Racetrack Higgins had a gambling problem. He'd be the first to tell you, it tended to get a bit out of hand now and again. He never knew when to quit, always pushing until they fought back. Sometimes that got him some extra money to spend.

Now was not one of those times.

His back pressed against the brick wall as he tried to contain his breathing. Jack would kill him if he found out he'd been gambling again. He could be like an annoying mother hen that way. Granted, he said that he didn't have anything against Race's gambling, just a problem with the fact that it tended to follow him home.

Which meant this time he very much needed it to follow him somewhere else.

Sure, he'd bet a bit more money than he had. But he'd fully intended on paying them their dues...at some point. He'd just need to win some more money before he did that. But apparently that was not in their cards.

"Get back here you Italian piece of shit!" someone shouted from much too close for Race's liking.

Diving back into the ally, Race scaled up a fire escape as quick as he could. When he reached the roof, he peered down at his tormentors. "Damnit!" one of them swore, kicking the wall of the building Race was on. "Find him. Either get the money, or leave him as an example."

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

He couldn't go back to Manhattan, they'd be watching for him there. His chest tightened as he pulled out a cigar and lit the end. Relief flooded him, and he considered just waiting up there until the guys disappeared.

Something white caught the corner of his eye. Linen. People would be up here soon enough, and if they find him he'd be locked away again.

Jack kept getting on him about the gambling.

"Shit!" Race shouted off the rooftop. His voice echoed across the city, but it didn't make him feel any better.

All he could do was wander until he thought of something better.

It was as if the universe hated him. At some point it had started raining, which seemed incredibly cliche. All it served was making Race wet as well as miserable, and keeping his cigar from staying lit.

He'd gotten into Brooklyn now. Jack was going to murder him if he found out.

Race could already picture his lecture: "I gives you three rules: don't gamble, don't get into fights, and don't go to Brooklyn. And look what you goes and does. You gamble, get into a fight, and flee into Brooklyn."

Well if he didn't die, there was no reason that Jack had to know about this.

He'd lost his cap during the fight, so he'd have to at least make up a lie for that.

Whether or not he was going to lie is something he'd have to decide later. For now, the rain was soaking his clothes so they were near impossible to pull off of his skin. Teeth chattering, he stepped under a doorway in a meek attempt to find shelter.

Despite Jack's previous warning about territories, something that never seemed to bug him until recently, Race considered finding the Brooklyn newsies. Surely they'd at least understand a little bit if he stayed with them until the rain stopped. It's not like he'd been selling on their territory, and even if he was it wouldn't really matter that much, would it? They're all trying to make a living, all trying to pay off their debts.

A blood curdling cry pulled him from his thoughts. It went straight to his bones, chilling him more than the wind ever could.

"Somebody help!" it called out.

Forgetting everything else, he raced down the alley, trying to find the source of the voice.

He was stopped by a pool of blood. A figure was kneeling over the source, blocking it from his view, and Race suddenly got the feeling that this wasn't something that he wanted to be witnessing. Not in Brooklyn. Not ever.

He tried to turn away, but it was too late.

"You!" the figure shouted. "I needs help! Please!"

Grimacing as he stepped in the blood, Race asked, "What happened?"

"Does it fucking matter? You a doctor?" Race shook his head. "Then get a fucking doctor!"

Biting his lip, Race bent down to survey the damage. It was a young man, with a darker complexion and a scruffy beard. Race could picture light in his eyes as he laughed around a table. Except there was a gaping hole in his chest, and the blood was almost black. Even Race knew there wasn't much to be done. The poor stranger had blood coming out of his mouth, and he was gasping for air. "It's too late. Nothing we can do."

"No! You ain't no-no doctor! You ain't-" the boy gripped the bleeding man's shoulders tightly. "Don't you dare die you piece of shit! Don't you fucking dare!"

Race really wanted to leave. There was clearly nothing he could do, and this guy...this guy was dying and this should be a personal moment. Not with Race just standing there.

After a few moments, the man stopped moving. He'd stopped struggling for air, stopped shaking. He was just lying there, eyes open and empty.

Another horrific sob rang through the air. The boy hugged the body, not caring about the blood that stained him. Words in a language Race didn't recognize were being mumbled into the dead man's shirt.

The boy stood up, and Race realized he wasn't actually a boy. Despite his short stature, several inches shorter than Race himself, he was very well built. He honestly looked kind of terrifying. "C'mon," he said gruffly. "Help me carry him back to the lodgin' house," the sobs from before were gone, replaced by harsh intonations.

Race swallowed back his fear and nodded, going for the feet. This guy was probably a lot stronger than him, judging by his arms. There was a few moments of silence before Race decided he should probably speak. Both to diffuse the tension and figure out what he was getting himself into. "So what happened?" no answer. "Was he shot? Or stabbed? I'm gonna guess that it's murder 'cus of you's bein' alone in an alley and all."

Jack often said that he talked too much. Apparently the guy agreed. "We's haulin' my brother's dead body back, show some goddamn respect."

Well, that hurt. He didn't realize that curiosity was disrespectful.

"Well...I's sorry for you's loss. What's your name?" Race asked, but the guy didn't answer again. Maybe he just wasn't into talking. "I's Racetrack Higgins, but the fellas just call me Race."

The other guy snorted. "Your mama give you that name?"

Race passed off the tightening in his chest with laughter. "Yeah, and I's sure yours is much better."

There was another round of silence before he said, "I'm Conlon. Spot Conlon."

Race tried to hide his flinch. If this was Spot Conlon, then… "And you says this is your brother?"

A quiet yes.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

He was holding the dead body of none other than Ace Conlon. And he'd heard enough horror stories about Ace to give him nightmares.

Before Jack, there had been Bruiser. Bruiser had been absolutely terrified of Ace Conlon, and always did everything in his power to please the Brooklyn leader. Jack had carried over most of that respect, albeit to a lesser extent. Ace had fought bloodily to get to the top, and everybody in New York knew it. Rumors were his brother, who he'd been training to take his position, was even harsher. Loyalty and protecting their own was everything to them. Going to Brooklyn might've been fine, but now he was soaked in Ace Conlon's blood. Now he was going to be a target.

Except Spot didn't realize he was a newsie. He could probably tell that he was from Manhattan, but Race had lost his hat. He could help get the body back and then go their separate ways.

Race realized that Spot was staring at him, waiting for him to say something. "I's sorry for your loss," he repeated numbly.

Spot scoffed. "Yeah, me too," Race thought that maybe Spot's eyes were shining, but the other looked away before he could decide. "We's almost there. You's gonna want to stay until the rain stops."

The alleyways had provided a little protection from the downpour, and at this point Race would rather brave that than the Brooklyn lodging house. But his mother at least had taught him some manners, so he tried to ignore the burning fear in the pit of his stomach.

"Is you gonna...is you gonna need help burying him?" asked Race.

Spot shook his head. "Nah. The others gotta help."

As they arrived at the Brooklyn lodge, the first thing that Race noticed was how organized everything was. Compared to the Manhattan lodging, which was always filled with messy clothes strewn everywhere, the Brooklyn lodging was tidy and neat. It hardly looked like anyone lived there at all.

Fear aside, this was actually pretty exciting. It was his first time seeing another lodging house.

"You lived here long?"

"Yeah."

"How long?"

Shrug. "Since I was a little kid."

"Wow!" Race had only been at it for a little under a year. Not very long. "You think you'll stay at it?"

"Do you ever stop talking?" Spot's voice was cold and sharp, shutting Race up. Having just lost his brother, Race supposed, he wasn't in the mood to make conversation.

As they got a little further into the lodging house, Race noticed all the other newsies. And the other newsies noticed them. There was whispering all around them as Spot motioned for them to lay the body down on the ground. A few shook their head shamefully, a few took off their hats, a few covered their eyes. But most of them were just staring down Spot in almost a challenging way, as if they were daring him to explain why their leader was lying before them dead and bloody.

"Staring at him ain't gonna change nothin'. Get a sheet, you guys know how to handle this," Spot's voice was even sharper than before. It was harsh and cold, and Race flinched when he spoke. There was no emotion. No reason to suspect that Spot cared about his brother's passing. The only reason Race knew he did was because he'd witnessed Spot's sobs first hand.

A few younger boys scurried away to get a sheet, presumably to wrap Ace in. Meanwhile, Spot continued in the emotionless voice. "Ace is dead, as you can tell. We need to tend to his burial arrangements. After that, there's no reason that anything can change. Keep things runnin' smoothly, as he woulda wanted," the little kids who'd grabbed the sheet wrapped up Ace almost concerningly quick. They worked together to lift his body, and started off all without looking Spot in the eye. "Any questions?"

Nothing but silence. Spot waved his hand in a form of dismissal.

As the crowd dispersed, a guy around the same age, if not a little older, than Spot came up to him. "I gotta few concerns. You eva' gonna tell us what happened?"

"He was murdered, but I figured that much was obvious," snarled Spot.

"Yeah…" he said. "But by who?"

There was a thick silence. Before Race could process what was happening, Spot had the other guy against the wall, his arm pressed against his neck. "You's lost all my respect. You hearin' me, Sling? It's gone. How dare you," seethed Spot. "Get the hell out of my sight before I kill you."

Sling scampered out of sight, and Spot scoffed before motioning his arm. "C'mon Racetrack."

"Where's we goin'? What was-was Sling sayin'?" as they moved through the lodging house, Race noticed the others whispering and staring at Spot. "Wait, wait, wait. Do theys think you killed 'im? You's own brother?"

"Yeah. Hate to break it to you, but it wouldn't be outta the ordinary for someone to kill their family for power," Spot stopped outside of a larger door.

Race didn't need to ask him if he did. He saw that look of horror in Spot's eyes, saw his wretched sobs when he realized Ace was gone.

"This his room?" he asked instead.

Spot nodded wordlessly. "He'd want me to thank ya', for helpin' like that. You coulda walked the other way. Most people did."

"You don't need to-"

"I dunno where you's from, but in Brooklyn we reward loyalty. Loyalty buys loyalty," Spot took a deep breath, then pushed the door open.

The room was incredibly messy. Clothes were strewn everywhere, there were newspaper clippings both falling off the walls and on the floors. The bed had a single sheet on it, which was knotted into a ball on the top. The papers blew lightly across the floor as a gust of wind came in from the open window.

"He wasn't much of clean freak, then," Race said in an attempt to ease the tension.

"Maybe not, but he was organized as hell," Spot went to a specific drawer, opened it, pulled off a false bottom, and then pulled out a safe. A few moments later he turned around, handing him a small object. "It's a Corona. Best kind out there. You smoke?"

Race nodded, and tried to keep his mouth from salivating. He'd only heard about these kind before. And after a day like today, he really needed the best.

"Stop beggin', you ain't a dog," Spot glanced out the open window. "The rain's gone. Nothin' keepin' you here."

"Ain't you gonna be a gentleman and escourt me outta here?" maybe this was pushing it a bit, but something about Spot was peaking Race's interest.

Spot glared.

As much as he enjoyed the brooding silence of Spot's company, Race realized that he needed to find a way to lose him before he got any closer to Manhattan. The last thing he needed was the new King of Brooklyn following him and realizing that he let a Manhattan newsie into his lodging house. Into his room.

Word of Ace's death and Spot's new position seemed to have spread very quickly. Any newsie they passed on the street would avert their eyes and take off their hat.

Which reminded him- he was going to need to get a new hat.

"It's a sign of respect," muttered Spot.

The sky had darkened over again, signaling that it was time to part ways.

"'Partin' is such sweet sorrow'," Race quoted, grinning.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I dunno, just heard it somewhere," he shrugged.

From behind Spot, he could see something gleam. Instinctively, he dove to cover Spot as a bullet scraped his arm and hit the wall. Biting back a cry, Race pushed himself from off of the other guy and leapt to his feet, running towards their attacker. Memories of this man during the game, holding a gun to make sure nobody tried anything stupid, flashed through Race's mind and he suddenly realized just how much of a mess he'd gotten himself into. Jack was right, he'd crossed a line the second he decided to play poker with a gang. At the time he'd been unable to deny the thrill of higher stakes, but now that he had a bullet wound in his arm he was starting to think differently.

"What the fuck, Racetrack," Spot snarled, but Race couldn't turn around to reply. Leaping onto the man, he swung wildly and hit the man in the stomach. Barely winded, the man gripped Race by his bad arm, digging his finger into the wound.

"You owe a debt, Racetrack. You got the money on you to pay?" he asked. Race bit back a cry of pain, and jammed his knee against his crotch. The man let go, momentarily dropping. Race dove back, raising his fists in defense. "You neva' should've left the newsies. You ain't got what it takes to play with the big shots."

Race could feel Spot's eyes burning a hole into his back, but he couldn't think about that right now. All he could think about was what he was going to do with the guy in front of him. He couldn't kill him even if he wanted to. His best shot was to knock him out and run back to the lodging house as quickly as possible.

The larger man lunged at Race again, this time shoving him to the ground. Race tried to throw an uppercut, but he weighed so much more that he could barely breathe, let alone punch.

A knife gleamed in the man's hand, and Race saw his life flash before his eyes. Then, the man was being shoved off of him. Spot. The smaller boy was surprisingly strong, fighting the man back with ease.

They sparred for a bit, and then Spot shoved him towards Race. Luckily he was more on his guard this time, and he spun the man around and knocked him out cold. Spitting on the ground, Spot snarled, "What are you playin' at, Racetrack? Why didn't you tell me that you was a newsie? Who sent ya'? You a spy from Queens? You think you can get inta our lodgin' house and learn our secrets? You think you can just-"

"Shove off!" Race pushed back. "I ain't from Queens. I ain't a spy. I's from Manhattan, but I ain't even know who you is before I's helpin' you carry a body and you tell me you's name's Conlon."

Spot didn't look like he believed, him, but he stepped back and studied Race. "How do I know you's tellin' the truth?"

"I guess you gotta trust me," Race's words hung in the air for a few moments.

Race held his breath as Spot marched towards him. Instead of beating the shit out of him, Spot ripped off the end of his shirt and motioned for Race to raise his bad arm. "Fuck," Race swore, his arm stinging. After Spot tied it up, he grabbed Race by the shirt so they were only a few inches apart.

"You helped me when I needed it," Spot said, his voice low. "And I ain't gonna forget that. Get back to Kelly. Don't tell him any of the shit you saw here? Understand? It stays here. I'll know if you says anything."

The tension was so thick that you could cut it with a knife, but Race let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Cracking a smile, he nodded. "Course. Expect nothin' less than that from you."

Spot grunted. "You can keep the Corona."

"See you again, Conlon?"

"Glad you took you's sweet time coming back," Jack looked up from his sketchbook, surveying Race. "You missed dinner. I think Albert was kind enough to save ya' some."

"Good ta' know somebody here cares 'bout my well bein'," teased Race. Jack looked down to his sketchbook again, until he suddenly whipped up his head to study Race closer.

"What happened to you's face? You get in another fight with them gangstas? I told you to stay away from the gangs," Jack moved as if he was going to stand up, but Race waved his hands.

"I's fine. Who are you, my mother?" Race twisted the cigar between his fingers before settling it on his lip. He wanted to savor it, but damn did it smell good.

"You know it's my business to know your business. Can't have you dragging trouble back to Manhattan," Jack said. "And where the hell did you find the money to get a Corona?"

Race winked before walking away. "Wouldn't you like to know?"