Chapter Five
By the time Olive makes it back to the city, the jazz clubs are in full swing, packed to the brim with inebriated, sweaty patrons. Outside, Olive's toes are frozen stiff. She can barely keep up with Moneybags.
"Over here, Olly!" She can smell the orphans before she hears them call. Her shoulders sag—she hoped to sneak back to the factory basement undetected and to squirrel away in her blankets until morning. Instead, she has to face them and give an explanation as to why she doesn't have Charlie in tow.
Olive focuses on the small fire they've built in a depression of the sidewalk instead of the beady little eyes watching and waiting to pounce. The silence draws out, broken only by the crackling of discarded paper someone pulled from a public trash can to fuel the fire.
Moneybags sidles up to the fire, squeezing his way between Davis and Olive. Olive holds out quivering hands so close to the flames her palms turn from pasty white to bright pink. Olive looks up. The faces around the fire begin to sway with the rhythm of the flames. A sad oboe rings out from one of the apartments above them.
"You hear me?" Davis' voice raises a pitch above the oboe's song.
"Huh?" grunts Olive.
"I asked when was the last time you ate something.”
Olive runs the back of her hand across the tip of her nose. "Dunno," she says automatically. Her mind is still replaying the scene back at the mines.
What could I have said? What could I have done differently to bring him back?
"Olly gets double portion tomorrow at breakfast," says Davis.
The round of gripes and moaning around the fire are shut down as Roy speaks up. "She could try selling some of those gloves and scarves of hers. That would get all of us a good meal. Besides, I thought you asked her to leave."
Olive's eyes narrow. "I've said it before and I'll say it again—those are my things, and they ain't for sale. I don't care if you starve to death, Roy!" She backs off as soon as she realizes how loud her voice as become.
"Put a sock in it, the lot of ya," Davis mumbles, but he is looking at Roy. "And I decided she ain't leavin' unless she wants to."
Raising an eyebrow, Olive looks at Davis with new interest.
Since when did they start listening to him?
He tilts his chin toward her, lowering his voice. "We thought we'd stay put another hour or two, see if some of the club-goers leave early on account of the cold," Davis says, making it clear he is talking to Olive.
Is he asking permission or simply telling me?
Olive looks back at the fire. Perhaps he is telling her just out of respect, like they might be equals in this endeavor.
Eventually, she nods. Handouts tend to be more generous on the coldest nights, but there is always a price to be paid for waiting too long in the cold. Slowly the group's circle becomes tighter and tighter as the fire dwindles out. Once the last of the trash is burned to crispy shreds, Davis and Olive take turns throwing anxious glances over their shoulders at the bright red club doors.
"Alright, let's pack it in—"
Davis is cut short by one loud bang. The red door flings open so hard it cracks against the building.
"Why, Tom—you don’t know your own strength," giggles a thin woman, her blond bob bouncing across her shoulders. It is the same woman from the other night, out with a different beau. Her new slinky dress is just as beautiful as the other one, and she is just as drunk as the night before.
The orphans perk up as the couple cross the street toward them. Out of the corner of her eye, Olive can see Roy hunch over, sticking his hands under his armpits and acting as if he is about to keel over from the cold. He doesn't have to act too hard. Behind Olive, Sammy coughs. It is phlegmy and violent, and Olive can't actually tell if it is fake.
The woman is stumbling toward them, maintaining a vertical position with the help of her partner, who has one arm wrapped around her waist while the other hand checks the timepiece hanging from his belt.
Olive feels an elbow at her side. Davis wants her to assume position; something that looks pathetic and weak, but Olive can't. If anything, she straightens and is almost drawn forward, mesmerized by the woman's shiny, pink high heels and bare knees. The sequins on her purple dress glitter under the streetlamps. Her waist is thin but her shoulders wide. The fur wrap doesn't cover enough, falling down around her arms.
"Ugh," the man snorts in disgust, placing the back of his hand under his nose. "Can't they do something about these ghastly creatures?" He frowns down at the group of orphans, then he turns, surveying the street. "Where is the patrol when you actually need them?"
The woman glances at the kids, locking eyes with Olive. Her hand automatically moves to a chain at her neck, grasping the locket that hangs from it. She laughs, but it is forced.
"Forget it, Tom. I know a short cut home." Her gaze lingers on Olive. Her eyes are clear and sharp.
Olive's breath catches in her throat.
This lady isn't drunk at all; it is all a rouse. But why?
"A shortcut, eh?" The man's grip tightens around her waist and he smiles. He checks his watch again. "Come on, we don't want to keep the dark shadows of the alley waiting." He nestles his mouth in the crook of her neck and shoulder like a vampire.
She giggles, another tittering chuckle that echoes across the otherwise barren street. Olive watches the pair disappear around the corner. The woman is stumbling again, but she keeps a tight grip on the locket around her neck.
"Come on," says Olive. "I know that shortcut too." She nudges Davis in his chest without looking at him. Instead, she runs, taking the long way around the building.
"Why?" Davis calls after her. "They ain't gonna give us nothing!"
"Just do it," she whisper-yells back, not even checking to see if Davis follows. But when Olive stops to peer around the corner of the next building, she can feel his hot breath behind her staving away the cold.
"I don't think—" Davis starts, but Olive is already on the move again. They have to go quickly to get there before the couple does. In the shadows of the tall buildings, Olive opens her stride to a full-on sprint. There is more than one pair of pounding feet behind her, and Olive rolls her eyes. Of course the rest follow—they wouldn't know what else to do with themselves. Olive takes a chance, rounding a corner at top speed. As luck would have it, the dark alley is empty. Slowing her pace, Olive pauses in front of a set of large-barreled trash cans. They sit on top of a concrete rise. Below is a space just large enough for a small person to squeeze into. It is meant for rain and sewer runoff, but other than the storm the other night, the sky has been fairly dry.
Motioning wildly with her hands, Olive draws the group in and points to the secret cove.
"Are you kidding—I ain't never gonna fit under there!" Sammy wheezes.
"Then beat it, 'cause the marks are coming." Olive pushes him back then squats, peering under. No beady red eyes stare back. She prays the cove is vermin free tonight. Flattening her body against the cold asphalt, Olive pulls herself into the pitch black. She swings her feet around and lets them drop first. They hit hard ground and when she straightens, she can just see out; her eyes level with the ground.
"Well?" she hisses at the rest of the group. "Get in or get going. You're going to blow my cover!"
Davis doesn't hesitate. Olive steps back to give him space to drop in. Two more bodies follow, and she can hear several pairs of footsteps retreating back down the alley. Their echoes bounce between the buildings, the sound morphing into slower, uneven footsteps. It isn't until she sees a flash of pink that Olive realizes the couple has already entered from the other side.
Winded from the run, everyone is breathing hard, desperate gulps. But they all manage to still their lungs as the pink high heels stumble past the opening in front of their faces.
"Oh, ow. Stop a minute, Tom. I think I broke my shoe." The woman pauses, bending over.
Olive can see there is nothing at all wrong with her shoe. Olive squints into the night, watching
manicured nails run down the side of the shoe, then under. They come out with a small, thin blade between them.
"Come on, Dolly—I can carry you if I have to." Tom says, but he isn't looking at her—he is looking at his watch again.
"No, Tom. This is as far as we go." All playfulness is gone from her voice. She holds the knife out in front of her. "Give me your wallet."
Tom snaps his timepiece shut and puts it back in his pocket. He turns to Dolly far too slow to display actual concern. "So that's where you keep it, under your shoe."
"What?" she grips the small knife tighter.
"For as much as I had my hands around you tonight, I couldn't find the little bastard." Tom begins to walk around Dolly, giving her a wide berth. "Earlier you said I looked familiar, but you couldn't quite place me."
"Just…just shut your trap and throw me your wallet, and I won't shove this blade between your ribs!" Dolly shouts, squaring her shoulders with Tom.
Dolly's voice is steady, but Olive can see the woman's arms shaking. Inside the hidden cover, Davis extends his hand, his fingers intertwining with Olive’s, steadying her own jittery fingers.
Tom is moving closer to Dolly, zigzagging his way in like a lion closing in on prey.
Olive shakes her head. "We can help her," she whispers, taking a step forward.
Davis' hand tightens around Olive, beckoning her to be still.
"But I think you have me confused with my brother," Tom says. He pauses, motioning to the other entrance to the alley with his chin. "Meet Harry—again."
Three large forms block the way out.
"Harry?" Dolly squints into the night, eyes opening wider the closer they get. "You guys…are brothers?"
Olive steps back, her heart pounding.
How is Dolly going to get out of this?
"You owe me some money, you little harlot." Harry quickens his pace toward Dolly.
When Dolly turns to run, she is stopped short by a backhand from Tom. The knife falls from her hand as she stumbles back. Harry mimics Tom, giving Dolly another backhand on the same cheek.
"You've conned your last bloke, Dolly. Now where is the money?" asks Harry.
The knife clatters against the ground and comes to rest just in front of the opening of the orphans’ cover. Olive can see Dolly in the reflection of the blade, her face taking hit after hit from the four men. Somehow, it doesn't seem as bad in the reflection; like Olive is only watching a movie.
Muffled gasps from the boys alongside her don’t help Olive to block it out.
"Please," Dolly mumbles through swollen lips and gasping breaths. "All the money goes to keeping a roof over my head and food in my cupboards. I don't have no one to help me." One hand goes to the locket around her neck, clutching it tight.
"Your cupboards ain't none of my concern." Harry grabs her by the throat. "I owed that money to someone else—and he don't take kindly to late payments. Now tell me where it is."
"I don't have it no more." Dolly begins to cry. One hand still holds the locket, even as Harry squeezes his large paws around her neck.
Olive finally glances up as the pink heels lift off the ground. Pointed toes scrape in a desperate attempt for a foothold.
"Come on, Harry," Tom says. "Killing her won't get your money back. We don't even know where she lives yet. We gotta make her show us."
One side of Harry's upper lip curls up in a snarl. He bends his arm, drawing Dolly just inches from his face. "No one pulls one over on me." Throwing out his arm, he releases her.
She flies back and up, a desperate scream, cut short by gurgling that follows her back down. There is a loud clatter as she is shouldered into the trash cans, followed by a sickening thud, then silence.
Splayed over the cove's thin opening, Dolly's still body blocks the only sliver of light entering the cove and Olive and the boys are plunged into darkness. Olive's gasp is covered when Davis puts his hand tight over her mouth. All they can hear is the drip, drip, drip of a thick liquid entering their cove. The group silently shuffles back, unwilling to stain their shoes with the dark crimson of blood.
Suddenly, Dolly moves. Hope blossoms within Olive.
Of course she is fine. She is a strong woman; she will endure this and move on.
But the movement is unnatural. She slides across the ground and when the blonde bob of her hair moves past, Olive can see Tom tugging at her ankles.
"Search her—" his command is cut off by sirens in the distance. The other orphans must have gone for the cops.
Finally, they do something right, Olive thinks. If only they could've done it a little faster.
"Get out of here. Leave her!" Harry shouts. "Come on, come on!"
Feet pound the pavement as the four men run. Before they have rounded the corner, Olive is pulling herself out of the gutter.
"Wait!" Davis hisses behind her, grabbing at her ankles.
But Olive is too quick, slipping through the small opening with one target in mind; the beautiful, still body before her.
"Miss?" Olive drops to her knees holding her hands uselessly over Dolly's shoulders. "Are you okay?"
"’Course she ain't okay." Roy shoulders Olive out of the way, already pawing at Dolly's pockets sewn into the dress.
Sammy arrives next, snatching her purse. "How come they didn't take this, if alls they wanted was money?"
"Because, stupid," Davis approaches, "he was with her all night; probably knew there was nothing in there."
Sammy turns the purse upside down. A few notes slip out, along with a small bottle of perfume that shatters on the ground. The smell of lavender hangs over Dolly, turning Olive's stomach.
"The cops are still coming," says Davis. "Take her jewelry and let's get out of here."
"No." Olive looks at him like he just committed the murder himself.
"Come on, Olly—those bracelets will feed us for the next week."
Olive looks down in shock as the woman is stripped of her bracelets, earrings, the shawl, and even her pink shoes. Everywhere the orphans touch leave black smudges on Dolly's porcelain skin.
Sammy looks sideways at Olive and his eyes soften. "Here." He holds out lipstick he found.
Olive wants to push it away, but her fingers wrap around it. It seems warm, perhaps from being so close to Dolly in the pocket at her hip. Or maybe even from the last time she applied it, right before she walked out into the cold with a murderer on her arm.
Remaining motionless, holding the lipstick to her chest, Olive doesn't move until she hears a familiar, light clinking.
"No!" Olive's hand shoots out stopping Davis from ripping the locket clean off Dolly's neck.
His eyes meet hers over what is quickly becoming a very cold body.
David stares at Olive, his jawline growing tense. He keeps his voice low. "We still have most of the winter to go, Olly. We can't afford to let you keep this for your collection."
Swallowing hard, Olive loosens her grip over Davis' hand. Instead, she gives it a gentle squeeze. "It's not for my collection, Davis. It's just that…I think it was important to her."
Olive brushes aside a strand of blonde hair strung across Dolly's face. She looks back at Davis, eyebrow raised. "I'll let you sell all my scarves if I can keep this."
He takes a deep breath and sighs. "Okay, Olly. Do what you have to."
"Hey—you kids!" A bright spotlight shines down on them from one end of the alley.
No one hesitates. There is a mad scramble for what is loose on the ground. Years on the street drive her instincts, and Olive reaches out, too. She wraps her hands around several notes. Her other hand yanks on the locket. The chain breaks and Olive slides it off Dolly's neck. "I will take care of it for you," she whispers. Olive kisses her fingertips and touches Dolly's lips—her final farewell.
Before the cops reach Dolly, Olive has caught up to the boys with her long stride and the group rounds the corner. They don't stop running until they have passed at least ten buildings, zigzagging their
way through the city.
"Are they even following?" Sammy asks between heaving breaths.
"I don’t know." Davis' eyes dart from shadow to shadow behind him. He is bent over with his hands on his knees.
The air Olive sucks in is cold on her teeth and it makes her lungs ache. She steps away from the group, making sure no one is looking. Under soft light filtering down from a window above, Olive turns and gingerly opens her hands to look at the locket. The metal covering is a small, see-through flower pattern. The pattern is so tiny and intricate, it is as if a fairy herself has carved it. Dragonflies sit on top of it. Tilting the locket toward the light, Olive squints to see past the metal covering. A pair of eyes look back at her.
She gasps, almost dropping the locket. It falls from her startled hands, but Olive catches it at the chain. She looks back at the boys; they are arguing which way to go. Refocusing her attention on the locket, Olive finds a hinge on one side. She inserts her fingernail, prying it open. Inside is a small, round picture of a baby girl with curly hair as blonde as Dolly's.
With a hand covering her mouth, Olive manages to stifle the moan that squeaks out, and she recalls her last words to Dolly.
I will take care of it for you.
She of course meant the locket, but her promise to a dead woman sits heavy in the air.
Besides, there probably isn't a father anymore. What if there is no one to take care of the baby?
"I saw them run over here!" A distant voice rings through the buildings. It is almost impossible to tell which way it came from.
The boys are practically on the balls of their feet. "This way," Davis hisses.
Some of the boys argue; the younger ones just want to take the shortest path back to the factory. The group decides to split up.
Olive snaps the locket shut, glancing at the notes in her hand. She unfolds one of them. It is a letter, addressed to one Miss Dorothy. The address at the top reads 424 Cherry Street. Olive knows exactly which way she needs to go.