Chapter Four

"You's in late today, ain't ya?"

Race looks up to see Jack leaning against the street lamp outside of the lodging house. His steps slow, the hand in his pocket reflexively tightening around the charm inside.

"Yeah, so what? You ain't me mother," Race replies, his eyebrows rising.

Jack snorts, smoke falling out of his nostrils. "Nah, I ain't your mother, but that don't mean I can't worry when you's spendin' most of your day over the Brooklyn bridge." He pauses to take a drag. "How's Spot, by the way?"

"Just peachy." Race pulls his hand out of his pockets, the other one going into the other pocket to produce a cigarette of his own. "You's shouldn't spend your time worryin' 'bout me, Jack, I'm sure you's got better things t' put your mind to, as limited as them things may be."

Pushing off the street lamp, Jack steps in close to Race to put an arm around him. They both exhale at the same time, the menthol smoke mingling in the air for a moment before dissipating.

"Just as long as 'em Brooklyn newsies don't lay a hand on ya, alright? 'Cause then I might haveta talk t' Spot."

Race is tempted to shake Jack's hold off his shoulders. "Look, even if that was t' happen, I's can take care of meself. Ain't like I's afraid o' Spot or anythin'."

It's Jack's turn to lift his eyebrows. "That so?"

"Hey, I don't lie," Race replies with a grin. He knows Jack pretty damn well; he doesn't miss Jack's slight flinch. "Don't. Worry. If I's get into a lick o' trouble, you'll be the first one t' know, alright?"

Jack starts to steer them both into the lodging house. "Yeah, I'll make sure o' that."

Race spits out the stub of his cigar and hefts his stack of newspapers higher on his shoulder. He's about to head out to his usual selling spot when Blink and Mush skid in front of him, hanging off each other's shoulders and regarding him with wide eyes.

"So, so's it true? You's friends with Spot Conlon?" Blink asks, pushing off Mush to lean in closer to Race.

Mush rolls his eyes and pushes him back down. "Will you ever learn t' be discreet?" With a secretive smile, he looks back to Race. "But yeah, I heard you's on real friendly terms with him."

Groaning, Race resists the urge to slap his forehead. "Jack never learns t' shut his mouth, does he?"

"Nope!" the pair chirp together. "So's it true, or what?"

Race walks past them, adjusting his newspapers one more time. "Yeah, it's true. I don't see the big deal."

"'The big deal'?" Mush gasps, letting go of Blink to catch up with Race, "This is Spot Conlon we're talkin' 'bout, here! The stone-faced, hardass leader o' Brooklyn!"

"You guys know all them rumors ain't true. He sat with us all friendly like at the rally an' everythin'."

Blink steps up to Race's other side. "Yeah, but he was with Jack and Davey only! They was the leaders an' all, so they had t' sit together!"

"So why don't you's ask them about it?" Race stops, sighing. The pair flanking his sides stop a few steps ahead of him before turning around to shoot him a curious look. "Just- I told him I sell's at Sheepshead, so he decided t' talk t' me. That's all. Ain't like I's his best friend or nothin'."

A moment of silence passes as Race stares the both of them down. Once it seems like neither Blink or Mush have anything else to add, he mumbles a quiet goodbye and heads in the direction of the bridge.

About ten feet away from where he was originally, Race can hear Blink and Mush whispering loudly to each other. He knows that if he glances behind his shoulder, they'll freeze and give him a deer-in-headlights expression. Despite the fact that it would be hilarious, Race decides to pass the opportunity up; he's already ten minutes behind schedule, and if he's early, he might just catch Spot by the docks.

"Goddamn Jack and his big-mouthed, mother-hennin'..." Race trails off into unintelligible mumbling. It's cut off with a drag of his cigar and he shoves his free hand into his pocket. He's quick to curl his hand around the metal charm he finds in it.

"Hey Race!"

Race looks up to see David running up to him. Looking over his shoulder, he can see Jack send them a glance. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, but Jack ducks his head and opens the door to the lodging house to avoid his gaze.

"Hey Davey," Race replies with a friendly smile. It's hard to be mean to Davey, he finds, but that might be because David never gives them a reason to be angry with him. He's all worry and responsibility; any ill will to the newcomer lasts all but three minutes at the most.

David returns the smile easily, slinging an arm around Race's shoulders. "So how have you been lately?"

Snorting, Race exhales smoke between his teeth. "Never better. How's your dad, by the way? Gettin' any better?"

"Unfortunately."

Race glances up at David in mild surprise. The taller boy smiles slyly before they both break out into wide grins.

"So," David starts after a moment of quiet mirth, "Jack tells me you-"

With a loud groan, Race interrupts David by saying, "Oh lord, don't tell me- he tolds ya that I's been spendin' too much time over at Sheepshead an' that, oh, I dunno, bein' in Brooklyn too much'll mess with me head."

"Race..." Sighing, David leads Race onto the sidewalk. The setting sun shines bright rays into his eyes, and Race adjusts his hat so that he isn't entirely blinded. "He's only worried, you know? We all know that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. But you know Jack; he doesn't like it that Spot may be trying to steal you and take you over to Brook-"

Race laughs, clutching at his stomach. "Oh wow, that's rich." He slips out of David's grip easily, tossing his burnt out cigar into the street. "Seriously. First off, it ain't like I's Jack's property. An', an' secondly, there ain't a reason for Spot t' wanna bring me over t' Brooklyn."

His voice loses some of its certainty once he utters his last word. If he thinks about it, Jack sort of has a reason to worry, since he's spending so much time with Spot all of a sudden... And they've known each other for years, to just up and leave must be an upsetting thought-

David stares at Race with quiet, observing eyes. In response, Race averts his gaze and chews on his bottom lip.

"Look, Race, no one's trying to blame anyone here." David pauses with a slight tilt of his head, "Well, at least they shouldn't. And you guys know you shouldn't, so it'd just be better if you guys stopped fighting, okay? Jack steps on people's toes sometimes, and so do you, so if anything, you're both in the wrong."

One of the only times Race is willing to be quiet is when he has to listen to something worthwhile, and almost everything that comes out of David's mouth is just that. He'd be lying if he said he doesn't feel like a kid who's just had their wrist slapped, or put in the corner for a time-out.

After a moment of sullen silence, Race shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at a pebble on the street. His thumbs grazes over the charm as he says, "Fine. I'll talk t' him later, alright? Right now I's gonna grab me somethin' t' eat."

"Good." David's wide smile makes Race feel a little better about losing the argument. "Mind if I join you, then?"

"Not at all, Davey," he replies, finding no difficulty in returning the smile aimed at him. "Got enough money for Tibby's?"

David reached out to ruffle Race's hair. "Yeah. I do."

"Hey."

Race almost drops his cigar onto the street below, his fingers fumbling with his match. "The hell? Spot? What'n the world're you's doin' over here?"

The Brooklynite approaches Race at a leisurely pace, swinging his cane absently as he walks. "What, so I's not allowed t' visit you?" With a wide grin that looks more like baring his teeth than an actual smile, Spot drops down on the roof next to Race to sit beside him.

"Uh, no, that ain't it," Race replies, his voice faltering. It's a surprise; the grand ol' leader of Brooklyn hardly ever crosses the bridge without good reason. As he thinks of a proper way to express his shock, he lights up and takes a few short puffs. "Just- Just unusual, s'all."

The grin on Spot's face softens into a smirk. "When were I ever 'usual', Race?"

Snorting, Race ducks his head and gives it a slight shake. "Never, I s'pose." He takes a long drag. "Everythin' makes more sense when ya puts it that way."

"Damn good explanation," Spot agrees with a sagely nod. "The beauty lies in its ambiguity."

Race smiles wryly. "What, so you's actually been readin' your papes lately?"

"Hey, I don't needs t' read the damn pape t' know the words in it," Spot says, rolling his eyes.

For once it's solely Race smoking; Spot doesn't ask him for one, and he doesn't pull one out, either. From what Race can tell with a sideways glance, the Brooklynite looks content to merely sit back on the heels of his palms and stare at the stars.

"So I's been hearin' your name around lately, Race," Spot begins after a moment of silence, "More so than usual."

"You's used t' hearin' me name?"

Spot grins. "Yeah, 'specially when you's hittin' a winnin' streak. Horse bettin's a well known trade 'round Brooklyn, you knows that.

"But 'sides that, I've been hearin' from little birds... That you's me right hand man now." He laughs, and the genuine mirth in it surprises Race. It's not sardonic or mocking; he seems outright amused.

"What, so I's ain't good enough t' be your right hand man?" Race asks, sorely tempted to blow smoke into Spot's face. Instead it comes out between his teeth in a low whistle, practically spat out.

Spot glances sideways and catches the irritated look on Race's countenance. He shakes his head, reaching out to sling an arm around Race's shoulders.

"Nah, that ain't it, far from it." He looks straight into Race's eyes as he speaks. Unnerved, Race fidgets a bit, wondering why he hasn't gotten used to that intense, blue stare yet. "I just finds it hilarious how fast word moves, y'know? A little over a week and already people're assumin' things..."

A smile works its way onto Race's face, and he surprises himself with the sheer amount of relief in the expression. He puts an arm around Spot's shoulders and takes a long drag, feeling content.

"Well, when you's involved, I'd think that word would move faster than them horses I's bettin' on," he says, grinning around smoke and words.

With a nod, Spot grins back. "Sometimes I wonder why you's ain't me right hand man."

Race fumbles with the smoke between his lips. After replacing it in his mouth and taking a thoughtful drag, he replies, "You know damn well why I's ain't your right hand man."

Spot nods again. "Yeah. I do." He reaches over to snatch Race's cigar for a quick, deep drag. His face scrunches up like he's about to cough, but his breath merely comes out in a smoky, swift exhale.

Holding out the cigar for Race to take, Spot moves to stand up. Race takes it, watching Spot move with cautious eyes.

"Stay in Manhattan, Race," he says, his tone dead serious. His expression matches it perfectly. "You's don't belong in Brooklyn."

There's nothing for Race to do but nod in silent agreement. He takes the burnt end of his cigar and rolls it in his fingers, staring at it as he thinks.

"Y'know... I's been wonderin' how the hell you's ended up in Brooklyn." With a silent goodbye, Race flicks the end of the cigar onto the streets below, refusing to look up at Spot all the while. "You's did say you's used t' frequent Manhattan, yeah?"

Spot's eyes move from the cigar butt to the street then back again to Race's hand. Pursing his lips, he shoves his cane into its proper place before stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I's didn't really belong here in Manhattan." He smirks, though it looks more like a bitter smile than a smug expression. "They's couldn't really handle me, y'know? All fight and no respect. None for others, or from others, neither."

His eyes return to Race's. "But that's just how I's ended up in Brooklyn. Becomin' their leader, well." He snorts, turning on his heel. "That's for another time." He stops by the fire escape. "'Night, Race."

Race has already scrambled to his feet to follow behind Spot, maybe pry some more answers from him, but he stops once the Brooklynite stops by the steps. A hand finds its way into his pocket and grips his charm. "'Night, Spot."