There was a sense of relief among the boys when Sammy got to the docks. As the boys staggered in from selling—and every one of them sold every pape they'd bought—and saw Sammy sitting there, tension and anxiety melted from their faces. They started grinning and pounding him on the back, overjoyed that he and Spot had made up and all was right with the world again.
It made Sammy feel guilty for letting the fight happen. He'd known Spot wasn't right that night. Sammy could tell he'd been spoiling for a fight. He always was after his nights away. Usually, Sammy tread lightly on those nights.
But the revelation as to what Spot was doing had screwed with Sammy's head. He'd been so horrified and confused, he'd spoken without thinking.
Despite what he'd said, he didn't think Spot was a whore. He didn't think any less of Spot for what he'd done. He was just sorry that Spot had ever thought it was necessary.
Sammy was ashamed he'd let it go on so long. He just thought that Spot was so mean coming back because he was on something. Drunk, or some kind of drug. And who was Sammy to tell Spot what to do in his free time?
But not this. No more. There weren't no way Sammy was letting Spot go back to those men.
It made Sammy's blood boil, imagining Spot with those men. Imagining their hands on him, caressing, stroking. Their mouths kissing him. Making him feel good…
Well, it was better than hurting him, but Sammy still hated thinking about it. It made his head spin and heart clench, and he didn't want to examine why too closely.
He pushed all that aside, leaving it for later. Or maybe never. Instead he joked with the fellas. He praised Rolli-Polli and Shortstop, who'd sold all their papes, even the extra they'd bought. He told the older ones about the strike and what Spot had decided.
And he waited for Spot.
He came a little over an hour after he and Sammy had spoken, bearing a pastrami sandwich for them to share.
"Anything yet?"
Sammy shook his head and took his half.
"Got some kids from Queens and Harlem come by," Spot said. "Said what you did about Manhattan, wanting to know if we was going to join."
"You tell 'em?"
Spot nodded, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I'll be impressed if anyone else strikes," he said around his mouthful. "And surprised. Got the feeling they was waiting on us."
"Wonder why we's the last to be told."
"Probably all to scared to come here," Spot scoffed.
Sammy grinned. "Yeah, you're a monster, Spot."
Spot shoved Sammy with his shoulder, almost jostling him off the barrel they shared.
"My concern is if we don't join up, Jack will decide to take an exception to your sojourns to the theater. Don't want you to get soaked."
"They soak me, we soak Race for going to Sheepshead." Sammy shrugged. "Ain't like I'm selling when I'm there. And Race sells sometimes."
"True."
"Spot! Spot!" A little kid, Shoestring, came racing up the dock, red faced and out of breath.
"What's the matter? Bulls after you?"
Shoestring gulped for air, shaking his head. "Jack Kelly, Boots, and another kid is coming."
Spot and Sammy exchanged glances. "Nothin' but the best for us, huh? Tell the boys to let 'em through. I want to hear about this strike from the horse's mouth himself."
Spot had to hand it to Jack, he chose his Mouth well. The kid was smart. Knew exactly what Spot wanted to hear and delivered it with an earnest tone that made him sound sincere.
Yeah, Jack and the Mouth were smart.
But Spot was smarter. And he wasn't risking his kids for anything less than a sure thing.
He and his boys watched as Jack, Boots, and Mouth walked away, defeated.
"Shadow," he said.
The other boys appeared at his side, arms crossed over his chest.
"I know it's a lot to ask, but you's the best eyes I have. I send anyone else to Manhattan, they'll be spotted in a second. I need someone who won't be seen to see what they do when the evening edition comes out."
"Quarter says they roll over," Froggy said.
"No." Spot shook his head. "No, they's gonna try. But how's they gonna try, that's what I want to see. And what they do if there's resistance." He looked at Shadow.
The other boy looked exhausted. Sweat stood out on his face over a layer of grime that was laid over the dark bruises. His mouth was pressed in a thin line. Poor kid had been running all over New York all morning, and now Spot was asking him to do it one more time.
"You're the only one they won't see, Shadow," he said, voice an apology.
Sammy smiled wryly. "'course I'll go." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll be back tonight."
"Got any money?"
"Yeah. I sold yesterday and got some at the Victoria."
"Make sure to eat."
"Yes, mother."
The boys all laughed.
Spot hit Sammy on the butt with his cane. "Get out of here. Sooner you're gone, sooner you'll be back. Watch what they do and let us know."
Sammy tipped his cap and then strolled off.
Spot watched him go. He'd make it up to Sammy somehow. But, then, Sammy understood that this was just the price of doing business. He was the right hand of the King of Brooklyn, and that wasn't an easy job to have. Sometimes, it was more work than others, and Jacky and his boys was making that work necessary.
Of course, they hadn't been the reason Sammy'd been in Manhattan earlier. That had been all on Spot.
His black mood began rolling back over him. He retreated to a quiet corner of the docks.
The thing was… the thing of it was, Red hadn't prepared Spot properly for the reality of being head of the Brooklyn newsies. And that was because Red hadn't been half the leader Spot was. Oh, he'd done some. Led by example. Sold more than any other newsie, taken new boys under his wing and taught them the game. Sometimes he'd send some food in the direction of a hungry kid or suggested a duo team up 'cause they might sell more if they were partners. But, mostly, he was just in it for himself. Selling because he needed money, needed to eat. He was leader because he was the biggest, the toughest, and best at selling.
Spot wasn't those things. Well. He was the best at selling. No other kid in Brooklyn could match him for numbers. But he wasn't the biggest. He wasn't the strongest. What he was, was the smartest. And he cared the most.
When Red had left to work the railroad out west, Spot had taken over and organized. He'd gotten the boys who were selling truckloads to put away a few cents every day, into a general fund. Sure, he and Sammy put away the most, but everyone put in some. That way, when things happened—like Rolli losing his papes to the milk truck—no one starved. Anyone got sick, they were looked after. Got hurt, the newsies helped out. They was a family, and Spot would do anything for them.
So, when Victor Prentiss had approached him and suggested that, if Spot let Victor and his friends have Sammy for an evening, it would be worth Spot's while, he hadn't rejected it out of hand. Oh, not Sammy of course. The very idea of anyone laying their filthy mitts on his shadow made Spot's head spin with anger. But the proposition itself…
Five dollars for a few hours. And then Spot got them up to fifteen. And alls he had to do was touch their dicks or let them touch his. They fed him. Gave him drinks. Stripped him bare and touched him all over.
It was easy money. Sometimes, it felt like stealing. And it ensured that no one went hungry and anyone sick got what they needed.
Near thirty dollars? Spot had near a hundred dollars squirreled away. It weren't for him; it were for his boys. He just could never let Sammy know because of the questions it'd cause.
But now Sammy knew. And all those feelings that Spot felt when he thought about his nights were up for examination.
Out of everybody, Sammy was the last person Spot had wanted to find out. Even Bruiser would be better. Oh, sure Bruiser would soak Spot. Might even kill him for being queer. But that was better than disappointing Sammy.
Because Spot had known, deep down, that Sammy wouldn't care about Spot being queer. He'd care about Spot being a whore, but not about the queer part.
Everyone looked up to Spot. Everyone admired him. But he only cared about one person's respect: Sammy's. Because Sammy, well…
Sammy was his world.
Spot swallowed and rubbed his eyes. He had no idea how they were going to get past this. Because, whether Sammy admitted it or not, they needed the money. He and Sammy were getting older. A few years, they'd have to move on, move on from selling papes, move on from the lodging house, move on from being a kid. Maybe Sammy could get work in the theater, but Spot? He was heading to a factory. And that didn't pay so good. If he and Sammy could move into that life with a cushion, well…
But it was different now. Sammy knew. And Spot felt so dirty, so humiliated, so low over it, he wasn't sure how to handle it. He could almost kiss Jack for starting this stupid strike. It came exactly at the right time and was exactly what he needed.
A distraction.
Spot would take that distraction. He hoped that Jack and his boys really did follow through. That Brooklyn would have a reason to get involved. That they could drag this thing out for weeks, until Sammy forgot what he'd learned that fateful night.
Well. That might be too much to hope for. But whatever kept him and Sammy busy, whatever stopped them from talking, that was good enough.
"Please, Jack," Spot muttered, clenching his fist. "Don't let me down."
It was around eight when Sammy got back from Manhattan. He arrived at the lodging house looking exhausted, bruises under his eyes even darker than before. Under the grime and sweat of the day, his face was sort of pale, like he got when he hadn't had enough sleep.
"What happened?" Spot asked when Sammy pushed back the sheet and entered his and Spot's sleeping nook.
Spot scooted over on his bed, making room for the other boy.
Sammy collapsed on the bed and rolled onto his back. He took off his hat and extracted a cigarette from the brim. "I think they's serious. At least enough to cause some major damage."
The corners of Spot's mouth curled. "Damage?"
He lit his cigarette. "They tore apart the evening edition. Papes everywhere. Weasel called the bulls. Everyone but Crutchie got away, and the World looked like a hurricane had hit it."
"Sounds bad."
Sammy blew a ring and kicked off his shoes. "There's no way Pulitzer is going to let this pass. He's got to retaliate."
"You think he's gonna come down hard?"
"He just got destroyed by a bunch of kids." He blew another ring. "Weasel was pretty scared if he called the bulls. And the Delancey brothers is already taking money to beat up trolley strikers. They got connections."
"Tomorrow is going to be a bloodbath."
"Yup," Sammy agreed.
Spot tilted his head back and rested it against the wall. "So. What's Jack's plan for tomorrow?"
"Probably the same thing. Only Jacky don't think, so he won't see the bloodbath coming. Thinks they're winning."
He thought about it. On the one hand, winning one minor skirmish didn't mean the Manhattan boys was serious about this. The real test was tomorrow, how they'd react to some real resistance. On the other, it made Spot feel a bit uncomfortable, leaving newsies to get slaughtered. He really didn't think Pulitzer would take into account that they was just a bunch of kids. He'd bring the ax down hard.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Sammy shrugged and flicked some ashes on the floor. "I'm with you, Spot. Whatever you decide."
"I just don't want any of our boys hurt. But, this price hike… We sold out today, but it wasn't easy, not for anybody. It won't happen every day." He rubbed his thumb over his chin. "I wouldn't mind sending Pulitzer a message."
Sammy raised his eyebrow and met Spot's eyes.
It was clear what they needed to do. The rake hike was bullshit and rolling over for Pulitzer felt wrong. Jacky and his boys were gonna get soaked tomorrow, and that would end the strike. They needed support.
"I say… fifteen guys on the roof, our best sharpshooters," Spot decided. "Our bruisers outside the gate, ready to come in. Because they'll close the gate on Manhattan. Try to trap them in with the strike breakers." He rested his head on Sammy's shoulder. "No little kids. Not for this. We leave anyone under twelve to strike here."
"Let's leave Ricky with 'em. He's got that breathing problem, and I don't think he needs to be in the middle of a fight. "
Spot shook his head. "You're right. So, the kids stay and strike here. We go to Manhattan and save our brothers."
"Mmm," Sammy hummed.
Spot glanced over.
Sammy's eyes were closed, his cigarette hanging limply out of the corner of his mouth. His breathing was evening out and tension lines relaxing.
Spot grinned. "You're going to burn down the bed," he said. He sat up and leaned over Sammy. Plucked the cigarette from his mouth.
Sammy's eyes opened. They were hazy and unfocused.
Spot's breath caught. Helpless, like always, looking into those gorgeous eyes.
"Spot," Sammy whispered. "Don't like to think about those men touching you."
A shiver of cold went up Spot's spine and his stomach twisted. "Sammy…"
"You's special, Spot." He reached up and put his hand on Spot's cheek. "Don't deserve to be used like that."
Breathing very carefully, Spot crushed the cigarette between his fingers. He swallowed. "It ain't…"
"Yeah, it is. It's exactly like that. Because they don't see you. And what you are. How wonderful you are." He shook his head and stroked Spot's cheek with the back of his hand. "Not like I do."
His eyes prickled. They strayed down to Sammy's lips, and for a wild moment, Spot thought about leaning down and pressing his own lips to them.
Sammy snored.
Tearing his eyes away from Sammy's mouth, Spot looked up.
Sammy's eyes were closed. His hand fell away from Spot's cheek and lay limply on the bed.
Spot let out a shaky breath. He swallowed hard. Pulled Sammy's cap off his head and leaned down and brushed his lips over Sammy's forehead before he lost the nerve. Then, feeling shaky and stupid, he stood up and went to tell the rest of the boys the battle plan for tomorrow.