Time
Chapter: Past
By: Ambrlupin
Summary: Short story. Sequel to "One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife." When everything Race has come to know and enjoy in his new life is destroyed, can he pick up the pieces and move on?
A/N: well. Here it is. The short story 'Time'.
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It was a dark night in winter, the kind of night with winds that brought in fresh air, and stirred something inside every New Yorker that told them that snow was coming. If not today, if not tonight, then soon.
The lights were dimmed around Sheepshead at night, with just a faint glow being cast onto the track below. During the day the place was packed with people, ringing with noise and life. At night, it was about as welcoming as a ghost town.
To Racetrack Higgins, though, night was the best time to be on the track. His breath fogging up in the air, disappearing like smoke into the darkness, as he walked along the railing, hand idly running along the freezing metal.
It had been almost a year since he had gained total control over the racetrack and everything that had to do with it. One long, glorious year. He stopped in the middle of the track, smoothing the dirt with his boot and looking around at the stands.
There was, however, one thing he hadn't done in a while. Brushing his dark hair from his face, he needed to get it cut, his lips curled into a smirk and he lit a cigarette hanging from his lips, the tip flaring in the dark.
Tomorrow he would take a trip to Manhattan.
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Jack Kelly, his lean and muscled frame leaning outside of a window, was having a problem. If this window didn't come down, the whole second level would be freezing come night, and then what would they do when it snowed?
Twiddle their thumbs and whistle?
Not his kids.
Yanking hard on the window, and cursing the fact it didn't want to seem to move, Jack let his head fall back to the windowsill, banging up against it a few times. "Why won't you budge?!" He demanded, irritated.
"Maybe its cause you're not a sweet talkah, Cowboy."
Head snapping up, Jack cursed again and hit the window, as if it was the one to cause the now throbbing pain in his neck. "Gee, Race. When did you die and come to window-hell?"
"About the same time I gave up gamblin." Walking to the window, Race looked it over before motioning the leader away. "Honestly, and you're a leadah, how again?" Reaching up, Race flicked the latch and pulled the window down.
Completely refusing to let the other's amused smirk get to him, Jack stuck his hands in his pockets. "Whatcha doin in these parts, Race. Thought you were all high and mighty now with the track."
"Are you still up about dat?" He sighed, shaking his head. "Look, Jack, I-"
"You forgot about us, Race."
"I did no such thing!"
"It's been a year." Jack's eyes were cold, staring straight into Race's own. "A year, while we were sellin papes with your name on the headline. Brooklyn Wonder Boy. Everyone waited for you to come back, to spend some time with us. But guess what." He took a step forward, finger jabbing hard against the other's chest. "You nevah did."
Race opened his mouth to speak, slapping the other's hand away. They would have come to blows, no doubt about it, but the door burst inward and someone nearly fell in it. "Race!"
Angry scowl turning to genuine smile in half a second, Race turned. "Blink." Here was one of his best friends, and the other was probably trailing not too far behind. "Where's Mush?"
"Comin." Blink rushed in, clapping the other on the back. "Holy! Did you grow?"
"Tell me, Ryan Ballatt, do you cherish your-" Letting the oh-so-familiar taunting fall short of his tongue, Race's brow creased and he reached up, turning the other's face to the side. "What happened, Kid?"
"Oh...heh. Nuttin. It's a scratch." He flashed him a smile, the light hitting the so-called 'scratch.' Nearly running from the other's eye to his jaw, the knife wound wasn't new, maybe a month or two, well into healing. But it would scar.
"Another thing you missed." Jack's tone wasn't lost on Blink, who looked between the two, confused. But his mouth stayed closed, and Race mostly ignored the cowboy as his second best friend ran in.
"It's good to see you." Mush told him, running his eyes over the other's frame. Mother hen to the end - he had probably been the one to watch over Blink. "You look well."
"As can be expected." Race smirked, jerking his head toward Blink. "What happened to cyclops ovah dere?"
"Excuse me?"
Ignoring Blink, Mush shrugged. "Same thing as always. The Delancey brothers."
"Some things nevah change."
Jack scoffed at that, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a loud snap. Both Blink and Mush stared after him before looking back at Race, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "He looks a little..."
Race pulled a cigarette from his pocket, sighing. "...Yeah."
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There was a trick to skipping stones across water.
Race never had managed to master it.
Blink tossed the little rock in his hand up and down a few times, just listening to Mush bring their mutual gambling friend up to date on the comings and goings of the 'Hattan newsies, before he flicked his wrist and skipped the rock a few times over the surface, watching it sink before he turned back around.
"You know, that's not all you missed."
Race looked up at Blink, letting some smoke trail from his lips. "Yeah?" A sarcastic comment was on the tip of his tongue, but something on the other's face made him bite it back. "What's going on? What didn't you tell me, Mush?"
Mush turned his head away, as if that would save him from answering. "I didn't...I mean, it's not my place to say anything. If he wanted to tell you, he would have.."
"If who wanted to tell me what?" Race got to his feet, pulling the cigarette from his lips, "What the hell is going on?"
"Jack-"
"Ryan, stop it." Mush's eyes snapped up, "If he didn't tell him, we shou-"
"Jack's sick."
Silence. The ashes from the end of Race's cigarette, now held in a slack hand, fell and hit the pavement, a smoldering mass scattered by the wind.
"Sick?" Race repeated. "Whaddya mean sick?"
"He was having a hard time, a few months back, we forced him to go up to the doctors." Blink explained, looking sideways at Mush, who sighed.
"It wouldn't do to have the entire house sick."
Race's eyes moved from Blink to Mush and then back again. "You mean, like a cold? That kinda sick? That's nothing to worry about! Hell, even Kelly can beat a cold."
"No, Race." Mush murmurred. "Not a cold."
"Don't tell me that." Race bit out, voice a little strained. "Don't you tell me that. If something was wrong, he would have told me. He would have told me, all right? Jack and I, we're close. We're close friends, he would have told me."
Blink hesitated, and then, as carefully as he could, said, "But you haven't been here."
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"Jack's sick, huh?"
"You didn't know either?" Race muttered darkly, eyes narrowed coldly as he threw his finished cigarette hard at the ground. "Jack is just a trustin fool, isn't he?"
Spot's eyebrow rose at him a little. "Mad because he didn't tell you?"
"Something like that."
The Brooklyn leader shrugged a bit, pushing off from the crate he was leaning on. "Can you blame him? You haven't been around, Race, you haven't even been over to see them in what, a year?"
"You're not helping matters, Conlon." He nearly growled.
"Who said I was tryin?"
Race cut his eyes at him, annoyed, "Then shut the hell up. I don't want to hear it."
Spot waited only a moment before his foot moved out, knocking the crate Race was sitting on forwards and to the side as he pushed hard at the other's chest, making him fall off the dock and into the waiting water below.
He waited until the gambler broke the surface to say anything to him. And when he did, his tone was crisp, controlled. "You don't want to hear it, because it's the truth. And you know it as well as I do. You were so angry when Jack turned scabbah during the strike, and he had a reason to do it. What reason do you have? Think about that, Higgins, and get back to me."
Race stared, shocked speechless, as Spot turned on his heel and walked off the dock, leaving him treading water and replaying the conversation in his head. He didn't understand, and yet he did at the same time.
You were so angry when Jack turned scabbah during the strike, and he had a reason to do it. What reason do you have?
He could almost hear the other's voice in his head.
What reason do you have, Race?
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It was raining, and he was walking home alone. He just didn't understand. How had it gotten this...bad? It had seemed almost like a dream, reclaiming the track, taking it over, remodeling it like he knew his fath- Arthur Higgins would have wanted it...
When had he forgotten who he was? When had he forgotten the newsies that had been his family for so long? When had he forgotten Manhattan?
He had been told to never lose his name, to never forget it. But he had; at the cost of regaining another. Who was he, really? Anthony Higgins, or Racetrack? Was his loyalties to Brooklyn? Or to Manhattan?
Could he go forward without going backward?
He didn't know the answers to these questions, and that's all he seemed to have. Questions. Why was Jack sick, for one. Why hadn't he stopped by to check in with them? So many questions he needed to answer to stop the headache splitting his head in two.
"You look like you need a drink."
Race turned his head a little, water dripping from his wet bangs to trail down his cheek. "A few, to be honest."
Emerald eyes regarded him thoughtfully, motioned him over, out of the rain. "Come on, I'm paying." He placed a hand on his soaked shoulder, led him into the warmth of the pub. "Time to get you nice and drunk so you can tell Red what's wrong."
The gambler snorted. "Red, there's not enough drinks in the world to make me spill my heart out to you."
There was a challenging glint in the other's eye, as he pushed a drink toward him. "Prove it."
Not even an hour later, Race slammed his glass on the table. "I don't know where the hell I went wrong, Red. I mean - don't talk, I'm not done!"
Red raised a hand, shut his mouth, waved him on. "Continue. My apologies."
"I mean, this is just... not right. It's not right...Where the...Where'd my drink go?" He mumbled, looking around and under the table for the glass he could have sworn had something in it.
"Here." Red slid his own toward him, eyebrow raised as it was promptly seized and tossed back. The kid could drink, he'd give him that. But hold it? Nope. He was as drunk as anyone had ever seen him. "What's not right?"
"This!" Race threw his hand into the air, in a random gesture that nearly knocked him off his chair. "This whole thing...is just so wrong I don't even know where to begin..."
"Well maybe-"
"I went to go see Jack, right? And he's fighting with a window. A window, Red. The window was kicking his... well, anyway, I go in there, and I don't even get a hi. Not even a 'hello, Race, darling, where have you been? How are you?' Did I get that? Did I?!"
"...I'm guessing no."
"No! No, I did not. I did not, Red. That's not right is it? No, I didn't think so either. But there he was, all mad at me. Me! For doing what I was supposed to. I was supposed to take care of the track, wasn't I? It was my responsibility, wasn't it?"
"Undoubtably."
"Then why the hell is he- Oh. I see. You're on their side!" He pointed an accusing finger at Red. "You're on their side!"
Up went the eyebrow. "Whose side am I on? And why am I on their side?"
"Don't play games with me!" Race got unsteadily to his feet. "You're on their side, mad at me because I didn't go see them. Like I'm so far away, they couldn't come see me? What is this, one sided? They have arms don't they? They can walk!"
Not even going to try and correct the gambler, although it was amusing to know that arms were essential to people walking, Red nodded sagely, and got another drink, placing it in front of his drunken companion.
"Then what is - oh, thanks Red, pal o' mine. You're a good friend, you know that? I can always count you on my side." Race took a big gulp of it, and continued on. "But that's not even what gets me. Do you know what gets me?"
"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me." Red commented, arms crossed over the table.
"They didn't miss me!"
Here we go. Red sat back in his chair, sipped at a water. "What do you mean they didn't miss you, Race? They missed you."
"No, how could they? They didn't come to see me. They could have. They could have, we already established that, didn't we? I'm only in Brooklyn! It's not that far, just over that really pretty bridge. Isn't it pretty?"
"Very."
"Can I go see it?"
"It's raining, Race. You can't see it right now."
"Oh..." Race took a sip of his drink. "What about when it stops?"
Red paused a moment. "Will you try and jump off of it?"
"I dunno. Can I?"
"No."
"No point then." Race sighed, completely missing Red's amused chuckle, seeing as he was finishing off the drink, and swaying in his chair. "Red, Red...Why do they call you Red? Is it because of your hair? We can't call you that anymore. You dyed it. I remember. You dyed it. See, it's black."
Red was silent, so Race just continued on. "We can call you Shadow...Midnight... There's an amusing thought. Rover! I have it! Let's call you Rover!"
"Okay, Race, come on. You're done." Red made a grab for his arm, but Race moved just out of reach, amazingly.
"Rover and Spot! Look at that! The Dogs of Brooklyn!" Race didn't even notice really, as Red took a hold of his arm and started to lead him out the door, hoping the rain would sober him up a bit. It didn't, however, and Red was forced to listen to a made up chorus of 'The Dogs of Brooklyn.' sung by a very drunk Racetrack.
What a night.
"Rover! Look! The pretty bridge!"
Red groaned.
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Red wasn't in Brooklyn the next day.
Race knew this.
Because he had looked for him.
Thoroughly.
Because Red was going to die.
Painfully.
Very.
Very.
Painfully.
"Rough night?" Spot leaned in the doorway, the shades in the other's room closed so tightly Race could barely be seen huddled on the bed.
"Go away." There was just enough hint of a smirk in Spot's voice to piss Race off.
"Can't do that, sorry." He moved in, sat in a chair. "Red told me."
"Where is he?" Race demanded, disheveled head popping up so fast it made his head spin. "Where the hell is that red-haire- Black haired - Where is he?!"
Spot was smirking, and he shook his head. "Can't tell you that, Race. Anyway, it's time for you to get up. Got things to do, don't you? Training and all that stuff? You know, the track stuff that takes up all your time?"
Race made a half-hearted lunge at him, but it only ended up with him landing painfully on the floor, a curse slipping past his lips. "Damn it, Spot! That hurt!"
Spot shrugged a shoulder. "I really don't care."
"What is your problem?" He muttered, getting painfully to his feet. "I didn't do a thing to you."
"Not me, directly, no. But you got Kelly pissed off, and he's taking it out on me. And you know, at this point...I'm about ready to knock his head off. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, however..."
"Oh shut up." Race hissed, slamming the door behind him. Mistake. Now his head was reeling. "I get it...Damn it, I get it."
Spot snickered to himself, leaned back on the other's bed, arms behind his head. "I'd take a bath before I showed myself to the world, Tony."
"Shut up."
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"One ride."
"No."
"Just one little ride, Spot."
"No."
"Ten minutes?"
"No."
"Five?"
"No."
Race crossed his arms, annoyed and amused. "It's just one little ride, will it kill you?"
"Yes."
Chuckle. "At least I got you to say yes..."
Spot glared. He wasn't amused. "No means no, Race."
They were sitting outside, near the gates of the track. They were closed down early, and there was really nothing to do but sit there. Race had taken it upon himself to bug Spot the entire time, and he was about to win. The other just didn't know it yet.
"Ah, but you promised me. Are you going to go back on your word?"
Silence.
"Oh, come on, Spot." Race wasn't going to let this go easily. "You promised me. One ride. Just one. I swear."
He was weakening. Race could see it in his eyes. He wasn't going to compromise his word that way, and the gambler knew it. Gambler. Hello. "After all, I have to get you back somehow for that stuff when I was drunk a week ago."
"You find Red yet?"
Race growled under his breath. He hadn't. "That is not the issue here."
Spot just smirked up at him.
"I think you're scared."
Gone was the smirk, the amused glint. Gone was the teasing. "You think I'm what?"
"Scared." Race repeated, smirking now. "Scared of a little horse. The big bad King o' Brooklyn is scared."
"Where are those horses?" Spot snapped, jumping down from his seat, marching off toward the stalls. "Scared. Hah! I'll show you."
Race, chuckling, followed after him.
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It would have been amusing, if Jack hadn't come by for an important talk. But could you blame him for leaning on the side of the fence to watch Spot Conlon ride a horse? No, you couldn't.
For someone who was rather... scared of horses, Spot wasn't too bad on the back of one. Of course, there was no telling how long he had been up there, or what sort of trickery Race had used to get him there.
Jack watched Race ride circles around the Brooklyn leader, and finally he had enough. He moved up on the railing, and brought his fingers to his lips, blowing a shrill whistle. He saw Race turn toward him, dismount.
And then finally move to stand in front of him.
"Hello, Jack."
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So, how was the rather long first chapter? Hmm hmm? Review me! Lol.