Battling Brooklyn

Chapter 1: Hindsight

            As I look back on that day, perhaps I should have known better. But even I didn't think it would be taken as far as it was. Dave always says that's my worst quality—my 'inability to see future outcomes' or something of the sort. Dave always seems to think himself high above the rest of us, at least brains-wise. Too bad the kid doesn't know the blade of a knife from its hilt. I'm sure that with a little training, he might be half-useful in the fighting-strategies department.

            Dave's my selling partner, and one of my closest friends. But this story isn't about him. It's not even about me, really. Sure, I'm there for a lot of it (and what I'm not there for, I'll probably make up. That, Dave tells me, is one of my best qualities—my 'talent' for lying), but, for once, a story I'm telling doesn't center around me. It's the story of one of my newsboys—and they are my newsboys, make no mistake about it, because I am their leader—and the insatiably rude, war-crazed ruler of Brooklyn, Sean "Spot" Conlon.

            Before I get to our protagonist in this story, my newsie, I'll let you know a little about Spot. Spot is the typical Brooklyn leader, which is the borough that's been known for its fighting since probably the beginning of time. The first Brooklyners ever were missing all their teeth from just sitting around punching each other out. Okay, that I made up. But it makes for a good story, eh? Anyhow, back to Spot. He's the youngest Brooklyn leader in a while—maybe forever. Only fourteen years old, and short and skinny for his age too. I remember the first time I met him, I thought it was pretty comical that he was the leader of the most feared borough of New York City. I mean, just looking at the kid, you'd think that he wouldn't be able to lift a plank or a pipe, let alone use one in combat. I was shortly proved wrong, when he took a swing at me and ended up throwing me headfirst off his docks into the chilly waters of the Hudson River. Then he whipped out his slingshot and started chucking pebbles into the water, hitting my head whenever I surfaced. By the time I finally got back up on the docks, I was bleeding from eleven different holes on my face and shoulders. Ever since then, we've been great friends. (C'mon, follow me here—do you really think I'd want someone that powerful as an enemy?) Spot loves thinking he's "above" me, and insists upon calling me by idiotic nicknames. He's the one who came up with my current alias, Jack. He declared firmly that I was as stupid as some kid he'd heard about in a nursery rhyme, called Little Jack Horner, who just sat in a corner eating pie and making dumb comments. To appease him, I took on the name Jack Kelly (Kelly was my mother's name). So, you see, Spot and I have a strange, and often strained, friendship. But when the whiskey's flowing and the cards are dealing, do we ever have a great time together!

            Spot takes his job as Brooklyn leader quite seriously. Last summer, I was actually surprised that he came to the aid of my NYC plot, Manhattan. Spot's not exactly known as being charitable. But ever since he helped us all out over that idiot Pulitzer and his whining counterpart Hearst, we've been powerful allies for each other. A few times Queens and Harlem tried to boil over into our sections, but our two boroughs combined always fought them back down. Things had been great with Spot, incredibly exciting and wonderful. So maybe I should've thought twice that day.

            It was early June, year 1900. My youngest boy, Slider, who tries to make up for his youth by helping Snitch spy, rushed up to me. He has a habit of being overexcited, and that day was no exception. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bright and shiny. "Jack! Jack!" he cried, tugging at my shirt. "Dere's a new boy, an' 'e wantsa join da 'Hattan newsies!"

            I looked past him, and saw the uncertain boy standing behind him. This new boy was shuffling his feet, and looking everywhere but at me. I was a bit confused at first—I thought perhaps Slider had gotten the boy mixed up with someone else. Surely someone of this kid's enormous bulk and size was a Brooklyn newsie, maybe with a message from Spot?

            As I moved closer to him, he pulled his hat off his head and began turning it in circles within his hands, his sweaty fingers making damp smudges all around the brim. "Where ya from?" I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. Spot would never put up with anyone so skittish around a borough he looked down upon as much as he did us. (Make no mistake—allies or no, Spot still looked down on us. He always has, he always will.)

            The kid cleared his throat. He studied his hat in his hands before answering softly, "Joisey."

            "Joisey?" I repeated, incredulously. "Ya shoah you'se don' wanna go ta Brooklyn?"

            Now it was his turn to look confused. "Why would I wanna go ta Brooklyn?"

            "Cuz," I answered. "Ya look like yer from Brooklyn. Yer all big an' stuff." I shrugged, and turned to Dave, who was standing nearby. "Don' 'e look like 'e's from Brooklyn, Dave?"

            Dave gave a quick shrug and a nod of his head before going back to whatever the hell he was doing. Unimportant brain stuff, I suspect.

            "JACKIE BOY!" The shout was from nearly a block away, yet it was crystal clear. I laughed in spite of myself, and turned to greet the loudmouth, who was, I was sure, undoubtedly accompanied by his other half. Sure enough, Mush—the most cheerful kid you will ever meet, though I'm not quite sure why, because he's always poor on account of the fact that he can't sell newspapers worth anything—and his best friend, Kid Blink, were walking toward us.

            Mush stopped a few feet away from the new kid and me, as if a dog sniffing out new territory. "Who's dis, Jackie Boy?" he asked, his eyes wide.

            "Mush, dis is…" I looked back at the boy.

            "William," he supplied.

            I shook my head. "Mush, dis is… Brooklyn. Brooklyn, dis is Mush, an' Kid Blink's over dere."

            And so marks the beginning of my end. Why did I have to name the kid Brooklyn?

            Damn, I should have shut my mouth right then and there.

            Or maybe just not have introduced him to the loudest boy in Manhattan.

            Mush burst into hysterical laughter. "Brooklyn! BROOKLYN! Ya heah dat, Kid?"

            "Yeah," Kid Blink answered, grinning widely himself. He's the second-most cheerful kid you'll ever meet. "So wha's Brooklyn doin' in 'Hattan, Jack?"

            I smiled. Their happiness is so damn infectious. They may not be able to fight at all, but that's never bothered them. "Brooklyn's gonna be joinin' us, boys. 'E comes from Joisey. An' I don' wanna heah no one callin' 'im William. Wha' kinda idiot name is dat, anyhow?"

            Kid Blink narrowed his eyebrows at me. "My name is William, Jack."

            I shrugged. "Oh. Sorry, Blink."

            Mush had taken off down the street, yelling for everyone to hear that there was a new boy named Brooklyn, and he was going to be staying here in Manhattan, and Mush was pretty sure that there would be a party tonight in honor of the new guy. I shook my head. Mush always wants to have a party. I swear, I don't know how he ever finds time to sell  the few newspapers that he does, because every time I see him, he's either betting Racetrack or sitting with some giggly girl on his lap or doing acrobatic tricks with Kid Blink. Mush is a regular nutcase, all right. But his unstoppable vigor drives Spot insane, so I like to keep him around. It's nice to have a secret weapon—even if it is just a ball of spirited, excited energy—when dealing with grouchy people who could probably kill you and make it look an accident.

            Within minutes, at least fifty boys had surrounded Brooklyn, who in turn looked a bit overwhelmed. I found myself laughing so hard I got a stitch in my side and had to sit down for a good ten minutes. This kid was scared to be in Manhattan! Lord, it was a good thing he hadn't gone to Brooklyn. He wouldn't have lasted ten seconds.

            Meanwhile, over in the actual area of Brooklyn, Spot's chief spy, Cordon, was running his fingers through his limp black curls. "Spot, we's godda problem." He licked his lips anxiously. "Jack Kelly's defamin' da name a' Brooklyn oveh dere in 'Hattan."

            "What?" Spot stood up so fast that his makeshift throne—an old rocking chair set high upon a crude platform—fell over behind him. "Not da holy name a' Brooklyn!" His eyes glinted maliciously as he imagined putting his boot prints all over my face. "I'll getcha back fer dis, Kelly."

            …Okay, okay. So I made up the last two paragraphs. I wasn't over in Brooklyn to hear the actual conversation. But I'm sure Spot's eyes glinted maliciously, and I've seen his "throne", and it really wouldn't surprise me if the thing DID fall over, because it's not all that stable. But stick with me, because this story's about to go somewhere.