Based on the poll and PMs, I have decided to do the story in a Newsie accent (where dialogue is involved). Just so you know, I try to make it enough so you can actually read it, because I can't write a full out barely legible New York accent, much less read it. That's why with words ending in –er, I don't add an –uh instead since I have grammatical issues drilled in my brain.
So, I have to do this disclaimer thing, I've heard.
I don't own Newsies which belongs to Newsies. I don't own the Newsies in that movie, although I wish I had Spot and David in my possessions. Wait, I don't even own these characters besides the Cotello Gang! I hate disclaimers.
Terry hated waiting.
He had been sitting on the bench next to the local bookstore, Solomona and Hart, and was getting bored and even hungrier. Vegas could sometimes be the dumbest person in all of Manhattan, possibly New York. He would say the world, but he thought that maybe he would be pushing it a little. Just a little.
He pulled his coat closer towards him in an attempt to avoid the cold wind.
Another thing, he thought as his stomach growled, loud enough, (he was afraid), for a walking man dressed as if he was going to a party to stop and give him a funny look before continuing. I can't stand autumn. Why can't it get through its head that constantly switchin' from cold ta warm ta hot ta freezin' in a single day can do it in for some people?
Terry almost decided to just walk up and leave but he considered what kind of friend that would make him. Sure, he was cold and he was kind of sleepy, but if he left, who would Vegas come back to? Besides, he was taking a while, longer than he said, and he was getting kind of worried.
He thought about this for a while until he heard the sound of running coming towards his direction.
He immediately looked up and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw a familiar face. Vegas' brown hair flew behind him; his newsboy cap clutched in one hand and what looked like balled up paper held in the other. His freckled face was red.
"You're back!" Terry stood up from the bench and stretched. Vegas stopped running in front of him, out of breath and coughing.
Terry took no notice of this, all aspects of his usually polite character gone. "Are ya alright, ya senseless idiot?" He gave him a stern look. "And why're ya holdin' your cap?"
Vegas leaned over and coughed again. He raised one finger, saying, "One second." He caught his breath and answered. "I'm fine, Terry. An' my cap fell off so many times so I jus' held on to it." He brushed away hair that had fallen over his eyes.
"Dat's why I'se been tellin' you ta get a smaller one." Terry said in a "told-you-so" tone.
"Don' mind dat right now." He started walking quickly. "We'se gotta get goin'."
"Vegas?" Terry asked, starting to feel suspicious. "Why were you runnin' like ya had a demon on ya tail?"
"Oh, dat?" Vegas continued walking in his quick pace, forcing Terry to walk after him. "I'se afraid you'se been worried."
"Vegas," Terry started, feeling something was wrong.
"Dat, an' I sorta got an angry lot after me."
"Vegas, what didja do?" Terry's eyes widened.
Vegas stopped and grabbed Terry's shirt collar and pulled him behind a building. He peeked from the side of the building as if watching for someone and went back. He sat to on the ground and leaned against the brick building.
"I can explain," Vegas started.
"Start explainin'." Terry crossed his arms trying to hide whatever fear might be showing.
"Well, remember when I said I knew where ta get loads o' money an' dat it was an' easy bet wit, uh," he stopped and tapped his head. "Whaddya call that numbers gamblin' thing?"
"Numbers racket?" Terry suggested.
"Yeh, dat." Vegas said. "Numbers racket. Well, I'se good at number's ya know. Not as good as Race, but almost."
"Yeh," Terry said. His foot, which always tapped, became more frequent as he got more nervous.
"Well, I'se been thinkin' an' thinkin' and I thought, "Why don' I do somethin' like dat?" So I did. An' I won. But,"
"But what?" Terry asked, getting worried and impatient. Increasingly.
"Don' interrupt me, Terry," Vegas said annoyed. "A few fellas from da Cotello Gang thought I'se bein' a little too lucky, so when I won me ten bucks," At this, he opened up the hand which was not holding balled up paper, but was in fact holding ten dollars. "they gotta bit mad an' tried to get it from me, said I was bein' unfair." He shrugged. "But I outrunned dem."
"Outran," Terry whispered, automatically correcting him. He couldn't believe it. Vegas got in a mess. With the Cotello Gang? The Cotello Gang? They were dead boys walking.
"Look, Terry," Vegas said annoyed. "Jus' cuz ya got a bit more education dan me don't mean ya have ta rub it in."
"Sorry," Terry said, his foot tapping becoming even more frequent. "But, you did outrun dem, yeh?"
"I should hope so." Vegas stood and peeked from behind the building. "Oh, shit!" He cursed.
"What?" Terry's heart started beating wildly. "What happened?"
"Terry?" Vegas asked casually. "How fast can ya run?"
"I dunno?" Terry said, mentally cursing the mad tick of his foot. "Why?" he asked, though he felt he knew the answer.
"Looks like ya gonna have to imagine a demon's on ya tail." Vegas shoved the money in his pocket. "Alright, let's go, let's go."
He started at a fast jog which began to break into a full-fledged sprint. Terry fought to keep up. His heart nearly stopped as he heard the voices coming from behind him.
"Ya gonna die tonight, kid!" A loud, deep voice came from behind them. Terry risked a glance behind him and saw five people, easily twice their size, catching up. He nearly lost his footing; the tick in his foot was so bad.
Vegas and Terry breathed harder and harder as they turned a corner and saw a grouping of familiar buildings. They were nearly there.
"You give us back what was ours!" Another voice said. It sounded younger than the previous. Vegas heard a swish and ran to the left a little as a knife flew through the air and embedded itself in a sign saying, MacArthur's Suits and Ties.
"They're crazy!" Terry cried above the rush of the wind.
"It's alright!" Vegas answered. "We'se almost home free!"
Vegas was right. He could almost see the familiar statue with the words HORACE GREELEY
JOURNALIST & PUBLISHER "GO WEST YOUNG MAN" 1811-1872 inscribed below it.
The caught sight of the sign saying NEWSBOYS LODGING HOUSE and Terry felt himself get a burst of speed.
Unfortunately, so did one of the Cotello Gang. He heard a ferocious growl come from one of them as his feet went faster and faster.
Vegas reached the Lodging House first and pulled open the door, heat blasting him in the face. Terry, not that far behind him, reached out a hand and Vegas pulled him in. He slammed the door behind him and held it closed with the help of Terry.
Terry fell to the ground and tried to catch his breath. He held his hands on his ticking foot until it went back to its normal rate before he grabbed his cap from his head and wiped sweat from his brow. Another thing, he thought, why does one sweat when it's gotta be freezin' out?
Vegas, still at the door, turned around and whispered, "I think dere gone." He opened the door a crack and saw five men in jackets, talking in rapid Italian, walking angrily back from the direction they just came. The way they spoke with their hands and making really crude gestures made Vegas think that they were really, really upset.
Vegas closed the door and whistled. He grinned at Terry.
Terry frowned at Vegas. "What da hell are you smilin' about?"
Vegas shrugged. "Da good news is dat we'se safe." His grin faltered. "Da bad news is dat we'se made some real bad enemies."
"Ya think?" Terry was incredulous.
Vegas looked up and Terry turned around at the sound of someone running down the stairs. As the person neared the end of the stairs, they recognized who it was. The person stopped at the floor and crossed his arms. He looked them up and down.
"Really, Vegas? Really?" A small boy with sleepy green eyes and messy sandy hair sighed. "What didja now?"
"Me?" Vegas scoffed, pointing at himself. "Jus' 'cause we come back at hours after dark don' mean we did notin'."
"It's twelve o'six." The small boy's eyes flashed in anger. He held out his golden-colored pocket watch. "Twelve o'seven now."
"It's alright, Luck," Terry spoke up, getting to his feet. "We'se alright. No need for ya to act all heated about it. We didn't see any clocks around."
Luck frowned. "Da heck were ya doin'? Mush, Blink, and Bumlet's been out lookin' for ya." His frown deepened. "Cider, Tumbler, an' Skittery were all worried about ya."
Vegas chuckled. "Skittery? Worried?"
"Dis ain't funny, Vegas," Luck said. Then, he sighed. "Jus' come on upstairs. Might as well get as little sleep as ya can right now." He started walking up.
"But, Luck?" Terry began. "Ain't ya gonna ask us were we'se been?"
"I kinda don' wanna know right now," came Luck's tired answer.
Vegas smiled. "He's way too serious for his age." He started up the stairs.
Terry rolled his eyes, and tried to shake off the fear he felt that night. He just hoped that maybe those guys from the Cotello Gang didn't recognize them so much. There were loads of freckled kids and Jewish guys in New York.
Another thing, he thought as he entered neared his bed, not really trying to be quiet over Itey's loud snores, Why'm I best friends with a completely crazy person? He carefully climbed onto the bed he shared with Dutchy.
I hope that was at least satisfactory. I'm not sure if Solomona and Hart is that close to the Lodging House. I created the Cotello Gang because I read on a Newsies Historical tumblr (or something like that) several newspaper articles about how Newsies would get into little "predicaments" with gangs and other people.
I hope Vegas, Terry, and Luck's creators were happy with their first appearance. What can I say? I tried.
(PS, notice the appearance of the real Newsies? It's not like they're gone or anything.)
(PPS, Numbers Racket is a gambling game I found on Wikipedia. It has to do with whoever gets the number closer to the real one and you get money. At least, that's how I summarized. It's probably inaccurate. Plus, Racetrack can't be the only Manhattan gambler, now can he?)