Alright, this is my first Newsies fic ever. I'm fairly new at this style of writing, but bear with me. I hope I get all the characters right!
Newsies does not belong to me, but rather Disney. I believe Racetrack, however, will forever be owned by the brilliant Max Casella.
"Hey, what's dis, Race?" Snipes asked one night, holding up a small cross on a beaded chain.
Race grabbed it from him quickly, "Nuttin' you should be fingerin', dat's what," he grumbled through his cigar. His raised voice caused a few of the boys to stop what they had been doing and look over at them, the prospect of a fight too entertaining to ignore. Snipeshooter and Racetrack were always going at it, usually over Snipes snooping around Race's things, presumably to uncover a cigar.
"Hey! I wasn't done lookin' at dat! Me mudda had one o' dose," Snipes said angrily, attempting to take it back from Race. Race stood up from his solitaire game and put his face dangerously close to Snipes. Race was small for his age but Snipes was smaller.
"Yea? So did mine," he shouted and stuffed the rosary in the pocket of his waistcoat. Snipes uttered some small sounds of protest but Race ignored him. He walked over to the table and began to deal a new solitaire hand. Snipes lingered a moment, than shrugged and walked back over to the bedside table he and Race shared, continuing his search for one of Racetrack's elusive cigars. A few boys sniggered at the peculiar spat, over a crucifix of all things. If there was anything a newsie wasn't, it was devout. All the lying, coercing and soaking in the job description made that impossible. Not to mention the origin of Race's name. None of them were sure, but they figured the church might not be in favor of gambling.
The fight was forgotten in a matter of minutes when another louder and more understandable fight about selling spots broke out across the room. Race sighed; he had lost for the third time in a row. With quick movements his placed his deck back inside their box and put it in his side pocket. With a quick look around, he edged his way toward the door. Blink saw him leaving and shouted to him, "Race! Where ya goin'?"
Race shushed him quickly and punched his shoulder. "Be quiet, will ya? There's a poker game over at Tibby's later tonight. From what I hea' it's got some good money in it." Blink nodded. Jack had a rule about being out of the lodging house after curfew, but that rule was often ignored. "Leave da window open for me, will ya?"
"Sure thing, Race" Blink said, "When do you think you'll be back? It's kind of cold tonight. I don't know how long I'll be able to keep Jack from shuttin' it."
"Don't worry 'bout it," Race shrugged. Blink seemed satisfied, despite Race's obvious evasion. "See ya, Blink"
"See ya, Race."
Racetrack wandered down the street, his hand in his pocket, entwining his fingers with the beaded chain of the rosary. It had been a nervous habit of his when he had first started out life on the streets. He remembered getting jumped by a few thugs when he was thirteen. After the fight, he had lain in an alley, barely conscious. When Jack and Skittery found him, Race had the chain tightly wrapped around the hand that hadn't been broken in the fight. They took him back to the lodging house and paid the two cents for his accommodations. While his hand healed, Jack took it upon himself to show him the ropes. He lent Race 50 cents, more money than Race had held in a long time, to afford papes and his stay at Kloppman's. Whenever he got in trouble with Rat (at the time the leader of the Manhattan territory was a boy by the name of Rat Stevens), Jack would step in to defend him. The Cowboy even taught Race how to gamble, although Race quickly discovered his natural talent and began training himself up on odds, cards and, most notably, horses.
Racetrack used to carry the rosary with him at all times. It would spend the day in his vest pocket along with his pocket watch. Then, one day, he forgot to bring it along on his rounds. Then one day became two, or three. And eventually the tarnished relic from his past found it's new home in Race's drawer. Race hadn't given it a thought for months and it probably would have stayed that way, had Snipeshooter not found it. It made him feel a little sick. This used to be his whole world, his excuse for stealing food, his tie to his past. And he had forgotten about it.
The card game at Tibby's hadn't been a lie, although the part about good money had been. He hadn't planned on actually going, 'but maybe I should,' he thought to himself, 'clear my head.'
He didn't get very far. To get to Tibby's from the lodging house Race needed to pass Newspaper Row. He didn't even think about the prospect of someone being there. Namely, Oscar and Morris, not to mention a few more or Pulitzer's muscle.
"Well, well, well, boys. Look who we gots 'ere," Oscar said unpleasantly. Race inwardly groaned, but grinned widely at the scabs nonetheless.
"Hiya, boys. And what would you fine gentlemen be doin' on dis side of town?" Race asked pleasantly, but not without a hint of sarcasm.
"Why if it isn't the little wop with da big mouth," Oscar continued. Race's brow furrowed at the word 'wop', but he swallowed any retort he might have been able to throw at them. He wasn't stupid.
"Yeah, I tink I remember dis kid!" Another laughed. "What's your name? Higgins, right?" Race didn't move.
"Yeah, Racetrack Higgins," Morris confirmed. The scabs moved in closer, pinning him against a shop front.
"Pretty funny name for a wop," a large one said maliciously, "Ya sure ya ain't a mick instead?" Racetrack balled his fists angrily. He could taste blood from his lip where he had broken the skin.
"I'd ratha' be both a dose 'tings 'dan wake up wit' your ugly puss ev'ryday!" His accent was becoming thicker, something that only happened if he was either drunk or in the mood to soak somebody.
The scabs didn't waste any time. With surprising quickness, two of them grabbed his arms and pushed him up against the wall. Morris wore a sadistic smile as he cracked his knuckles. Race struggled. He was a fighter, always had been, but it was all in vain. The lugs had something he didn't: muscle. Well, that and a few inches.
Oscar leaned in so close to Race's face, he could smell the hotdog he had eaten for dinner. Smirking like a hungry crocodile, he tussled Race's hair, "Ya know, you're a bit too greasy ta be only half wop." He shared a joking glance with his brother before continuing, "But I suppose you know how wop whores are. Maybe you're Mama was havin' some fun with an organ grinder, or sumthin'."
Something snapped in Race. With a roar of sheer rage, he flailed and kicked at the boys that held him down. Taken by surprise, Oscar, Morris and a third boy stepped back. The other two who were holding him did nothing for a minute. Then, with a resounding crack, the tallest one punched Race square in the ribs. Then again. And again. Soon, they didn't even need to hold Race to keep him still. The hits had taken both his energy and his ability to breathe.
He was a pathetic sight, crumpled on the ground with his arms wrapped around his chest. The five boys stood over him and laughed. Oscar continued to weave his story about Race's family history as they kicked him. He would tell him who his mother had been giving it to on the side or how much his father would drink. Slowly, the boy ceased to feel the pain of the kicks and the faces of his tormentors became foggy. The last thing he heard before losing conciseness was, "Too bad ya don't have a sista', Higgins, she probably would have satisfied all of us for two bits."
I know this was a very dark prologue to what I hope will be an interesting and, dare I say it, uplifting story at some point. But you know what they always say. Things have to get worse before they get better.
Also, a note on the term 'wop': It is an extremely degrading slur for one of Italian heritage that was used in the Newsies-era. I'm sure most of you knew that already, and those you didn't probably could have figured it out from context. But for any who didn't, there you go!
Please review…Race could really use some ego boosting right now.
Next time: The next morning, Blink is worried when Race fails to show up at the lodging house.