[fic][baccano!] Firo Falls Off A Building
More Baccano!, pre-series. 966 words.
Someone had tied a pair of spectators up on the flagpole at 140 Mulberry Street. They were real nice shoes. White and calf, with a saddle design and laces all up to the fringed top. They looked a little battered. They looked real sharp. Firo had never owned a pair like them. Maiza had a few pairs, but they were all too big. Firo wondered if these would fit.
He was a good way up the fire escape when he slipped. It had rained the night before. He’d crawled over the rails, leaned out for the flagpole, when his boots skidded on the wrought iron. Firo felt the pole slip his grip. He watched the shoes fall away and he thought: Damn! Almost had them!
Something caught him.
Firo blinked. Three bottle caps, some jacks, and a nickel Maiza had given him jerked out of his pockets. His hat came off. He watched it flutter to the pavement, three storeys down. He craned his head up.
He saw the edge of the tenement, a whole lot of sky, and the guy holding both his ankles. He looked older, seventeen in Firo’s eyes, with a shock of red hair and a blue blazer. This would’ve made him interesting even if he weren’t hanging upside down. His knees were bent over the fire escape, like he’d been sitting there and all at once leaned back. His bright blazer and his bright hair hung around broad shoulders and a blank, hard face.
When Firo’s heart started beating again he said: “Whoa, Mister. How’d you do that?”
The guy’s blank, upside down face flashed with confusion, then, after a moment, broke into a grin. All at once, he looked open and pleasant. He couldn’t have been fifteen.
“Practice!” the stranger laughed and swung Firo up and onto the fire escape, like he caught falling boys every day of the week.
“Boy!” gaped Firo. His coat settled over his shoulders, badly. “Can you show me how you did that?”
“Sure can,” said the stranger, smoothing the lapels of his blazer and gaining instant respect. “You got a pretty interesting reaction for someone who just fell two flights. First, though, how ‘bout you tell me your name?”
Firo did. “So who’re you?”
He told him. If Firo had still been wearing his hat he would have tipped it up in surprise. “That ain’t a boy’s name!”
Claire Stanfield just looped his arms over the rail. “So, Firo. Why don’t you tell me what’s up there worth dying for?”
Firo didn’t want to say. For one, he’d seen those shoes first. For another, confronted with a guy so stylish, it was suddenly embarrassing to admit having done it for a pair of nice shoes. He must have looked at them though, if just for a second, because Claire followed his mind’s gaze right up to the flagpole.
“Ah.” His smile widened. “The shoes, huh?”
Firo said nothing. After a minute, saying nothing began to feel stupid, so he draped his arms over the rail like Claire’s and looked off to the side. “Wanted to see if I could reach it.”
He must have answered something right, because Claire’s hand clapped his shoulder appreciatively. It was a workman’s hand, not clean and elegant like Maiza and his friend’s. Still, like Maiza and those friends, Firo bet if this guy claimed he was royalty anyone would believe him. That’s why he took it with some authority when Claire shook his head.
“That pair? Don’t bother. They’re filth. You want style, my family’s got a place downtown that’ll fix you up with something real swell.”
He vaulted over the side of the escape just then, taking a moment to show how his hands gripped the bars. He went down first, and Firo clambered after him. Claire put a hand on his back to keep him steady.
“Your family makes shoes?” Firo asked, over his shoulder.
“No.” Claire smirked. “But this place makes shoes for my family.”
That was a deal too good for even an eleven year old to take without some thought. He’d lost his nickel, and shoes cost more than that anyway. He glanced back up the wall. “You don’t owe me. I’d rather earn it.”
To his confusion, Claire just let this go. “Suit yourself. But how about you earn it in a way that gets you more than some secondhand knockoffs.”
“I’m not family,” Firo admitted. It was a dangerous thing to say, but he had the higher ground just then.
This, too, didn’t bother Claire. He landed with a sweep of his arms, and scooped Firo’s hat out of the muck. He brushed it against the side of his pants. “That’s fine. Come with me anyway. That we’ll say you owe me, me saving your life and all. That life’s mine now. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.”
Firo hung on the last step. “Why’s that?”
“‘Cause I said so.”
“You mean that?”
Claire cocked his head. “Don’t tell nobody you saw me and let the cops handle the... shoes, and we’ll call it even.” He walked two steps and stopped, a finger raised with a sudden thought. “Oh! And how ‘bout we say you’re my servant for a week? That’s fair, right? I’ll be in town that long, and I never had a peon before!”
That seemed a whole lot less fishy. “Aw nuts! Sure I will.” Firo leapt down. “Eh.... wait, does this mean I got to call you ‘Boss’?”
Claire held his hat out to him. Firo stuck out a hand, Claire swept it out of his reach and onto his head with a motion like water. “Nah,” he said, flicking dirt off the brim. “Just Claire’s fine.”
Someone had tied a pair of spectators up on the flagpole at 140 Mulberry Street. They were real nice shoes. White and calf, with a saddle design and laces all up to the fringed top. They looked a little battered. They looked real sharp. Firo had never owned a pair like them. Maiza had a few pairs, but they were all too big. Firo wondered if these would fit.
He was a good way up the fire escape when he slipped. It had rained the night before. He’d crawled over the rails, leaned out for the flagpole, when his boots skidded on the wrought iron. Firo felt the pole slip his grip. He watched the shoes fall away and he thought: Damn! Almost had them!
Something caught him.
Firo blinked. Three bottle caps, some jacks, and a nickel Maiza had given him jerked out of his pockets. His hat came off. He watched it flutter to the pavement, three storeys down. He craned his head up.
He saw the edge of the tenement, a whole lot of sky, and the guy holding both his ankles. He looked older, seventeen in Firo’s eyes, with a shock of red hair and a blue blazer. This would’ve made him interesting even if he weren’t hanging upside down. His knees were bent over the fire escape, like he’d been sitting there and all at once leaned back. His bright blazer and his bright hair hung around broad shoulders and a blank, hard face.
When Firo’s heart started beating again he said: “Whoa, Mister. How’d you do that?”
The guy’s blank, upside down face flashed with confusion, then, after a moment, broke into a grin. All at once, he looked open and pleasant. He couldn’t have been fifteen.
“Practice!” the stranger laughed and swung Firo up and onto the fire escape, like he caught falling boys every day of the week.
“Boy!” gaped Firo. His coat settled over his shoulders, badly. “Can you show me how you did that?”
“Sure can,” said the stranger, smoothing the lapels of his blazer and gaining instant respect. “You got a pretty interesting reaction for someone who just fell two flights. First, though, how ‘bout you tell me your name?”
Firo did. “So who’re you?”
He told him. If Firo had still been wearing his hat he would have tipped it up in surprise. “That ain’t a boy’s name!”
Claire Stanfield just looped his arms over the rail. “So, Firo. Why don’t you tell me what’s up there worth dying for?”
Firo didn’t want to say. For one, he’d seen those shoes first. For another, confronted with a guy so stylish, it was suddenly embarrassing to admit having done it for a pair of nice shoes. He must have looked at them though, if just for a second, because Claire followed his mind’s gaze right up to the flagpole.
“Ah.” His smile widened. “The shoes, huh?”
Firo said nothing. After a minute, saying nothing began to feel stupid, so he draped his arms over the rail like Claire’s and looked off to the side. “Wanted to see if I could reach it.”
He must have answered something right, because Claire’s hand clapped his shoulder appreciatively. It was a workman’s hand, not clean and elegant like Maiza and his friend’s. Still, like Maiza and those friends, Firo bet if this guy claimed he was royalty anyone would believe him. That’s why he took it with some authority when Claire shook his head.
“That pair? Don’t bother. They’re filth. You want style, my family’s got a place downtown that’ll fix you up with something real swell.”
He vaulted over the side of the escape just then, taking a moment to show how his hands gripped the bars. He went down first, and Firo clambered after him. Claire put a hand on his back to keep him steady.
“Your family makes shoes?” Firo asked, over his shoulder.
“No.” Claire smirked. “But this place makes shoes for my family.”
That was a deal too good for even an eleven year old to take without some thought. He’d lost his nickel, and shoes cost more than that anyway. He glanced back up the wall. “You don’t owe me. I’d rather earn it.”
To his confusion, Claire just let this go. “Suit yourself. But how about you earn it in a way that gets you more than some secondhand knockoffs.”
“I’m not family,” Firo admitted. It was a dangerous thing to say, but he had the higher ground just then.
This, too, didn’t bother Claire. He landed with a sweep of his arms, and scooped Firo’s hat out of the muck. He brushed it against the side of his pants. “That’s fine. Come with me anyway. That we’ll say you owe me, me saving your life and all. That life’s mine now. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.”
Firo hung on the last step. “Why’s that?”
“‘Cause I said so.”
“You mean that?”
Claire cocked his head. “Don’t tell nobody you saw me and let the cops handle the... shoes, and we’ll call it even.” He walked two steps and stopped, a finger raised with a sudden thought. “Oh! And how ‘bout we say you’re my servant for a week? That’s fair, right? I’ll be in town that long, and I never had a peon before!”
That seemed a whole lot less fishy. “Aw nuts! Sure I will.” Firo leapt down. “Eh.... wait, does this mean I got to call you ‘Boss’?”
Claire held his hat out to him. Firo stuck out a hand, Claire swept it out of his reach and onto his head with a motion like water. “Nah,” he said, flicking dirt off the brim. “Just Claire’s fine.”