Across the island, Abigail was still running. She'd run through Central Park and was on her way to the Bronx. She didn't know exactly why she was running that way, she just felt that she needed to be there. She reached the Bronx and headed toward the lodging house. The sun was dipping below the horizon. It would be dark soon.
Her shoes slid to a stop in the street out front of the lodging house. She breathed hard and tried to catch her breath, staying still and watching the door. Most of the boys would be inside by now. The day had been humid and sticky. Everyone would want to get inside and near a fan. Abigail stood in the center of the street and just stared at the building. Once she caught her breath, she closed the distance between her and the building. She pushed the door open and entered.
She glanced around the lobby. It was deathly silent. She listened intently to the silence. She finally heard shuffling on the floor boards upstairs. She inhaled and held her breath as she crept up the stairs. She kept herself flat against the wall, blending into the shadows. As she reached the top of the stairs, she noticed a string crossing the hallway. She scrutinized the floor boards carefully. She knew that the leader of the Bronx was severely paranoid. There were several more traps sprinkled throughout the hallway. She surveyed the traps, figuring how she would pass each of them. She noticed a switch hidden near the floor. She hit it with her foot. The string slackened, and the rest of the traps did nothing. She advanced toward the bunkroom.
Abigail heard some more shuffling and some stifled whispering as she approached the door, still flat against the wall. She peeked around the doorframe. The room was dark, save for a small candle burning in the far corner, near the washroom. She slinked inside the room, staying in the shadows. She noticed several shadows huddling near the candle. She watched them for a moment as she crept over to the light switch.
"What's goin' on, boys?" she announced after switching the lamps on.
The boys jumped and scrambled to their feet. "Abigail!!" they all exclaimed, some louder than others.
"So nice a ya ta remembah me, Lewis," Abigail smiled, striding over toward the boys, turning to her feminine charm.
"Aw, I could nevah fergit you, Abby," Lewis replied, looking at her as if the two were lovers.
Abigail stopped inches from him, looking very coy. "Oh, now, Lewis," she began, running her fingers up the buttons of his shirt, "ya know ta nevah call me Abby." She continued to look coy and run her delicate fingers along his shirt buttons.
Lewis took her hand in both of his and leaned closer to her. "Aw, come on, Abby. Ya know ya like it," he mused.
Abigail continued to look cute and innocent. She ran her other hand up his arm and brushed his face with the back of her fingers. She watched his eyes carefully. She suddenly pinned him to the ground, belly down. None of the boys could blink fast enough to see what she'd done. One second the two were in an embrace; a split-second later, Abigail had him pinned on the floor.
"Ya wanna explain why ya did it, Lewis?" she demanded harshly.
"Did what? What'd I do?" he whined, his body tense from the pain she was giving him.
"Ya know real well what ya did, Lewis. I shoulda known who done it when I saw 'is face. His injuries fit yer hand perfectly," she sneered. The boys began to advance upon them. "Do it, 'n' he dies," she stated, flipping open her switch blade. The boys backed off.
"Now, Abigail, hol' on a minute dere. If ya'd jist tell us what ya's so angry 'bout, maybe we kin tell ya who done it," another boy suggested. Abigail looked up at him. He began stuttering. "Uh- Bu- Dja- Maybe not," he babbled.
Abigail turned back to Lewis. She strengthened her hold on him. "Meet me at da Brooklyn Bridge at midnight tanight. Come alone," she ordered. A second later, she was gone.
The boys blinked and looked around. There was absolutely no trace that she'd ever been in the room. The only thing left was the pain left in Lewis's body and the light from the lamps. The boys continued to look around at Lewis climbed to his feet.
"Spitz, what time's it?" he demanded.
Spitz looked at his pocket watch. "Half past seven," he answered.
Lewis mumbled something and left the building. The boys were left there, baffled and shocked. None of them could speak.
Meanwhile, Doc, Spot, and the others were standing in the square. Teller and Deacon had joined them several minutes earlier. Deacon had begun tracking her. The others just watched and followed silently. Spot hung back at the edge of the crowd. As soon as he got a chance, he slipped away, unnoticed.
A short while later, Spot arrived in a secluded alley in Brooklyn. He looked up the fire escape to the building to his left. He climbed it quickly. Across the roof from the fire escape, a shadowed figure sat. Spot approached it carefully.
"Nice view, ain't it, O'Connah?"
Abigail spun around. "Geez, Conlon. Don't do dat!" she shouted, slightly scared out of her wits and angry.
"Sorry, O'Connah. I thought ya hoid me walkin' dere. I made quite a bit a noise, trippin' ovah dem pots dere," he replied, laughing and pointing to a bunch of porcelain garden pots strewn across the roof.
Abigail glanced at them. She turned away. "How'd ja know how ta find me?" she wondered, staring off at the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Well, Deacon stawded trackin' ya north, up towards da Bronx. I stawded thinkin' 'bout who'd wanna git ta ya, 'n' I thought Lewis," he explained.
At the mention of Deacon's name, she blanked out. With Deacon on ma tail, I won't git too far. Geez, why'd Doc call Deacon? Why's 'e wanna find me so bad? I gotta git movin'. She scrambled to her feet.
"Where ya goin', Abigail?" Spot asked, watching her movements, surprised.
"I gotta go," she mumbled. "Keep Deacon off ma tail. I gotta keep 'im off ma tail." She began pacing, trying to think of ways to get away. Anyone else she could lose easily, but not Deacon, not Deacon.
Abigail ran, jumping across rooftops like a high-jumper. Spot watched her as she ran, er, jumped. She quickly disappeared from his sight.
Several hours later, Lewis appeared in the center of the Brooklyn Bridge. He looked around nervously. Abigail appeared out of the fog on the Brooklyn side. Fog was quite common on nights like this. Lewis watched her silently.
"So ya finally make it ta yer own pawdy," he commented.
"Look who's talkin', Lewis," she retorted as she approached him.
"So, what's up?"
"You tell me."
Lewis finally realized that she knew. He looked away from her for a moment and then looked back. He pulled something out of his pocket. "I guess ya'll be wantin' dis back den," he whispered, handing her a bloodied picture of her father and Laura.
Abigail took the picture silently, running her fingers across her father's face. Papa. She looked back at Lewis. "Thanks," she mumbled, almost inaudibly. She tucked the picture away and looked away from Lewis. Her fist suddenly connected with Lewis's chin. Lewis stumbled back and hit his head on the railing, knocking him completely unconscious. She picked his body up and threw him over the rail and into the river.
"Go ta hell, ya son v'a bitch," she muttered as she let go of him. She smirked as he hit the water. She stepped away from the railing and began walking back to Harlem.
"Christopher O'Malley
went out on a bridge
Down in.. Chehalis
An' clutchin' his bible
An' a letter from her
Fell in.. to the river
Pity no one was zere
No an-gels in the air
An' the mornin' paper
ran
One more.. sui-cide
Yeah
"His momma stayed by the
river side
Down in.. Chehalis
An' clutchin' her bible
An' a letter from him
Fell in.. to cryin'
Pity no one was zere
No an-gels in the air
An' the mornin' paper
ran
One more.. sui-cide
Yeah
"Pity no one was zere
No an-gels in the air
An' the mornin' paper
ran
One.. more sui-cide
Yeah
One more.. sui-cide
Yeah
One more.. sui-cide
Yeah."
Her voice floated through the streets, almost like an angel singing of her protectorate's death. Her mood, however, differed. She seemed to be in a jubilant mood. She was quite glad to be rid of Lewis.
Too bad I couldn't a done dat yestaday. I could a saved Roreigh, she thought. She looked down at her feet. I bettah go find Doc 'n' Spot. Wait a minute. Why'm I lookin' fer Spot? I hate dat kid. Why'm I lookin' fer Spot? Two days ago, I couldn't stand da sight v'im. What's happenin' ta me? We used ta wanna kill each oddah. Now, I think 'e kinda likes me. What's goin' on wit' us? I should ask Doc 'bout it, but I can't tell 'im. What 'm'I gonna do?
She sighed and sped up her pace. After a moment, she began running back to Harlem.
She reached the lodging house some time later. She shoved her hands in her pockets and went inside. The building was dark and locked. She had to pick the lock to get inside. She went up to the bunk room and found everyone asleep, even Doc and Deacon. She sighed again and forced a smile. She took her hands out of her pockets, pulling out her change. She counted it quickly.
"Another day, another dollar," she breathed, chuckling a little. "It seems like dat's all I git nowadays. Maybe I'll git two tamorrah." She smirked and dropped the coins into a jar next to her bunk. She pulled off her shoes and climbed into bed. She sighed again and went to sleep.
The latter portion of this story was inspired by One More Suicide written and sung by the group Marcy Playground.
One More Suicide
Marcy Playground
Christopher O'Malley
went out on a bridge
Down in Chehalis
And clutching his bible
And a letter from her
Fell into the river
Pity no one was there
No angels in the air
And the morning paper
ran
One more suicide
His mama stayed by the
river side
Down in Chehalis
And clutching her bible
and a letter from him
Fell in to crying
Pity no one was there
No angels in the air
And the morning paper
ran
One more suicide
Pity no one was there
No angels in the air
And the morning paper
ran
One more suicide
One more suicide
One more suicide
© 1997 Birdie Kelley
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