And here we are again!

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AndrewKeenanBolgerFan: Goodness, thank you! I'm glad you liked that. Pulitzer is the most evil superintendent there ever was.

Chapter 15- Spot

Wednesday, September 15, 1999, 6:00 p.m.

Spot Conlon kicked a trash can in frustration, then collapsed onto the ground. His best friend, Hotshot, who was an entire one foot, three inches taller than Spot, sat down next to him on the stoop in a calmer manner.

"Fine day for da bus drivers ta strike," Spot fell back against the steps.

Hotshot crossed his beige arms. "Da buses don' run on your schedule. People wit that attitude is exactly what they's protestin' today."

"They's protestin' their asshole of a boss an' da fact that he's obeyin' Pulitzer. Not my attitude."

"My feet are protestin' yer attitude."

"I ain't the one makin' 'em smell." It was a dumb insult, but Spot had to make allowances for himself. He was exhausted from the walk.

Hotshot jumped up, only to sit back down right away, evidently from the pain in his feet. "Ya know it's a three-hour walk ta Manhattan. We couldn't a', I dunno, taken da subway?"

"It didn't used ta be so far."

"When, a hundred years ago?"

"The subway was crowded."

"That's your argument every time."

"I like crossin' the bridge, okay? Geez."

"Why, 'cause it makes ya feel tall?"

Spot made to slap him on the back of the head, but Hotshot ducked. "I's capable a' killin' ya."

"Are ya really, though?" Hotshot bent backwards, making Spot unable to reach him. Pissed about his short arms and a number of other things, the older guy kicked his friend. "Ow. Ya've made yer point. So what're we doin' here, exactly?"

"I need a job."

"Don't ya have a job already?"

"That was summer. This is now."

"Okay then."

"You's a sophmore. Ya wouldn't understand."

"Why d'you wanna job all da way in Manhattan?"

"I'm jus' lookin' where I knows there's work," Spot stood up, pulling his friend with him- or at least, he thought that's what he was doing. In reality, Hotshot was standing up by himself while Spot tugged on his wrist. "C'mon."

He led Hotshot across the street to a small restaurant tucked into a row of other buildings, called Jacobi's. Visible through the single glass window bearing the name of the restaurant was a packed dining room with a small counter at the back, behind which two teenagers were working, neither of which were the person Spot was looking for. Looking through the crowded tables yielded no results either; nonetheless, Spot marched inside, his best friend still trailing behind him.

"Spot Conlon!" announced the short, brown-haired girl behind the counter.

"Smalls," acknowledged Spot. "Is Jack here?"

"Nope. Dunno where he is. Ask Race." She pointed to the boy next to her and started talking to Hotshot instead.

A bit awkwardly, Spot stepped over to the other end of the counter. "Uh, hi," he told the guy he vaguely recognized as one of Jack Kelly's friends. He waved with only three fingers, showcasing his social awkwardness. "Spot Conlon here."

"I know who you are." The blonde boy grinned for a second, more to himself than to Spot. Realizing there was still another person in front of him, he adjusted his baseball cap with the Jacobi's logo, and avoided Spot's eyes. "Um, Jack ain't here. He should a' been here hours ago, but he ain't. So."

"Ya think he'll be here anytime soon?"

"I dunno."

"Dammit." Spot looked around the restaurant for a final time, not wanting to explain himself to this random guy named Race. "Here's the thing. I need a job. So, uh, you guys need any help 'round here?"

Race answered quickly. "No. Not from you."

"Whaddaya mean by that?"

"I-" Race met Spot's eyes, and his face reddened. He adjusted his cap again. "We don't need any help. That's all. Sorry."

"Really? 'Cause Jack was tellin' me ya always needed help 'round here."

"He lied. We definitely don't need help."

"Ya got some issue with me?"

"No, uh... Well, there's gotta be jobs for ya in Brooklyn, right? Ya should prob'ly get back there."

"And what if there ain't any jobs in Brooklyn?"

Race shrugged, fished a cigarette out of his pocket, and started flipping it over in his hands. "There's gotta be somethin'. I'd say jus' keep lookin'." He stuck the cigarette between his teeth.

Spot clenched his jaw. Who did this kid think he was? "I will."

"Good."

"Good." He marched out of the restaurant, grabbing Hotshot roughly by the arm even though the other boy was in the middle of ordering food.

"That was interestin'," said Hotshot, crossing his arms again. "Least ya didn't completely explode on 'im."

"Shut yer mouth," Spot kicked a nearby trash can. "Damn Cowboy lied."

"Maybe he jus' wanted ya ta come over here 'cause his friend's got a crush on ya."

"What? Smalls?"

Hotshot brought three fingers up to his forehead, resting his elbow on top of his other arm as he shook his head. "My god, you're stupid."

"Smalls don't even like guys, so you's da stupid one."

"Were ya even payin' attention back there? Didja even look at the guy ya were talkin' to?" Spot said nothing. "Go back in an' see fer yourself."

"You're talkin' 'bout that Race kid, aren't ya."

"Uh, yeah."

"I dunno what you was seein', but he clearly hates me."

"Forget it." Hotshot leaned against the wall, placing one shoe against the brick and keeping his arms crossed over his stomach. "Maybe da Cowboy changed his mind. Decided ya should look for anotha' job in Brooklyn, y'know, where ya actually live."

"I'm outta options in Brooklyn."

"Oh." Hotshot understood.

Spot's infamous temper, unsurprising when you considered his Irish, Italian, and American heritage, had a tendency to get him fired. There were plenty of places to work in Brooklyn, but by this point, it appeared most of them had either already fired Spot or knew who he was and didn't want to hire him just to fire him right away.

"Sorry, man."

"I didn't ask ya ta be sorry." Spot started walking. "C'mon. 'Snot like there's only one restaurant 'round here. I'm sure one a' 'em could use my help."

"Aw, is da King a' Brooklyn outta work?" Oscar Delancey stepped around the corner, his bodyguard of a brother right behind him. "Ain't that a shame."

Stepping back so he could look at them without craning his neck, Spot studied the two boys, struck with a sudden idea. "Say, Osca'. Didn't I see youse an' yer gang crackin' heads 'round da city this summa'?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"Who do ya work for? How much do dey pay youse?"

"Are ya sayin' ya want in, pipsqueak?"

"Yeah," Spot glanced at Hotshot, whose eyes had grown wide as he listened to this conversation. "I am."

Morris laughed a menacing laugh, while Oscar just stared.

"I could take youse right now if ya need a demonstration," Spot cracked his knuckles.

Oscar sized up the shorter boy. "Okay. We'll look inta it." He turned around, motioning for Morris to come with him. The Delancey brothers disappeared the way they had come, and Hotshot rounded on his older friend.

"Did you jus' join a gang?"

"Yup," Spot continued down the street, unfazed. "I says we get a taxi back ta Brooklyn."

"What?" Hotshot was shocked beyond words.

"It ain't impressive or nothin'. I mean, it's da Delancey brothers. Whoeva' dey work fer ain't that dangerous."

"No." Hotshot grabbed Spot's shoulder. "No way." He turned his friend back in the direction of Jacobi's. "You's marchin' back in there an' demandin' da position Jack promised ya."

"Hell no. I'm not bein' humiliated again."

"So you's afraid a' that Race kid now?"

"I ain't afraid."

Hotshot gave him a disbelieving look. "Then what's yer deal with him?"

"Nothin'. Don' worry 'bout it. I got work with da Delanceys. It's all good."

Continuing to steer him towards the restaurant, Hotshot repeated his instructions that Spot go back in and discuss getting a job. Spot was not having that. He wrenched away from his friend and bolted down the sidewalk. For a short guy, he was incredibly fast.

Spot weaved through stereotypical New York City sidewalk traffic; business people, actors, street performers, homeless people, and hot dog salespeople all leaped out of his way. Then they returned to their business like nothing had happened, and leaped out of the way again as Hotshot came running the same direction. The chase went on for another five minutes, Spot staying mere feet in front of his companion the entire time.

Finally, Spot took a moment to catch his breath on the steps of a nearby building. It was then that he looked up to see the bright yellow taxi parked in front of him. The back passenger door was open, offering its space to anyone lucky enough to take note of it. Hotshot was sprinting up the sidewalk, so Spot took the chance. He jumped into the taxi, slammed the door shut, and yelled "Drive!" at the cabbie.

It wasn't until they were on the road, speeding as fast as one could on New York streets, that Spot glanced in the rear view mirror and spotted the terrified boy in the backseat.

Spot, no. Don't do that. Don't join the Delancey brothers. And Race, don't you do that, throwing Spot out of Jacobi's accidentally. You're just making things harder.

Dun dun dun! Spot just crashed someone's cab ride. Any guesses as to who it is? It's one of our major characters.

This was very short (like the character in it). See you all next time!