One roll of the dice, One flip of a knife

Chapter one: Not just another day at the races

By: Ambrlupin

Rated: M

Summary: Race has gotten himself in way over his head on the wrong side of the bridge. Can Spot Conlon get him out of it? Or will Manhattan blood be shed on Brooklyn soil? (Friendship or slash, however you want to look at it)

Disclaimer: if I did own newsies would I settle for not making money of it? Nuff said.

A/N: Second newsies fic! Hehehe, this is what happens when I read too many Spot and Race centric fanfics. -smile- hope ya like it!

For those of you who read 'For Brooklyn' there might be cameo appearances from the ever wonderful Docks, Shorty, and Ace...we'll just have to see. Red IS in here, though.

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Racetrack Higgins.

There was a reason for why his name was what it was. Many thought it was because of the way he sold his papes over the bridge at Sheepshead Racetrack. A Manhattan boy selling in Brooklyn. There was no other newsie in New York who would dare test Spot Conlon's temper.

He lived for it.

The Sheepshead Racetrack wasn't a place for the soft-hearted either. Just because it was on the edge of Brooklyn didn't mean it wasn't a part of Brooklyn. He knew that from experience, but not how you would think. He had grown up there, after all.

Surprised?

He was only around seven when he had been found wandering around the horse corral at Sheepshead. He was a small boy, Italian of course, but with no family to claim, no memory at all of his past, except for a gold pocket-watch.

That was one of the reasons why Mr. Higgins, the owner of the track at the time, had let him stay there as his apprentice. Another was that he had found the boy being harassed by a few of his customers.

Apparently a gold pocket-watch sold high in Brooklyn.

And the men had wanted it.

Higgins had come running, but it was too late. One of the horses had come to the kid's rescue. The horse was a prized stallion that went by the name Racetrack. The man had seen fire in the kid's eyes and took him under his wing.

Then he went and died.

Race sat back in his seat, a cigar in his mouth. Propping his feet on the rail in front of him he waited for the gates to open. He had put his money on a small stallion with a dark coat. It was the first time he had ever betted on a dark horse. Why was that?

It reminded him too much of Racetrack.

They had to put the stallion down a few years after he had been found, due to an injury that had left his left back leg useless. They didn't need a lame horse, so they killed him. Race had been there, had held his savior's head as the life bled slowly from those dark and fiery eyes.

It was the first time Race had ever saw someone die.

But not the last.

He had started as a newsie under Red, the leader of Brooklyn at that time, and had gotten a message sometime around noon that said his father needed him desperately at the track. He knew something was wrong right there. Arthur Higgins was many things, but a soft man was not one of them. He had adopted Race, but made it clear he wanted something understood.

He was no father.

The twelve year old had handed his papers off to a friend and ran all the way back. He had barely made it in time. He stood by the other's bed, tears streaming down his face. A customer had gotten a little zealous over a loss and had stabbed him over ten times before help arrived.

There was nothing anyone could do. He died a few hours after the attack, bled out as he held his adopted son's hand. The last words he ever said were to Race, and to Race alone.

"I want you to get out of here, Race..." His words were breathy, but strong. "I want you to leave Brooklyn, you understand? Get far away, never come back..." A tear slid down his face, "But never...never lose your name, Racetrack. Never lose your name."

He had meant...to never lose his last name. A name that no one recognized in Manhattan, but in Brooklyn...His name would almost be enough to give him the track. Almost. But he did what he had been told.

He left Brooklyn for Manhattan.

But not the track. Never the track.

The gates slammed open with the sound of a gunshot, the horses tearing across the ground with a deafening sound that had many toward the front wincing. Race loved the sound, had been able to fall asleep hearing it. Among the shouts and desperate cries...

It had been his lullaby when he had been young.

He leaned forward a little so he could see better. His stallion was falling behind, that was no surprise. He never won when he came here, even though he could pick the winner with barely a glance. The races here were rigged, although Race didn't know how. As for the Why?

Money rules. He knew that, had known then since the men had come after him. He wasn't really there for the money, anyway. Yeah, it would have been nice, but it didn't matter. He put his money on the horse that was supposed to win, not the one whose owner payed to win.

There was no honor in doing that, no suspense, no thrill. He watched as his little horse fell farther and farther back, watching as his rider let it happen, even though the stallion wanted to run, was born to run. He wanted to win, thats why he was there, giving it his all.

Race flicked the end of his cigar, watching the ashes fall to the ground. He could hardly help but think what Racetrack would have done in this situation. Break free, naturally. Win, of course. As they neared the last turn, the newsie got to his feet. It was time to leave. It had been just another day at the races after all, he had lost. That was nothing new.

The stallion broke free of his rider.

At the roar of the crowd, Race turned his head, eyes widening as the little horse tore up the ground, his eyes seeming to be encased with fire. He ran past the others effortlessly, almost as if he was running on air, his hooves never touching the dirt.

Past the fifth, the fourth, the third.

"Come on." Race whispered, eyes glued to the horse, "Come on, you can do it. Come on..."

Shooting past the second.

"Don't let them do this to you..." The newsie was up against the rail, cigar forgotten. "Don't let them win, don't let them scabs win. Come on!"

Past the first and across the line.

Race was so shocked the forgotten cigar fell from his slack fingers, hitting the concrete with a soft thump that seemed to echo forever in his ears. He had won, HE had won. It was amazing, it was hilarious, it was...pandemonium.

The entire stadium was in an uproar, on their feet, demanding to know what had happened, DEMANDED to have a rematch. But they wouldn't get one, that was the way the races worked, after all, but when it was the entire betting population against one horse...

Dear lord, he was rich.

His mind didn't even want to wrap itself around the number of hundreds of dollars he had just won. He didn't want to thing about what it would mean either. He didn't have to be a newsie anymore, he could buy a house, put his friends up...

He was going to get killed.

Already people had asked who had bet on that horse, and already people were turning his way. Men, big men, angry men, lots and lots of big, angry men. There was no way to get out of this one, no way to stay here and fight.

His hand slipped around the betting voucher in his pocket, clapping the other on his hat as he turned and bolted, slipping under the rail as they all rushed at him, picking up chairs and other such oddities.

Bursting out of the gates he quickly looked around before running through the Brooklyn streets, dodging and weaving in and out of people, his hand holding his hat to his head.

Just another day at the races?

Not at all.

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