Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies (you've heard me say that many times), and I don't own the Mafia (I doubt you've ever heard anyone say that, lol).
Author's Note: I know I haven't posted anything newsies in a while, but I was waiting for inspiration to come. And come it has, lol. I watched a show on the History channel the other day (best channel ever, shut up) and it was on real life godfathers. I never knew before watching this program that I had a subconscious fascination with the Mafia, lol, and when I was watching they were talking about this one guy and I saw the picture and heard his story and was like, "Shit, that is Racetrack Higgins". So don't laugh - I actually have, what I believe to be, a pretty good background for this story. I haven't done any in depth reseach into the Mafia or anything, but that's okay because this is fanfiction and not a novel, hence if I get one or two facts a little off, please go easy on me. So anyhow, this takes place about ten years after the strike. I picture Race being about twenty-five or twenty-six. PS - I know the high point of the mafia was during Prohibition, but it was alive and well even before the turn of the century - that I made sure of, lol, I would not write something completely false. So please, this is different, and I understand that, but it's just an idea, and I promise it'll hold your attention. Though, with that being said, please tell me if you absolutely hate it, lol.
The shot fired, straight and true. There was barely enough time to appreciate it's precision before everyone's vision was overtaken by the color red. Blood spurted everywhere: it spilled onto the floor, splattered the walls, and stained Racetrack's shirt.
For a moment the body twitched, but only for a moment. The brain was a sure thing – you hit someone there, and they're gone. Though as many times as Race had seen it done, it never failed to amaze him how much of the sticky scarlet liquid a human skull actually contained …
"Good hit, eh Tony? Thought he'd give more fight then he did. Sorta takes all the fun outta a job …" Sal frowned, but couldn't manage to keep the gleam out of his eye that always comes with a job well done.
Tony nodded vaguely – still wondering at how Sal had managed to shoot someone square in the temple when they were running and ducking for their life across a dark alleyway.
"Sonny" Sal Santoro was, if Race was forced to admit it, probably his best friend. The guy had taken him in and shown him the ropes at a time when "the ropes" weren't easy to figure out on your own. In fact, if you weren't careful you could get caught up in the ropes and hang yourself.
Sal had been involved with the New York City mafia since he was at least thirteen years old (his uncle had been a big-timer from Sicily who'd made it even bigger in America). That's in fact where Sal had adopted the nickname "Sonny": he started working for and with six foot, two hundred pound Italian men at a time when he hadn't even hit puberty. Despite the fact that "Sonny" had long since grown out of his nickname he kept it and actually demanded that people call him by it, saying that everyone who was anyone in the Mafia had a nickname. Which was technically true, and even though Sal wasn't really a big shot, his uncle had been, and so he demanded respect. Surprisingly enough, he got it. Race figured it was because the guy was harmless.
Race laughed at himself for this thought – Sal shoots a man in the head and Race calls him harmless…
But it was true. As far as the bosses were concerned, Sal wasn't a threat. The guy followed orders and never complained. Not to mention, he was loyal as a dog – which was, surprisingly enough, quite a valued personality trait among Mafia syndicates.
Race was watching Sal clean out his targets' pockets. The man, a Mr. Paulie Spero, had been a top dog in a rival gang headed by Big Lou Graziano. Unfortunately, Big Lou found a new favorite and Paulie got jealous. He went to Sal and Race's boss: Vincent "Vinny" Milano.
Now, the thing that Vinny hates the most is a traitor. Everybody knows it. Everybody, apparently, except Paulie Spero. Vinny kept Paulie around a few days, let him feel important, then gave Sal the order to bump him on account of Paulie's betrayal, even if it was the betrayal of Vinny's own arch rival.
In Race's opinion, Paulie was one of the stupidest men he knew. The guy was sure to be bumped sooner or later – he was unintelligent and overconfident, two of the worst possible things to be when dealing with the kind of men he dealt with everyday. Even Sal was smarter than Paulie, and Sal really wasn't all that smart.
"Heya, Tony, quit starin' holes in him - your laser eyes ain't doin' nothin', he's already dead. Sheesh."
Race chuckled and tread carefully over to where Sal was crouched, holding out a bag in which to carry whatever they happened to get off Paulie. He didn't like being present for jobs – he hated the blood. Usually he was just the driver. Unlike Sal, Race didn't have any nickname. He was just Tony Higgins (not even Racetrack anymore, he had left that in his past, and no one, not even Sal, knew that that had once been the only name by which he was known). But Vinny kept him around because he was Sal's friend, and Vinny liked Sal. Vinny also liked Race. He thought the kid was golden – he was honest (or as honest as you can be in the Mafia), he was loyal, he was pretty intelligent in his own regard, and he had a witty sense of humor that the boss never got tired of. One of Vinny's favorite things was to sit down with a stiff drink after a long day and listen to Sal and Race prattle on about unimportant things - Race throwing in a clever remark every now and again, causing even the eyes of Vinny Milano (one who didn't often smile) to crinkle up in an appreciative chuckle.
"We can nevah be too shoah with ya shootin', can we Sal?" Race shot back with a grin. "Anyhow, don't be makin' cracks about me eyes, huh? Ya jus' jealous." Race batted long brown lashes in Sal's direction.
Sal chuckled, finished picking what he could off Paulie's figure and stepped back, wiping his hands on his pants. "Well that's that then, yeah?"
"Shouldn't we get rid a' da body?" Race asked uncomfortably. That was another thing he hated – just leaving these people out in the streets – it didn't matter who they were. That kinda death's no good for anyone.
"Nah, boss said just tah leave the stiff."
Race nodded and followed Sal back to the car. Climbing in the driver's side, Race couldn't help but take one last glance in Paulie's direction. The guy had been scum, no doubt about it – interested only in his own gain and nothing more – but it still made Race sick every job he went to. And Paulie was no exception.