* * *
Olive sinks back on her heels, eyes glued to the red door, hoping for one more peek into the nightclub. She can only tear her gaze away at the rough shaking on her shoulder.
"Olly – coppers!"
She allows herself to be dragged back in the clutches of her friend. They join the rest of the street kids who hang in the shadows of the skyscrapers, trusting the grime on their faces to help them blend into the dark.
As a police car passes, six pairs of eyes follow the silent red and blue whirring lights. There have been a rash of murders on this side of town and the coppers have increased their patrols. Several kids have already been hauled in for questioning, then turned over to orphanages. All of the street gang, including Olive, has tasted orphanage life, and no one wants to go back no matter how cold it gets in the winter.
"Why you keep looking?" her friend nudges her with his elbow. "You ain't never gonna have a taste of that life."
"Never is a long time, Charlie," Olive mumbles back.
"Hey—maybe she can work her way there," teases the smaller kid on the end. "Start as a prostitute and get knocked up by some rich bachelor."
The rest of the boys laugh. "She's got the bubs for it!"
Olive pulls her ragged coat over her chest, just like the elderly women on the street warding off the cold do.
"I ain't no quiff, Davis! And anyone who says otherwise will get a bloody nose."
Davis stands, strutting in front of Olive holding out his chest. Olive lunges, hands balled in fists. Charlie steps between the two before the inevitable collision, steering Olive away.
"Just let me at 'em," Olive struggles in Charlie's large arms.
"Dry up girl! We've got to appear on the up and up. Want to end up back at Mrs. Moe's?"
Olive calms at the mention of their old orphan home. The feds sanctioned the home to receive food rations for a maximum of twelve kids, but that didn't stop old Mrs. Moe from accepting more orphans, stuffing them six or seven to a room until she was four times the limit because with every orphan came a bit more pocket change. Feds didn't care, so long as the orphans didn't make trouble for the neighborhood. Problem was, Mrs. Moe still only got as much food for twelve kids. Still, Olive wouldn't trade the experience for the world; it was where she met Charlie.
Olive turns, glaring at Davis. "You just watch your back, Davis! I about done had enough of your talk!"
Charlie keeps a tight grip on Olive as they turn away from the jazz club and the rest of the orphans. They will stay in the shadows, talking in hushed whispers, getting louder only when an argument breaks out until someone reminds them of the patrols.
Closer to sunrise, in the coldest part of the night, they will huddle together, willing the jazz club to close its bar, forcing its customers to spill out onto the street, drunk and stupid. With luck, the few that grow sentimental when intoxicated will still have enough to toss out to the begging orphans. Even better, one will stumble out alone and in the search for his friends take the wrong turn down a dark alley. Together, five or six orphans could take one out, though Olive doubts they would try anything like that without Charlie there.
Leaning into him, Olive rubs the outside of her arms, making it obvious the cold is bothering her. She often finds herself looking for small excuses to be closer to Charlie. She hasn't seen him do the same, but he never wards off her advances.
He embraces her, but he has always embraced them all. Charlie was the one that banded the small group together, occasionally taking in other strays. He found them a place to live in the basement of a burnt out clothing factory. The rotation system that assigns jobs for finding food and clothing, begging for money, and standing guard has not failed; Charlie keeps a close watch on it. He even brought in Moneybags, the gang's small puppy that romps around the basement until they return for a few hours of sleep. Without Charlie, they'd all be on the streets, fending for themselves and not doing so well at it.
Olive leans into Charlie even closer, inhaling. The scent of pine always makes its way through the ash and grime that seems permanently etched into his skin, clothing, and hair. It’s a welcome relief from the smell of sewage emanating off the rest of the orphans. Olive automatically ducks her head, angling her nose toward her underarm, wondering what he smells on her. She's never had to worry about how she smelled, before.
A sigh comes from Charlie, and he takes off his outer coat to wrap around Olive. Olive looks up at him with a grateful smile. It is his good coat that only has a few holes. He glances down at her, blinking his long lashes that nearly brush his cheeks, rosy from the cold air. In the past few years, Olive has watched the soft contours of his face harden into chiseled features, accented by stubbly hair along his jawline. The combination of boyish and virile traits gives him an almost undeniable charisma; something he doesn't even know he possesses.
"Think there is any bread left over from Johnny's Great Bakery Heist last night?" Charlie asks.
Olive laughs. The way Johnny tells the story you'd guess he is the next Pretty Boy Floyd, an infamous bank robber, though he most likely found the burnt-out loaf in the garbage cans behind the bakery. "Probably, unless Moneybags got to it."
Suddenly, Olive can't wait to get back to the dingy factory. The prospect of a few hours alone with just Charlie…and Moneybags, the gang's dog, quickens her step.
"I'm growing too old for this, Olly," Charlie says.
She looks at him, confusion pulling her eyebrows together. "If the bread is gone, I can always check with—"
"No, it's not that. It's just…time for me to move on."
"Wha—?" She looks up at him, unable to even form the full word as her mouth drops open.
He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "I can't spend my whole life on the streets. I've got to look at working a steady job. I'm seventeen now, you know," Charlie says.
"You...you can't leave. The whole gang—they look up to you, Charlie. They'd be lost without you."
I'd be lost without you.
Olive swallows the words before they can push past her lips.
Charlie slows, then stops walking and turns to Olive. "Those guys will be fine. They've been staying out of trouble for the most part, even once I started picking up more shifts running water to the miners."
"Sid got picked up by the coppers," Olive mumbles. "You were working for the second time this week when that happened."
"Time at Mrs. Moe's is the best Sid could ask for," Charlie shrugs.
Olive looks down at her feet. Her greasy hair slides across the back of her neck. For a brief moment, she can pretend it is a blonde bob, and her beau is standing in front of her, leaning in for a kiss, ready to sweep her off her feet and take her home for the night. When she looks up, Charlie isn't leaning in; he is digging coal dust out of his fingernails.
He holds up a smudge for Olive to see, almost as if he is proud of it.
"They said I was big enough to work in the mines. Said I don't even need no paperwork—just show up and get my name in the books. I could have a paycheck within the month, Olly! Just imagine—a steady job."
His eyes light up, reflecting the new skyscrapers, lit up like stars on a clear night. Olly bites the inside of her cheek.
Can't even see the stars no more, the lights are on all damn night.
Her sarcasm carries over into her next words. "What would you do with all that money? Get yourself a new vest? Black, to match the color your skin will turn?"
The hopeful smile disappears from his face, and his eyes grow dark as he turns away from the buildings, the twinkling lights shining out from the windows blink out one by one, blocked by his own big head. "I can't watch out for everyone no more, Olly. I just can't."
The pair stands together in silence. Confetti bursts out of the window on a high-rise next to them, the private party in full swing. Lanky women drift past the window working the room, their hair crimped and accented by dangly, sequined earrings that swing in time with their hips a
nd beaded skirts.
Charlie doesn't notice; he is still frowning at Olive. "You'll be the oldest after I leave, Olly. You'll be the one they look to."
"Oh, hell Charlie. Not a one of them listen to me—you know that." Olive glances back at the party. A round, straw hat is tossed out the window. The wind picks it up, blowing the hat past their ankles.
Charlie puts the crook of his finger under Olive's chin and lifts it up. The smell of pine drifts past her nose again. He leans in.
For moment, Olive's heart stops beating. She holds her breath and watches as he part his lips. Chills roar down her neck as his breath skips by in teasing bursts.
"Make them," he whispers in her ear before pulling back.
Olive's mind races to remember what they are talking about. The orphans. The thought rises up smudgy and black, like their faces, interfering like they always do when Olive wants to be close to Charlie.
The Dreamer Page 2
