Disclaimer: I dont' own anything that was in the 1992 musical. which this is based on.


At the bottom of enmity between strangers lies indifference.

- Soren Kierkegaard


The suit.

That was what first marked the man as different.

It was well made, probably over priced, and in the neighbourhood of about 50$. But that's not terribly uncommon in Manhattan nowadays. It was how the had wore his suit, or in this case did not wear his suit. He wasn't wearing the navy overcoat but carrying it, the pinstriped navy vest was undone, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. That was uncommon in Manhattan. Hell that's uncommon anywhere. A young well to do businessman rolling up his sleeves like a dockworker. And it was exactly this that had led Blade to follow the man.

Blade had been a newsie for seven years now, and a leader for one of them. Ever since ever since he was nine he'd been carryin' the banner. Of course unlike most of his fellow newsies he had a family which had meant he could sometimes go to school. He had learned quickly how to balance his two lives, and much to the delight of his parents always wanted to go to school. After all he'd quickly learnt that knowledge was the quickest way to power. Knowledge, wit, and an occasional fist. Many people had said that Jack Kelly and David Jacobs, the second being his elder brother, were his role models growing up. Now they say that his role models may have been Jack and David, but he'd become a leader mirroring his image after Spot Conlon.

He snorted. It wasn't true of course. Jack had been his idol, and David his advisor. He and Spot were just similar in how they thought. Which might have been the reason behind tailing this man, Les mused. Spot had always been suspicious of people and every time he met a new acquaintance committed the face and name to memory as well as any other information he happened to procure.

This man fell in the category of suspicious, and probably dangerous. But he seemed so familiar. As Manhattan's leader wove his way through the crowds, no matter how hard he tried he simply could not remember from where he knew the man.

Now the youngest Jacobs was leaning against the alley wall and watching this man with undivided attention, his brown eyes taking in everything. However his mind was having trouble unraveling the mystery presented.

The businessman had stopped at a game of street poker and he had watched three games before joining the fourth. He was not given a warm welcome by the original players, they'd given him suspicious glances and held their hands even closer tho their chests. This was a game between the best, that his man had managed to find his way here at all was a miracle. Manhattan could pick out a few players such as Tomcat O'Malley, a cargo loader from Brooklyn, Maestro, from Queens, a gang man, and Blue Bradshaw from Midtown, a bartender. There were others of the same playing caliber but few of the same repute. So Blade was surprised when the navy coloured man won not only one hand but three of five, and one of the losses was just a little to heavy to seem accidental. So his tally was really three games won, one loss, and one to keep the others interested on playing.

The man made less sense the more Manhattan watched. He laughed and joked with the other men, and when he lit a cigar offered one to the other players. He teased Bradshaw, seemingly knowing the big man wouldn't mind, and was always in a battle of wits against the Maestro. Actions making no sense Blade went back to his appearance hoping to find a clue from there.

Italian obviously, with chocolate brown eyes, and black wavy, almost curly hair. From his dress it's easy to see he's willing to flaunt wealth, but he has the hands of a labourer. With calluses and scars. His two most noticeable scars do not tell of a charmed life, a crescent carved into his neck and the imprint of brass knuckles on his arm. When the man laughs it shows his teeth are as crooked as his smile and the sound is a warm tenor rumble. And suddenly Les has it.

This man is the enigma that could not be solved, the code that no-one could crack, the man who disappeared like the smoke from his bedamned cigars. The familiar stranger is Racetrack Higgins.


AN: I apologise that this chapter took so long. It seems my Newsies muses went on a long holiday. I can however promise that I will not take this long again. I have a very good friend who has definitely gotten me to start writing constantly again, and her encouragement has meant a great deal as i was sure that I was going to hiatus writing anything for the next year or so. So thank you to the readers who have decided to stick with the story and my very good math friend.