Kid Blink approached me with a familiar mischievous sparkle in his eye. That always means trouble. Especially on nights when Jack stayed out late with Sarah. Being Blink's best friend, it's up to me to go along with whatever he harebrained plan was brewing in his head. And tonight, that plan involved Spot Conlon, who had come over for a poker game with Racetrack.
"Uh, hey Brooklyn," I ventured to interrupt their game.
Spot had been laughing at something Skittery said, but the pleasant mood disappeared as soon as he looked back at me. "Whatdya want, Mush?"
"It's just… the little ones," I motioned toward the Boots and Snipeshooter, who we had brought along, "It's getting late, and at night, dey usually get scared or upset. They have no folks, ya know."
"So Jack," Kid Blink jumped in, "he would sing ta dem, and now dey just can't sleep until someone sings ta dem."
"So sing." Spot went back to his cards, uninterested and maybe a little disgusted at Jack's apparent mothering.
"We can't." Skitts protested, "See, dey looked up ta him, you know, cuz he could protect dem, and he didn't make dem feel scared. We just don't have dat kinda authority 'round here."
"What are you suggesting?" Spot didn't take his eyes off his cards.
"Well, yoah leadah a Brooklyn, and you got a lot a powah, and I know the kids admire you…"
"Just a minute!" Spot turned to face us, trying to act upset, but I could see that he was smug that the kids liked him. "Are you suggesting I…?"
"Dey're just li'l kids, Spot," I pointed out. Behind me, Boots and Snipeshooter put on their best pitiful little homeless kid faces.
"You stop that!" Spot told them, "You can't use that face on me! I invented that face!" Boots and Snipes cut it out. "No singing," he said, "you need ta grow up." He turned back to his cards.
Race caught my eye and gave a little wink. He would help us with our joke, if he could. He flicked his eyes toward his stash of beer and back at me. I turned the corners of my mouth up ever so slightly. Snitch saw the motion, and raised an eyebrow playfully. He was in. I nodded and motioned with my head toward Snipes and Boots. I would take care of the kids if Race and Snitch would take care of Spot. With one last glance at each of them, I led my group away from the game. Spot noticed nothing.
Racetrack had a supply of beer that he bought when he won at the tracks. He saved them for special occasions or really bad days. No one was allowed to touch that beer. We were all reminded of that rule quite frequently, and usually as a result of Snipeshooter's antics. But tonight, Race brought them out and passed them around the poker game. He was a pretty good bartender, I noticed as I watched him make sure that Spot never had an empty bottle. Turning away from the game, I looked at the two boys in front of me.
"Aright, Snipes," I ordered, "Cry!"
"No way. I ain't no baby!" he protested. I had him and Boots situated on the bed. I turned to Boots now, arms crossed.
"Don't look at me!" Boots said.
"Guys," I negotiated, "You heard da plan. This is the only way ta get Spot ta sing. But it won't work if ya don't cry."
"What, ya think I can cry on command?" Snipeshooter mocked.
"Blink?" Blink stepped forward. "Ya got 'em?" I asked. He opened his hands to reveal several large pieces of onion. We promptly tackled Snipes and Boots before they had a chance to get away, forcing them to inhale the stench of the onions. We let up only when we saw tears streaming down their face.
"Ugh!" Boots exclaimed. He and Snipeshooter gave us murderous looks.
"Now all you have ta do is yell," Kid Blink said confidently.
"No!" Said Snipeshooter defiantly. It was because we attacked them, I could tell.
"Come on," Blink said, "Think of it. The leadah a Brooklyn, serenading ya. It's the chance of a lifetime, an' ya bums is throwin' it away! What've ya got ta lose, huh?"
The boys still looked doubtful, so I added, "We'll throw in three cents each."
That sounded pretty good to them. They started crying as loud as they could.
The minute Racetrack saw Spot's eyes, he knew the alcohol was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. Race had watched us bribe Snipeshooter and Boots, and he tried to get our attention, but it was too late. They had already started to scream.
And, in the process, they had ticked off an extremely tipsy Spot Conlon.
"Now, Spot, don't do anythin' rash!" Racetrack jumped up when Spot turned violently and stomped over to our bunk.
"Oh believe me," Spot roared, "When I get through with them, they'll wish they had rashes."
Normally, I would've made fun at that feeble attempt at a threat, but Spot Conlon meant business. Blink, Racetrack, and I all ran to hold him back. Snitch came over to help us and the two boys continued to cry. Judging by the way Spot was looking at them, I doubt they had to fake it anymore.
"C'mon, Spot! They're just kids!" I said.
"They'se bustin' my eardrums!" He struggled against us.
"You'se scarin' dem!" I protested.
"Spot, relax!" Racetrack tried.
"Tell them ta relax!"
"Hey, you know what would make them relax?" Blink started. I glared at him. Spot was about to mutilate Snipeshooter and Boots and all he could think about was the stupid prank. "If you sang ta them!" he continued, ignoring me.
I was sure this would only make Spot even more upset, but instead he said, "Fine! They want a song? I'll give 'em a freakin' song." He shook us off and threw us some evil glares, then stood in front of the two little ones, who stopped yelling and looked nervous.
Spot glanced maliciously at us once more and started to sing:
Hush, little newsie, don't say a word,
Conlon's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
No way was he going to say 'Spotty.' We snickered slightly, still catching our breath, and Boots and Snipes sat on the bed with big smiles plastered on their faces.
And if that mockingbird escapes,
Conlon's gonna buy you a buncha papes.
Wow. He was even adapting the song. This was going to be interesting.
And if that buncha papes don't sell,
Conlon's gonna push you down a well.
The smiles faded a little.
And if that headline still ain't hawked,
Conlon's gonna make it so you can't talk.
And if you think you should complain,
Conlon's gonna leave ya out in the rain.
And if that rain makes you cry,
Conlon's gonna give you a big black eye.
And if that big black eye starts ta hurt,
Conlon's gonna throw you down in the dirt.
And if that causes you alarm,
Conlon's gonna come an' break yoah arm.
"Hey!" he stopped suddenly, turning to us, "What rhymes wit' 'unconscious?'" We gaped, open mouthed, and he shrugged and continued.
And if you wish that you were dead,
Conlon's gonna knock you upside da head.
And if you had enough and start to plead,
Conlon's gonna pound you 'til you bleed.
And if all that don't make you tough,
That means that you haven't had enough.
And if all that still makes you frown,
Then you'll never sell papes in my town!
When he finished, there was silence. Boots and Snipeshooter sat there, wide-eyed.
"Uh, thanks Spot." Blink was the first to speak. "That was real relaxin' foah dem."
"I like to think a it as a motivatin' tool." Spot said, matter-of-factly, and motioned for Racetrack to follow him back to the poker game.
I'm pretty sure he scarred poor Boots and Snipeshooter for life.