This was written for the Newsies Pape Selling Competition. We had to pick a newsie and give them a job after they left the paper business. Word Count: 1537
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It started with the Chicago Murder Fiasco of 1903.
They had all emerged from the rubble of that mess largely unscathed but with the realization that they were adults, and their time had passed.
So first went Spot Conlon. He left his second-in-command permanently in charge and promptly set off to Long Island, where he was now helping to increase what was already a fortune. They had congratulated him, knowing he would be happy, but it had been done with mostly heavy hearts.
And then the winter hit, and while Brooklyn was prepared, Manhattan took a beating. The lodging house was drafty and not well-insulated, and their blankets and quilts and patched coats only gave them so much protection. With so many boys living so closely together, it was only a matter of time before the pneumonia that grabbed hold of one had swept through the ranks. It was only a matter of time before they started falling off.
It was just...well, no one had expected it to be Crutchy. Or, at least, no one had wanted it to be.
And after that, no one had wanted to stay, especially not the older ones. Falling between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, it felt like they'd been there for entire lives, and every little bit of the house was haunted by his presence. They all laid in bed for a little longer, waiting to hear his cheerful greeting; and, realizing it would not come, had risen slowly, but not in their usual slow way. They listened for the tapping of his crutch on the stairs. They avoided Fifth Avenue like the Delancey brothers, all of them unable to take his selling spot.
Jack had long given up with Sarah, and with her, he'd given up New York. For good this time. There went Cutchy, and there Jack went on a train bound for Santa Fe. He married the rancher's daughter, and then became set to inherit the land at some point. They receive letters occasionally about his time as a ranch hand.
Skittery woefully then found work at the docks, never one to set his sights high. He complains regularly when they meet up every now again.
Always the charmer, Mush had been the most surprising. He found his way into the Tenderloin District one day and decided he didn't want to leave-not that he had any reason to, judging by his ability to always pay for everyone's meals. To date, he's ruined three marriages and broken one engagement.
Kid Blink did away with the eye patch about the same time Boots made it into his Bloomingdale paradise. They haven't seen Kid in a few months, but last they heard, he was at Ellis.
Absolutely unsurprisingly, David was the most successful, in the traditional sense. He'd gone back to school, even made it through college, and after having a riveting article about the conditions of hospitals published, was propelled immediately into the new president's office as a speechwriter. He wears nice suits in Washington and drops in every couple of months.
But Racetrack, he thought he had it made. He'd bounced around between shops and labor jobs before he'd sat down at Spot's big shiny table and hashed it out.
He like cigars. He liked racing. He liked the uncertainty of a bet, and the thrill of a win. He even liked the infuriating stomach drop when he lost, in a way.
"Well," Spot had said, pouring another round of gin, "seems to me there's only one real option here."
Spot had pulled some strings. That part of him hadn't changed since the Fiasco. He'd always been pulling strings, getting his way, and now he just had better strings.
They'd put their heads together. Racetrack threw out ideas, and Spot crunched the numbers. They got first-class tickets to Kentucky and back. As they popped champagne upon their return home, Spot's girl had looked at them curiously. "We're going about this all wrong."
She'd been accosted—a bit too harshly, Racetrack thought when he remembered it—but all she'd said was, "Just you wait."
On opening day in March, Spot and his girl had stood in the section reserved for owners, she dressed in a bright green dress, he looking dapper as he always did by that point, and they'd cheered the loudest when Racetrack clopped past, grinning so widely it seemed the corners of his lips would disappear into his goggles and clad in silks the same color as her dress.
He hadn't bulked up like the rest of them. While all the others had hit a growth spurt and grew muscles, Race had stayed small and mostly wiry. They thought he would be perfect for the job.
He'd launched out of the box at what felt like a mind-blowing speed, and for the next few minutes, he was deaf to everything but the thunder of forty-five hooves, blind to everything but the figures ahead of him, seen from between a pair of tall pointed ears. He entered the first curve in fifth place and hunkered down lower over the coppery neck of the horse.
As he crossed the line in fourth place, he'd glimpsed Spot's girl cheering madly, one hand holding onto her hat as she bounced around, while Spot had actually beamed.
"Three and a half minutes!" Spot had roared, clapping Race on the back. It had been the greatest three and a half minutes of his life—save for that time when he'd gone to St. Louis with Spot.
And so it had gone for about a year, the three of them roaming about racetracks in the New England area. Racetrack enjoyed it, he really did, but it just wasn't quite a job, more of something he'd like to do in his free time.
They'd come home from Sheepshead one day, and after Spot had disappeared into the study to gather a few papers he needed to look at, his girl had leaned forward and placed a hand on Racetrack's knee. "There's something wrong."
"With Spot? Seemed fine to me." When she'd rolled her eyes and frowned, saying silently that was not what she was talking about, he grimaced. "Aw, hell, I told you guys that I don't want to know that—"
"Race," she'd insisted, "I'm talking about you."
No one, not even Racetrack, who was almost used to them, was ever able to resist her doe eyes, which she wielded so expertly that there was no way she didn't know exactly what she was doing. He'd found himself explaining his situation, and she listened raptly before smiling in such a knowing way. "I told you we were going about this the wrong way. How about my idea?"
To put it simply, her idea had been the winner.
About seven o'clock in the evening, Racetrack leaves his apartment and walks the few blocks to the pub. He greets Mike, the taciturn bartender, and then Eleanor the owner, who is much more friendly and pleasant to look at. He takes the chairs off the tables, and she goes behind him wiping them off. Then he unlocks the door to the side of the bar and goes about setting up his own table. When he finishes there, he joins Mike and Eleanor for dinner; it's not the French cuisine that Spot now dines on, but Race thinks that, save for perhaps Mush or even Jack, he gets the best meals; Eleanor has this trick she does with the potatoes that makes his mouth water by just thinking about them.
Around nine the patrons start pouring in. He hands his plate to Mike, then retires to his side room. Tonight there are several of the regular men, and a few who come every now and again, as well as a lovely little Scottish lass with bright copper hair and the sharpest mouth he's ever met, but she gets away with it by keeping everyone in stitches.
Race takes his usual seat across from the door. He slides his cards from their box and sends them rattling with his fingers, a familiar giddy excitement spreading over him. "Alright, one dollar buy in tonight, deuces are wild. Keep the cards on the table.
At the end of the night he counts the money with Eleanor and Mike before taking his cut. With two hours left until dawn, he meanders his way home, smiling at the boys huddled around the distribution center; he buys a paper from them, where he discovers that Spot and his girl had donated a sizable amount of her father's money towards the cleaning of Central Park, and the president is coming to the city, which means David should be in too. He spots Mush, who looks as though he too is going home, and passes Skittery, who is dragging his feet towards the docks.
There's a letter waiting for him at the post office from Jack, who says he and his wife will be visiting the next month, and Race hurries home to invite them to stay with him. And then he makes his signature scrambled eggs before turning in for the morning, ready and excited for what the coming evening will bring.