Spot didn't know it, but the time in between getting knocked out in the streets and making his way to the brownstone was not a matter of hours but a matter of days. Marta watched for him each night as she stood behind the desk signing the boys into her register and collecting their nickels and pennies for their bed and supper. Each line that was filled, each name scrawled deepened the lines around her eyes and mouth and the crinkle in her brow. When he didn't return to the lodging house the second night, the hushed whispers began to roll through the bunk room. Only Trout and Nips knew what was really going on and while Nips preferred to play it cool, pretending that Spot was off on one of his solitary walks through the city, entertaining himself by showing up at random bunkhouses unannounced just to see the newsies there panic, Trout was too busy watching Marta suffer in silence.

Spot's voice the night he asked Trout to take on the responsibility of helping him rang through Trout's head constantly. "She needs someone she can trust by her side." He had paused, shining the gilded top of his cane on his pant leg. "A little give and take, thats the way to get somewhere with Kisser." Trout had stared at his friend, knowing what Spot was getting at and shook his head. "You want something from her, you's gonna have to give something in return and your secret is the kind that will melt her like butter." He stared Trout down with his steely blue eyes and said, "She ain't all there right now. I don't know how we missed it, but she ain't been there in a long time. She just got really good at faking it. She needs you to tell her the truth, Trout. Tell her what she already knows but ain't seeing. I'll keep them busy; its up to you and her to take them down."

She was on her hands and knees in the washroom with a scrub brush and bucket, grumbling to herself about what dirty slobs this batch of boys was. Without a word or even a sideways glance her way, he tucked his cap into his pocket, dipped a second brush into her bucket and got down on the floor next to her and began to scour the floor boards. She sat back on her heels to watch the dark, hostile looking boy with a look of wonder on her face. She smiled softly and proudly, and bumped his shoulder with hers as she went back to work. "You doing ok?" she asked. He shrugged and shot her a nervous smile out from under his thick black eyelashes. "Looks like you got something on your mind." He nodded and dropped his eyes back to the floor before waving his hand outward from his face. "Later? Ok, we can talk about it later." They went back to scrubbing in companionable silence until they were at the washroom doorway.

She took his brush away and took her bucket down to the kitchen to rinse it out, raising an eyebrow when he followed her. "Is it later now?" she asked. He took a deep breath and nodded. Spot said to get her out, get her walking. He crossed Brooklyn on a daily basis and could only think of one place to take her, his special place. He blew his the breath out through his lips with a frustrated noise. She chuckled. "Must be some deep shit Trout, you got some paper ready?" she asked, settling herself at the little table where they usually had their talks. He shook his head and pointed to the door and then made his fingers walk across the countertop. She smiled, nodded silently and went to get herself a coat.

The cold wind whipped around them as they crossed the bridge, pinking their cheeks and noses and biting their exposed fingers, but it didn't bother him as he stopped around midway and stared upstream. She came up next to him, the wind loosing her hair from its knot on her head, and stared into the distance. "Now I know its deep shit if you're bringing me to your spot. Last time I was here with you was..." He grabbed her hand and stopped her with a pleading glance. This week was full of enough loss without bringing up old ghosts. Her eyes softened apologetically, "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring her up." She turned to look out at the water. "I never understood what it was about this spot that had you so enamored, but I guess I never thought to ask either."

He smiled half-heartedly and signed, 'Asshole,' making her let out a quick bark of laughter. He sucked in and let out a few deep breaths, preparing himself. "Th-th-that," he muttered, pointing at the island in the distance. It was soft, stuttered and not entirely clear, but there was no denying that he spoke or what he said. He let the remainder of the air he took in out and a small, proud smile toyed with his mouth for a moment.

She stared at him, eyes wide with shock before peering at the little slip of land far in the distance. "Trout, you know where Spot is. He's not at the Refuge over there and we can't save him."

He gruffly growled and scratched his head, not knowing how much he would be able to get out. It had been a few years since he'd spoken more than a word or two. His voice was dry and scratchy and, as was always true for him, the words didn't want to come out. What was perfectly formed in his head got stuck and jumbled somewhere along the way to his mouth. "Ssssss-ssssssy...ssssssy-um." His cheeks burned and he couldn't look her in the eye as he waited for her to decipher his stammered syllables.

"Yeah, there's an Asylum there, some hospitals too…"

Frustrated already, he rubbed at the back of his neck and dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket and a pencil and scrawled I ran. They were going to put me there.

"Your parents? But you're so smart!" she exclaimed. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You are! Honestly, I always thought Spot would make you his second." Her face hardened, "Seems Mick thought so too."

He shook his head again. "Sssssssay nnno."

She cocked her head to the side with an amused kind of a smile, "He asked and you said no?" He nodded, staring out at the asylum again. "Why?" He turned and gave her a withering glare. In his mind it was fairly obvious why he was not fit to be the second of Brooklyn. When he refused to discuss that further, she pursed her lips and also looked at the far away slip of land, leaning her elbows on the handrail. "So, what's the angle here, Trout? What about today, after everything else, we've been through together made today the right day to bring out the big guns? The big talking guns? You didn't talk when you were little, no matter how mad you got that we didn't understand. You didn't talk when you broke your arm and couldn't write with that hand for months or when you gave your notepad to that girl and she ran away with it. So why now?" He wouldn't meet her eyes, just hoisted himself up onto the rail and pulled his harmonica out and began to play. She stared at him, her patience visibly dwindling. "Answer me! What is this about, Trout?"

He lowered the harmonica and took a deep breath and, with a great deal of concentration, stuttered out, "S-s-s-s-spot."

She stepped closer to him, too close. He knew her moves, the face she made as she jabbed a finger into his ribs. "He told you to speak to me?" Trout nodded, his face pale. "So the stakes are high and he wanted you to give me something, something you wouldn't do for anyone else to help garner my trust?" His head shot up and his bright blue eyes met with her hazel ones. She searched his face. "And you went along with it?" He nodded and dropped his gaze to his boots, leaving him no way to defend himself from the left jab that hit his jaw moments later. He was still reeling when she stalked off towards the Lodging House again. He ran after her, heading her off on the front steps.

"What does he want?" she demanded. Trout stuttered, he tried to tell her, but couldn't make his mouth cooperate. Finally, he got frustrated and pupped his notepad and pencil from his pocket.

Finish what you started.

She narrowed her eyes at him and he drew back a bit readying himself for anther hit, but it didn't come. She turned and walked briskly to her room and shut the door quietly. He pressed his ear to her door, beating himself up in his head. Being locked out was not what Spot had in mind when he told Trout to gain her trust.

Out in the hall, Nips trudged up to him. "How did it go?" Trout's bushy black eyebrows slammed downwards towards his eyes and he let out an exasperated huff. "That good, huh?" Nips fidgeted, picking at a hangnail and darting his eyes upward to Trout's swollen lip. "What happened to you, anyway?" Trout flipped him the bird before pantomiming a punch to his face, kissing the fist as it hit his mouth, which was his sign for her before she became Marta. A thunk and Marta's voice yelling out a long stream of curses interrupted them. It was silent again for a few nerve wracking moments before the door swung open and banged against its hinges.

She stepped out and glared at them, her arms crossed over her chest and one hip popped out as she stared them down. Her left hand was wrapped in a cloth, covering the knuckles she bloodied. They quaked in their boots, and Trout's muscles all coiled in on themselves, waiting for another hit to his face. "I'm not ready to deal with you two." She took a deep breath, closing her hazel eyes, digging the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. "You're damn lucky I haven't tied you upside down to the dock pilings!" She turned, resting her hot forehead on the door jam. When she spoke again her voice was low, even and calm. The tremor of rage was gone. "I'm going out. I need air and a walk and...just...out. Out of here and away from you punks so I can think. You two will stay here, in this house, until I get back. Do I make myself clear?"

Nips answered with a reverent, but still mumbled, "Yes, Kisser." Trout nodded emphatically drawing an X over his heart with his finger.

She looked at Trout, her cheeks flushing at the sight of his bruised face. "Put a washcloth on that lip."

He nodded and made his sign for sorry.

She nodded curtly and back swept out the door. Nips let out a long low whistle and looked at Trout. "Well, thats the most scared I've been in a damn long time."

Trout nodded and clapped Nips on the shoulder. 'I go,' he signed.

Nips' brown eye widened, "Are you crazy? You heard her, we's on house arrest!" Trout just shrugged though and made a gesture that he knew Nips would know. The tall, lanky blonde sighed, "Yeah, yeah, I'll cover for you." Trout grinned and took off running, not even bothering to change his clothes, for the Stuyvesant neighborhood, northwest of Brooklyn Heights. It was only when he was outside of Moriarty's Tavern that he stopped to catch his breath.

Carlos Fuentes and Trout Cooper were an odd pair of friends. They only saw each other at Moriarty's and each knew very little about the other beyond what they talked about in the dank and dingy tavern. Carlos needed his anonymity for his work as a skip-trace, finding people who didn't want to be found, the underworld's version of a private investigator and Trout...was Trout. They could limitedly banter and tease each other, enjoying the closest thing to a normal friendship that either would ever have, away from the hierarchy of newsboy life and out of the shadow of the gangs that Carlos was known to work for. The other newsies knew that Washington Avenue in Bedford-Stuyvesant was Trout's turf, but they didn't know that he was so fiercely protective of it to keep his partnership with the young Spaniard a secret. He needed Carlos' secrets to be kept safe so that Carlos could keep working on finding someone for him, someone Trout lost. Those who still remembered JoAnna thought that after two years, Trout put his broken heart to rest and gave up like any normal, hot blooded American male would, but that was the thing about Trout Cooper and the kind of friend he was. "Loyal as a damn dog," was the way Spot put it and it was true. He was the fiercest sort of friend and Spot was counting on that trait to pull them through.

The moment he stepped in the door, he locked eyes with Jethro Moriarty behind the bar. The aging bartender tilted his head across the small room, where Carlos sat, slumped down in a chair with his feet on another chair and his hat over his eyes. Trout nodded his thanks to Jethro and headed over, roughly shoving Carlos' boots off the chair so he could sit down. "About time you showed up," the dark boy said, pulling his cap off to reveal blue eyes that glowed eerily out of his olive toned skin. His hair, every bit as dark as Trout's, but sleek and full and smooth, fell over his forehead before he raked it back with his fingers. "Your little leader buddy's been gone twenty four hours and you're just now getting here? Slacker."

Trout sneered and flipped the Spaniard off as Jethro set a glass of ale in front of the new arrival. Before he could touch it, though, Carlos had the glass at his mouth and drained half of it. Trout reached over and slapped the back of Carlos' head so hard that the darker boy's nose dipped into the liquid. Trout sniggered as his friend sputtered. "Ok, ok, truce!" Carlos coughed. "You know my stance on Mickelson and all things Dockside. You know I won't get involved and you know why." His eyes blazed with malice and his cheeks drained of color.

'I know,' Trout signed and then used his fingertip to trace the letters F-O-X on the tabletop.

Carlos nodded. "Unless you've got them under lock and key and want me to light up the funeral pyre, I can't help you, Eli."

Trout pulled out his notepad, undeterred by his friend's hesitance. He knew Carlos would pull through. I need to find Mick. The place with the fox sign in Red Hook. Where is it?

Incredulous, Carlos exclaimed, "Why the hell would you think I would help you get there?"

Trout shrugged and pulled his paper back. You're a good guy and you know I need it. My friends need it.

Those blue eyes, lighter than his own bright cerulean ones regarded him solemnly. They might not talk about much, but Trout was an expert reader of people, and very few people in Carlos' life told him he was good. Good at his chosen profession maybe, but not a good person. "Nothing good happens to people who go looking for Mick, E. I don't like the bastard, the only thing I'd like is if he was dead and buried six feet under, but I still keep a good twenty block radius between him and me. I'm not sending you to that snake pit."

Trout frowned. 'I know you know,' he signed

"'Course I know!" Carlos snapped. "Its my job to know. But..." he paused, searching for any reason to deny Trout the information, "I ain't found her yet, and I'm not gonna let you commit suicide before I make good on our arrangement. That's what snooping around there is. Suicide."

With a scowl, the silent boy downed the rest of the ale in his glass. I can't keep my promise if I can't find them. He slid the note across the table and waited for Carlos to quickly scan the words before rubbing his open palm in a circle over his heart and stammering, "P-p-peassss."

Carlos sighed and waved at Jethro for another round. The old barkeep set down small glasses of clear liquid that burned Trout's eyes and nostrils in front of each of the and Carlos held his up in a toast. "Salud, Amigo, y vaya con Dios."

After swallowing the mouthful of fire and sputtering for a moment, Trout wrote, You know I don't know what you said, right?

The edges of Carlos finely drawn mouth lifted, but his concern was plain on his wrinkled brow. "I don't put much stock in invisible fantasmas in the sky, but you're going to need all the help you can get if you're determined to go into Dockside territory." Late that night, as Trout watched Scatter drag Spot from the tavern basement and out into the streets, Carlos' parting words hung in his ears. "Make sure you call me if you need someone to help light up that funeral pyre. I owe that much to Fox."

Hours later, after the lamp was blown out in the upstairs window of the brownstone, Trout stumbled through the streets. He'd watched Scatter drag Spot to the brownstone a few blocks from the Fox's Lair and now he was too tired to pick his feet up anymore. He lost his footing and slid into the alley next to the lodging house, landing in a puddle with a groan. When the side door swung open, he quickly ducked behind some crates as Marta stepped out into the night. She stopped for a moment and stared upward into the dark sky, scrunching her nose a bit as she pondered, before wandering out of the alley and into the street without looking down. Her feet knew exactly where to take her, moving smoothly and silently down to the docks, with her hands stuffed deep in the pockets of the trousers that she wore instead of her normal skirt and let her normally straight shoulders slump. She still had the saunter down pat, the slouching curve of the back that said she didn't care where she was, the swagger that owned every cobblestone her boots touched. It was all coming back to her so easily. She leaned lazily against the beams that held up the foreman's stand where Spot liked to sit, staring out at the water.

His hand absently felt the silhouette of the key through his pocket. A gust of icy wind, full of moisture from the river blew by and she shivered. As she hoisted herself surprisingly easily up the rope ladder to Spot's perch in the tower, quickly settling down to sit cross legged on the platform and stare out at the river, he sighed and pushed his hair off of his face. She kept extra blankets in the small office behind the desk, so he snuck back to the lodging house as quickly as he could and, when he returned, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "He's so stupid sometimes that I just want to smack him. Mick is relentless and this is so much bigger than just Scatter and I and him and you." He pushed his cold hands out to sign go on. She sighed, pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to twist and play with sections as she spoke. "Chips was the leader when I first started selling. He wasn't the first to go missing, I don't think, but the first one I knew of and when he disappeared, it was civil war in the bunkhouse. Boys breaking into groups supporting one leader or another, soaking each other in the streets."

Trout's eyebrows knit together, so dark against his pale skin in the moonlight. "K-k-k-key?" he asked, subconsciously moving his hand like he was turning a key in a lock. For a respected guy, being left the key was an honor. It was the vote of confidence of the leader who went before.

Even in the dim light he could tell she went pale. "The key was with Chips and after a week or two, half of the bunkhouse was locked up in the refuge for fighting in the streets. Scat and I were the oldest kids left, so we stepped up and did what we had to do." She smiled in a far off way, a way he knew was only for her fond memories of Scatter. "He was the fun guy everyone wanted to talk to and I was the mean mother hen making all the rules in the background and sending those who misbehaved to time out. Our first morning as leaders, they left Chips' body on the doorstep of the lodging house and Scat cut the key off of him before the bulls took him away." She shivered again, trying to shake the memory out of her mind. "I bet you remember the week before he left. When you came with me to see the blind man." He nodded, remembering it well. She didn't know that he was still in touch with the blind man's apprentice, and she never would. "I made the biggest ass of myself." She swallowed loudly, her face puckering with the bitter taste of regret. She reached out and threaded her arm into his, but pulled away. "You're wet. Where have you been?"

Looking in her eyes, he could see the girl he met when he was seven years old. A girl who could hold a boy in her arms soothing the shattered pieces of his heart, but might also call him a shit as a term of endearment, and could shut up an entire room of bickering boys with a single glare or clearing of her throat. The anger earlier showed him that the Kisser he remembered was still in there, she just needed a little push. He touched the key through his pocket again. "Ssssssssspot at Mmmmmmmmmick ha...ha...ha-oat." He grimaced at the sound of his poorly shaped words but looked up at her, waiting to see if she was going to make him try again.

She stared at him a moment, and he could see her rolling the words around in her brain, trying to turn his stuttered speech into anything besides what he actually said. The color in her eyes began to change, all of the blue seeming to drain out of the green leaning hazel until they were almost entirely gold. "How do you know that?" He took his pencil out and scratched out a quick version what he saw over the course of the night. She scootched closer to him to read over his shoulder as he wrote. "Could you get back to the brownstone again?" He nodded and drew her a map and she nodded as she watched before looking up to meet his eyes. "Tell me everything you saw. Every detail. I don't care how silly or small something seems, I want to know about every roach and rat that scuttled across your boots tonight." He felt his face break into a grin before he even realized why he was smiling. She sounded just like Spot, but then again, maybe Spot sounded just like her.

He wrote down everything he could remember about what he saw and she read over his shoulder as he scribbled as quickly as he could. When he was done, she sat, silently digesting the information, sometimes rereading his account, sometimes staring stonily at the water. "I need the Manhattan leader on the bridge, midway at noon. Go get Nips and Haystack up." Trout smiled sadly and reached into his pocket as he stood, the Leader's Key dangling from his fingers in front of her eyes.

"This y-yours," he said and waited for her hand to close around it before jumping down to the dock and taking off back towards the lodging house to follow orders.

A/N: Hi! So I just published a companion piece to this and My Perfect Disaster, called Return to Brooklyn. If you like my writing and my characters, you should check it out! Thank you to the impeccable Joker is Poker with a J for creating and letting me borrow darling Carlos. Thank you to my two guest reviewers. Im glad you like it, but worried about why everyone is so surprised...Is it the summary? Is it something else? I'd really like to know so that more people will check it out without hesitation!