Call Me Whistler
The rain was coming down in a slow, steady drizzle, soaking the boy who sat on the front step of a store somewhere in lower Manhattan. He played over the day's events in his mind as he nursed the bruises on his face, trying to figure out some way out of his sudden homelessness. The day had started out fairly normally, but somewhere along the way it had gone terribly wrong…
"Out, I say!" cried the landlord. "I won't have thieves living in my building, especially when they steal from me!"
"All I stole was potatoes!" the boy shouted back, slipping on the piles upon piles of tubers that crowded the small tenement room. "And it's not like you couldn't afford a couple potatoes, anyway!"
The landlord backhanded the boy against the wall. "OUT!" he shouted again. "And if I ever see you around here again, I'll have you arrested!"
Not that being arrested was anything new to the boy who sat on the step, thinking hard and wringing the extra water out of his long red hair from time to time. He'd been in and out of the Refuge several times, and was not in the mood for a return trip.
"Nuthin' for it but to get movin'," he sighed to himself, plopping a bright green cap on his head and carefully tucking his hair up under it. As much as he hated being mistaken for a girl, he hated haircuts more. His last one had been on his most recent visit to the Refuge, over a year before.
"The question is: where to go where ol' Snyder can't find me."
Suddenly he remembered overhearing a conversation about Brooklyn.
"Well, why not."
Spot Conlon looked out over his domain. Or rather, what he could see of his domain. Technically, all of Brooklyn was his domain, but at that moment all he could see was the docks, and a few of his newsies who had finished selling early and were taking a swim in the cold Hudson River. The King of Brooklyn smiled. He'd had a good selling day, and now he was perched on his newly built tower made of packing crates, relaxing and enjoying the view.
Until the Disturbance, at least.
The Disturbance took the form of six newsies coming before Spot's tower, dragging a seventh boy who was taking every opportunity to fight back, cursing like a sailor when one of his captors hit him in the stomach, forcing him to double over.
"You'll show the proper respect for Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn," the leader of the little group said.
"Like hell I will," spat the captive. "I'll soak the bastard if I get my hands on 'im, just like I'll soak every last one o' you!"
Spot raised an eyebrow. The captive was prompty punched in the stomach.
"Alright, who the hell is he, and why'd you bring him here?" Spot asked the leader of the captors.
"He was sellin' in our territory, and he sure ain't from Brooklyn," the boy explained. Suddenly the captive—taking advantage of everyone's distraction—squirmed out of his captors' collective grip and rolled away from them, losing his cap in the process. Long red hair cascaded down his back as he got to his feet.
"A girl?" Spot asked incredulously. No boy would have hair that long, right? "Grab her!"
The six boys immediately took off, overtaking the redhead and pummeling the small person to the ground.
"I am not! Geddoffame!" The captors didn't comply, holding their prisoner fast while Spot groped at his/her chest. He was hit squarely in the eye with a glob of spit. Swearing, he punched the prisoner in the face, then ripped off the clay pendant that hung on a leather cord around the prisoner's neck.
"He's a boy, either that 'r a real skinny girl. Chuck him in the river," he said carelessly, climbing back up the ladder to his perch to examine the pendant. The six complied, dragging the redhead over to the edge of the pier and giving the oddly compliant prisoner a shove. All eyes watched as the bubbles slowly stopped.
"Problem solved," Spot said. "Now get back to sellin', all o' yous."
Next morning, the redheaded boy was back, carrying the banner on someone else's corner. He'd even gotten his hat back during the night. Once again, Spot's followers brought him before the tower.
"So, y'know how to swim good," the King of Brooklyn said, looking over the boy's still-damp clothing. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Someone you should look over your shoulder for," was the boy's reply.
Early the next morning, Spot awoke with a knife under his chin. Looking up, he discovered the redheaded kid with an unreadable expression on his face and a strange glint in his greeny-grey eyes.
"Get up, an' get dressed," he said. "We got a score to settle."
Considering his position, Spot did as he was asked, keeping an eye on the knife as the redheaded boy tossed it casually from hand to hand. Something told him that the boy could do more than just stab people with the small blade. The second Spot had pulled his suspenders on, the boy grabbed him by the arm and all but dragged him outside, around a few corners, and into an empty alleyway.
"You've got all your friends hangin' out near this alley, don't you?" Spot asked. "Ready to kill me."
"Nope, just me," the boy replied. "But I'll be more than enough. You took a few things from me, an' I aim to get 'em back."
Spot remembered the necklace. "What, you mean this piece a junk?" he said, pulling it out of his pocket. "I shoulda thrown it in after you."
"Bastard!" the boy shouted. Spot found himself on the ground, clutching his stomach. He hadn't even seen the kid move. No flicker of thought in his eye right before, no bunching of muscles.
"Get up." Spot staggered to his feet, only to be punched back down. The boy ordered him up again. Spot obeyed, and was punched down once more. This time, though, he couldn't get back up. The redheaded boy searched through Spot's pockets until he found his necklace, stuffed it into his own pocket, and pulled Spot to his feet. He then half-carried the other boy over to the docks, then dumped him into the river.
Spot hit the water with a splash and sank, unable to swim in his condition. The boy standing above realized this, and panicked. He hadn't meant to kill his tormentor, just pay him back for the blows and indignity, not to mention the theft of the necklace. Not even taking his shoes, he dove into the water, blindly searching with his fingers for a warm body, a bit of cloth or hair, anything that would imply that Spot wasn't dead at the bottom of the Hudson. Finally his hands felt a brush of hair, and he grabbed at it, dragging whatever was attached back up to the surface. It was Spot, and he wasn't breathing. The boy carried him up the ladder and onto the pier, then pumped the other's chest a few times, breathing a sigh of relief when Spot coughed a few times, then spit out a small fountain of water.
"What the hell--" he said once he'd gotten his breath back. "Ya beat me up, try to kill me, then you save my life?"
"We're even now," the redheaded boy replied. He reached out a hand to help Spot to his feet, but had it slapped away.
"You're a nutjob."
"So I been told." Then the boy walked away, whistling.
By the time Spot got back to the lodging house, the sun was fully up and his newsies had already gone to get their papers. The King of Brooklyn found himself running to the newspaper office, hoping that they hadn't sold out yet.
They hadn't. Spot, never one to pray, found himself thanking the Lord that he was just in time. Then he heard someone whistling. It was a simple tune, repetitious and catchy, and Spot found himself humming along in his head. After two more repetitions, however, it got annoying.
"Hey whistler! Shut up!" he yelled. The whistling continued. Spot looked around, trying to find the source of the song. There, near the gate, was the redheaded boy who had dumped him in the river and then pulled him out again. Standing there, lips pursed, whistling loud and clear.
Spot went over to him, carrying a stack of papers. "Stop whistling or I shove these down your throat," he threatened. The boy stopped whistling and grinned. "Ya never said what your name was."
"Call me Whistler."