By the time Sammy crossed the bridge and entered Manhattan, his nose had stopped gushing blood and had slowed to a trickle. He kept feeling it gingerly, trying to decide if it was broken or not. It was swollen and tender to the touch but didn't seem to be outta place or nothing. Probably not broken. Least not this time.
It was too late to try and check into at the lodging house on Duane Street, so he found side street that wasn't too disgusting and settled in for the night. He tried to close his eyes and doze off, but his mind was whirling too much.
Spot was selling himself for the good of the Brooklyn newsies. Sammy didn't know how to deal with that news. He blamed himself. He should have followed Spot months ago and found out what was going on. He'd known that it couldn't be anything good, not the way Spot acted when he got back. Spot was always worse than drunk. He was off. Those men were giving him something other than alcohol to ensure Spot was nice and relaxed when they…
Sammy's mind shied away from the end of that thought. He knew a little about what men did with each other, thanks to an insomniac ramble through the park one night. He'd stumbled across a couple men doing some interesting things. Like most people, they hadn't seen Shadow, probably on account of how busy they were, and he'd gotten quite an education.
It didn't sound like the men Spot had been with had done most of the stuff Sammy had seen that night. But he didn't want to think about Spot being used by those men. It made Sammy feel things that he didn't want to examine. Things besides anger and indignation and confusion.
So, he tried to make himself as comfortable as he could against the brick wall and forget about Spot. And impossible feat, but eventually his mind stopped spinning quite so much and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
When he woke up, his mouth was dry as a bone on account of him having to breathe through his mouth all night. Feeling creaky, he got up made his way toward the World headquarters. Found water, which went some way to making him feel less like an old dried out bone. Found a stall and bought a coffee and a bun for breakfast. Then headed out to the gates of the World, where Jack Kelly and his boys were already gathered and making trouble with the Delancey brothers.
Sammy hung back, watching as Jack scuffled with the older boys. Looked around, taking note of who was there and how they were looking. He noticed a new boy, new not because Sammy didn't know him—he didn't know a lot of the Manhattan boys—but because he looked like a new penny. Shirt tucked in, freshly washed, face clean, hair combed. He stuck out amongst the generally ragged boys.
The fight finally ended with Jack as victor. Now that Jack was free, Sammy pushed his way through the crowd and approached him.
Jack was shooting the breeze with Racetrack, back to Sammy. Race saw him first. His eyes widened and he pulled his cigar from his mouth.
"Jack." He nodded at Sammy.
Jack turned. When he saw Sammy, both his eyebrows went up. "Woah. I bet I should see the other guy, shouldn't I? Spot know someone worked you over, Shadow?"
Sammy rolled his eyes and tilted his head.
"Right." Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "Course he knows, because he's the one who did it to you. Which is why you're here." He cleared his throat. "You need a place to sell?"
"For a few days."
"Yeah, you can sell here. Just don't take no one's spot. Race, mind showing Shadow where to go?"
Race nodded. "No problem."
"I can give you ten percent," Sammy said. "But with this face and that headline, I ain't selling much today, so…"
"Don't worry about it." Race waved it away. "You can owe me a solid. Besides, I got a sure thing on a horse today. Come this evening, I'll be rolling in it."
Grateful for the reprieve, Sammy offered Race a tentative smile. "Thanks."
Race made a dismissive noise and put his cigar back into his mouth. "Let's go sell some papes."
Sammy took half as much as he usually did, and even then, he almost didn't sell them all. People don't want to buy from a kid that looked like a thug, and between his swollen nose and racoon eyes, that was exactly what he looked like. Spot always said that Sammy could sell just based on his eyes alone, but now the dramatic coloring was obscured by the black rings that have developed beneath them.
But Sammy was a professional. For the ladies, he played up his injuries, appearing weaker than he was. For the men, he put on a tough face and bragged about taking down a guy three times his size. Eventually, he got all his papes sold and, for his riveting story and ability to suck down a mug of beer in thirty seconds, even earned an extra quarter.
"I actually hate beer," he confessed to Race after. They'd bought hotdogs for lunch and were sitting in the square, relaxing. "But I need the quarter. Gave half my cut to a kid yesterday. Didn't have time to get any savings when I left Brooklyn."
"Oh, you have savings. Must be nice."
Sammy quirked his lips. "First thing Spot taught me. Take ten percent of what you earn and hide it away. So, I do." He rubbed the back of his neck. "So, a horse?"
"Hot tip. Gonna earn me double what I made today. Triple. And the best part, no way to lose." He shoved the last of his hotdog into his mouth and climbed to his feet. "Wanna come with me?"
"To Sheepshead?" He laughed. "Not today." He finished off his hotdog and pulled out a cigarette. "I'll be fine. Got lots to entertain myself with." He smiled. "Good luck."
"Friend, I don't need luck. I've got a sure thing." He spat in his hand and held it out to Sammy.
Sammy did the same. They shook and parted ways.
Puffing on his cigarette, Sammy headed back into town. First, he stopped by the lodging house and reserved himself a bed, obtaining a pass to get in late as well. Then he headed out.
His home was Brooklyn and he knew every inch of his borough, but he'd spent enough time in Manhattan to become familiar with certain aspects of her. One was Union Square and the vaudeville houses. He knew Jack Kelly was close friends with Medda Larkin, a popular vaudeville performer at Irving Hall, but Sammy preferred the Victoria.
He went there now, checking his reflection in a nearby window and making sure there was no blood anymore. Assured that he didn't look too disreputable, he went to the stage door and knocked.
It opened, and Bailey appeared.
His eyes widened when he saw Sammy. "Christ, kid, what happened?"
"Fight. It's nothing, I'm fine. Got any work?"
Bailey shook his head but stepped back and waved Sammy inside. "You need to come around more and be two years older, because what I need is someone to work the flies today."
"No, I can do it!" Sammy protested. "I'm a fast learner."
"I know you are, kid, but we go on in an hour and a half and there's just no time. I've got Albert doing it. You can do his job. I need you to sweep and mop the stage, then go through the house and make sure it's clean. After that, report to the property master and see what he needs from you." He handed Sammy a broom. "Mop's already onstage. Go!"
"Thank you, Bailey!" He grabbed the broom and got to work.
It didn't take too long to get through the list of chores he'd been given. The property master didn't give him too much to do, just to set the props in their given spot and make sure everything was there for the actors. The best part was not only did he get to watch the show, but he was given seventy-five cents for his work. It was a lot for doing something he'd do for free, but Sammy took it without pointing that out.
Actually, the real best part was that Albert let him work some of the flies. Sammy got to lower one of the backdrops into place and raise the curtain. It'd been easy and fun and everything he wanted.
Sammy knew, he knew, deep in his heart, he was destined for a factory when he got too old to sell. He was just some dumb kid from the streets, no real education, no real talent in anything. He was strong, he was fast, and he was silent. But he was just a street rat. He'd be a newsie until he got too old, and then he'd get a job in a factory and that was his life.
But. But if he could, if he had the choice, he knew where he wanted to be. In the theater. Behind the scenes. Working the flies and the scenery and helping them make the magic. So, whenever he could, he snuck into Manhattan, to the Victoria, and asked for work. And because Bailey liked him, he always got some.
Maybe. Maybe one day, if he was really lucky, it would turn into something more.
Until then, it was carrying the banner.
"Thanks for your help today," Bailey said as he locked up the theater. "You got a place to stay tonight?"
"Yeah, I do. But I gotta get going or I'm on the streets."
"Well, go, go. Will I see you tomorrow?"
He shook his head. "Probably not. But soon."
"Anytime, kid. I do want to train you on the flies."
"Thought I wasn't old enough."
"One day you will be. And then…"
Sammy grinned. "Thanks, Baily. See you around." Then, he took off running.
He made it to the lodging house just before they locked the doors. Kloppman accepted his pass with a raised eyebrow and shooed him upstairs.
Sammy washed up and found an empty bed next to Race. Race looked downtrodden, laying on his back, chewing on his cigar.
"You okay?" Sammy asked. "Everything go well at the track?"
"Does it look like it went well?"
"Sorry." He pulled out a quarter and flipped it over to Race.
Race closed his fist around it. "I said you didn't owe me nothing but a favor."
"Yeah, well, my horse came in tonight. Just take the money."
"Oh, I ain't saying no to the money."
"Shuddup!" someone shouted. "I'm trying to sleep!"
Sammy smiled. "Night, Race."
"Night, Sammy."
Spot woke up the next morning in a foul mood. A foul mood but feeling much better than the day before. The black cloud was gone, and his head wasn't pounding. He'd bathed, so he didn't stink of sour liquor anymore, and, all in all, he felt more human.
Just, more human in a bad temper. Because Sammy hadn't come home, and Spot was left remembering the terrible way he'd treated the other boy.
As much as he'd like to wallow in his temper, he had work to do. He got up, got dressed, and headed out with his boys.
Then, the day got worse.
"Sixty cents!" shouted one of the boys. "Spot, you seeing this?"
He stared up at the board in dismay. Sixty cents for a hundred papes. Meaning he'd have to buy ten more just to make as much as he did on a normal day. Greedy cocksuckers. They was always out to screw the little guy.
"I'm barely making my sales as it is," Bruiser said, cracking his knuckles. "Now I gotta buy more just to make what I did yesterday? It's a crock."
"It is," Spot agreed. "But it's also reality. What else we gonna do?"
"Not sell until they put the price back!"
He laughed and looked at Bruiser askance. "You wanna go on strike? We's unskilled labor, moron. We's replaceable. We don't sell, there's a hundred others waiting to take our place."
"So we soak 'em."
Spot shook his head. "It'd never work." He let out a breath and adjusted his cap. "Boys," he said, turning to face them, "I know this ain't fair. I know it seems hard. But we is newsies. We is Brooklyn. They want us to buy ten more papes, we'll buy twenty more and sell 'em all. Because we's the best. The best at hawking, the best at selling, the best in the whole city. All around, boys is waking up to this unfortunate news, and they is thinking that they'll never be able to do it. But not my boys. Not Brooklyn. We will sell our papes, and we will sell more papes than ever before. We will show those at the top that they can't break us, that they can't scam us. Because we is Brooklyn!"
"Brooklyn!" the cry went up.
When the gates opened, Spot was as good as his word. He bought twenty more papes than usual. Inspired, his boys followed suite, even Rolli and Shortstop. Then, like an army marching to war, they headed out to the streets and began an impassioned day of selling.
It was near noon and Spot was down to five papes when, from out of the shadows, Sammy appeared.
Spot froze.
The other boy looked awful. His nose was swollen and there were dark bruises under both his eyes. His left eye was double bruised, both underneath and across the lid. That eye was bloodshot, the whites all red. Even though it'd been washed, Spot could still see the remnants of dried blood on his shirt, too.
Sammy was panting, sweating, hair plastered to his forehead. Obviously, he'd been running, and Spot was intrigued. Sammy rarely rushed anywhere, not unless it was important. Urgent.
Spot's heart started to pound wildly in his chest. Generally, their fights were resolved because time passed and cooled their tempers. They never talked about what had happened between them, just let it drop. But this was different. This secret between them, what had been exposed… Spot knew Sammy wasn't just going to let it go.
And Spot really didn't want to deal with it right now.
He swallowed and adjusted his grip on his papes.
Sammy stopped in front of him. "Jacky's boys is striking."
He let out a breath, feeling like he'd been punched. Not because of the news, but because of the reprieve. "What?" Because he heard the words, but had been so wrapped up in his anxiety, wasn't able to process them.
"'cause of the rate hike. They's refusing to sell papes and are starting a strike. Gonna send out ambassadors to all the boroughs, get 'em involved. Take their demands to Pulitzer."
"Striking."
Sammy nodded.
"Is he stupid? It won't never work. They's gonna starve in the streets waiting for Pulitzer to cave. It won't happen."
"He's got a new man that thinks it might work. Davey."
Spot snorted and rubbed between his eyes. "They got a plan?"
"They're forming a union. Jack's president." He shrugged. "I think we should listen to what they have to say."
"Sammy. We got no power against giants like Pulitzer. And Jack's a screw up. His brain ain't even here half the time. Cowboy's got one foot out the door, half a country away." He shook his head. "He won't see it through."
"We could."
Spot shook his head. "I can't risk my boys on a gambit like this. We need to eat. Autumn's coming, then winter, and we don't got enough saved away in case things get bad."
"We got over thirty dollars."
"It's not enough. Remember last year when Skids got pneumonia and almost died? We had to spend all that money on a doctor and medicine and didn't have enough to help Roger when he broken his ankle. Poor kid landed in the Refuge because we wasn't prepared. That ain't happening again."
Sammy huffed out a breath. Rubbed the back of his head. "Bailey said there's work for me in the theater. Don't know how much it'd pay, but it might be almost three dollars a week. I could do that while we're striking, help keep us covered."
"They're going to come after us," Spot said. "With clubs and chains and other weapons. You know what they're doing to the trolley workers. Think we're gonna be any better? And first time it happens, Jacky and his boys are going to roll over and surrender."
"Jack's no coward."
"Then he can prove it to me. They want me, they gotta show me they're serious."
Sammy thought about it a moment, then nodded. "You're right. We only join if they can show that they're in this for good. But if they do, we join, because this rate hike is bullshit."
"All right. Then we know what to say when the ambassador gets here." He ran a critical eye over Sammy. "You sleep?"
"Some."
"Eat?"
"Not today. Was gonna after I sold a few, but with no one in Manhattan selling…"
Spot pulled a nickel out of his pocket and pressed it into Sammy's hand. "Go get something to eat and head down to the docks. I'll be there in an hour."
"I got money."
He waved Sammy off. "Just take it." He swallowed and ducked his head. "You couldn't have had a good selling day yesterday." It was the closest he was going to get to an apology.
Sammy was silent a moment, then said, "We ain't done talking, by the way."
He couldn't meet Sammy's eyes. "I know." He kicked dirt on Sammy's shoes. "Get outta here. I got work to do."
Sammy tweaked his hat, turned, and walked away.
Spot let out a long breath, watching his shadow go. That wasn't as bad as he'd been expecting. And Sammy had come back sooner than Spot had thought he would, too. Maybe this rate hike and Jack Kelly's strike wasn't such a bad thing.
Mood suddenly a lot lighter than it'd been in days, Spot lifted a pape over his head and started shouting the headline with gusto. He papes to sell.
