I just keep posting, and posting, and posting, don't I? I tell you, I'm gonna do that until I run out of chapters. Just you wait.

Chapter 26- Davey

Thursday, September 16, 1999, 6:10 p.m.

"'An' the world will know, that dey're gonna pay, 'stead a' hawkin' headlines we'll be makin' 'em today!'"

Jack interrupted his and Les' made-up duet to try and convince Davey to join them for the millionth time. "C'mon, Dave, sing wit us."

"I don't sing," Davey replied, even though he was perfectly capable of singing. "Besides, I don't even know what song that is."

"'Course ya don't, I jus' made it up."

"Then how do you expect me to join in?"

"Ya jus' make it up as ya go. Like this, watch." And he turned to Les. "'So dey gave deir word?'"

"'Well, it ain't worth beans!'" Les put in. Davey cringed internally at his brother's use of the word "ain't".

"'Now dey gonna see what 'stop da presses' really means!'" The two of them chorused, flashing smiles that were somehow identical.

Davey rolled his eyes. "You two had that one planned."

"No we didn't," said Les.

Jack shook his head. "Now you try, Dave. 'An' the world will know, that this ain't no game!'"

Davey decided to humor him. "'That we got a...'" he searched his brain for the right words, "'ton of rotten fruit and... perfect aim?'" That had turned out well, considering he didn't know how he'd come up with it.

"Now you've got it!" Jack slapped his friend on the shoulder. "'So da world says no?'"

"'Well, da kids do too!'" Les cried, mimicking Jack's accent.

"'Try ta walk all over us, we'll stomp all over you," Davey muttered. He had no idea where he kept getting these phrases from.

"This is so much better than school!" Les marveled while Jack continued humming their made-up song.

"Don't even think it," Davey reprimanded. "You're going back tomorrow."

"Aw, Dave, ya can't keep a kid from 'is first strike," Jack whined, while Les gave his older brother pleading dog eyes.

"First strike?" Another person asked the question Davey had been thinking. As he watched, a short, extremely freckled boy stepped out of the shadows in front of him, followed by a much taller guy whose appearance was ever-so-slightly similar to that of Sniper. "I almost didn't believe it when I 'eard ya lost yer mind, Jackie-boy."

"Where'd ya hear that, Spotty?" Jack asked, firing back against the nickname he clearly hated by using a nickname that the other boy clearly hated.

"He's been gettin' calls all afternoon from kids all ova' da city," explained the guy standing behind the shorter, more intimidating boy.

He picked up the explanation where his friend had left off. "They's been twitterin' in my ear since school got out, somethin' 'bout Jackie-boy startin' a strike, whateva' that means."

"Good, then we don't hafta fill ya in," Jack crossed his arms. "Are ya in on this, or what?"

"Why should he be?" The other boy asked.

"What's it to you?" Les challenged.

"I don't gotta explain myself ta a seven-year-old."

"I'll have you know, I'm-"

Davey clapped a hand over Les' mouth. "I'm sorry, my little brother has developed quite the temper today. He isn't usually like this, I swear. I think it's bad influence from Jack here."

The freckled boy stepped forward, eyebrows raised so high, they nearly vanished into his hair. "Who is this guy, some kind a' walkin' mouth?"

Jack pushed Davey behind him, becoming defensive. "He ain't just a mouth, he's got brains too."

"Does the brain got a name?" The taller boy wanted to know.

Davey offered the guy his hand. "Davey Jacobs."

"Hotshot Sung." He didn't shake Davey's hand, but pointed a thumb at the boy behind him. "An' that's Spot Conlon, King a' Brooklyn."

"Great, you's all been introduced," Jack stared down at Brooklyn's apparent leader. "Now are ya joinin' our strike, or-"

"Well, I dunno, Jackie-boy, let me think," Spot interrupted. "Should I join a lyin' cowboy in 'is half-assed plan, or should I stay outta this? Gee, I don't know."

Jack squinted at Spot. "What're ya goin' on about?"

"Da position ya claimed Jacobi's had open fer me."

"What about it?"

"Accordin' ta yer friend wit da nicotine addiction, dey weren't hirin'. I walked fer three hours an' didn't get rewarded wit nothin'."

"Nicotine addiction... wait, ya talked ta Race?"

"Yeah, he's a real nice fella."

"Where was Smalls?"

"Oh, she was there, but da Queen a' da Bronx wasn't holdin' court." Davey could only comprehend about half of what was being said as he listened to this exchange, but this phrase was especially strange. He wondered what Spot meant when he called Smalls 'Queen of The Bronx', because Davey had been certain the girl lived in Manhattan.

"Why didn't ya come lookin' fer me?"

"Sorry, Jackie-boy, was I s'posed ta? Pardon me if I didn't feel like searchin' da entirety of Manhattan fer one homeless cowboy."

"Ya neva' should a' spoken ta Race."

"Real tight ship ya run, Cowboy, if ya can't let yer friends talk ta me without screwin' up."

"Hey!" Davey found himself stepping in. "Race's mistake isn't a reflection on Jack's leadership." Jack looked a him, surprised, but let him continue without protest. "You should've seen him rallying the guys this morning. He saw a problem and decided to do something about it. And he listened to their ideas before settling on the strike, er, walkout. Not a lot of leaders do that." Davey glared at Spot, then continued. "I may not have been on board at first, but I admire Jack, and I'm going to stand by him, no matter what happens."

After that speech, Spot looked back and forth between Davey and Jack, as if he were trying to figure something out. Hotshot followed his friend's gaze, then smirked. Davey didn't know what that meant. Jack, it seemed, didn't know either, but he kept glancing at his friend as if he were also trying to decipher the whatever-it-was that the other two had picked up on. Meanwhile, Les looked like he was going to burst if he didn't say something about what had just happened, but even he, surprisingly, kept his mouth shut. For a moment, Davey watched, mesmerized by the grin on Les' face. Why was he smiling that much?

Then Spot spoke up. "Nice speech, Mouth. I ain't questionin' Jackie-boy's leadership, by da way. But I know 'im, much betta' than you do, an' I need ta know he ain't gonna run at the first sign a' trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" asked Davey.

Hotshot suggested, "Da Delanceys an' their gang."

"The Delanceys don't scare me," Jack declared.

Davey told the other two, "Jack's the bravest guy I know."

Bouncing up and down, Les yelled, "Yeah!" and continued grinning at his older brother.

"An' what about the bulls?" Spot focused his dark eyes onto Jack's own, setting a challenge that even Davey could read despite it being nonverbal. Jack hung his head and started to mumble something, but Spot cut him off with a laugh. "Yeah. I thought not." He motioned to Hotshot and made to leave. "Betta' luck next time, Jackie-boy."

As he watched his friend's head snap up, Davey could tell the next words out of Jack's mouth weren't going to be anything good. Before he could retort, Davey stopped him. "Forget it. We'll see who's laughing after we walk out tomorrow."

Jack's eyes were still full of fury towards Spot, but he backed down. "Guess yer right." He checked his watch. "Damn, it's late. Sorry I dragged youse out here fer nothin'."

"Don't worry about it."

"It would a' been quicker if we'd taken da subway. I wasn't thinkin', sorry. You's prob'ly gonna be late fer dinner. S'pose yer folks'll be mad." He sighed and turned away.

"Jack," Davey started, remembering something Spot had made a reference to, "if you need a place to stay-"

"Uh-uh. I ain't takin' charity from no one."

"At least come have dinner with us. My offer from last night still stands."

"I said no, Dave! What part a' 'no' don't ya understand?"

"Stubborn, aren't you?" Two can play at that game, Davey thought.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Who are ya? My mother?"

"No, I'm your friend, and I'm worried about you."

"Ya got no reason ta be."

"Well, I am." Davey was. For reasons he could not even explain to himself. Les tapped his older brother's arm, then pointed to a bakery across the street, which was in the process of closing for the night. With a glance at Jack, and without any verbal explanation, Davey bolted towards the business, Les running beside him. Jack eventually followed, though the older boy didn't catch up to the two brothers until they had completed their mission.

"What exactly is goin' on here?" Jack panted.

"First of all, this is payback for the chase you led us on last night. And second-" Davey tossed him a stack of stale doughnuts wrapped in plastic, which the disgruntled baker had given to Les for five bucks. "Here, take it."

Bewildered, Jack stared at the pastries. "Wha-"

"We can't have our strike leader working on an empty stomach, now can we?"

"Guess not."

"Get some sleep, and we'll meet up in the morning." Davey beckoned his younger brother, and the two of them began backing away from Jack. "And before you say it again, that isn't charity."

"Then what is it?" asked Jack, with a half-smile.

"Whatever you want it to be, Jackie-boy."

And Davey walked away with Les.

Jackie-boy! Poor Jackie-boy. Brooklyn will be Brooklyn. Don't worry, they'll come around eventually. But Race is going to get a serious talking-to the next time Jack sees him. (Sorry, Racer.)

Until the next chapter, which shall be the actual strike day, I bid you all adieu.