A/N: This is my first Newsies story. To set a few things straight before we begin and people get confused:
- The physical version of Race I have chosen to illustrate is Ben Cook's adaptation from the musical. I have chosen and Italian names in this story because in the script of the movie, he was described as an "Italian beanpole".
- This story contains elements from both the movie and the musical, because both are fabulous and I love them.
I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, and neither does Pulitzer. (I have taken liberties with random unnamed Newsies, though.)
"Extry! Extry! Three killed in construction accident!"
What a horrifically enticing headline! Like a fly being drawn to carrion, an upright, well dressed gentleman deviated purposeful stride from his original path and headed toward the call, fishing in his pocket for a penny and handing it to the source of the astonishing news.
Racetrack Higgins, a skinny, blonde-haired Italian boy with a cigar and a crooked grin, accepted the coin with a tip of his cap and handed the man a newspaper.
"Thanks, mista," he said. He took his ever-present cigar out of his mouth a wiped his nose, grinning wickedly after the gentleman. Oh yes, there had been a few deaths in that construction accident. However, all three of them had been wayward pigeons. Not exactly what one would call "big news". But it sold.
Sticking his cigar between his teeth, Race pulled another paper out of his bag. "Man foun' dead in pub! Foul play suspected!" he shouted, waving the paper above his head. "Extry! Extry!"
Translation: a man was found passed out drunk in a bar, and his wallet had been stolen.
The faux headline was ignored at first, then one; two more papers sold. Two more people fooled. Three papers in the last half-hour, with twenty-two papers to go. Pretty good, so far.
I oughta jus' ask 'em if dey wanna look stupid for a penny, Race thought, looking through the paper for the hundredth time to see if he had missed any possible headlines. "'Man thought guilty for robbin' florist foun' innocent'," he muttered through his cigar, adjusting his cap to shield his eyes from the sun. He flicked angrily at the paper. "How'm I 'sposed to woyk wit' dis nonsense?"
"Excuse me!"
"Huh?" He looked up to see a thinly bearded man sitting in a carriage, waving, trying to get his attention. Race straightened, pulling his cigar out of his mouth. "Whatsa matta mista?"
"Can you direct me to Luther's Furniture?" the man inquired. "I got some wares I need to deliver."
"Maybe," Race said slyly. "Got a bit of trouble rememberin'…"
The man huffed good-naturedly and flipped him a penny. The newsboy caught it with a grin and stuffed it in his pocket.
"A'right… Luther's… Ah…" Race removed his hat and scratched his head, glancing down the street. "I t'ink… if you go down dat way—" he pointed with his cap, "—and turn left at Mowa's Street, you'll find it. I ain't too shore d'ough. I ain't exactly been buyin' any fer-nitcha lately."
He looked back up at the man, waiting for a reply. The man sat silent, gawking at him. Race's carefree smile flickered.
"Somet'in' wrong, mista?" he asked.
The man looked as though he'd seen a ghost. His eyes were wide, his bearded jaw ajar, and his leather-gloved hands held the reins limply. Race fidgeted uncomfortably. Had he stolen something from this man before? He didn't seem familiar, but Race's memory wasn't exactly the greatest, either.
Finally, the man stirred. He shut his mouth and peered curiously at Race, and to the boy's surprise, his eyes glittered. Race looked at the wheels of the wagon, yanking his hat onto his head, not sure what to do. This had never happened before. Men didn't usually get teary-eyed when they saw him. They usually gripped their wallets tighter and glared.
"Mista, I dunno what de problem is, but-"
"Pier?" the man whispered.
Race's head jolted up, his own eyes bugging. He shuffled backward a pace in surprise.
"'Scuse me?" he spluttered. "What-?"
Then Race's gaze met the other's, and he froze.
He remembered. The eyes. The man's eyes. They were his own. Bright, vibrant sky blue. Older, yes, and more tired and sad, but his.
Those were the eyes of Luca Higgins. The eyes of his father.
"Papa?"
"Pier," the man leaped from the wagon, standing mere steps in front of Race, his arms open uncertainly, as if wanting to embrace him but being afraid he'd disappear if he touched him. "Oh, my God!"
Race didn't move. He stood, stiff as a board. His precious cigar had slipped unnoticed from his hand, falling softly to the ground, forgotten. He stuttered. Race, loudmouthed and sarcastic and ever-witty, could not find a single thing to say. If he was asked to come up with a fake headline right then and there, he'd have started coughing very hard.
The man gently touched his shoulder. Race stood a still as a bronze statue, his eyes locked on the other's face. A lump rose so high in his throat he thought he might vomit. He hadn't realized how much he had missed him.
"Papa, I-"
"Pier," the man breathed. "I thought you were dead."
Race stepped away and wiped angrily at his nose, sniffling hard and pulling his hat down.
"Well, I ain't dead," he replied huskily.
"I missed you, Pier," his father said, his voice breaking a little. "More than you know."
"I'm shore you did," Race muttered, reaching down and picking up his cigar. He kept his eyes averted from his father's face.
Luca's smile dimmed. "What happened to you?"
Race looked at the wheels of the wagon and said nothing.
"Pier-"
Race cleared his throat loudly, cutting him off. "We got a lot to talk abou', I'm guessin'," he said. "But layta."
Luca noticed the half full bag of newspapers slung over his son's shoulder. "Yes, we both have work to do, I think."
"Yeh."
Neither one of them moved. Luca stepped away, his eyes lingering almost fearfully on his son.
"Well," he said hesitantly. "I suppose I'll just... get on with my deliveries then."
Race watched mutely as his father turned and mounted his wagon. Luca looked back at him as he picked up the reins, looking relieved that the boy hadn't vanished when his back was turned.
"At six o' clock?" he suggested. "Back here?"
Race nodded stiffly. The elder gave the younger one last brief salute; snapped the reins and clicked his tongue. The newsie gazed numbly after the wagon as the horses clopped away, until they disappeared around the corner. He tore his gaze away, his brain finally catching up with reality.
What was his father doing this far south? After all this time… what were the odds?! What were the odds that he would be on this street, at this time, just as Luca Higgins — of all people! — would roll up and ask him — of all people! — for directions?! Definitely not odds that Race would have soberly put money on.
He shivered, suddenly realized he was sweating profusely, and wiped a sleeve across his forehead.
Time to get back to work, he thought. Jamming his cigar between his teeth, he tried to shrug off the nauseas feeling in his stomach as he pulled out a newspaper and returned to his hawking.