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September 16, 1899
Footsteps echo on the cold hard cobblestones. A little boy runs as fast as he can, trying to get home before they lock the doors. The night has come early in the cold winter and the streets are already dark as he trips and stumbles in the darkness. Grumbling, he picks himself up, but not before he hears voices in the distance.He peered around the corner of the alley. That boy, the one with the lead pipe, he knew him. What was he doing? A whish of wind, a scream, sharp and shrill, a woman's coming from the pile of fancy cloth at the man's feet. Then a sick thump. And another. The boy watches in fear.
Suddenly the man turns around. He sees the boy, and takes one step forward, his coat already stained with the blood of the girl. The boy stumbled back, tripping over the curb and sprawling into the street.
The man raises the lead pipe, poised and ready to blind the eyes that saw him commit murder. The arm comes down-
And Racetrack sat up in bed, screaming. A second later he slammed his head into the top bunk and swore.
Grumbling and moans echoed from all sides of the dormitory as the twenty odd boys were pulled from slumber. Above him, Race felt Kid Blink lean over to stare at him, a worried look in his single eye.
"Ya okay, Race?" Race glanced up to see Jack, all grown up, stare down at him. he nodded and waved his friends away, rubbing his forehead where the iron bed had connected with it.
Slowly, he heard Blink turn over and adjust himself on the top bunk. The other boys who had not already, were on their way to slumber, all but Jack. Race glanced up to see Jack frowning down at him.
"Ya surah youse okay?" Race nodded.
"Yeah, jist a dream. Dat's all." He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. Just a dream, a dream that had one day been a reality.
Race felt a little shaken from the dream, but he pushed it to the side. That life was over. As far as New York was concerned, Anthony Cammarata was dead. And that was fine with Race.
He wiped his forehead as he leaned against the gates in Central Park, his personal selling spot. It was promising to be hot already and he'd only sold five papes. Maybe Jack and the boys would be up for a swim later. Mush and Blink almost always were anyway.
He tucked his papes under his arm and began shouting the headlines, his sixteen year old voice carrying across the street with practiced ease. "Extry! Extry!" he shouted, over the din of horses, and people, and carriages and those damned horseless carriages only a few rich folks had.
One puttered by him and Race waved his hand in front of his face to clear the putrid smoke. He wrinkled his nose and decided that a stroll through the park might help him sell the rest of his papes. He slipped them over a string tied over his shoulder, like Jack had taught him so long ago. It left his hands free at least.
As he made his way through the park, he felt the cool air from the river drift in to cool himself down. He sold a few papes to people passing and smiled at the change in his pocket. Maybe, he'd have enough to wander up to the tracks later, though it was a hot one.
It was about this time that he heard the shouts coming from up the path. He frowned and hurried around the corner, just in time to see a big man shove little Snipeshooter to the ground.
The little newsie slept in the bed beside Race and was constantly stealing his cigars. But Race's blood boiled when he saw a kid getting beat in the street. And after all, they were both Lower Manhattan boys.
"Stop it!" he shouted as the tall man picked up the small boy once again. At the sound of his voice, he dropped the boy and turned to face this new intruder. Snipeshooter was a street smart kid and knew when to get away. He was on his feet and behind Race in an instant.
Race glared at the tall man, knowing full well that he was still rather scrawny, despite Jack's repeated assurances that he might still grow. If they were pitted against each other, Race would be out in an instant. He'd bet on it. But that didn't stop him from trying.
The man turned to face the boys and Race saw his face for the first time. He drew in a deep breath at the sight of the man he never wanted to see again. There was a glimmer in old King's eyes as he looked at this new boy, but Race did not give him the chance.
He seized the front of Snipeshooter's front and literally hauled him down the path and out of the park as fast as he could. His feet moved faster than they had in a long time and Snipeshooter could do little but try his best to keep up. Finally, Race stopped on Broadway and both boys paused to catch their breath. Race glanced back to make sure they weren't being followed, made sure Snipeshooter was alright and marched down the street, before placing himself at the corner and letting his voice ring across the streets. Snipeshooter just shook his head and gathered up his papes and headed off to find Jack.
That night Race laughed with his friends, the encounter of the day all but forgotten. At the moment, he, Blink, Mush, Specs, and Skittery were involved in low stakes game of gin on the stairs, Crutchy watching from beside him.
Jack was showing Davy how to make a strap for his papes across the room. Kloppman was deeply involved in a heated debate with Spot, who was spending the night, about whether or not he should pay for his room. It was a quiet perfectly normal evening in the Lower Manhattan Newsboys Lodging house, and it was the way Race loved it.
But the routine was roughly shattered by the door bursting open to reveal several large fellows, with, to Race's horror, King in the lead. In an instant, Race was up the stairs and inside the dorm room. He looked around franticly for a hiding place as voices began to rise downstairs. Then footsteps on the stairs.
Race panicked and wrenched open the window, diving out onto the fire escape. There he curled into the smallest ball possible just as the door opened. He could hear King's loud grumbling, Spots sarcastic replies, and Jack's patient voice.
"Now dat we're alone. What are ya doin' in dis part a town, King?" Jack said. Race knew he had little love for the Queens leader, Spot even less. But they would tolerate him on the rare occasion. Still, storming into another lodging house without warning was uncalled for, and Jack was bound to get to the bottom of it.
"I'se looking' fer one a me boys." There was a pause.
"What makes ya tink he's ea?" Jack asked, his voice soft. Race knew that was when he was the most dangerous.
"I saw him taday, sellin' in yer territory. He's ea."
"Well, who is he so we'se can get ta da bottom a dis and settle it fast." Spot of course, only he would be that impatient.
"Short kid, dark hair and eyes, Italian. Goes by Anthony Cammarata." Race winced. There was a long pause as the two leaders thought it over,
"Da only Italian we'se got is Racetrack, and dat ain't him." Race shook his head, why did ya have ta mention me name, Jack? He moaned inwardly.
"Higgins?" King laughed, "yeah, I hoid a da kid. Gambla, ain't he? Ol' Honest took him in. Shame about da axident and all." Race would have bet his life savings that King was smirking and that Spot was holding Jack back, or vise versa.
The accident involving Honest's death was still a touchy subject with all the newsies even though it was almost seven years old. It had been sudden, swift, and horrible. Race had been there that day. One moment Honest was waving to them and crossing the road, the next he lay on the ground, remaining where he had fallen under the wheels of the speeding cabby who didn't even look back.
Race shivered and forced himself to forget. "Anyway, I know dat kid's ea. And no boy a mine runs away from his family and gets away wid it. I'll give ya one week, Kelly. One week, and if dat kid ain't back in da East Queens Lodging house by Monday, den youse bedda look out. Youse too, Conlon." Then he heard footsteps on the stairs and the door close. He snuck a peek in the window and saw Jack seated on Race's bed, his face in his hands. Spot was seated next to him on Snipes bed. They both looked frightened and helpless.
Race did the only thing he could and he swung down from the fire escape and went to the only place where he knew he could talk to someone and find some answers.
Irving Hall was lit up in the early evening, a bright beckon on the darkening streets. Race hurried past the main doors and down an alley to the side entrance of the vaudeville hall that he knew he'd be permitted through.
Every newsie in Lower Manhattan knew it was there and had used it at one time or another. This place was an unspoken refuge for any one who needed a place to stay, food, or just someone to talk to.
Race slipped inside, ducking behind a curtain as he waited for the music onstage to end. He knew it was early and he'd have a while to wait. Usually he waited outside, and smoked. But tonight, being alone, even in bright streets like this, scared him. Besides, light had never frightened King before, and Race doubted eight years had changed that fact.
Carelessly, he lit a cigarette and slumped down on an overturned bucket. Taking a deep calming breath did a bit to calm his nerves, but he was still jumpy, proved all too clearly when a hand touched his shoulder and leapt to his feet.
Medda Larkson, in her late thirties and surrogate mother to all the newsies in Lower Manhattan, had just stepped off stage in her vaudeville theater, when she saw one of her favorite boys, Racetrack.
He looked worried and was smoking a cigarette instead of his usual cigar. He must be worried, she thought, Race never smoked a cigarette if he could help it, preferring the larger thicker cigars that lasted much longer than his cigarettes did.
She approached him and gently touched his shoulder. The boy shot to his feet and whirled around, staring frightened, his arms up and ready. Medda threw up her hands and Race dropped his arms.
"Oh, sorry. I jist, I mean, I…" Race trailed off, dropping onto the bucket once again. It took Medda less than three seconds to realize something was wrong. This was not the usual carefree cynical Italian she had come to know and love since Jack had brought the young boy over when he was only eight years old.
"Come on back and have some coffee. Then you can tell me about it." He followed her like a child, down the hall and up the stairs. She paused on the way to tell her boys to close up early tonight. Then she opened the door to her own apartment, just above her theatre.
She led Race to the couch while she slipped into her bedroom to change out of that ridiculous pink dress and into a simple blouse and skirt. When she came out, she saw Race, unmoving but staring off into space, wringing the hell out of his poor cap.
Gently she took it out of his hands and pushed a cup into them. Race took the coffee gratefully. Only Medda know how to make the warm rich coffee that reminded him so much of another woman, a woman he had known long ago whose face was only a dim fuzzy memory, who made the same drink while the sun rose over the hills and the walls surrounding the small town.
"Now, what brings you all the way up here?" she asked. Race took a deep breath. Could he tell her? He'd never told a living soul what he had seen that night, no one. As for as he was concerned, that boy was dead, like someone you hear of and feel sad for but forget the next instant. That night only a dream, a nightmare that only lived in the strange place between sleeping and awake. But the dream was real and it was coming back to haunt him.
"Well, I gots dis friend." He said, unsure of just where to begin. "And dis friend, he's got a problem. See, when he wus a kid, he saw sumdin. Somdin he weren't apposed ta see. Somdin really bad."
"How bad?" Race glanced at her.
"About as bad as it gets." He whispered, "And da guy who was doin' it, he saw da kid, tried ta-" Race's voice cracked and he couldn't go on. "But da kid, he got away. Ran away and made a new life fer hisself. A new name, a new life. And he figures dat's all ova wid. But da guy, he finds da kid. And now da kid is stuck. If he stays, his friends are in danga. If he goes, it's his skin. God Medda, whudda I do?" he moaned, dropping his head into his hands once again. Medda had not missed the transaction from him to I, and frowned.
"Well, first we need to get our facts straight. Tell me exactly what you saw that night." Race lifted his head and stared at her, his eyes wide.
"I ain't neva told nobody. Neva. I tought, dat maybe if I nava said nuttin, dat it would go away, dat it neva happened." He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.
"Can you tell me?" Race shook his head. Medda watched him, as the sixteen year old bit his lip, looking more like a child than anything.
"Can't tell nobody. He'll kill me." he whispered, Medda frowned, confused.
"Who? Who'll kill you?" Race began to rock back and forth and Medda began to get the impression that she was no longer speaking to Racetrack.
"King. He hates me, beat me bad da udda day fer not gettin' up in time."
"And what's your name?" the boy's eyes were strangely blank. Not a hint of his usual laughter or mischief gleamed in them. Only dull pain.
"Anthony, but me mudda called me Tony. I like dat bedda."
"Where is your mother, Tony?"
"Dead, she and pa. Dey died and left me all alone. Tumbler found me and brought me 'ea. But King, he don't like me and he'll kill me if he finds me. He won't find me, will he?" she shook her head, and wrapped her arms around the shaking boy.
"No, of course not. Just tell me, why does he want to kill you?"
"Because I saw him do a bad ting."
"What did you see him do?" There was a long pause. Then Race's shaky childlike voice spoke again.
"I didn't mean ta see, but when I hoid da screams, I had ta go see. It wus King and he had his goil, some rich broad on da ground. He wus standin' ova her and holdin' a pipe. He hit 'ea again and again until she stopped screamin'. Den he turned around and saw me. He chased me, tellin' me he'd kill me if he eva caught me. He won't eva catch me, will he?"
Medda held the boy tight and shook her head. "No, he won't. He'll never hurt you." She rocked him softly before one last question came to her. "Tony, the girl, do you remember her name?"
The boy looked up at her, tiredly. He shrugged. "Allissa, we'se called her Lissy. I dunno her last name, sumtin' French soundin'. De Bar or sumdin. She wus a rich broad, always brought us candy."
Medda nodded and let him slip his head into her lap. It didn't take long before he was fast asleep. Medda got up as quietly as possible and removed Race's shoes and jacket, laying them out on the chair in front of him. Then she covered him with a thick blanket. Backing away, she noticed how much younger the usually cynical loud mouthed newsie looked when he was sleeping. Like a little dark angel.
Slowly she slipped into her own room where she dug under her bed and pulled out an old hat box. Upon opening it, she pulled several scraps of paper, newspaper clippings, old photographs and the like, until she found the one she was looking for.
It was a review of a much younger Medda, and when she flipped it over, the story on the other side held a startling headline.
Mayor's Niece killed in alley in East Queens.
Allissa Du Bar, 16, clubbed to death in an alley in the east end of Queens. No witnesses.
Medda stared at it, just as she had that night eight years ago. No witnesses? No, there was one. Just a child, but one who could tell the story.