Written for the third round of Newsies Pape Selling Competition. I need to move away from the Spot angst, but he's just so fun. This sort of goes along with Downfall by the Shooters, as well as a larger piece I'm doing. Word Count: 2,286, according to this site.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A tendril of smoke floats slowly up from the cigarette grasped between two fingers. "So, I've never asked before, but...Race seems to spend a whole lot of time in Brooklyn."

Spot twirls his cigarette and watches as his second-in-command raises his own to his lips. He doesn't like the way the drags make him dizzy and feel like he's suffocating, but he likes watching the smoke curl and bloom from someone's mouth, and the way the ashes fall when he jerks his fingers. "Race and I have been pals for a long time."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Used to live one floor down in Red Hook. Our moms did laundry together."

Against the dark night sky, Ringer's red hair blazes brightly. He accepts Spot's statement at first, and then his face contorts with confusion. "So, why's he in 'hattan?"

For a moment, he's amused at the reversal of roles. He remembers standing in the same place as Ringer asking question after question, while the current leader had lounged against the ledge, smoking his own cigarette and answering with short, thought-provoking remarks. In all honesty, it had been the only good part of his training, these nights on the rooftop. A rare smirk that is more of a smile spreads across his face. "Ringer, you want to hear a story?"

"Man, I can't believe we won today!" Anthony Higgins gloated happily, practically skipping down the sidewalk. He thrust out his hand, which was filled with several shooters that he'd already shown Spot three times since they'd left the park. "Just—just look at these, Spot!"

Spot couldn't help but laugh. "I've seen them. They're real nice. Good job," he said with a pat to the back. Anthony beamed so much it looked like his face would split in half. They were both good at marbles, the best around their street, but it seemed as though they always just barely came up short every Saturday in the tournament in Coffey Park. Anthony was known to bend under stress, but one look at the prize and he'd been more focused and determined than he'd ever been, and Spot was genuinely proud of him, letting his friend pick out the ones he'd wanted and settling for the rest; at least a few of them would be good in his slingshot.

"We've even got twenty-five cents each!" Anthony actually jumped in the air. Then he turned to Spot with a wide smile. "Hey, I know what I'm going to do! I'll get my mom a newspaper. She never has time to get them herself, but she always loves it when Ms. Byrne lets her have the old ones."

"Yeah, that's a good idea. There's usually a newsie at the corner of Conover and Sullivan." They turned the corner to go one block over to Conover Street. Sure enough, there stood a newsboy, tall and bulky, with another smaller, lithe boy on a barrel next to him. The bulkier one, who stood a full head and a half taller than either Spot or Anthony, heralded his headline loudly and in a very New York manner.

Anthony held out his quarter. "One please."

The newsie looked down his nose at him and seemingly sized him up, looking at the quarter suspiciously, as if expecting it to be a joke. But he took it, gave Anthony his paper, and reached into his pocket for his change.

Spot counted as the older boy passed the coins from one hand to the other. Ten...fifteen…nineteen...twenty...twenty-one...

He stopped and passed the change back to Anthony, who merely stuffed it into his pocket and made to leave. Spot put a hand on his shoulder. "Hold on, you're short three cents." He looked defiantly into the newsie's face, having to tilt back his head to do so. "Give him the rest of his money."

"You callin' me a liar?" the newsie asked, a snarl appearing on his lips. Suddenly, looming over the two of them, he was much bigger than they'd realized. "You know what we do to liars 'round here…"

Spot jutted out his chin, but he was sure his eyes betrayed him. "Just give my friend his money. We earned it, and we don't need anyone taking it."

"You little—" the slender boy from the barrel hopped down, fists balling to match his friend's. "You're going to regret that."

From the corner of his eye, Spot saw Anthony shoot him a look that said, Really? What on God's green earth were you thinking? Out loud, he said, "It's ok, we don't—"

"It's not ok," Spot said. The two boys pressed closer, and Spot tensed. It wasn't fair for them to just take Anthony's money like that. So what if he got beat up? At least he put up a fight. Slowly he reached behind him.

The bigger boy lunged, but, being scrawny and agile, Spot ducked out of the way and put all of the force he had into his punch; it was all he could do to keep from crying out when his fist met the newsie's jaw. The hit really only caught the other boy off-guard, but it gave Spot time to whip out his slingshot and a handful of shooters. The first one caught him next to his eye, far enough away to not cause major damage, but close enough to scare him. The newsy turned to fully face Spot, opening his mouth to shout—

And down went the second shooter.

Clutching his throat, he doubled over and began hacking. The slender newsie shouted. "What did you do?" He thumped his friend on the back until finally the marble fell onto the ground. When he opened his mouth, it was not his voice that spoke.

"Really, Lug, you couldn't handle a kid?" The voice was soft and icy, disturbing yet calm. All four heads swiveled to find a boy seemingly stepping from the shadows. Suddenly the city was very quiet.

Looking back, Spot supposed it was the eyes that gave him his name. Sure, his hair was about the color of flour, and his skin looked like he went outside once a week; but his eyes-they were truly unsettling. Pale blue almost to the point of being silver, the irises were much too large, and the pupils were much too small. Paired with his hard, biting gaze, Spot felt like he was supposed to shrink into the ground. "Why did you shoot my boy?"

"He owed my friend three cents and wouldn't pay up." Spot swallowed hard. It had been almost easy to keep his nerve with the boy called Lug, but this one...he was frightening.

"Pay up," said the newcomer, slowly turning his gaze to Lug. "This isn't the first time you've done this. I gave you a warning last time, so have fun with two weeks of cleaning duty."

He looked back at Spot, and Spot wished he wouldn't. They stood there for a long time in silence as Spot was scrutinized. "What's your name?"

"Spot. Spot Conlon." Thank you Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Spot thought when his voice didn't waver.

"Spot Conlon, how would you like to be a newsie?"

000

His name was Ghost, and he was the King of Brooklyn. He was tall and wiry and walked so quietly that no one ever knew when he was coming. He took a nine-year-old Spot Conlon, who lived in a two-room apartment with his mother, and made him an heir to a kingdom.

Anthony, never far from Spot, tried to be a Brooklyn boy. But their rules were so rigid, and Anthony was so spastic, that he lasted three months, which Spot thought was pretty good, all things considered. He loved being a newsie, but Brooklyn wasn't for him. Through a new friend, he heard about the way things were run in Manhattan, and he and Spot both agreed it would be a good idea to try it out.

Ghost never let Spot go too far from under his wing. Even though Spot was only nine, they went to pubs and bars. They went gambling and to the shady parts of town. He learned how to fight, and fight well. He learned how to be cold and intimidating, and how to weasel his way into the hardest of hearts and break it. He learned the swagger that all the kings moved with. Newsies across New York feared Ghost, and they learned to fear his shadow.

But Spot taught himself how to nurse a single glass of alcohol without anyone realizing. He taught himself how to be tough enough to never need to fight; he was feared enough that a couple of good threats kept everyone at bay, no matter where he went.

He learned that, save for the nights on the rooftop, he didn't like Ghost, and when the time came, he would not be like him.

Spot Conlon spent the next five years being poured into the King of Brooklyn's mold. He went behind Ghost's back and befriended many of the boys; they trusted him, and he had their respect in a way Ghost never would. Through Anthony, now known as Racetrack, he met Jack Kelly, who would become his Manhattan counterpart. In some ways, he envied the easy-going, beloved Jack Kelly; but when you'd spent five years brainwashed into aloofness, it was hard to make yourself like that.

When Ghost died in a bar fight, he was equal parts relieved and panicked. Ghost had been revolting, but...now it was his turn. They boys all rounded on him the moment they got the news, and he knew he couldn't back out. Not without a replacement.

000

The day he knew that, in the bottom of his heart, he hated Ghost was the day he kissed a girl—not in the quick, chaste way, but when he'd kissed her where no one could see and let his hands wander.

If Ghost had loved one thing, it had been women. His favorite had been the follies at a Manhattan place called Irving Hall, which they'd found because of Jack; it was the only time Spot ever regretted knowing Jack. At least once a week, Ghost trekked them across the river to Irving Hall, owned by a beautiful woman named Medda, who Ghost somehow always managed to charm into letting them in. Had Medda known Ghost slipped into her girls' dressing room, she may not have been so welcoming, but Ghost, living up to his name, always made it inside to his own personal brothel. Once he'd made his pick, he'd invite the girl back to the lodging house, and most usually, under the influence of his charm, she'd accept, leaving Spot to find his own way back while they took a carriage.

Spot would wait on the stairs until the unlucky girl was gone before he went to the bunk room. He lost count of the number of girls who passed by him in tears.

You'd think, he thought on more than one occasion, that they'd learn not to go with him.

And then he'd turned seventeen, quite behind everyone else in his immediate circle, and met a Long Island beauty. Seven months after that, as they'd bounced around New York in her carriage, he kissed her and let his hands rove over her, up the curve of her hips, down the smooth, soft skin of her arm; he kissed the tender part of her neck and relished in the way her hands clutched his shirt. Without realizing it, he thought about the empty room at the lodging house, and how he was the King of Brooklyn after all.

Spot stopped abruptly and removed his hands from her. He felt his neck heat up with shame, and then fury after seeing her hurt, confused face, which she hid quickly. He'd kissed her gently, said he was sorry, and wished with all his might that Ghost was alive so that he could kill him. He hadn't realized exactly how much of himself the previous leader had wiped away or tarnished.

"So, if you hated Ghost so much, why did you become a newsie?" Ringer asks. He's chain smoking now, working on his fourth cigarette.

"I was nine. I had no idea what he was like. Here I was, getting praise from a random, mysterious older guy. I mean, even though Da was sending money, my mom still needed help, and my sister would have quit school before me. It seemed like a good idea at the time." Spot flicks his own cigarette. "I don't even know exactly how he did it. It was like, I woke up one day staring at that goddamn brown splotch on the ceiling, and five years had passed, and I wondered exactly how I'd gotten here."

"Would you do it again? If Ghost wasn't here, would you become leader?"

This is the most level and personal that they've ever been; honestly, it's the most level and personal he's ever been with anyone, at least in recent memory. He thinks about the long days and often restless nights. All the worry, and every heartache. He could have stayed in school longer. He could have preserved himself.

The answer is so painfully obvious.

But Ringer is watching him so carefully, waiting for the words of reassurance. Why Spot even chose him for second-in-command is beyond most of the city, since the younger boy would probably flourish in Manhattan. He wears his heart on his sleeve too much and jokes too often, but he was also sharp and eager, loyal to a fault.

Spot gives his signature, lopsided smirk and snuffs out his cigarette. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"