Yeah, so I know it's been a little bit longer than forever since I updated, but I found this the other day and wanted to get back to it. Hope you enjoy it.
After that day, an uneasy truce existed between Spot and Pocket. She resented him for coming to her rescue when she desperately wanted to be invincible. She didn't want to need anybody, and it galled her that she had once needed him. Whenever he was around she was reminded of her failure and it irritated her. At the same time, she found herself fascinated by his complex personality, which irritated her even further.
Spot shared her confusion. He couldn't help but watch her whenever she was around, and without realizing it he had a mental catalog of all her quirks and personality traits until he felt he'd known her forever. Undoubtedly she proved her worth as a newsie and comrade, but the occasional glimpses he saw of the girl underneath put her outside his scope of understanding. Torn between grudging respect for Pocket the newsie and a growing interest in Pocket the girl, he finally settled for general dislike.
The feeling was mutual. Whenever all the newsies gathered together in Manhattan or Brooklyn, the two either glared coldly at each other or went overboard with false politeness. Eventually, they settled into a routine of studiously ignoring one another when ever they found themselves in each other's company.
The next few months were a time of upheaval in Brooklyn. Carver, the head of the Brooklyn newsies, was badly beaten in a bar fight and never recovered. The Brooklyn boys, always a rowdy bunch, floundered without a leader, fighting amongst themselves and with the other boroughs. Soon, they began to look around for someone to take control. Strangely, it was starting to look more and more like they wanted to give that control to Spot Conlon. Most of them.
Despite his young age, this turn of events came as no surprise to those in Manhattan who knew him well. Even at twelve Spot was already showing signs of greatness.
Although he had a lot of Brooklyn behind him, Spot did not, as some expected, simply step smoothly into Carver's place. He had assumed unofficial leadership of Brooklyn, but Spot knew his position was tenuous at best unless he made some sort of power play.
The political climate in Brooklyn was the favorite topic of conversation in Manhattan. Still determined not to like Spot, Pocket nonetheless listened raptly whenever his name came up. His struggle for dominance intrigued her, and she began spending most of her time selling close to the Bridge, hoping for new tidbits of information.
She hadn't picked pockets since the day she ran into Spot, but she still preferred to sell alone. And so one day in late spring she happened to be strolling by the Bridge when she overheard a couple of boys talking about Spot Conlon.
Her ears perked up at the sound of his name and her steps slowed as she strained to hear more. When she realized the boys hadn't noticed her presence, she ambled closer. With her uncanny talent for fading into the background, she was able to get near enough to hear their conversation. Loitering casually at the end of the bridge, she knelt to tie and retie her shoelaces while she eavesdropped.
"That Conlon kid's gettin too big for 'is britches," one of them, a tall boy with a crooked nose was saying.
The other boy, shorter but heavily muscled, agreed, "It ain't right, Ace. You was second in command ta Carver. Ya should be the leader now he's dead."
"I would be," Ace complained, "'Cept Carver stopped trustin me not too long ago. Caught me takin money from some of the little kids. Told me if he caught me again, he'd kick me outta Brooklyn."
"So what?" his companion dismissed. "Only person what new about that was Carver, and he ain't tellin nobody. 'Sides, there's a buncha us don't want some snot nosed kid tellin us what ta do."
"Where does he get off, thinkin he's in charge?" Ace spat angrily.
"Listen, Ace," the other boy said slyly. "I'se tellin ya, ya got folks behind ya. If ya get rid of Conlon, nobody else'll stand in ya way."
"Sure, O'Grady, but how do I go about gettin rid of him?"
The boy called O'Grady sighed wearily. He was obviously the smarter of the two.
"Easy. Every coupla days, Conlon goes ta Manhattan. Usually leaves soon as he's done sellin. Comes back pretty late most nights. Alone. All's we gotta do is wait for 'im when he ain't got nobody around ta help him."
Ace looked doubtful. "He's got a lotta support, O'Grady. Don't know that it'll go too good for me when the boys find out I'se tha one what killed him."
Again, O'Grady sighed in irritation with his friend's stupidity. "Who says they gotta know? New York's a dangerous place," he said pointedly. "Ain't a good idea walkin' round by yaself. Nevah know what could happen."
Comprehension dawned on Ace's ugly face as O'Grady's words sunk in.
"Alright," he agreed. "Let's do it. Next time he goes to Manhattan."