loud and clear
pt. 1: manhattan
This is Brooklyn turf. You ain't Brooklyn, so who the hell're you?
Racetrack often has a good chuckle over his soulmark, having been born an' raised in Brooklyn. Sure, he's Manhattan through and through these days, but he has more'n a bit of Brooklyn in his blood.
It's scribbled up the side of his right hand and along his pinky finger in letters so small it's a miracle they can even be read. Race is pretty good at reading in general, though, so it doesn't bother him.
Most newsies know their soulmarks by heart, if they have them, and many can decipher the headlines with a bit of effort. Many more, like Race, can read the whole paper front to back—and he often does, scrounging up stories from the middle pages to hawk when they are more interesting than the headline of the day.
At least, he did when he was still a little newsie. He'd been at the lodging house since he was seven, and they paired the little ones off with older kids until they could sell on their own.
When he had turned ten, and was deemed old and experienced enough to start selling on his own, he had used that card for a whole month or so. Then he started to sell his papes at Sheepshead. Race left his old tricks behind in the Manhattan street he used to frequent, no longer needing a more interesting headline—in fact, he usually doesn't need a headline at all anymore.
No, these days Race sells his papes with the racing odds.
His first day selling at Sheepshead, he had been dared to hop the trolleys and carriages all the way to the races to sell, and had readily taken on the adventure. (Skittery, who had dared him, had been sure that no ten-year-old newsie would venture so far into Brooklyn alone. Oak, the Manhattan leader, had shouted up a storm about it when he discovered that Skittery had sent little Antonio Higgins into Brooklyn and no one had seen him since.)
Race did not share Oak's qualms about Brooklyn. As long as he stayed out of the Brooklyn newsies' ways, he knew he'd be fine. They could be big and tough, but he'd scraped by picking pockets on the Brooklyn streets for three months before he stumbled into Jack Kelly.
Jack had been wandering onto the Brooklyn Bridge in search of one of the Manhattan littles who had wandered off. Jack found Race instead, noticed his hollow cheeks and empty grin, gave him half an apple, and took him to the Manhattan lodging house. Oak found him a newsie's cap and a bed, and the next morning he'd been out selling papes.
Point being, Race knew his way around Brooklyn.
He made his way to Sheepshead Bay, and the tracks, in about an hour, which wasn't bad, considering he had only a vague idea of where the tracks were. He set up near the betting booth, where he could watch the races and sell, too. If he did a little more watching than selling, well, he was still small and cute back then and could still move his papers without too much effort.
A whim of fate on that first day caused him to stumble across the trick to selling at the races. A man who was heading over to the betting booth asked for the odds on a particular thoroughbred, and Race was hawking the chances on horses instead of the headlines before he knew it.
He sold all his morning editions before ten and mosied on over to the nearest distribution center. When the wagon for the World rolled around and the afternoon edition came out, he sold out before three, hopped carriages across the Brooklyn Bridge back into Manhattan, and arrived back at the lodging house three hours earlier than usual.
This was actually fortuitous because he'd been off Manhattan turf for hours and Oak was tearing his hair out with worry. The huge, bighearted leader was even thinking about swallowing his pride to go visit Brooklyn and ask around about Race himself.
After Oak had finished throwing his fit about Race disappearing without so much as a word, or a see ya, Oak, and did ya even sell ya papes, ya little moron, or did someun' beat 'em off ya, if I gotta spot ya tomorra 'cause Skittery and you's is right fools, I'm stickin' ya back with Pages to sell, I don't care whether ya's ten or not—
Anyhow, once Oak was done and Race explained that he had in fact, sold his papers, Oak left the lodging house to go finish selling and Race sat around, enjoying his leisure time until the other newsies got back.
He had a captive audience for the tale of his adventure, and Skittery offered him a half a sandwich with a guilty grimace and a "Didn't think you's really gonna do it, 'Tonio, sorry."
All his friends clamored to learn how he had sold out so fast, but he would only grin and say, "The racetrack's just good luck," and nothing else.
Most of them shrugged it off as a fluke, but after promising Oak he'd be careful, Race went back to Sheepshead again and again, traveling through half of Manhattan and Brooklyn to get there, and always selling out fast.
"How d'you do it, Tony?" One of the younger newsies, Itey, asked.
"Let's hear it, 'Tonio," Jack, who was just a bit older than Race at eleven, demanded, grinning.
"Racetrack's good luck, fellas," he replied, shrugging.
"Y'know, ya keep sayin' that, it's gonna stick," Jack teased. "Racetrack. I dunno, not half bad."
Race grinned. "Not half bad at all, Jackie."
And Racetrack he was. Within two weeks, not a newsie remembered that they had called him Antonio for three years.
So although Racetrack lives in Manhattan now, he rides in style to Sheepshead every day and breathes the Brooklyn air.
Who does he think he is?
The only newsie in New York smart enough to cash in at the racetracks, that's who.
Race sits on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, his feet dangling over the edge, and gives the mark on his hand a glance. He lifts his unlit cigar to his lips, grinning. His soulmate is in for a shock for sure.