Are You Trying To Take My Spot?

June 24, 1896

Race rounded the corner and felt his jaw drop. Someone was in his spot. The spot he had been selling at for the last four years. Someone who looked remarkably like that swaggering bastard Spot Conlon. Race scowled. He didn't like Spot. He didn't like him from the moment he met him and nothing that had happened in the past three months had caused him to change him mind.

He walked slowly towards the stands. He nodded at a few of his regulars and touched his cap when a lady walked by, her hair done up in elaborate curls. Race made a face as the breeze blew up from the stables and he caught a whiff of fresh droppings and stale piss. He watched Spot call out headline after headline and his lips twitched up into a wicked smile. So, the kid was in his spot. So what? The kid couldn't sell for beans.

Smirking, he lengthened his stride and called out, "What do you think you are doing?"

"What does it look like?" Spot asked with a smirk of his own.

"Like you're making a fool of yourself."

Spot scowled. "Hardly."

Race pursed his lips. "That and trying to steal my spot."

Spot rolled his eyes. "I'm not stealing anything."

"That's clear as the sky. Still, you're in my spot. So get lost, would you?"

"I've got as much a right to it as you have," Spot said, his chin coming up.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really."

Race scratched the back of his head. "Is that why they call you 'Spot?' Cause you're always trying to sang someone else's spot?"

Spot gave him an amused look. "Good one, Racetrack. Real clever."

"Are you leaving or am I going to have to make you?" Race pressed, glaring.

"I don't see your name on it," Spot said with a shrug. "Besides, this is Brooklyn. So why don't you just head on back to Manhattan, where you belong."

"I've been coming here since before you were out of shortpants. And as for my name, where do you think Racetrack came from?" Race glanced up at the sun and then moved so that it would be behind him and leaned against the wall of the stands. He set his papers carefully on the ground in front of him and opened one, scanning the sports section.

"Keep on coming with those clever ones, don't you?" Spot said with a look that made Race's blood boil.

"Look, kid, this is my turf," Race said between clenched teeth, eyes still on the paper.

"Sheepshead is bigger than you seem to think, Racetrack. There's more than enough room for both of us."

"How would you know? You've never been here before," Race challenged.

"I asked around."

"Oh, and now you're the expert?"

Spot shrugged and called out to a man walking past. Race glanced up, his eyes narrowed. The man didn't even bother to say no, just kept walking towards the betting window. Race shook his head in mock disappointment.

"You ain't competition." Race said, his focus returning to his paper.

"I do just fine, thank you," Spot said tightly before calling out the day's headlines with renewed vigor.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Race didn't bother to hide his amusement.

"Shut up, Racetrack."

"You can call until your throat is raw but you aren't going to sell a damn thing," Race taunted as he causally closed his paper.

"Works just fine for me out on the street," Spot said, clearly angry.

"In case you didn't notice, we're not out on the street."

"So?"

Race rubbed his nose. "So the men who are here this early in the morning don't give a damn about the headlines, Spot."

Spot shifted his papers from one arm to the other and said, "Then how do you sell them anything?"

Race thought about it for a moment. On one hand, he didn't want to help the good-for-nothing lowlife out, but he had to sell his papers and it would be nice to rub that cocky bastard's nose in the fact that Race was a better seller than he was. He sucked on his lower lip as he considered the matter and then nodded.

"Watch and learn," Race said, pushing off of the wall.

He set his cap high on the back of his head and flipped his paper open again. He folded it over and then stooped to pick up the rest of his papers. Race lifted the first paper high above his head. He took a deep breath and then began to call out the winners from yesterday's races, announcing the handicaps and odds slightly faster than a body could hear them. Then he repeated the process and waited for the crowd to swarm.

"What did you say about Golden Touch?" a man in a faded coat asked, clutching at Race's arm.

Race shook him off. "Buy the paper and find out for yourself."

The man's eyes darted around. "Hand it over," he said, pushing a penny into Race's hand.

"Here you go." Race passed over the folded paper and reached for another one. He let his gaze slip to Spot and was pleased to see an unpleasant expression on the other boy's face. Race winked at him, which made Spot go red and tighten his jaw, and then turned his attention back to the crowd.

"That rag say anything about the odds on Flash of Diamonds?" another man asked.

"Got an inch of column on that one," Race said with a conspiratorial smile. The man paid for his paper and took it with an air of excitement. Race smiled to himself. This was why he came to Sheepshead. Or, at least, part of the reason why. He kept calling out horses and before he knew it he was out of papers.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered over to where Spot was standing, grinning at the other boy as if he had just won a bet. Spot scowled in return as his attempt to match Race's performance fell short. Race glanced at the stack of papers at Spot's feet and sighed.

He bent over and picked half the unsold papers up, holding one above his head as he started to call again, trying not to wince every time Spot butchered the names and mixed up the facts.

Spot gave Race a sour look. He would much rather forget the way things had happened this morning. There was nothing pleasant in recalling the way Race's papers had flown out of his hands while Spot's couldn't be given away. The fact that Spot had mainly been occupied in handing papers to Race while the other boy called out a litany of facts and figures left Spot feeling like he'd really like to hit him. Hard. In the mouth.

Still, he had sold all of his papers. And so had Race. He smirked.

"I was right. There is more then enough room for the both of us."

Race lifted one shoulder, "Seems to me that I can just double the amount of papes I take in the morning and you can shove off."

Spot cocked his head to the side. "Now why would I want to do that when it's so easy to sell the papes here?"

"I don't remember you doing much selling," Race said with a cocky smile.

Spot frowned at Race's smiling face and kicked at a rock. He didn't like being shown up. And Race had most definitely done that. He thought about hitting Race again, adding details like the amount of blood that would pour from the split lip and the way Race would whimper from the pain of it.

The graphic image put on smile of Spot's face and he said easily, "I did my fair share," as if it wasn't a lie.

"Is that so?" Race said, raising his eyebrows. "Well then, you shouldn't have any trouble with the afternoon edition, now will you?"

"Afternoon edition?" Spot asked, feeling oddly hollow.

"That's what I said."

Spot gave Race a suspicious look. "What about it?"

"Oh nothing, really," Race said a little to casually. "Only the fact that the morning edition all but sells itself. You actually have to work at it to get the afternoon edition off your hands."

"That's not the way it is normally." Spot scratched his head, more than slightly irritated at the situation. This was not how he imagined the morning going. He was supposed to have waltzed in and blown through his papers like he normally did. With Race suitably impressed, he would casually mention his reason for coming out to Sheepshead and then condescendingly accept Race's thanks.

If the afternoon edition was any harder than the morning was, he might as well just give up now and head back to Brooklyn proper 'cause this was never going to work. Spot scowled and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, fingers clenched into fists.

Race sighed. "I already told you, this ain't like other spots."

"It's a racetrack, not a foreign country."

"Look, I've been working Sheepshead for a good four years now, kid. But sure, go right ahead and ignore me. We both saw how well you did this morning."

Spot thought of how Race's lip would puff up and the shade of purple the skin around it would turn before it yellowed. "What makes the morning pape such an easy sell?"

"How hard is it to sell papes chock full of tips to a bunch of gamblers?" Race asked condescendingly. "It ain't so easy to do in the afternoon, what with the early morning crowd already sure of their picks and the working stiffs who show up for the late races as like to buy as not."

"Why bother?" Spot asked with a frown.

"Because I like a challenge," Race said with a cocky grin.

Spot gave him a discerning look. "Try that on someone who doesn't know you.'

"Funny you should say that, seeing as how you don't."

"Sure I do," Spot said with a smirk. "You're a loud-mouthed chump. You got attitude enough for ten and nothing but hot air to back it up."

Race snorted. "That's your own image you're painting there, Spot."

"Must be why I like you." Spot shrugged. "So what's the real reason you sell the afternoon edition?"

Race rubbed his forehead with the back of his arm. The day had become hot and Spot could see sweat beading on Race's brow. His eyes narrowed and he moved towards the end of the stands, where the sun was beginning to cast a shadow. "I don't really need the extra money, see. So what I make I use to place a few bets of my own."

"What? You aren't saving your pennies in a tin can somewhere?" Spot asked wryly, following him.

Race grinned. "If I am I wouldn't be telling the likes of you, now would I?"

Spot pulled off his cap and fanned himself with it thinking that it would be best to get out of the sun altogether. "I am insulted," he said in mock outrage.

"If I do it again, will you leave?"

Spot pushed a hank of hair behind his ear. "Naw. You're fun when you're riled up."

Race gave him a dark look. "You're got a queer sense of fun, Spot."

Spot gave him a level stare. "And you don't?"

Race swatted at a fly that was buzzing about his head and glanced around. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. You sure aren't going to be getting any invitation from me to join me in my fun any time in the future."

"My poor heart, I don't think it can stand the pain of your rejection," Spot deadpanned as he removed a battered cigarette from his breast pocket and brought it to his lips.

His fingers dug about in his britches's pocket for a moment before he pulled out a box of matches. He pulled one out and shoved the box back in his pocket. With a practiced movement, he flicked the match against the side of the stands and cupped the flame. Centering the end of the cigarette in the flame, Spot sucked deeply, enjoying the harsh burn of the first breath of smoke.

"You certainly made a production out of that," Race said, eyeing him with what looked like amusement.

Spot took another long pull on the cigarette and blew the smoke in the other boy's face. "I earned it," he said coolly.

"Yeah, I saw how hard you were working."

Spot didn't like Race's tone but didn't have anything to say that would change it. Deciding it was best to ignore that comment, he said, "So, you walk all the way to Manhattan for the afternoon edition, or what?"

"Do I look stupid?" Race asked with a chuckle. "I get them in Brooklyn, just like I use to. I eat in Brooklyn too, in case you were thinking of asking that next."

Spot scowled. That was exactly what he planned on asking next. Race rubbed his nose and gave Spot a calculating look. Spot blew some more smoke in Race's direction.

Race dispersed it with a wave of his hand and said, "You can come with, seeing as how you need help getting the ponies straight, and I need someone to cover my tab."

Spot laughed outright. "And you think that someone is going to be me, do you?" he pulled at his collar, trying to get some air down it.

"Yeah, I do."

"What makes you think I'm going to spend my money on your food?"

Race didn't say anything, just stood there smiling. Spot cursed. He really didn't have a choice. "Fine," he bit out.

"I knew you would see it my way," Race said, pushing off from the wall. "Come on, we've got a ways to go."

"And where exactly is it that we are going?"

"Coney Island. I'm in the mood for a fully loaded dog."

Spot stopped walking and glared at him, arms crossed. He was hot and hungry. Which meant that he wasn't in the mood to tramps over to Coney Island. Even if he wasn't, he still wouldn't want to go out there. What was the point? He didn't have the money for even the cheapest of rides and he didn't like the sharp, distrustful looks of the vendors or the way the rich folk paraded around with their noses in the air.

"That's the opposite direction from the distribution center," he said, picking at a small hole in the sleeve of one arm.

"Your feet broken or something?" Race asked, an irritating smile spreading across his face.

"I don't want to walk out there."

"Then don't." Race started walking again. "Look, I'm going to Coney Island. I don't give a damn what you do."

Spot made a face at his back but hurried to join him.

Race grinned down at his dog with the look of a man contemplating a thing of beauty. "Heaven," he said before taking a bite, eyes rolling in ecstasy.

Spot took a bite of his dog and grunted with satisfaction.

"Charming," Race said around a mouthful of hotdog. He swallowed, "Want to tell me what you were doing in Sheepshead?"

Spot lifted his eyebrows. "No." He took a large bite of his hotdog and gazed off into the distance.

"Let me rephrase that: tell me what you were doing in Sheepshead." Race watched as Spot took another bite and was annoyed when the boy ignored his question. He ran his tongue along his teeth and then said, "See, I've been thinking. You've got to be doing fairly decent for yourself. Otherwise Mouse wouldn't keep you around. So I says to myself, what reason would a fella have for leaving a spot he's doing well at? None, so far as I can tell."

Race leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms waiting for Spot to respond. Spot, for his part, took another bite and continued to ignore him. Race took a deep breath. He wanted to get to the bottom of this. Spot didn't strike him as the sort that just did things. No, Spot definitely was a schemer. And he didn't want to be involved in any schemes. The sooner Spot said what was on his mind, the sooner Race could tell him to shove off.

Race pushed his hat down low on his head to block the sun from his eyes and went on. "There's got to be a reason for it. A body doesn't walk a good three hours out to Sheepshead for the joy of it."

"Didn't take three hours and I didn't walk."

Race pursed his lips. Trying to get information out of Spot was like trying to sell a paper to a reporter. "Not the point, is it?"

Spot shrugged.

Deciding that he had had enough of this beating around the bush, Race said, "What do you want, Spot?"

Spot toyed with a bit of paper on the table. "Haven't seen you around lately," he hedged.

Race laughed. "Ain't that sweet," he said with a grin. "Almost as if we were courting."

Spot glared at him, balled up the scrap of paper and tossed it at him. "We ain't courting, Racetrack," he said blandly.

"Then what's it matter if you see me?"

"It doesn't."

Race rolled his eyes. "Then why'd you bring it up?" Race picked at a bit of pealing paint and silently prayed that he would never have to try and squeeze Spot for information in the future. It just wasn't worth the aggravation.

Spot picked a couple of onions off of his dog and flicked them onto the ground. He licked the mustard off of his fingers and then took another bite.

"I'm starting to see why Poole and Butcher aren't fond of your company." Race crossed his arms over his chest and stretched his legs out under the table.

Spot snorted. "They do what they're told, nothing more, nothing less."

"True enough," Race replied.

He let the conversation lapse, content to eat the rest of his dog and watch the other half walk up and down the boardwalk and take part in the amusements offered. The sun had moved enough not to be glaring in his eyes and the sound of the ocean relaxed him, the way it always did. He smiled, happy to find that Spot's company didn't automatically ruin his enjoyment of the day.

Spot cleared his throat. "Lefty don't like you much."

"Tell me something I don't know," Race muttered.

"That means that I do."

"What?" Race asked slightly confused but grateful to finally be getting to the root of the matter.

Spot lifted one hand and said, "Lefty is a bastard. Anyone who has gotten the better of him is all right by me."

"And you came all the way out here to tell me that?" Race asked skeptically. He sucked on his bottom lip, contemplating his best course of action. Lefty was already out for his blood. Nothing Race did was going to change that. But right now the smarmy bastard was too preoccupied with Mouse to have time to bother Race. That might change, however, if Race were to do something that brought him back to Lefty's notice. Something like aligning himself with Spot, who clearly was more than just a thorn in Lefty's side.

Still, Lefty wasn't likely to be coming out to Sheepshead any time soon. And Race knew Lefty's haunts well enough to avoid him.

So, in all honesty, what had he got to lose? And what did he gain? An ally. Not a very strong one, but an ally all the same. And at no cost to himself. Race nodded.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You do realize this little jaunt of yours is going to get back to Lefty." Race wanted to be clear that Spot understood the future implication of his actions. No point becoming allies with someone who didn't know what they were in for.

Spot nodded. "Why else would I have come?"

Race clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Not smart, Spot."

Spot took another bite and chewed slowly. He swallowed and then shrugged. "Think I care what that bum thinks?"

"Sure do." Race eyed Spot's casual posture and shook his head. Spot wasn't stupid. He must know by now that Lefty wasn't someone you wanted to tangle with. Clearly, he wanted a way to stick it to Lefty without actually doing anything the other boy could get back at him for. So he took the most obvious way, same as Mouse, and came to call on Lefty's favorite foe. And that, Race decided, was something of a compliment.

Spot gave him a questioning look. "Oh?"

"You don't care, you says. Then why come at all? There are a lot easier ways to tweak Lefty's nose."

"I don't do things by half."

Race lifted one shoulder, thinking about all that had happened before he had been forced out of Brooklyn. "It's your funeral."

Spot gave him a hard look. "Offending Lefty ain't the end of the world."

Race snorted. "Ain't it?" he cracked his knuckles. "I'll be the first to admit that getting on the wrong side of Lefty was the stupidest thing I ever did."

"That's you, ain't it?" Spot said with an unconcerned air.

Race laughed at Spot's bravado. Lefty was dangerous. Plain and simple. And if Race hadn't left when he had, he had no doubt that he wouldn't be alive today. "I gave you good advice; it's not my fault if you ain't smart enough to take it." He pressed his lips together, not at all liking the memories this conversation was raising, then stood up. "We got to get going if we want to make it in time." He started walking, not bothering to wait to see if Spot would join him.

Spot wasn't a slow walker by any means, but he didn't seem to be able to keep pace with Race. He didn't understand it. He was taller than the other boy, and that meant his legs were longer. As far as he saw it, Race should be the one struggling to keep up with him. He put a hand to his side, pressing against the ache, and was grateful that Race was too far ahead to see. He sped up, all but running, and managed to close the distance between them.

Race walked on, ignoring him. Spot didn't like being ignored. Especially not when he had made such an effort to be noticed. He cleared his throat. Race didn't even glance at him. He began to whistle a tune. Race somehow managed to increase his pace. Spot stopped whistling, not having the breath to waste on it.

"What is it like in Manhattan?" Spot wheezed.

"What's it to you?" Race said nastily.

"What, is it confidential?" Spot mimicked.

Race pulled a face and then seemed to consider the question. He slowed his pace as he thought, fingers tapping against his leg. "Loud," he finally said. "Manhattan is loud."

"Loud?"

"Yeah. Loud. And brash and a bit on the arrogant side."

"You talking about Manhattan or its leader?" Spot wasn't really interested, but anything that kept Race walking at a normal speed was worth the effort.

"Manhattan doesn't got a leader."

"What?" Spot asked, not able to keep the surprise from his voice. He glanced around the street trying to get his bearings. He didn't normally go south of Kensington. He was good enough not to have to. But seeing as how he didn't recognize a thing, he was thinking that he might have to change that. It didn't look good to have some kid living in Manhattan better acquainted with the streets than he was.

"You heard me," Race said with a satisfied smirk.

It took a moment for Spot to remember what they were talking about and when he did he shook his head. "No leader. That's . . ." Spot trailed off, not certain what words to use in order express the lunacy of the idea.

"Yeah, it's exactly like that," Race said with a fond smile. "Part of its charm, actually."

"How does anything get done?" Spot tried not to gasp for breath. Race had slowed enough that he could keep up comfortably, but the earlier exertions had taken their toll.

Race laughed. "It doesn't. Not the way it does in Brooklyn. Still, we do alright. Got some understandings with the other lodging houses, that helps come winter. For the most part, though, it's every man for himself."

"That's plum crazy," Spot said bluntly, forcing himself to breath evenly.

Race shrugged. "Works for them. Works for me too, now that I think about it."

"What do you do when someone tries to edge in on your territory or some a group of toughs tries and give you trouble?"

Race scratched his head. "You get your friends together and soak 'em."

"And if that don't work?"

"You find somewhere else to sell."

"Which explains why you are willing to walk back to Brooklyn."

Race stopped walking and gave Spot a direct look. "That doesn't have anything to do with why I come to Sheepshead."

Spot stumbled as he came to a halt. Race's eyes were narrowed and his hands were balled into fists. Spot raised his eyebrows. That was plenty of reaction to a simple statement. Spot felt himself smile. All information was worth having in his book. And anything he might learn about Race was doubly so. Sheepshead mattered. And Spot was going to do his damndest to find out why.

Spot made his voice casual as he said, "If you say so."

Race gave him a strange look and started walking again at a much slower speed. "It's got its good points, Manhattan."

"Oh, and those would be?"

"The boys themselves, for one thing. None of them are as narrow or bullheaded as the lot you deal with in Brooklyn."

Spot raised his eyebrows. He wasn't aware of the Brooklyn boys being narrow or bullheaded, but then Race's recent experiences most likely colored his impression of them. He cleared his throat and decided to be tactful for once in his life. "Independent, then, are they?"

"What's it to you, anyway?" Race asked, scowling again.

Spot gave him a sideways look. That's what comes of being tactful, he thought. "You got something against telling me?"

"You ain't my friend," Race said bluntly. "So why should I be telling you anything?"

"I ain't your enemy either." Spot wanted that made perfectly clear. Friendship wasn't something he offered to most, hell simple courtesy wasn't often up for the taking. But he liked Race enough to want to offer it to him.

"Not yet," Race muttered under his breath. "But I still don't like you."

"That's too bad," Spot said honestly, "Because I do."

"You do what?"

"Like you." Spot was slightly taken aback by how upfront he was being. He fidgeted, his hands brushing at the front of his shirt.

Race glanced heavenward. "Just my luck," he said darkly.

"I'm not so bad," Spot said with a grin, happy that Race wasn't taking him seriously. "Better company than those Manhattan boys, that's for sure."

"I happen to like those Manhattan boys. And that ain't the case with the ones you find on this side of the bridge."

"Meaning me?" Spot again surprised himself by asking.

Race shuffled his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. He made a face and picked up his pace, but didn't answer the question.

"So you like the Manhattan boys," Spot said, changing the subject while trying to keep up. "Good thing. Seeing as how you live over there."

"You're got a smart mouth, Spot," Race said with a hint of irritation.

"So do you, Race."

"But it's part of my charm," Race smirked.

"Hardly."

"Ah, what do you know?" Race grimaced and increased his pace again.

Clearly, upsetting Race was not a smart thing if Spot wanted to keep from running. He cast about for a safe subject, discarding his ideas of probing for more information. "How much longer do we have to go?" Spot finally asked as his legs started to cramp from maintaining the speed at which they were walking.

Race pulled a face. "Thirty minutes, if you can keep at this pace. And from the looks of you I'd say that's not gonna happen."

"I can walk as well as the next body can," Spot snapped, angry that he couldn't keep up and that Race had noticed.

"Ten to one you will be cramping tomorrow."

Spot gave Race his best smile. "You got your odds wrong on that one."

Race didn't return it. "Spot, The Expert."

"Spot knows what he's talking about."

"You always talk about yourself like you're someone else?"

"You always walk like you got the devil chasing you?"

Race laughed and Spot grinned, pleased with himself.

Race shook his head and smiled. "You ain't nothing but a pain in the rear. You crow and you swagger, and you ain't got the good sense the Lord gave a flea, but you're funny. I've got to admit that. You're funny."

Spot let the words settle between them, happy to have had a positive reaction from Race. He knew the other boy wasn't too keen on him, and he wanted to change that. Making him laugh seemed like a step in the right direction.

He looked up at the buildings lining the street and was equally pleased to actually recognize them. He wasn't exactly sure where he was yet, but he had been here before and was reasonably sure that he could find his way back to the lodging house without Race if he had to. Spot nodded at a fella sitting on the stoop of a rundown tenement and then returned his attention to Race, who had decided to whistle a jaunty tune as he walked.

He smiled to himself and thought about what he had learned about Race so far today. Race was a good newsie. One of the best he had met so far. Which probably explained why Mouse deigned to call him friend. He was also stubborn, sarcastic and full of himself. That more than anything was why Spot liked him enough to want to call him friend.

A broken marble caught his eye and he bent down to pick it up. It was a faded blue with a bright yellow stripe through what use to be the middle. He turned it in his fingers and watched how it caught the light.

"You like to do things the hard way," he said, slipping the marble into his pocket.

"What do you mean?" Race was clearly affronted.

Spot pushed his cap up on his head. "You had it good here in Brooklyn. In with the boss and everything. Then you went and soured things with the second in command and put you in a tough spot." He glanced at Race to see what his reaction was, not wanting to have to start racing after him again, and cleared his throat. "You got told to leave. Not a surprise to anyone with a brain. Mouse would have had to pick Lefty over you simply because it would foul up the ranks if he didn't."

Race snorted. "Mouse has the loyalty of a slug."

"Loyalty's got nothing to do with it. Unless he told you to fleece Lefty and then let you hang for it."

Race scratched his neck. "Naw. That was all me."

"Then you got no one to blame but yourself," Spot said without a hint of sympathy. "Like I was saying, you had to leave. So you go to Manhattan. Not a bad choice. Far enough away that Lefty ain't going to bother you. But then you keep coming to Brooklyn to sell."

Spot knew he was rambling but he couldn't help himself. Race's reasoning was a mystery to him and he wouldn't be happy until it was clear. He sucked on his teeth, then said, "Yeah, I know, you go to Sheepshead, but they got races enough in Manhattan. Not as big, but still races. And if you are so damn set on Sheepshead, then why didn't you move to Queens? It's a hell of a lot closer."

Spot paused, looking up at the sky, but Race just scowled, so he started up again.

"Even little things, like taking both editions when you could just double up on the morning and have the afternoon free. Or walking to Coney Island for lunch when there are plenty of joints that sell hotdogs along the route to the distribution center."

Race hunched his shoulders. "I like what I like. And I don't settle for less."

"Now, that's a right admirable trait, when it don't make you do twice the work for the same result."

"It don't bother me," Race said defensively. "And I don't see how any of it's your business, Spot."

Spot smirked. Everything about Race was his business. It was just a matter of time until Race understood that.

"Look, what I do is what I do. And I don't have to be explaining myself on account of some twerp I don't even like."

"You like me well enough," Spot said confidently. He was fairly sure what Race's reaction to him would have been if Race didn't like him. And since he wasn't sporting any black eyes, Spot knew he had at least tacit approval if nothing more.

Race gave him a smile that said as clear as words that he thought Spot was full of hot air. "Think a lot of yourself, don't you?"

"I know my own worth," Spot replied.

Race tilted his head to the side and widened his eyes slightly as he shook his head. "You aren't planning on making a habit of this, are you? Because I like being on my own."

"Real friendly of you, Racetrack," Spot said with a grin.

Race kicked at a lose cobblestone. "I don't sell as in pairs, Spot. And even if I did, you wouldn't be my choice."

"Good thing that you don't have a say in the matter then, ain't it?"

"I have plenty of say," Race said with a glare.

"I don't see how. If I want to come to Sheepshead, what can you do to stop me?"

"I can soak you."

"You can try."

Race snorted. "I can do more than try."

"Any time you want to test yourself, you go right ahead," Spot offered with an arrogant grin.

Race glanced up the road and said, "Almost there."

"I can see that, thanks," Spot shot back.

"I'm going to get my papes and head back out to Sheepshead. I don't want any company."

"Ain't that nice," Spot said, fingering his collar.

"You made your point, Spot," Race said in what he clearly meant to be a reasonable tone. "The boys will see you coming in with me and word will get back to Lefty."

"That's generally how it works," Spot replied with a laugh.

Race cleared his throat. "So shove off."

Spot smiled. "Not going to happen."

Race's face changed color and for a moment Spot thought that he might yell. Then he took a deep breath and calmly said, "Why not?"

"Because I like you," Spot answered truthfully, wondering when that fact would sink into Race's thick skull.

"What did I do to deserve this?" Race asked dolefully.

"Just got lucky, I guess," Spot said, smile firmly in place.

Race groused. "Lucky's not what I'd call it."

"You're right," Spot said thoughtfully. "Damn lucky, is more like it."

Racetrack shook his head once. "Or just plain damned," he muttered under his breath, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and crossing the street so quickly that Spot was, once again, forced to run after him.

A.N. Just wanted to thank my wonderful beta, Cymbalism219. Without her this fic would so totally suck. snuggles her beta