Ritz could not believe her good luck. Information like this had to be handled very carefully-- it wouldn't do for Cassie to give the game away to Racetrack the minute he returned with the hot dogs.
"Look, uh, Cassie's the name ain't it?" Ritz didn't wait for Cassie's confirmation before carrying on. Racetrack was already heading over, so Ritz had only seconds to speak with Cassie in private, "I really don't think that the Spot Conlon you'se is talkin' about is the one me an' Racetrack know. There's gotta be a billion kids named Spot. And even more kids named Conlon, what wit' all them Mickies comin' in from Ireland." Cassie took offense at Ritz's use of the derogative; she was third generation Irish after all, but let Ritz finish, "So I wouldn't say nuttin' ta Racetrack about how ya know him, 'cos our Spot wouldn't take too kindly to bein' the subject a' rumors. Ya betteh make fa' shoah it's the right Spot."
"It has to be him." Cassie argued, "At least... it seems like it would be. Though, Andrew was rumored to be dead." She added uncertainly. Maybe it wasn't the same boy. It did seem unlikely.
"Racetrack'll take ya back ta meet Spot, if ya want." Ritz suggested, maybe a little too quickly, "They'se livin' jus' around the corneh. Then ya could see fa' yaself whedder it's the same Spot or not. Heya Race." She greeted Racetrack smoothly as he returned.
"Hi, Ritz." Racetrack said slowly, surprised to see Ritz Barkley, of all people talking to Cassie. He handed Cassie a a greasy bundle of papers. Incased was a long sausage of meat, wrapped in a crispy roll of French bread. "Ya neveh need ta eat anudder type a' food, once ya've tried these." Racetrack claimed through a mouthful of meat and bread; he had wasted no time in digging into his own meal.
"Well, I'se was jus' passin' t'rough." Ritz said in a mockingly casual voice, "Cassie, wasn't there sumptin' ya wanted ta ask Race about?"
With a devious look at Racetrack, Ritz made her quick departure. As anxious as she was to see how this would play out, Ritz knew her work was finished. For now. Besides, she had some money to earn, walking the streets.
Racetrack and Cassie watch Ritz go, both puzzled by her sudden appearance and equally swift departure. Racetrack looked at Cassie, who was very much enjoying her hot dog. She'd never tasted anything quite like it; the flavors were obvious and simple, but so delicious. She chewed and swallowed before speaking, remembering good etiquette.
"The boy you were talking about earlier-- Spot?" She said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, "His name is Spot Conlon?"
"Yeah." Racetrack shrugged.
"I know him." She said seriously.
"I ain't exactly surprised." Racetrack laughed, to Cassie's confusion, "He used ta be the most famous an' respected newsie in all a' New Yawk. Prob'ly everywheah else too. But that was back befoah the damn newsstands an' delivery boys. Now he's just a very well known juvenile delinquent. A' course ya've hoird a' him."
"No." Cassie shook her head, "I haven't heard of him. I know him. I think it's him at least."
Racetrack's face clouded over. There was only one reason why girls knew Spot. Typical. He didn't question Cassie's relationship with Spot, convincing himself that it didn't matter anyway, and it would only depress him to learn the details.
"Ya think it's him?"
"Well, I'm not sure." Cassie told him, realizing she wasn't making very much sense.
"He's back at home, if ya wanna see if he's the kid ya thinkin' of." Racetrack said, "It's only a coupla blocks ta our place."
"If it is Andrew," Cassie murmured, more to herself than to Racetrack, "I would like to talk to him."
"C'mon then." Racetrack led the way, showing Cassie the way to Spar Street. It was a long walk, mostly in tense silence. Racetrack wasn't exactly happy about this arrangement. To be completely honest with himself, Racetrack had to admit that he would be very jealous if it turned out that Cassie and Spot had been previously involved. Wasn't it enough that Spot was doing his little sister? Did he have to have a history with Cassie too? Did Spot have a long complicated history with every girl in New York?
Racetrack didn't know exactly how to categorize his own relationship with Cassie. Certainly nothing romantic (they'd only met twice, after all) but Racetrack did enjoy being around her, as annoyingly proper and naive as she was. Racetrack liked showing her how to live outside the glass case in which Cassie had existed in for so long. Racetrack tried to ignore his glum mood, convincing himself (and rightly so) that he and Cassie were only friends, if that, and he shouldn't feel any indignation at her possible relationship with Spot.
"C'mon, guys what are the chances Snydeh an' his boys'll bust in heah? They don't got any idea wheah we went; we'll be fine." Jack was arguing. By this time, it was an old argument. It was always Spot and Jack against the rest of the gang, insisting that it would be perfectly safe for the two of them to venture out and get jobs and do something besides keep house while everyone got to work. It was murder on Spot and Jack to stay indoors and not take part in the daily adventures on the streets of New York. But it was too risky; Spot and Jack were too valuable to Snyder for them to pass unnoticed.
"Ya know Snydeh, Jack." Crutchy said patiently, "If eidder of you'se is seen by a coppeh, we'll all be busted." It was a good thing both Crutchy and Lunch Money were given Saturdays off; someone had to keep an eye on the former leaders of Brooklyn and Manhattan, as they were going absolutely stir-crazy. Lunch Money had long ago abandoned the conversation; she contented herself with rolling her eyes and watching Crutchy trying to talk sense into the other two boys.
"Hey fellas," They fell silent at the sound of a voice outside the front door and the three sharp knocks that followed, "It's Race, lemme in." Jack got to his feet and went to unlock the door. He held the door open for Racetrack and Cassie, who looked somewhat terrified of her current surroundings. Spar Street was a far cry from the sterilized environment of Park Avenue.
"Where'd ya pick up the goil, Higgins?" Jack asked giving Cassie a charismatic and flirtatious half-smile. Spot looked up at Jack's words, noticing Cassie for the first time. The color drained out of his face, and his heart stopped beating.
"Cass?" He gasped. Cassie Arden was not someone Spot had banked on ever seeing again.
"Andrew!" Even as she laid eyes on him, Cassie could hardly believe it was him. She'd been so sure Andrew had died years ago. Seeing him now boggled her mind; it was like seeing someone back from the dead. Spot was in a sort of state of shock, neither speaking nor moving. Cassie ran to hug him, overcome with excitement at seeing her friend again.
"So, Race, who the hell is this?" Lunch Money muttered to Racetrack, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. Like her brother, she figured Cassie was an old girlfriend of Spots, and, again like her brother, she was not very happy about this.
"This is Cassie Arden, the goil I met last week."
"Ugh, that hoity-toity bitch?" Lunch Money made a face.
"C'mon Lunch," Racetrack said in an undertone, "She can't help bein' rich anymore than we can help bein' broke."
Lunch Money made a skeptical noise, and waited for Spot or Cassie to elaborate on how they knew each other, as did the rest of the room. To contribute to the horrible feeling in the pit of Spot's stomach, Cassie wouldn't stop carrying on. She held him at arms length scrutinizing him like a mother looking over her son after he'd been playing in the mud.
"Andrew, look at you! I can't believe it's you! I haven't seen you since--"
"Whoa, whoa." Jack interrupted "Spot, how d'ya know a goil like her? Race, looks like ya weren't the only piece a' street trash this dame's been interested in."
Spot cringed. Cassie looked slightly confused, "Street trash...?" She laughed, figuring out exactly how misinformed Spot's friends were, "They don't know? Andrew, you never told them--"
"Cass." Spot said sharply, jerking out of Cassie's grasp, "Shuddup!"
"Andrew, haven't you told anyone where--"
"Cass, you say one more word, I swear ta Gawd..." Spot growled, grabbing Cassie's wrist firmly. He kept her in a tight grip, not hurting her, but giving her the warning. He let the threat hang in mid-air, hoping Cassie would take the cue to be quiet. She did. Racetrack's reaction wasn't quite as passive.
"Spot, what's a' matteh wit'choo?" He demanded, striding to Cassie's side. Racetrack gave Spot a rough shove; Spot let go of Cassie's wrist and turned to glare at Racetrack. The room held it's breath. Both boys looked daggers at each other, and the surrounding children expected a fight to break out. Crutchy and Jack looked a little nervous. Spot Conlon was not a boy to pick a fight with. Racetrack knew that. Everyone knew that. Well, Lunch Money hadn't entirely figured that out, but she was a special case. The spectators waited for Spot to soak Racetrack within an inch of his life. Instead, a rare thing occurred: Spot's eyes dropped to the floor, acknowledging Racetrack's victory over this particular disagreement.
"Spot, what's goin' on?" Lunch Money asked, unsure whether she really wanted to hear the answer. Spot just shook his head, his eyes darting between Cassie and Racetrack.
"Nuttin'." He said, "Cass, d'ya mind if I have a woird wit' ya?" Spot gave Cassie a dangerous look, as though daring her to refuse his suggestion. She just nodded and followed him outside, leaving the others in a state of shock and befuddlement.
Once they were out on the street and safely out of earshot, Spot opened the conversation, speaking through clenched teeth, "Cass, whaddya doin' heah?"
"What am I doing here?" Cassie almost laughed, "Andrew, what are you doing here? I can't believe it's you. I can't believe you're alive-- living here, after all this time."
"What? Didja think the poor little rich boy couldn't suhvive the oh so horrid streets?" He spat contemptuously.
"I wasn't the only one who thought you were dead--"
"Good." Spot said heartlessly.
"Andrew!" Cassie was shocked, "Why on Earth would you want everyone to think you were dead?"
"Not everyone thinks I'm dead." Spot told her quietly, "I know some a' them know I'm still around; Snydeh made shoah a' that. Me mudder knows I'se livin' somewheah in Brooklyn."
Cassie winced. She'd always pitied Mrs. Conlon. Her son a runaway delinquent, a disgrace, her husband dead and gone. Which reminded Cassie: "You're father died after you left, you know. Your mother's all alone now."
"I know." Spot's tone was very businesslike, "I woirked as a newsie, Cass, ya think I didn't heah about a millionaire gettin' murdehed? Ya think I didn't squeeze as much scandal outta that headline as I could? Sold two hundred fifty-seven papes that day, enough for a real dinneh and hookeh. Best favoh me fodder eveh did me."
"You don't consider twelve years of feeding and clothing you, and providing you with a home, not to mention all the luxuries anyone could ask for, a favor?" Cassie asked, indignant on behalf of the Conlons, who had always worked hard to ensure their son had the only best. And what had he done? He threw their love and attention right back in their faces.
"No, I don't." Spot said defiantly, "I don't consideh that a favoh; all them nice things me fodder bought me was ta make him look good, ta prove ta everyone on the block that he made the most money. Livin' dere, me parents had me whole life planned out fa' me. I only existed ta be a credit ta their name. Needless to say," he added, pronouncing his words with care, with vicious relish in every syllable. "I failed dismally."
"Your father--"
"Don't tell me about me fodder, Cass." Spot interrupted coldly, "In case ya couldn't tell, I'se finished bein' a Conlon. I ain't been fa' years, don't even try to talk me back inta it. I've spent the last four years tryin' ta forget wheah I came from."
"Then why are you wearing that?" Cassie indicated the small, silver key hanging around Spot's neck. Spot closed his fist around it, clutching it so tightly the sharps edge dug into his palm.
"What about it?"
"It's engraved. Don't think I didn't notice it. 'S. Conlon'." Cassie smiled. She knew Spot hadn't abandoned his old life so readily. "I remember the talk of how expensive those were, how much money your father put into the detailing of your house. That's your house key you've got around your neck; you never meant to leave forever."
"A' course I meant ta leave fa'eveh. It ain't my house key." Spot told her adamantly.
"I don't believe you." Cassie said, amazed at her own boldness. She would never dream of being so frankly honest with anyone else. Even this confrontation between her and her childhood best friend was taxing.
"Ya really think I fuckin' care what ya believe?"
"If your parents could hear you now." She scolded, horrified at the terrible words coming out of Spot's mouth, "Like your parents were some third class immigrants straight off the boat, instead of the son of a distinguished businessman who worked his way to the top so he could give his son a better life."
"What I had on Park Avenue wasn't a life, Cass." Spot snapped. In four years, Cassie hadn't changed a bit. She was still spouting her parents opinions like a parrot. The wind-up doll. The perfect child. "What I was livin', what you'se is livin' ain't no kinda life."
"Listen to you." Cassie was now blinking back tears, "Talking like some street rat, an urchin; you're better than that, Andrew."
"Better than Racetrack?" The question came spitefully, seemingly out of nowhere.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Ya neveh specified exactly what you'se was doin' heah wit' Race." Spot told her smugly, "He's a street rat, born an' bred. This ain't the foirst time you've snuck away from you're high society tea parties or whateveh ta run around wit' Racetrack."
"That is neither here nor there." Cassie said primly, her face deep crimson. Racetrack meant nothing to her; he was just a grubby little scoundrel, whom she'd met by coincidence. She forced herself to agree with that statement, unable to distinguish the difference between the truth and what Park Avenue expected to be the truth. "I'm only here because I heard him mention Spot Conlon, and I wanted to see if it was you... by the way, I cannot believe you're still going by Spot, you always hated it when I called you Spot." She laughed, and murmured reminiscently, "Park Avenue's Little Spot of Trouble."
Spot was not amused, "Look, they asked me my name when I arrived at the Brooklyn Lodgin' House, an' I couldn't tell 'em my real name, an' your stupid nickname was the foirst thing that came into my head... If ya were gonna shorten 'Spot a' Trouble', couldn't ya at least a' called me 'Trouble'? It woulda been a betteh name fa' the leadeh a' Brooklyn."
"Spot, how often did we have that very discussion?"
"Too offen." Spot glanced back at his flat. Lunch Money and Racetrack were waiting there. He was not looking forward to explaining this away. "Al'ight, Cass, ya can't tell Racetrack or any a' them the truth, got it? I'm still jus' Spot Conlon, the street rat, ya promise?"
"I will not lie to them."
"Does Racetrack know you'se is, ah, engaged?" Spot asked smoothly, "You'se is neah seventeen, I assume ya're engaged."
"Yes, I am." Cassie replied carefully, "And, no Racetrack doesn't know."
"Ya want me ta tell him?"
"I wouldn't care in the slightest." Cassie said airily.
"Liar." Spot accused. He paused, working out the details of his proposition. "Fine, if ya really don't care whedder Racetrack knows you'll be married ta some rich fella in the nex' year, then by all means, tell me friends all about my scandalous past. But, if ya tell on me, I'll tell on you."