Morgan K. Fawkes awoke with a start. Someone was making a call for "All aboard!" Rubbing her eyes, Morgan looked out the window she had been drooling against and cursed when she identified her surroundings. She hadn't intended to doze off, but she had. It was no one's fault really, Fawkes had been too on edge to sleep for the past couple of the days. She'd been too busy looking over her shoulder, making sure no one followed her.
Once inside city limits however, her resolve had weakened. She felt safe in the anonymity of the big city and she'd let herself nod off. The mistake she made was in letting her guard down too much. It had been a couple years since her last visit to New York, but there were some places that should be avoided. One borough in particular came to mind: Brooklyn.
And here she was, smack dab in the middle of it.
She cursed again.
The only bigger problem was that she didn't have any money to pay the fare to get the hell out. The little cash she had begged, borrowed, and yes, stolen, was gone now.
That meant she had to hoof it back to Manhattan, on the double. It had been a couple years sure, but the thing about Brooklyn is that it's populated by the Irish, and they tend to forget everything but the grudges. Fawkes should know, she was of Irish heritage herself.
Seeing the ticket taker heading in her direction, Fawkes pulled the brim of her hat low over her eyes and shrugged on her pack as she stood and sidled out the nearest exit.
Smells of the city bombarded her as she made her way north. It seemed strange to her that she'd missed the stench of this place. She knew that the City, Brooklyn included, had many redeeming characteristics, anonymity and nostalgic memories among them.
Fawkes kept her eyes trained on the cobble in front of her not wanting to risk a stray look down a side street and get recognized.
Apparently, there is such a thing as being too cautious.
Fawkes got tangled up with a group of Brooklyn youths heading in the opposite direction. She would have seen them if her gaze hadn't been glued to the ground. Now, they were pushing and shoving her out of their flight path. She recognized the smell right off. News boys carried the scent of ink and damp wool. They were on their way to the local circulation center. Fawkes remembered right where it was: a block down and to the left.
Newsies were orphans and street rats for the most part, a rough crew. Brooklyn had a reputation for being the roughest. It wasn't something they boasted about (as boys often do), it was an indisputable opinion shared by all the other boroughs. Anyone not from Brooklyn didn't cross the bridge alone unless they had a friend in Brooklyn, or someone at their side they could count on in a fight.
And she had stumbled right into their little group.
They didn't welcome the intrusion warmly. As she got pushed around and cursed at, Fawkes detected the tell-tale scent of the Brooklyn newsie: they smelled like the shore at low tide.
She let them jostle her. She knew better than to pick a fight. Then, someone flicked off her hat.
Someone was looking for a fight.
She could rise to the occasion. Fawkes went from a shy and deflecting personality to that of a brawler. She put up her fists. But in the same instant her face was revealed, the boys backed off. They all wore identical shocked expressions.
"What exactly is the problem here?" Came a thick Brooklyn accent. The speaker approached. Fawkes couldn't see him over the heads of the Brookies, but she saw the crowd part. He made his presence known by the sweeping motion of a gold capped cane that knocked heads and soft bits alike, causing the hooligans to make way.
For the amount of deference he received, Fawkes found herself rather disappointed. The guy was maybe five-six, sporting red suspenders and a tweed cap (in addition to the cane), and probably rivaled her in age. He commanded some level of respect though, that much could not be denied as he looked Fawkes over and glared at his guys.
"Warn't our fault Spot," some guy at his elbow remarked. "She run inta us. Only we didn't realize she was a girl."
Fawkes turned meek again. She tried to explain that the fault was her own. She wasn't looking where she was going. She was sorry needed to be on her way.
Explaining the incident wasn't the hard part. It was the fear that she'd be recognized. Fawkes was no stranger to Brooklyn newsies. She couldn't be here. She shouldn't be here. She had to get away before someone recognized her. She didn't like the way the leader-Spot, was peering at her.
"What are you playing at then?" He wanted to know, picking up her hat with his cane.
Fawkes knew what she looked like: her scarlet locks had been freed when they knocked her hat off. That was confusing considering she was wearing wool pants tucked into a pair of cowboy boots. She was unequivocally a girl dressed like a cowboy. The reason was simple: she'd left in a such a hurry that she hadn't given much thought to changing. Her only thought had been escape. She also didn't have any spare clothes-except for the ones in her bag, and they were for colder weather, not to mention just as masculine. Also, it was easier to traverse the country masquerading as a boy. People didn't tend to give her as much trouble, unless of course, she was in Brooklyn.
"I don't really see how that's any of your business," Fawkes responded.
"Well, you don't really fit in in these parts," Spot pointed out her boots and hat, the most obvious of her attire.
Fawkes was well aware. It was part of the reason she was headed north. She knew a guy in Manhattan by the name of Cowboy. It had been at least five years since she'd seen him. Newsies didn't tend to stick around for very long, so she didn't expect a reunion. He'd been trying real hard to make his way West anyway. She just needed his name. Say she knew him. He had a big personality. Folks would remember him and it would give her an in. None of that was relevant at present. "I'm just passing through, and I'd like to be on my way," she told him, plucking her hat from his possession.
"I was unaware that Buffalo Bill was in town," Spot remarked. "What're you? Annie Oakley's kid sister?"
Fawkes's jaw clenched. She would be a fool to start a fight with this kid. The smart move would be to walk on. Fawkes pulled her hat back onto her head, hid her hair, and marched through them. They let her go.
She was late getting to the Distribution Office in Manhattan. She had to fight against the flow of traffic to even get into the gates. Once past them, she realized she was in a conundrum. She had no money. How was she even going to buy papes?
If she had been thinking clearly, she should have nicked some off the boys when she got bombarded in Brooklyn, but she'd been otherwise occupied, mostly trying not to bring more attention to herself, so maybe it was a good thing she hadn't tried.
It was too late. Fawkes was riding a wave she couldn't get out of, and before she knew it, she was standing in front of an ugly mug trapped behind steel bars with a stack of newspapers. "Well?" The guy asked tersely.
Fawkes only succeeded in gaping like a fish a few times.
"You slow or summat kid?"
The guys behind her started to grumble. "Oi, Cowboy! What's the hold up?" Someone from the rear called.
Fawkes was thinking of an answer when a boy seated on the steps not far from her turned around. She noticed that he, too, was wearing a cowboy hat. There went that plan.
"Hey Race," the boy with the cowboy hat stood and nudged a dark-haired kid at his feet. "Get a load of this," he nodded in Fawke's direction.
Well, the day went from bad to worse real quick.
"Holy shit," Racetrack, a short kid with Italian heritage, stood and approached.
Fawkes gulped. These two weren't supposed to be here. Racetrack tended to hang out near the racetracks (hence his name), but those were on the edge of Brooklyn, down Coney Island way. When the hell did he move to Manhattan?
"You've got a twin," Race continued, circling Fawkes. He looked from Fawkes's boots to Cowboy. "They say copycatting is the highest form of flattery."
Cowboy approached. Fawkes tried to swallow but her throat had gone completely dry.
"Spot the kid the papes," Cowboy told the man behind the counter with a grin. "He pulls off one hell of an impersonation. If he sells them half as good as I do, you'll make your money back."
Surprisingly, the man behind the sill gave them up.
Fawkes took her newspapers and wanted to bury her face in them. How could they not recognize her? Was it was because she was pretending to be a boy?
See, Fawkes had been to Manhattan before, even though it was awhile ago. This wasn't the first time she'd run away. During that time she'd picked up a job as a newsie as a way to keep herself fed while she found something more sustainable. Let's just say, it didn't work out. During her first round as a newsie, she hadn't attempted to hide her identity. There were a lot of people in New York City. Apparently, there weren't very many ginger girls selling newspapers though. There weren't many girls selling papers, period. That's how they found her the first time. Her stay had been brief, but her memories lasting. She'd been dubbed "Ginger" by a couple of older guys in the crew. At least they had moved on, hopefully to a better place. Most of the time when there was a changing of Newsie ranks, the House of Refuge was responsible. A sort of jail for kids, light on the reformatory, heavy on the prison. That was the destiny for most Newsies, unless they got promoted to the big leagues and went to actual prison.
"So Twin," Cowboy said, grinning as he opened up a paper to skim the headlines, "You must be new to these parts."
Fawkes managed a grin of her own as she looked over her own paper, "How could you tell?"
Both boys laughed.
They fell silent as they perused, remarking occasionally on some of the more interesting headlines. The paper was crap. There was no two ways about it. Hopefully her skills weren't too rusty or she wouldn't be eating much of anything anytime soon.
"So Twin," Cowboy said again, folding his newspaper and standing, hefting the stack of papers he had purchased, "I'm liking the angle you and I could play if we joined forces."
Fawkes raised a brow as she looked up, aside from a preference for western wear and lean and lanky builds (the result of a life of barely getting by), they looked nothing alike. He had mud brown hair, she was a redhead who masqueraded as a blonde if the sun was in her favor. He had dark eyes that were hard to define, hers were a steely grey. He had sharp features, hers were more rounded, though a bit hollow from her cross country journey. What made her markedly different from him was her nose, broken at least twice in her history and was permanently bent.
Fawkes stood and organized her papers, "And why exactly would I want to work with you?"
Cowboy looked around, gestured to himself and said, "Cuz I'm the best there is."
Racetrack nodded that this statement was, in fact, truth. "We could make one hell of a profit." Cowboy continued. "70-30."
Fawkes made a face, "Go on. Only a fool would take that offer. You couldn't pay me to take a split that skewed."
"Well, the gimmick was my idea," Cowboy shrugged, but he could see he wasn't dealing with a dummy and the new kid wasn't going to go for it. "60-40?" He tried.
Fawkes could only shake her head as she hefted her newspapers onto her shoulder. He hadn't changed a bit. "This ain't my first rodeo," she told him and started off.
Race and Cowboy exchanged looks, the saying stuck in both their memories.
"You're turning down the offer of a lifetime!" Cowboy called after her.
"Only for an even split," she replied, turning back to him with a grin, knowing he'd never do it.
"You gotta spot then? Already? Bring in good money?" Cowboy wanted to know.
Fawkes just grinned, "Think I'd tell you? Get real."
She'd gone a little over a block before she heard feet on the cobblestones coming up fast behind her. Fawkes pulled up short and turned.
Racetrack and Cowboy slowed to a halt, red in the face and breathless, "If I didn't know any better, it looks like you're headed to Brooklyn."
Fawkes could see the arches of the bridge and made a face, "You'd be wrong."
"Good," Cowboy said. "There's not much to see down that way."
"Nothin but trouble," Race agreed.
"I have no intention of crossing the bridge," Fawkes assured them. "I just like to be where I can see the river."
The boys exchanged looks again. "It's probably better if you come with us," Cowboy said. "Them Brooklyn boys is a mite territorial, and I wouldn't wish them on any kid. Even the mouthy ones."
Fawkes stopped, exasperated. "I'm not going to Brooklyn," she told them.
"If you're close enough to see water, that's too close for their liking," Race replied.
"Even on this side of the river?" She let the armful of papes down to her side.
They both nodded.
"Huh." Fawkes knew well that some kids were territorial about their selling spots, that's why she wanted a place with a river view. That's where she used to sell. This side of the river was supposed to be Brooklyn free. She should be able to go there. "Well boys, thanks for the warning," she dipped her hat and moved on.
"I think you're underestimating Brooklyn," Cowboy told her.
"I think you're overestimating their reputation," Fawkes replied. "It's your fault for letting take turf in Manhattan anyway. I'ma go take it back."
Racetrack gaped at her, "Nobody that ain't stupid picks a fight with Brooklyn."
Fawkes just shrugged. She supposed it was the Irish that made her territorial. Brooklynites were prone to it as well, so her supposition was probably well-founded. Common sense told her it would be bad news to purposefully run into Brookies, but they were selling on her turf? In Manhattan? There were just some things she would not allow. They might have the Brooklyn reputation backing them, but she was born and raised out West, and that gave her just enough advantage to be dangerous to a City kid, especially since she tended to toe the line on both sides.