Author's Note: Well look at what we have here… another chapter of Sin City, woot. This takes us back to the earlier format – we got a little bit of all of the characters here. It's still early and all but this chapter is slowly setting up the conclusion of this story. (Key word, slowly) So, yes, enjoy and all that jazz.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author.
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Sin City
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Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...
One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan.
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Just like that, a whopper of a puzzle piece falls smack in my lap.
I'm too dumb to put the whole picture together yet, but...
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6:01 am
"The presses are rolling. Sell the papes. C'mon, boys, it's time to sell the papes! Get up, get up, get up!"
For the first time in only God knows how long, Jack Kelly is awake before Kloppman reaches his bunk. He is lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, as he stares at the bunkroom ceiling. It's a good ceiling, he figures, nice and clean. Sturdy, too. He's heard about buildings collapsing because they weren't worth the beams they were built with. The beams buckled and the walls came crumbling down. Killed peopled, too.
Building collapses. That's what Jack is thinking about when Kloppman reaches a gnarled and wrinkled hand out to wake him up. He's thinking about those poor suckers who don't have a sturdy roof over their head.
And it reminds him of a particular headline from a couple years back. One of few headlines that he didn't have to improve in order to sell through his stack of a hundred – it's the weird (and tragic, really) headlines that stick with him. TRAGEDY: Building Falls, Thirteen Die.
It was a joke for some time later amongst the younger boys. Back then, when Jack was about thirteen – no, fourteen, he corrects himself – there was a rather large boy called Fatty O'Malley. He was a head taller than most and at least twice as wide. He was an orphan, or so he said, but never seemed to diminish in size (something that Jack could never figure out); he did live in the lodging house, though, paying his fare and selling papers alongside the others.
All the boys liked to poke fun at Fatty for his weight – with Fatty being one of the nicer names they had for him. And, after the story of the building collapse… well, the younger boys – with Jack as the ringleader – began to suggest that, should Fatty go any further than the first floor, the whole lodging house would buckle under his bulk.
It started as a joke, as most childhood teasing does, but soon progressed into absolute fact. They were convinced that Fatty would murder them all by joining them in the bunkroom – despite the fact that he had been part of the lodging house for years. Fatty tried to point that out, with Kloppman – acting as the responsible adult – backing him up.
It did not work, though. And then, one day, Fatty was gone. Packed up his stuff, cleaned out his locker and vanished.
Sometimes, when Jack tries not to stew on all of the shit that he is going though, he thinks of Fatty O'Malley. He wonders where the big boy went. He wonders if he ever brought a house down with his weight.
And then he feels like a complete and utter ass.
It's a feeling that Jack Kelly is quite familiar with.
Kloppman's hand brushes Jack's arm. The old supervisor sees that the boy is already awake and pulls his hand back. "Up and at 'em, Cowboy. Time to sell the papes."
There's no smart aleck grin on Jack Kelly's face but the dark circles under his eyes are unmistakable. His unrest is a liability that he can not afford but there is nothing he can do about it now. It's a new day, it is. And a new day means another hundred papes he's got to sell.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he replies, slowly sitting up and pushing his greasy hair back away from his face. He yawns once and shoves all unpleasantness – the night before with Lucy, his lapse in good judgment, the sense that he had been followed, even the morbid curiosity about what happened to Fatty O'Malley – out of his mind. He needs to be in top form for when he meets up with Dave.
He can't have Dave trying to figure out that something's wrong, after all.
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6:03 am
Skittery is still sleeping, deeper than he had been earlier. After visiting Faye's room, he had returned to the ground but he did not resume his position on the stoop. Instead, he sat down, in the dust, beside the fire escape. He was tired, he was cranky and he did not feel like moving.
That is, until he was drenched from head to toe.
His dark eyes spring open as soon as the liquid – which, on close examination, appears to be just water – came splashing down upon him. He is on his feet almost as fast, his head jerked upwards as if he is trying to tell where the unwanted bath came from.
There is no one that he can see, though he swears that he heard the tell-tale clicking of a window being shut. And, perhaps, a girlish laugh, ringing out high above him.
Then again, it might just be his imagination. It had been a rough night; he did not sleep very well – and what dreams he had were unpleasant.
He pushes at his sopping wet hair as he dejectedly turns his eyes back to the once dirt, now mud concoction at his feet. He taps his foot, sending splatters of mud outward, as well as up the leg of his trouser. He scowls.
What do I do now?
Skittery wipes at the (hopefully clean) water that is currently dripping down his neck and drenching his shirt. There's not much that he can do, really. Part of him wants to stay near Faye's home in the hopes that he can convince her to talk to him. But, the more realistic part of him – the glum 'n dumb part – thinks it is hopeless; that he would be better going off on his own, selling the morning edition of the World, earning some money and, perhaps, eating something for a change.
He begins to debate the positives and negatives to each of his two options but, before he has gotten very far, he hears a strange rumbling. It's loud and obnoxious and it takes him a second to realize that the sound is coming from him.
Skittery's stomach has just made his mind up for him.
"Breakfast it is then," he mutters to himself, sticking his damp hands into his pockets. "And then I guess I'll go from there."
One can not try to win back their girl on an empty stomach, after all.
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6:06 am
It's only been a couple of hours since he left the lodging house but Racetrack has not gotten very far. As soon as he snuck out of the back door, he retook up his perch from earlier in the night. It is a beautiful morning and, really, Race has nowhere else to go.
Of the three cigar butts that he brought with him when he left, there is only one left. He tries his best to make it last. The constant breathing in of the nicotine is the only thing keeping him sane, just then.
It is a struggle, though his fingers are stubby themselves, to keep the ends of the cigar in his mouth without the ends burning his skin. He takes another drag, shorter than he would like, as he listens to the sounds of the others getting ready for the day. The sounds annoy him.
He envies them. He does. As hard as he knows an orphan's life is – and as much as he knows that everything he is going through is his fault – he still envies them all. The others, the ones who don't have a seven dollar debt to a ferocious rat-obsessed bookie; the ones who aren't contemplating ripping off the most innocent of their comrades.
The ones who are not Racetrack Higgins.
He sighs and stands up, tossing the remnants of his cigar to the ground. He steps on it more viciously than he should and sighs again.
Race is aware that – based on the upsurge of sound coming from the lodging house – that it is nearly time for the distribution center to open. For one second, one brief second, he wonders if it would be pointless to try to pretend as if everything is fine.
But it's impossible, he knows, to make seven dollars in one day, simply selling papers. Therefore, why should he even try?
He groans out loud. The more time he spends stewing on Mouse's warnings is just another second, minute, hour closer until his deadline is up.
Squish. Racetrack shudders.
Stealing Mush's money, while looking all the more tempting with the smoking of another cigar, is his last resort. Race knows this. But what else can he do?
That's when it dawns on him.
Perhaps there is another way.
And it really isn't that far to Brooklyn, after all.
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6:10 am
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"Nine dollars and sixty-six cents… nine dollars and sixty-sevens cents… nine dollars and sixty-eight cents… nine dollars and sixty-nine cents… nine dollars and seventy cents."
Mush nods, his lips curling up slightly. $9.70. Only thirty cents left until he hits his ten dollar goal.
His curly-haired head nearly swallowed up by the locker, all Mush sees are mounds upon mounds of coppers, with a few liberty-head nickels and the odd dime – and, even rarer, a quarter or three – mixed in. It's such a sight and he knows that his locker will seem quite empty when he loads his earnings into a satchel and brings it downtown to purchase his new shoes.
Of course, his callused and blistered feet in mind, the boy knows that it is much better to have a bare locker than bare feet.
Just then, he pulls his head back and cocks his head to the side. Thump, thump, bang…
With a wider smile, Mush recognizes the noise. He can hear the frantic steps of his fellow lodgers above him. It is time for the boys to prepare for their day of selling – an ordinary, regular day of selling.
A little nervous that one of the boys might dress and wash up before the others, and maybe interrupt Mush's session with his money, he hurriedly reaches his dirty hand into the open hole. He grabs at a particularly small mound of pennies and, drawing his hand back and forming it into a bowl, Mush quickly counts it out.
There are sixteen pennies sitting in his palm. Sixteen pennies means thirty-two papers. It's a strange amount to ask the operator of the distribution center; he puts one of the dull coppers back to rest within his hoard and slams the locker door shut.
Thirty papes sounds good to Mush. Not as many as he would usually buy but he is feeling a bit giddy that morning; he would rather head out with a pal and have fun – just knowing that his goal is so close that he could almost taste it is enough to entice him to enjoy the late summer morning.
And if he sells all of his papers – which he should, since it's not much – that's fifteen cents profit he'll get out of an easy morning. He'll use five cents for his lodging fare, five for supper (if he can't use his sweet face to get it for free)… at the very least, he'll be able to add another nickel to his pile.
Mush is still smiling. The way he sees it, he should have his shoes by the end of the week.
And there's nothing that can make him happier, after all.
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6:31 am
David is dawdling. He took his time washing up and changing his clothes and now, as he heads across town, towards the distribution center, he is purposely dragging his feet. He knows what is at the end of his journey and he is not looking forward to seeing Jack.
He is proud of his foresight, though. He's pretty sure that, eventually, he'll have to confront Jack with his knowledge – and he does not want Les to be around when he does that.
After sneaking back into his apartment – though it was not very sneaky, given that both his mother and father were up – he spoke to his mother and asked her if she'd mind keeping Les in. His mother is an intuitive woman but, luckily for David, she did not ask any questions. She just nodded and hurried him off with a knowing grin. It was not a happy smile, though. David thought it probably mirrored the concerned expression carved into his own face.
David refuses to hurry. His stomach is tied into knots and his Adam's apple is quivering as he wrings his hands. He's not afraid of Jack, or what his pal will say (no, that's not true – he is afraid of what Jack will have to say in response), but that does not make this trek any easier.
Every door he passes reminds him of the one he entered the night before. Every slow walking boy on the street makes him wonder if they, too, are returning from a guilty jaunt. Every hat-adorned young miss brings the image of his sister to his mind. He cringes.
Sarah. Poor Sarah.
David stops wringing his hands. Instead, he lowers them to his side and clenches them.
What is wrong with Jack?
He's doing this for her – for Sarah. She deserves to know the truth. Sarah (not to mention Les) thinks the world of Jack Kelly; if Jack is deceiving her by visiting a house of ill-fame, then Sarah needs to know. And, as her brother, it is up to David to speak to his friend and learn the truth of what he had spied.
Not that he really expects Jack to tell him the truth.
Though, if he does, that'll bring his tally up to… two, perhaps.
But two is better than none, after all.
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Right?