Day 10 of 30 Days of Fannish Thanksgiving
Okay, my offering tonight may be a little lame, but it may also be an interesting insight into the way I craft my stories. I edit and tweak and change stuff constantly - it's a wonder I ever finish a story at all! Sometimes stories take a completely different direction than originally intended.
Here are a couple of snippets that were originally intended to be part of "The Hope Affair", written for the Down the Chimney Affair 4, back in 2007. For those of you who have read the story, a teenaged boy of Ukrainian heritage figures largely in the final version. He was in an earlier version, too, but had a sister whom he was protecting and providing for. My initial idea for the story was about family, the kind you're born with, the kind you make, and what you do to protect family, however you come by it. That idea morphed during the writing process, as you can clearly see. At some point I still want to write the "family" theme, but am waiting for the right idea to wrap it around.
You may recognize certain lines or descriptions as having appeared in the final version of the story, although perhaps in a slightly different context. A lot of my first drafts get recycled into final versions of the same, or even different stories.
There are some mild references to slash herein. There is also excessive use of em dashes and ellipses. You have been warned.
Original partial version of The Hope Affair, where the boy they are following goes into the church instead of bypassing it
"Well, he's going in. At least one of us needs to follow him. There may be a back entrance."
"You go." Illya looked around for a sheltered spot and gestured toward a doorway that looked to be out of the wind. "I'll wait out here and make sure he doesn't double-back past you."
"All right. But if he settles in for the service, I'll give you a signal so you can at least come inside and be warm. Wouldn’t want to interrupt the service, but we can collar him once it’s over."
Illya's rude snort told me what he thought of my considerate strategy. "That won't be necessary. I do not mind the cold. He's not going to stay, anyway."
Illya's clear reluctance to sit through a religious service scratched a mischievous itch deep inside me. "Faith isn't contagious, you know, partner mine."
He looked sideways at me, an almost hurt expression surfacing in his eyes. "I have plenty of faith, Napoleon. And there are many things I believe in." He pressed his shoulder against mine in a clear gesture of solidarity. "I just don't have religion."
A helpless rush of affection for this prickly wiseacre from half a world away warmed me from toenails to scalp. There are times when I think perhaps I don't deserve him or his unconditional trust in me, but then I always remember my grandmother’s prim warning - you get what you deserve. And who am I to argue with my grandmother's wisdom?
Instead of surrendering to another impulse to kiss him, I squeezed his fingers once, hard and quick. "Okay."
Then I crossed the street and entered the church. Inside the scents of old wood and candle wax reawakened memories and habits. I'd dipped my fingers in holy water and crossed myself before I realized what I'd done. Probably a good thing Illya had stayed outside after all. His clear-eyed gaze would probably make me feel ten years old and gullible.
The sanctuary was mostly full, and the boy nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t gotten past me, I was certain, and unless he'd scooted behind the priest in full view of the congregation, I doubted he'd gotten out a back door. That left the stairwell to my left.
Our pickpocket was in the basement, perched on an old pew alongside a younger girl who looked too much like him to be anything but a sister. They were spreading waxed cartons out like a feast. Which, to judge by the girl's face, was exactly what it was.
Not dodging us, not hiding, not worshipping - but he'd found sanctuary after all. Just not the kind of sanctuary Illya and I had expected.
I watched them for a couple of minutes, long enough to assure myself they weren't going anywhere for a while, and withdrew. There was definitely no reason for Illya to freeze his ass off outside. Especially not when I was so fond of that ass.
For a man who didn't mind the cold, he looked pretty doggoned miserable huddled in that doorway.
From my own doorway, considerably more protected, all I had to do was poke my head out to beckon, and watch him cross the street, a quicksilver shadow in the vague light.
"I don't believe it," were the first words out of Illya's mouth. He was shivering, and this time? The coat was buttoned clear up to his throat. "He is really here?"
I brushed accumulated snow off his shoulders and held a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Yes, he's here. But it's not what you think."
He smiled against my finger. "No?" Then he licked my finger, eyes wide and dark and very, very mischievous. "Just what do you think I think?"
Who was this man, and what had he done with my sober, dignified partner? "For starters, I think no one ever taught you how to behave in church, you godless communist."
He responded by sucking my finger into his mouth, a flagrant erotic defiance. My knees nearly buckled when he swirled his tongue around my finger until my brain just about shortcircuited, and then he pulled back, releasing me. I reeled, as unsettled as a three-sheets-to-the-wind sailor.
There are religious experiences… and then there are religious experiences.
Unprofessional didn't even begin to cover this situation. I wondered if foreplay in church counted as blasphemy.
"You’re lucky nobody saw that," I said when I could breathe again.
"I looked first. And there's still nobody around." Dare me, would he? l was pretty sure God wouldn’t mind if I--
The main door creaked open at that instant, and we stepped apart hastily. A family of four straggled in, late for the candlelight Mass. The father shot us a grim, disapproving glance, and I figured he'd caught our guilty movement. Maybe he thought we were robbing the poorbox. I adopted my most innocent expression, but that only made the father frown more. For some reason, fathers just don't seem to trust me very much.
With that sly grin still on his face, Illya opened the door leading to the sanctuary and bowed the family in. The little girl, perhaps five years old, giggled and waved to him as she passed. He waggled his fingers in return and closed the sanctuary door securely behind them.
I had a feeling he’d be just as big a hit with the slightly older girl in the basement. "All right, come on."
"The basement?" Illya's voice rose just enough to tempt me to lay my finger across his lips again, just to see what he'd do for an encore. "What did you do, Napoleon, tie him up?"
Sadly, he didn't lick me a second time, but simply obeyed my silent admonition and followed me quietly down the stairs. At the bottom we peered around the doorjamb; I went high and Illya went low. The kids had made quick work of the food. The girl was tidying up the few bits of trash, and the boy was busily spreading what looked like tattered old draperies over the pew. Making a bed, I realized.
"Greg, what if they find us?" The girl - who I judged to be around eight or ten - turned to face her brother, eyes big and worried in her thin face. "Will they throw us out? I don’t want to go back to that dirty old house."
I had to give the kid credit for projecting confidence and strength, something the little girl clearly needed. "No, everything's okay, Sasha. We can sleep here tonight. Safe and warm. Come on, I've made you a bed."
Even though the basement, like most basements, wasn't exceptionally warm, the room felt oddly cozy. Comforting, even. A sanctuary that I was loathe to disturb, for a tumble of reasons I couldn't quite name.
Down around my knees, Illya shifted restlessly and withdrew deeper into the shadowed stairwell. I felt and saw the movement, but heard no sound. He's really quite good at that sort of thing. I followed and crouched down beside him.
"You were right. It isn't what I thought." He stared straight ahead, as though he could see straight through the wall and into the room beyond, and his voice was as coldly efficient and businesslike as I'd ever heard from him. "There is no reason to delay. You get them ready to go. I will contact headquarters and have them send one of our cabs to pick us up."
He was already turning away, communicator in hand. I grabbed him by one arm. "Oh, no, you don't, partner mine. We have to--"
And then I was wondering why Illya was suddenly extremely tall and upside down. And why my shoulder felt like Sister Beatrice had just whacked me with the world's biggest ruler. Or tree limb, maybe. Sister Beatrice could've pitched for the Yankees, her arm was so strong.
"That won't be necessary." From way too far away, I heard Illya's cool voice, taking charge. I vaguely realized he had wrapped both arms around the boy's torso in an effort to control him, and something clattered - loudly - to the floor. It resembled a large and sturdy cast-iron candle holder, and it missed my head by a fraction of an inch.
"Napoleon!" Illya's voice now sounded just a tad strained, and as my vision cleared, I saw why. He had his arms full of a struggling, kicking teenager, who wasn't being nearly as careful of Illya as Illya was of him. "Are you all right?"
"I was better, but I got over it," I muttered, hauling myself to my feet. "Did you have to drop a building on me?" I asked the kid, who finally figured out he wasn't going to win against two men.
Illya has never been the trusting type, and he certainly wasn't about to trust our thief's apparent docility. "Why don't we dart them now and save ourselves some trouble?"
"Where's Sasha?" I looked around for the girl, but she'd managed to pull a disappearing act.
Both Illya and the boy - Greg - looked at me in astonishment. "You… you know our names?"
"Of course. Where is she?" Illya shook his head, which I took to mean that she'd not gotten past him and up the stairs. Which meant she had become one with a shadow somewhere in the basement. Either that… or she'd gone out a different door.
"You leave her out of this!" Greg resumed his struggle and Illya glanced meaningfully at me. He certainly had his hands full - if Greg ever learned some technique he could be deadly.
Illya grunted when a stray elbow caught him hard in the ribs and began to look really annoyed. His face flushed an interesting shade of red. He'd been wearing that same shade a few hours ago in his bed, although not for the same reason. I hope. "We're trying to help you, you ungrateful brat!"
I started poking about in corners, very carefully. Sasha, small as she was, might know a thing or two about cast-iron candlesticks herself. Quite frankly, I hadn't been all that fond of the things before Greg clobbered me with one.
"Yeah, well, we don't need your help."
Illya's muttered curse warned me that Greg was getting in a good lick or two.
"No, I can see that you don't." I adopted my mildest, most reasonable voice, the one I use for soothing Jack Perry's ruffled feathers when Section Two agents trample Section Three's sensitivities like a herd of wild buffalo. "You're very protective of your sister. Commendable."
"You'd be, too, if she was all the family you had."
"I'm sure I would be." I risked a sidelong glance; he looked pretty tense in Illya's grip, but wasn't fighting anymore.
"Look, Greg," he did a double-take when I casually used his name, "we're not here to ah, rat you out, or anything like that. You see, our paths crossed today in a way that might be a problem for you and Sasha, and that's what we want to prevent."
He curled his lip in a distrusting sneer that reminded me so much of Illya I wanted to laugh. Actually, I could see they were both wearing almost identical expressions.
"Yeah?" Greg could pretend all the disinterest he wanted, but I had his attention now. Illya must've sensed that the anger had bled out, too, by osmosis maybe, because he loosened his grip on Greg's arms. Of course, he wasn't foolish enough to leave the stairs unguarded.
I settled down on the pew they'd made into a bed. A mighty uncomfortable bed it would've been, too. Trust had to start somewhere, and it was going to come from me. "You, ah, came into possession of something today that wasn't yours, I believe?"
He glowered and stuck a very stubborn chin out. "You calling me a thief?"
"No--" I said, at the same time Illya said, "Yes." He raised his hands in a defiant gesture. "He is, and he knows it, too."
Greg deflated like a punctured balloon. So much for the indirect approach. Illya smirked.
"Yeah, I guess I am. I didn't mean to, but I'd hardly got anything by panhandling 'n Gramps taught me how to pick pockets when I was just a little kid." He walked over and sat down beside me. "It was just a game, honest. Used to make Mama really mad, though, so it was kinda our secret. I'm not very good at it. I tried four times before I finally, uh, well…"
I suspected he was better at picking pockets than he thought he was, although it didn't seem a good idea to tell him that.
"You told me all you did was panhandle." Sasha crawled out from under a jumble of discarded furniture, projecting outrage about three times her size. "You lied to me!"
"You were hungry, and the Mission wouldn't let us in, not by ourselves and nobody else cared. And it's Christmas Eve."
Funnily enough, Greg was the one close to defensive tears, not Sasha. She squeezed herself inbetween Greg and me on the pew and laced her fingers through his.
"I guess it's okay," she said in a very small voice. "I was really hungry."
"The one time you were successful - what did you take?" Well, that was an awkward moment Illya managed to leap over with a single bound. Persistent doesn't begin to describe my partner.
"Some guy's wallet. He was hailing a taxi and I could see it in his pocket. It was kind of easy, really. Not like the guy before… hey! You're the guy!" He looked from Illya to me, tense and suspicious again. "What'd you do, follow me? You gonna call the fuzz on me?"
"Let's just say we found you." I looked at Illya, who merely rolled his eyes upward and looked innocent. "And we won't call the, ah, fuzz on you - if you cooperate."
"Did you get anything else, besides the wallet? An envelope, perhaps?"
"Uh, yeah. But there wasn't any money in it, so I threw it away. It was drawings and pictures." He covered his sister's ears and whispered, "They weren't even dirty ones."
"I heard that, Grigori Ivanovich! Mama would… Mama…" Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over.
And then there's this bit, which also belonged to The Hope Affair. The kids in this case were actually attending the service and slipped away from our heroes and... honestly I don't remember what I had in mind after that, except for a big conclusive action scene in the midst of the blizzard.
Which is more than I can say for the kid when we approached him at the end of the mass. He took one look at our unfamiliar faces and expensive suits - and street-smart kid that he was, undoubtedly sized us up as some variety of cop - and disappeared with his sister faster than I could say tovarisch.
"What is it with you Ukrainians," I complained to Illya, staring at the brick wall the two had apparently walked through, "that you can vanish at will?"
"You don't really expect me to give away all our secrets, do you?"
Looking at my partner, barely visible despite the swirling snow, it was easy enough to believe that he - and perhaps all Ukrainians - were made from smoke and shadow - almost too ephemeral to be real. It would certainly explain a lot.
The temperature had dropped about ten degrees while we'd been in the church, and even Illya was ready for coffee by the time we got back to Veselka. We settled in at the counter - with our backs to the door and windows, which made both of us feel like sitting targets - because the girl we needed to talk to was working the counter.
Illya wrapped his fingers around his coffee mug and distanced himself by that same arcane magic that allowed him to disappear at will. Wheedling information from pretty girls was my designated responsibility in this partnership.
"Ah, Miss--"
She clammed up faster than Illya under torture
Curiosity, reluctance, even suspicion - those were responses I could understand. There was an indecipherable murmured conversation coming from the kitchen, but when I glanced at Illya he shook his head and shrugged one shoulder, while keeping one eye on the door and windows.
It didn't take long at all. A breathless rattle of consonant-heavy discussion, followed by some sharp questions to the lovely young waitress, who turned out to be the matron's daughter, and we were out the door, leaving nothing but smiles in our wake, and all their leftover pastries neatly wrapped in wax paper and tucked into our coat pockets.
"So where are we going?" Without gloves it was too doggoned cold at this point to wander around hand-in-hand like lovestruck teenagers.
"Avenue B, just opposite the park."
Wonderful. Even the gangsters demanded hazard pay to go beyond Avenue A. Tompkins Square Park was ground zero for every low-life in the Lower East Side. Not a good place for anyone, but especially not that sweet-faced little girl. She couldn't be more than 10 or 12.
"The boy is Greg. Grigori Ivanovich. You were right, the girl is his sister, Sasha. The father was killed in a robbery about five years ago. The mother died just before Thanksgiving. Since then the kids have been on their own mostly. A group of hippies took them in, gave them a place to sleep."
There's no end to the appalling circumstances in this world, but here in New York, that sort of thing just doesn't have to happen, and I told Illya that. "There are city and state Children's Services that would take care of them. Somebody's got to be looking out for them."
He just looked at me. "Grigori Ivanovich is doing the looking out for them, Napoleon. Children's Services, with all their benevolent intentions, is the greater of two evils as far as these immigrants are concerned."
"That's ridiculous," I scoffed. "How can something that makes sure the kids are housed and fed and clothed and educated and safe be worse than turning to petty crime as a means of income, sharing a dirty mattress with drug addicts and wondering if you'll be shot on the way home?"
"Oh, Napoleon. You do not understand. To Ukrainians, family is everything. In Kiev we slept four to a bed, six when we were small. Being alone… it's worse than death. There's no connection." I stared at Illya, finally making my own connections, albeit a little late. "We all know that Children's Services cannot afford to be sentimental like that. Sasha - she would find a family. Would Grigori Ivanovich? He is independent and angry, not young and cute. What happens to their family then?"
Cold be damned. I reached for Illya's hand, balled into a tight fist. "You have family now, you know."
All the anger deflated with a sigh, and Illya smiled at me. "Yes, I do. And I am being foolish. And none of this will matter if Beamer gets to Greg before we do."
I nodded. "Let's go find Greg and Sasha, and make sure they stay a family."
We walked a little faster after that, faces turned into the icy wind blasting straight off the East River. When the park loomed up out the darkness, we didn't hesitate, but climbed over the pointlessly locked gate.
Illya pointed to the tracks in the snow. We certainly weren't the first trespassers through here tonight. One set of tracks, mostly overlaid by other, larger feet that had followed, looked to be the sort that might be left by a 10 or 12 year old girl.
I drew my gun and made sure it was loaded with darts. If there was going to be any shooting tonight, I didn't want to endanger Sasha or Greg. I twirled a finger to indicate the route I would take, and with a nod, Illya mirrored my actions and melted into the darkness. Like I said, all smoke and shadow, disappearing at will.
The park was far nicer during a midnight snowstorm than it was during the day, I suspected. A few huddled junkies here and there, several prostitutes of both genders, shivering their fannies off and not getting much patronage. A couple of toothless, homeless oldsters playing chess at one of the tables, of all things.
I was almost done with a sweep of my half of the park when I heard it. A thin, muffled little wail, quickly silenced, followed by an inarticulate yell. Coming from somewhere close to the Avenue B entrance.
Don’t let us be too late, don't let us be too late. I wasn't sure if I was thinking it or praying out loud, trying to run but the hard soles of my Italian loafers skated across ice-slick paths until I feared I'd skid face-down into a shootout. Which, in the end, is nearly what happened.
Beamer must've called for reinforcements as soon as he realized his pocket had been picked, because there were four of them - one holding a struggling little girl, two hanging on to Greg's arms - and Beamer, knife in hand, in front of Sasha.
At the end of this egotistical post, all I can say is, I am thankful that I finished the damn story and that it made sense after all the changes made to it!
Here are a couple of snippets that were originally intended to be part of "The Hope Affair", written for the Down the Chimney Affair 4, back in 2007. For those of you who have read the story, a teenaged boy of Ukrainian heritage figures largely in the final version. He was in an earlier version, too, but had a sister whom he was protecting and providing for. My initial idea for the story was about family, the kind you're born with, the kind you make, and what you do to protect family, however you come by it. That idea morphed during the writing process, as you can clearly see. At some point I still want to write the "family" theme, but am waiting for the right idea to wrap it around.
You may recognize certain lines or descriptions as having appeared in the final version of the story, although perhaps in a slightly different context. A lot of my first drafts get recycled into final versions of the same, or even different stories.
There are some mild references to slash herein. There is also excessive use of em dashes and ellipses. You have been warned.
Original partial version of The Hope Affair, where the boy they are following goes into the church instead of bypassing it
"Well, he's going in. At least one of us needs to follow him. There may be a back entrance."
"You go." Illya looked around for a sheltered spot and gestured toward a doorway that looked to be out of the wind. "I'll wait out here and make sure he doesn't double-back past you."
"All right. But if he settles in for the service, I'll give you a signal so you can at least come inside and be warm. Wouldn’t want to interrupt the service, but we can collar him once it’s over."
Illya's rude snort told me what he thought of my considerate strategy. "That won't be necessary. I do not mind the cold. He's not going to stay, anyway."
Illya's clear reluctance to sit through a religious service scratched a mischievous itch deep inside me. "Faith isn't contagious, you know, partner mine."
He looked sideways at me, an almost hurt expression surfacing in his eyes. "I have plenty of faith, Napoleon. And there are many things I believe in." He pressed his shoulder against mine in a clear gesture of solidarity. "I just don't have religion."
A helpless rush of affection for this prickly wiseacre from half a world away warmed me from toenails to scalp. There are times when I think perhaps I don't deserve him or his unconditional trust in me, but then I always remember my grandmother’s prim warning - you get what you deserve. And who am I to argue with my grandmother's wisdom?
Instead of surrendering to another impulse to kiss him, I squeezed his fingers once, hard and quick. "Okay."
Then I crossed the street and entered the church. Inside the scents of old wood and candle wax reawakened memories and habits. I'd dipped my fingers in holy water and crossed myself before I realized what I'd done. Probably a good thing Illya had stayed outside after all. His clear-eyed gaze would probably make me feel ten years old and gullible.
The sanctuary was mostly full, and the boy nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t gotten past me, I was certain, and unless he'd scooted behind the priest in full view of the congregation, I doubted he'd gotten out a back door. That left the stairwell to my left.
Our pickpocket was in the basement, perched on an old pew alongside a younger girl who looked too much like him to be anything but a sister. They were spreading waxed cartons out like a feast. Which, to judge by the girl's face, was exactly what it was.
Not dodging us, not hiding, not worshipping - but he'd found sanctuary after all. Just not the kind of sanctuary Illya and I had expected.
I watched them for a couple of minutes, long enough to assure myself they weren't going anywhere for a while, and withdrew. There was definitely no reason for Illya to freeze his ass off outside. Especially not when I was so fond of that ass.
For a man who didn't mind the cold, he looked pretty doggoned miserable huddled in that doorway.
From my own doorway, considerably more protected, all I had to do was poke my head out to beckon, and watch him cross the street, a quicksilver shadow in the vague light.
"I don't believe it," were the first words out of Illya's mouth. He was shivering, and this time? The coat was buttoned clear up to his throat. "He is really here?"
I brushed accumulated snow off his shoulders and held a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Yes, he's here. But it's not what you think."
He smiled against my finger. "No?" Then he licked my finger, eyes wide and dark and very, very mischievous. "Just what do you think I think?"
Who was this man, and what had he done with my sober, dignified partner? "For starters, I think no one ever taught you how to behave in church, you godless communist."
He responded by sucking my finger into his mouth, a flagrant erotic defiance. My knees nearly buckled when he swirled his tongue around my finger until my brain just about shortcircuited, and then he pulled back, releasing me. I reeled, as unsettled as a three-sheets-to-the-wind sailor.
There are religious experiences… and then there are religious experiences.
Unprofessional didn't even begin to cover this situation. I wondered if foreplay in church counted as blasphemy.
"You’re lucky nobody saw that," I said when I could breathe again.
"I looked first. And there's still nobody around." Dare me, would he? l was pretty sure God wouldn’t mind if I--
The main door creaked open at that instant, and we stepped apart hastily. A family of four straggled in, late for the candlelight Mass. The father shot us a grim, disapproving glance, and I figured he'd caught our guilty movement. Maybe he thought we were robbing the poorbox. I adopted my most innocent expression, but that only made the father frown more. For some reason, fathers just don't seem to trust me very much.
With that sly grin still on his face, Illya opened the door leading to the sanctuary and bowed the family in. The little girl, perhaps five years old, giggled and waved to him as she passed. He waggled his fingers in return and closed the sanctuary door securely behind them.
I had a feeling he’d be just as big a hit with the slightly older girl in the basement. "All right, come on."
"The basement?" Illya's voice rose just enough to tempt me to lay my finger across his lips again, just to see what he'd do for an encore. "What did you do, Napoleon, tie him up?"
Sadly, he didn't lick me a second time, but simply obeyed my silent admonition and followed me quietly down the stairs. At the bottom we peered around the doorjamb; I went high and Illya went low. The kids had made quick work of the food. The girl was tidying up the few bits of trash, and the boy was busily spreading what looked like tattered old draperies over the pew. Making a bed, I realized.
"Greg, what if they find us?" The girl - who I judged to be around eight or ten - turned to face her brother, eyes big and worried in her thin face. "Will they throw us out? I don’t want to go back to that dirty old house."
I had to give the kid credit for projecting confidence and strength, something the little girl clearly needed. "No, everything's okay, Sasha. We can sleep here tonight. Safe and warm. Come on, I've made you a bed."
Even though the basement, like most basements, wasn't exceptionally warm, the room felt oddly cozy. Comforting, even. A sanctuary that I was loathe to disturb, for a tumble of reasons I couldn't quite name.
Down around my knees, Illya shifted restlessly and withdrew deeper into the shadowed stairwell. I felt and saw the movement, but heard no sound. He's really quite good at that sort of thing. I followed and crouched down beside him.
"You were right. It isn't what I thought." He stared straight ahead, as though he could see straight through the wall and into the room beyond, and his voice was as coldly efficient and businesslike as I'd ever heard from him. "There is no reason to delay. You get them ready to go. I will contact headquarters and have them send one of our cabs to pick us up."
He was already turning away, communicator in hand. I grabbed him by one arm. "Oh, no, you don't, partner mine. We have to--"
And then I was wondering why Illya was suddenly extremely tall and upside down. And why my shoulder felt like Sister Beatrice had just whacked me with the world's biggest ruler. Or tree limb, maybe. Sister Beatrice could've pitched for the Yankees, her arm was so strong.
"That won't be necessary." From way too far away, I heard Illya's cool voice, taking charge. I vaguely realized he had wrapped both arms around the boy's torso in an effort to control him, and something clattered - loudly - to the floor. It resembled a large and sturdy cast-iron candle holder, and it missed my head by a fraction of an inch.
"Napoleon!" Illya's voice now sounded just a tad strained, and as my vision cleared, I saw why. He had his arms full of a struggling, kicking teenager, who wasn't being nearly as careful of Illya as Illya was of him. "Are you all right?"
"I was better, but I got over it," I muttered, hauling myself to my feet. "Did you have to drop a building on me?" I asked the kid, who finally figured out he wasn't going to win against two men.
Illya has never been the trusting type, and he certainly wasn't about to trust our thief's apparent docility. "Why don't we dart them now and save ourselves some trouble?"
"Where's Sasha?" I looked around for the girl, but she'd managed to pull a disappearing act.
Both Illya and the boy - Greg - looked at me in astonishment. "You… you know our names?"
"Of course. Where is she?" Illya shook his head, which I took to mean that she'd not gotten past him and up the stairs. Which meant she had become one with a shadow somewhere in the basement. Either that… or she'd gone out a different door.
"You leave her out of this!" Greg resumed his struggle and Illya glanced meaningfully at me. He certainly had his hands full - if Greg ever learned some technique he could be deadly.
Illya grunted when a stray elbow caught him hard in the ribs and began to look really annoyed. His face flushed an interesting shade of red. He'd been wearing that same shade a few hours ago in his bed, although not for the same reason. I hope. "We're trying to help you, you ungrateful brat!"
I started poking about in corners, very carefully. Sasha, small as she was, might know a thing or two about cast-iron candlesticks herself. Quite frankly, I hadn't been all that fond of the things before Greg clobbered me with one.
"Yeah, well, we don't need your help."
Illya's muttered curse warned me that Greg was getting in a good lick or two.
"No, I can see that you don't." I adopted my mildest, most reasonable voice, the one I use for soothing Jack Perry's ruffled feathers when Section Two agents trample Section Three's sensitivities like a herd of wild buffalo. "You're very protective of your sister. Commendable."
"You'd be, too, if she was all the family you had."
"I'm sure I would be." I risked a sidelong glance; he looked pretty tense in Illya's grip, but wasn't fighting anymore.
"Look, Greg," he did a double-take when I casually used his name, "we're not here to ah, rat you out, or anything like that. You see, our paths crossed today in a way that might be a problem for you and Sasha, and that's what we want to prevent."
He curled his lip in a distrusting sneer that reminded me so much of Illya I wanted to laugh. Actually, I could see they were both wearing almost identical expressions.
"Yeah?" Greg could pretend all the disinterest he wanted, but I had his attention now. Illya must've sensed that the anger had bled out, too, by osmosis maybe, because he loosened his grip on Greg's arms. Of course, he wasn't foolish enough to leave the stairs unguarded.
I settled down on the pew they'd made into a bed. A mighty uncomfortable bed it would've been, too. Trust had to start somewhere, and it was going to come from me. "You, ah, came into possession of something today that wasn't yours, I believe?"
He glowered and stuck a very stubborn chin out. "You calling me a thief?"
"No--" I said, at the same time Illya said, "Yes." He raised his hands in a defiant gesture. "He is, and he knows it, too."
Greg deflated like a punctured balloon. So much for the indirect approach. Illya smirked.
"Yeah, I guess I am. I didn't mean to, but I'd hardly got anything by panhandling 'n Gramps taught me how to pick pockets when I was just a little kid." He walked over and sat down beside me. "It was just a game, honest. Used to make Mama really mad, though, so it was kinda our secret. I'm not very good at it. I tried four times before I finally, uh, well…"
I suspected he was better at picking pockets than he thought he was, although it didn't seem a good idea to tell him that.
"You told me all you did was panhandle." Sasha crawled out from under a jumble of discarded furniture, projecting outrage about three times her size. "You lied to me!"
"You were hungry, and the Mission wouldn't let us in, not by ourselves and nobody else cared. And it's Christmas Eve."
Funnily enough, Greg was the one close to defensive tears, not Sasha. She squeezed herself inbetween Greg and me on the pew and laced her fingers through his.
"I guess it's okay," she said in a very small voice. "I was really hungry."
"The one time you were successful - what did you take?" Well, that was an awkward moment Illya managed to leap over with a single bound. Persistent doesn't begin to describe my partner.
"Some guy's wallet. He was hailing a taxi and I could see it in his pocket. It was kind of easy, really. Not like the guy before… hey! You're the guy!" He looked from Illya to me, tense and suspicious again. "What'd you do, follow me? You gonna call the fuzz on me?"
"Let's just say we found you." I looked at Illya, who merely rolled his eyes upward and looked innocent. "And we won't call the, ah, fuzz on you - if you cooperate."
"Did you get anything else, besides the wallet? An envelope, perhaps?"
"Uh, yeah. But there wasn't any money in it, so I threw it away. It was drawings and pictures." He covered his sister's ears and whispered, "They weren't even dirty ones."
"I heard that, Grigori Ivanovich! Mama would… Mama…" Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over.
And then there's this bit, which also belonged to The Hope Affair. The kids in this case were actually attending the service and slipped away from our heroes and... honestly I don't remember what I had in mind after that, except for a big conclusive action scene in the midst of the blizzard.
Which is more than I can say for the kid when we approached him at the end of the mass. He took one look at our unfamiliar faces and expensive suits - and street-smart kid that he was, undoubtedly sized us up as some variety of cop - and disappeared with his sister faster than I could say tovarisch.
"What is it with you Ukrainians," I complained to Illya, staring at the brick wall the two had apparently walked through, "that you can vanish at will?"
"You don't really expect me to give away all our secrets, do you?"
Looking at my partner, barely visible despite the swirling snow, it was easy enough to believe that he - and perhaps all Ukrainians - were made from smoke and shadow - almost too ephemeral to be real. It would certainly explain a lot.
The temperature had dropped about ten degrees while we'd been in the church, and even Illya was ready for coffee by the time we got back to Veselka. We settled in at the counter - with our backs to the door and windows, which made both of us feel like sitting targets - because the girl we needed to talk to was working the counter.
Illya wrapped his fingers around his coffee mug and distanced himself by that same arcane magic that allowed him to disappear at will. Wheedling information from pretty girls was my designated responsibility in this partnership.
"Ah, Miss--"
She clammed up faster than Illya under torture
Curiosity, reluctance, even suspicion - those were responses I could understand. There was an indecipherable murmured conversation coming from the kitchen, but when I glanced at Illya he shook his head and shrugged one shoulder, while keeping one eye on the door and windows.
It didn't take long at all. A breathless rattle of consonant-heavy discussion, followed by some sharp questions to the lovely young waitress, who turned out to be the matron's daughter, and we were out the door, leaving nothing but smiles in our wake, and all their leftover pastries neatly wrapped in wax paper and tucked into our coat pockets.
"So where are we going?" Without gloves it was too doggoned cold at this point to wander around hand-in-hand like lovestruck teenagers.
"Avenue B, just opposite the park."
Wonderful. Even the gangsters demanded hazard pay to go beyond Avenue A. Tompkins Square Park was ground zero for every low-life in the Lower East Side. Not a good place for anyone, but especially not that sweet-faced little girl. She couldn't be more than 10 or 12.
"The boy is Greg. Grigori Ivanovich. You were right, the girl is his sister, Sasha. The father was killed in a robbery about five years ago. The mother died just before Thanksgiving. Since then the kids have been on their own mostly. A group of hippies took them in, gave them a place to sleep."
There's no end to the appalling circumstances in this world, but here in New York, that sort of thing just doesn't have to happen, and I told Illya that. "There are city and state Children's Services that would take care of them. Somebody's got to be looking out for them."
He just looked at me. "Grigori Ivanovich is doing the looking out for them, Napoleon. Children's Services, with all their benevolent intentions, is the greater of two evils as far as these immigrants are concerned."
"That's ridiculous," I scoffed. "How can something that makes sure the kids are housed and fed and clothed and educated and safe be worse than turning to petty crime as a means of income, sharing a dirty mattress with drug addicts and wondering if you'll be shot on the way home?"
"Oh, Napoleon. You do not understand. To Ukrainians, family is everything. In Kiev we slept four to a bed, six when we were small. Being alone… it's worse than death. There's no connection." I stared at Illya, finally making my own connections, albeit a little late. "We all know that Children's Services cannot afford to be sentimental like that. Sasha - she would find a family. Would Grigori Ivanovich? He is independent and angry, not young and cute. What happens to their family then?"
Cold be damned. I reached for Illya's hand, balled into a tight fist. "You have family now, you know."
All the anger deflated with a sigh, and Illya smiled at me. "Yes, I do. And I am being foolish. And none of this will matter if Beamer gets to Greg before we do."
I nodded. "Let's go find Greg and Sasha, and make sure they stay a family."
We walked a little faster after that, faces turned into the icy wind blasting straight off the East River. When the park loomed up out the darkness, we didn't hesitate, but climbed over the pointlessly locked gate.
Illya pointed to the tracks in the snow. We certainly weren't the first trespassers through here tonight. One set of tracks, mostly overlaid by other, larger feet that had followed, looked to be the sort that might be left by a 10 or 12 year old girl.
I drew my gun and made sure it was loaded with darts. If there was going to be any shooting tonight, I didn't want to endanger Sasha or Greg. I twirled a finger to indicate the route I would take, and with a nod, Illya mirrored my actions and melted into the darkness. Like I said, all smoke and shadow, disappearing at will.
The park was far nicer during a midnight snowstorm than it was during the day, I suspected. A few huddled junkies here and there, several prostitutes of both genders, shivering their fannies off and not getting much patronage. A couple of toothless, homeless oldsters playing chess at one of the tables, of all things.
I was almost done with a sweep of my half of the park when I heard it. A thin, muffled little wail, quickly silenced, followed by an inarticulate yell. Coming from somewhere close to the Avenue B entrance.
Don’t let us be too late, don't let us be too late. I wasn't sure if I was thinking it or praying out loud, trying to run but the hard soles of my Italian loafers skated across ice-slick paths until I feared I'd skid face-down into a shootout. Which, in the end, is nearly what happened.
Beamer must've called for reinforcements as soon as he realized his pocket had been picked, because there were four of them - one holding a struggling little girl, two hanging on to Greg's arms - and Beamer, knife in hand, in front of Sasha.
At the end of this egotistical post, all I can say is, I am thankful that I finished the damn story and that it made sense after all the changes made to it!