at some point he would be in danger of losing it. He said slowly, "Mike probably got you all convinced, don't he?" he began, feeling around for a way to bring the point home for Vice. "He fed you some story, right? About what he was doin'. Promising you some power when it was done, am I right?" Jack shook his head slowly. "Mike's all talk, Vice. The only reason he's talkin' to people tryin' to win 'em over is cause he can't do it by himself. If he could he'd try to crush you under his heel just like he's tryin' to crush me."

Jack felt his hands shaking, and he wondered why. He took another drag, trying to calm himself. "He's out to kill kids," he said harshly. "And not just kids like you and me, Vice. Kids like Scamp, and Les Jacobs." Scamp was fourteen and a Harlem boy, a quiet kid with an eye for practical jokes. "He don't care how old a kid is. He got goons to go an' kill 'em." Jack met Vice's eyes boldly. "And just as soon as he don't need you no more, he'll kill you too." Jack knew that the negative propaganda against Mike wasn't enough. He needed to convince Vice not only to not side with Mike, but to join forces with Jack. He stopped talking for now, though, and let his words sink in, hoping they would.

[Vice Ingram]

"What sorts of things did you hear?"

Even before Vice had finished talking he could sense Jack's urgency. He didn't seem desperate, just suddenly cynical about the task he'd come to accomplish, as if he didn't see much ope for triumph. Vice's mind wandered back through what he had said, trying to sift out any certain phrase that could've set Jack on edge. Mike had gotten there first. But what difference did that make? Couldn't Jack tell Vice wasn't going to be won over so easily?

"Got that right...Mike probably got you all convinced don't he? He fed you some story, right? About what he was doin'? Promising you some power when it was done, am I right?"

So that had been it. Made sense, but funny, though. Was Kelly really that hard up for supporters? Still, Vice had to admit there was truth in what he'd said; Mike's visit had seemed very promising, but did Vice really want more power?

"Mike's all talk, Vice. The only reason he's talkin' to people tryin' to win 'em over is cause he can't do it by himself. If he could, he'd crush you under his heel just like he's tryin' to crush me."

Vice let out a low whistle. This guy had nerve. It surprised Vice, though, just how much sense all of this was making; Jack Kelly was unknowingly causing everything to fall into place. Of course, Vice hadn't made up his mind yet, but he now had something new to chew on. Mike was ruthless and he was powerful, but it now seemed as though Vice had been wrong to initially think him the most powerful leader in New York. Vice couldn't tell where he got it, but this Jack Kelly sure had guts.

"He's out to kill kids. And not just kids like you and me, Vice. Kids like Scamp, and Les Jacobs. He don't care how old a kid is. He got goons to go an' kill 'em. And just as soon as he don't need you no more, he'll kill you too."

His eyes had been on Jack throughout the speech, but at the last sentence, Jack's eyes had raised to meet Vice's and remained fixed there. Jack seemed to be finished now, and as Vice blew out a breath of smoke, the words hit him like a ton of bricks. he remembered the boy he had kicked in the lodging house hallway before meeting Mike, remembered his little brother, his sisters. He knew Jack must be able to read the agony written plainly on his face as a new thought came to him...and if he didn't join Mike? What then?

"Look. Kelly." Vice groped for words. "I'm not sure what you're expectin' of me, ok? An' I don't know what you want me to do about it. I'm only one guy, Jack. Who the hell do we think we are, anyway? If Mike's out to kill, then kill he's gonna."

It was the hard truth. Vice would've been willing to bet money that if Mike wanted either of them dead, they would both be mincemeat by midnight. Vice knew Jack was right, appreciated his honesty, but what bugged him was that he was powerless to try anything against this new knowledge. He didn't want Kelly to think he was angry, so he spoke again.

"Got a little brother. His name's Jem. When I las' saw him he was a scrawny thing, but that was near four years ago. You ever killed anyone, Jack? I'm not s'posed to be this soft."

[Jack Kelly]

"Look. Kelly. I'm not sure what you're expectin' of me, ok? An' I don't know what you want me to do about it. I'm only one guy, Jack. Who the hell do we think we are, anyway? If Mike's out to kill, then kill he's gonna."

Momentarily, Jack was silenced. He knew that Vice was right: Mike was ruthless enough so that nothing could stop him from killing, and if he wanted murder, he would accomplish it no matter what their efforts were. But it was more than just murder that Mike was after. If blood was his lust he could just as well be anywhere else. Mike knew something that even Pulitzer and Hearst and all those other big shots didn't know. The newsies had power. And if you controlled all of them, if you even had a handle on some of them, it was like controlling half of New York. Mike was after that power. He wanted it only because he had been denied it. Jack had no doubt that Vice was right.

"We can't stop Mike from killing," he said, his voice slightly more firm that he expected it to be. "Don't nobody got the power to do that. But I know that Mike don't wanna kill if he don't have to. Too much effort. I think he kills when he's gotta. What he really wants is to be at the top. He told you he'd share the power with you...you really think he's gonna, Vice? You think you're gonna get anything from a fella who'll kill to get where he wants to be?"

"Got a little brother. His name's Jem. When I las' saw him he was a scrawny thing, but that was near four years ago. You ever killed anyone, Jack? I'm not s'posed to be this soft."

"I won't never kill no one," Jack asserted. "And you ain't soft. If you was soft I'd be talking to someone else about this." His gaze became intense suddenly, and he looked at Vice, intending to have his message come across and hit home. "I hate to tell ya, Vice. But your kid brother. Jem. Mike don't need kids like him. And Mike gets rid of the kids he don't need." He knew it was harsh, but he needed Vice's support at any cost. Mike and Mitch were already working hand in hand. Jack was two seconds away from barring Bronx newsies from Manhattan, and barring his newsies from going into the Bronx. Jack said, "We don't need that, Vice. If we can't stop him from killing...then don't we gotta do something?"

[Vice Ingram]

"I won't never kill no one. And you ain't soft. If you was soft I'd be talking to someone else about this."

It was all Vice could do to hold back a snort. He liked Kelly, liked him a lot, and appreciated the effort he was making in all of this, but did he actually think that having Vice on his side would bring the support he needed? Jack wouldn't kill anyone. Vice could've guessed that. He, himself, would stay as far away from killing as was possible, but if it really came to it, Vice wasn't sure what he'd do. And besides, if Mike killed, what chance did the rest of them having of winning a game in which Mike made the rules?

"I hate to tell ya, Vice. But your kid brother. Jem. Mike don't need kids like him. And Mike gets rid of the kids he don't need."

Well, he should have known that one was coming. This Kelly was good not only at finding the essential strings, but also at pulling them. Vice didn't butt in. He wanted Jack to finish what he'd been going to say.

"We don't need that, Vice. If we can't stop him from killing...then don't we gotta do something?"

"Damn straight we gotta do something. I just wonder what you got in mind, Kelly. That big, ol' wonderful brain o' yours is proving to be quite an asset, but if you don't got a plan, what'd you expect me to do? I ain't got brains, ain't got no words of wisdom. Don't misunderstand, Jack, Harlem's still here. But we gotta know a plan 'fore we take your part."

Vice let out a breath, watched the smoke circle upwards, and gave a small chuckle.

"'Course...we could all just kill ourselves. Give Greaser a hand in accomplishing what may be inevitable."

[Jack Kelly]

"Damn straight we gotta do something. I just wonder what you got in mind, Kelly. That big, ol' wonderful brain o' yours is proving to be quite an asset, but if you don't got a plan, what'd you expect me to do? I ain't got brains, ain't got no words of wisdom. Don't misunderstand, Jack, Harlem's still here. But we gotta know a plan 'fore we take your part."

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. It was a bit of a struggle not to get irritated at Vice, especially since he wasn't in the most amiable mood to start out with, considering what had happened at the lodging house beforehand. He sighed quietly. "The only plan is the rumble. If we win, Mike is run outta here for good and we don't worry about him no more." He didn't mention what would happen if Mike won, because he himself couldn't fathom what would happen. But he was banking on that not happening. "But we can't win without Harlem. The Bronx is already in Mike's hands. We can't afford another borough going to Mike."

"'Course...we could all just kill ourselves. Give Greaser a hand in accomplishing what may be inevitable."

Jack's expression darkened. "Don't talk like that," he said, his voice tight. "If we have anything to do with it, Greaser won't touch nobody else than he already has. I don't know for sure, but I'm thinkin' Greaser's practical. He won't kill unless he has to." Jack didn't know exactly how pragmatic Mike was, but it seemed like he wasn't the type to waste his time with things or people he didn't need. Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "A girl from the Bronx was murdered just a few days ago. Of course we're thinkin' it's Greaser's dirty work."

[Vice Ingram]

"Don't talk like that. If we have anything to do with it, Greaser won't touch nobody else than he already has. I don't know for sure, but I'm thinkin' Greaser's practical. He won't kill unless he has to."

Here, Jack paused, and Vice let the words jostle chaotically inside his thoughts a moment before pulling himself back to the present conversation. It didn't seem to him as though Jack had quite finished, and Vice wondered as he watched the other boy expectantly whether Jack had paused for emphasis, a deliberate effort to soften the blow he'd just dealt when Vice had spoken of Jem. Vice decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; he seemed uptight.

"A girl from the Bronx was murdered just a few days ago. Of course we're thinkin' it's Greaser's dirty work."

Vice ran a hand through his hair. A girl from the Bronx? While it was true he'd lived in the Bronx for quite some time before taking over as leader of Harlem, he had to admit that socializing hadn't been one of his strong points. In fact, come to think of it, he could remember only one person he'd actually really known...or cared about. He swallowed hard. Had she been from the Bronx?

He turned back to Jack, rubbing his chin as he furrowed his brow at the darkening sky. "Yeah? I think you got a point there, Kelly. So what if I say yes, huh? I can tell you right now it ain't gonna be no easy feat striking down Greaser, but I guess you know that already. There's not a lot you don't."

Vice was silent a moment. "But I gotta ask...what'd the girl look like?"

[Jack Kelly]

"Yeah? I think you got a point there, Kelly. So what if I say yes, huh? I can tell you right now it ain't gonna be no easy feat striking down Greaser, but I guess you know that already. There's not a lot you don't."

"Course I know it," Jack said. He knew it better than anyone. He also knew that this was his battle. If things were different he would be fighting this out with Mike, man to man. But Jack knew that Mike was a man with big ideas. He wouldn't keep something like this on a small scale, especially when it was as important to him as everything that was going on happened to be. Jack knew that Mike was pumping everything to epic proportions. If Jack expected to win, he would have to do likewise. At this point, between what Mike and Jack had done, no matter what the outcome was, no one would ever forget it. "You help us out with this, Vice, and the good guys have a fighting chance. With the Bronx on his side Mike got a lot over us right now. Jordan and me have a deal, but nobody in Queens can fight like those Bronx and Midtown boys. Who's gonna fight? That eight-year-old German boy? The Professor? We need you and your boys to beat 'em. Without you, we don't got a prayer."

Jack had a bit of trouble admitting it, but it was the only way. He needed to degrade himself, only a little, to raise Vice up. And at this point, Jack would reduce himself to flattery to get Vice to agree. It looked like he would need Vice's support more than ever, now that even the Manhattan boys--his own boys!--seemed to be less supportive than they had been in the beginning. He needed all the help he could get. "I'm not sayin' it's gonna be easy. Boys are gonna get hurt. And if Mike has his way, there's gonna be more who die. But I ain't gonna stand around and let that happen. I'm gonna fight. Even if me and Jordan have to face Mike's army by ourselves. I need an answer from ya, Vice." Jack extended his hand to Vice, his gaze still, stony, and brimming with determination. "Are you with us here?"

"But I gotta ask...what'd the girl look like?"

Jack remembered Nellie. He had only met her once or twice, and he was embarrassed to realize that he could only vaguely recall what she looked like. He thought absently, Would Mush be able to tell Vice exactly what Nellie Lope looked like, from the shape of her face to her freckles? Knowing Mush, he probably would. But Jack only had the simple image of her in his head. He rubbed the back of his neck as he struggled to describe her accurately, also wondering why Vice wanted to know. "Pretty girl," he said, "Dark hair. She was kind of a loner, too. Had a fella..." But he was getting too in-depth. He stopped there, and looked at Vice to gage his reaction.

[Vice Ingram]

"Course I know it. You help us out with this, Vice, and the good guys have a fighting chance. With the Bronx on his side Mike got a lot over us right now. Jordan and me have a deal, but nobody in Queens can fight like those Bronx and Midtown boys. Who's gonna fight? That eight-year-old German boy? The Professor? We need you and your boys to beat 'em. Without you, we don't got a prayer."

The words weren't what he had expected. Though he'd never spoken with the Manhattan leader, Vice had always had the impression that Jack Kelly was both proud and a talker. He'd gotten the talker part right.

"I'm not sayin' it's gonna be easy. Boys are gonna get hurt. And if Mike has his way, there's gonna be more who die. But I ain't gonna stand around and let that happen. I'm gonna fight. Even if me and Jordan have to face Mike's army by ourselves. I need an answer from ya, Vice. Are you with us here?"

Vice looked down at Jack's outstretched hand, then back up at the boy's face. Did he really want to do this? Yes, he knew what they were up against, knew that his decision could very well determine the outcome of the whole ordeal he was being sucked into. He wasn't sure about Jack's use of the term 'good guys', and wondered if he, Isaac, could possibly be classified as such. A good guy? Sure, there was appeal in the name. Good guys got respect. They got appreciation. But did he want that?

"Pretty girl..."

Immediately, Vice snapped his attention back to to Jack. He waited.

"Dark hair. She was kind of a loner, too."

An image of a dark haired girl, her wide green eyes fearful as she clutched at her side, swept through his mind. His blood ran cold.

"Had a fella..."

Jack stopped almost abruptly, and Vice steadily met his gaze. Jack hadn't known...had he? Vice wasn't one to talk, liked to keep to himself, and preferred to be left alone. Unless one of his newsies had blabbed their fat mouth all across the city, Jack couldn't have known. And that meant...well, there was only one other thing it could mean, and he didn't want to think about that one thing.

Vice slid a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the foreboding cloud of despair that had begun its descent. He was being ridiculous. And still...

"Jack. The fella. Whose side is he on?"

[Jack Kelly]

As Vice looked on in silence, Jack felt discomfort being to come over him. It was apparent--too apparent--that Vice had many strong reservations. Jack had attempted to convey the reality of what was happening as accurately as possible, while still keeping Vice's opinion of Jack's cause high. Clearly, it would take more than Jack's honest determination to win over the Harlem leader. He needed to think of something else. What, if anything, would convince Vice that this fight was something he wanted, something he should risk himself and his newsboys over? It was no easy task. Leaders took full responsibility for their newsies. They were the generals, caretakers, guardians, and commanders all at once. Jack knew that if Vice was as good a leader as he assumed, then asking him to risk the lives of his boys would be no different than asking him to risk his own life.

For a brief moment, Jack considered lowering his hand in chagrin, thinking he had pushed Vice to answer too quickly, and was being presumptuous. But a second thought told him to do just the opposite. With a blank expression on his face, but a fiery sureness in his eyes, he fully extended his arm, his hand suspended closer to Vice, waiting, expectant. He knew that if Vice was going to agree, Jack could show absolutely no sign of weakness. Vice needed to know that Jack wasn't about to go home without Harlem's support, and he wouldn't disappoint Vice if it was given to him. Jack met Vice's gaze, and held it steadfastly. "Are you with us, Vice?"

"Jack. The fella. Whose side is he on?"

Jack was about to answer with certainty: he was a Manhattan boy, of course. But he realized in the next moment that this did not answer all. He thought back to the argument that had occurred between him and Racetrack before he'd left that day. There was a lot of discontent in Manhattan, and Jack knew he'd found out the hard way. With everything Race had said, and the fact that the feelings seemed reciprocated throughout the lodging house, Jack was unsure about how strongly his own boys would support him. Would they back him if they questioned his ability as a leader? But he couldn't let on to Vice that any of this was happening. He kept his answer vague, as if he was masking an unsavory headline. "Right now, Vice," he answered, "I ain't sure if the fella's on any side at all. I could he wrong." He stopped, and gave a short, humorless chuckle. "I hope I'm wrong..." Once again, he returned his gaze to Vice, gaging his reaction. He was curious as to what was so interesting about all this to him.

[Vice Ingram]

His question had been irrelevant, he knew. If Jack had had any reason to question his curiosity before, Vice knew now that he'd want answers. And Vice didn't want to give those answers. Not now at least. Not until he knew more. It was a shame he hadn't considered the consequence of his words before he'd spoken them, but he could do nothing about it now. Although Vice admitted that, at this point, he owed the Manhattan leader an explanation, he could only hope Jack wouldn't turn out to be the type that pried.

His mind raced backward, searching his memory for the last time he'd seen Ayala. He knew it had been at least a week, maybe longer. Frantically, he thought back, digging desperately for any memory that could give him a better estimate of how much time had passed, anything that could prove his horror wrong. If he had last seen her after the Bronx girl was said to have been murdered, he was worrying over nothing. But that was just it--he couldn't remember.

"Right now, Vice, I ain't sure if the fella's on any side at all. I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong...

Jack's answer was nowhere near satisfactory, but it caused something in his mind to stir. No. No, Jack couldn't be talking about him, Isaac. Jack couldn't have known...

Snapping his gaze back to Jack and looking him directly in the eye, Vice stepped a bit closer, chanced to lower his guard slightly. "Look. Kelly. I don't know who you're talkin' about here, but I've got my suspicions. And you know, if I'm right, I don't think I got anything to lose." He stopped abruptly, measured his words, and rolled back on his heels. He glanced down at Jack's outstretched hand.

"An' if I don't got anything to lose, I'm on your side."