Queen of New York

by IrishBelle

Sort of an alternate version of Newsies. It's from Crutchie's perspective, only this time, Crutchie is a newsgirl. She goes through the strike, the Refuge, all the events of the musical. But because she is a girl, events are a bit different. The message is also a bit more disability-inclusive, as it's written by a disabled author.

7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

A/N: Welcome back! The strike hits next chapter, so enjoy this last relaxing one and buckle up! Also, be prepared for a somewhat longer strike and some more details. Consider it Crutchie getting her deserved spotlight in Act I and Act II.

Jacobi's Deli, Noon

"Gosh, Katherine. Maybe you need an arm," Crutchie observed when the morning shift ended. "Seriously, you okay?"

"I'm fine—though as you said, I'm not dressed for this. How do you do it in a skirt?"

"Well, one, all the trousers I borrowed are in the laundry today. Two, Miss Medda—that's where I get clothes from, mostly, else I gotta borrow off the guys. She makes mine so there's like, a modest split right here, see? Makes it easier to move with the crutch, or I can tuck it up in the belt here."

Katherine slumped into a chair, but didn't lose her grin. "Fascinating. I've seen a few fashion plates like that, but my—well, my editor and—others, say they're scandalous."

"That's 'cause they don't walk around New York every day. You did pretty good, though, shadowin' us. Didn't she, Davey?"

"You could keep up if you needed to," Davey agreed. "So, Crutchie, that's fifty for you—wonder how Jack's doin'?"

"If I know Jack, the score's tied," Katherine predicted, having been filled in on the bet. "I hate to admit, I can understand why people buy his papers, even if he does lie through his teeth about what's in them."

"Only 'cause he's scared of not sellin'. 'Cause if he don't, he ends up…" She clamped her lips. She almost said "back in Snyder's web," but that brought up the Refuge, which she refused to do with Katherine yet. Plus, that story was Jack's to tell, not hers. "Stuck in New York forever," she said again. "And he's got dreams too big for that."

"Yes, Horace Greeley Syndrome. He may have mentioned it—a few times. But why now, and why Santa Fe?"

"I guess he feels a bit claustrophobic," Davey said. "He doesn't have folks, or anything really keepin' him around, and he's almost too old for the newsie game. So…" He shrugged as Mr. Jacobi approached their table.

"What can I get you—oh, hello, Miss Plumber. Back again?"

"You know me. Can't resist the pastrami on rye."

"Make that two," Davey said. "The morning was most profitable."

Mr. Jacobi gave Crutchie a hopeful smile. "Does this mean you'll finally splurge, my dear?"

"Okay, okay. Make it three. This once."

"Finally, she orders something that sticks to her ribs! God is good! Chava!" Mr. Jacobi raced toward the kitchen, yelling something about opening heavens and extra mustard.

"Mr. Jacobi, gotta love him," Crutchie said, shaking her head. "Wish he didn't fuss over me so much."

"If you think that's bad, you better never meet my mom," Davey warned her. "She'll have you drownin' in kugel, mushroom and cheese blintzes…you won't fit in none of those skirts."

"I dunno, I might like your mom. 'Course, I might have to tell her you left your grammar somewhere between Harlem and Delancey."

Davey pulled a thread off his sweater. "I didn't know at first, but I like Jack and the others. I want to fit in. I never…it's stupid."

"No, wait, let me guess," Crutchie said. "You was—you are—a good kid. Real good at school. You loved it, like you told me. You let yourself dream big. And then…" She clapped once, hard, so Davey and Katherine jumped. "One day you're goin' along fine, and your dad comes home hurt so bad they wouldn't think of givin' him another chance. Next ya know, you're watchin' after Les like you's the dad, and the only career prospect you got? Hawkin' papes for a penny, a nickel if you get lucky."

"Right," Davey agreed as Mr. Jacobi set down their sandwiches and waters. "We were doing all right since Papa was a foreman, but he doesn't ask the men to do things he won't do himself. So when he got hurt, the bosses fired him for bein' too soft as much as anythin' else. Called him some nasty names about bein' Jewish, too. They ain't been payin' him right for months, and then they let 'im go with nothin'."

"Davey, that's awful," Katherine breathed. "Couldn't he go to his union or…"

"He doesn't—he ain't got one. So, he figures least dangerous thing Les and I—me—can do, sell newspapers. And here we are. Sarah's already at the match factory, so might as well give up on school altogether, huh?"

"If you can make yourself," Crutchie said. "Believe me, I've tried. You don't lose it completely—ya just kinda…learn and unlearn."

"So, what about you, Crutchie?" Katherine asked. "Why a newsgirl, and not the match factory like most girls? Or, I guess with the standing and all?"

"Nah, wasn't that. I became a newsgirl before I got sick. Kinda like what happened to Davey. My folks came to New York 'fore they even had me—met on the boat, can you believe that? My ma was full Irish, Pop was half, the other half 'a' his family was Italian, wouldn't have much to do with the Irish half, it was this whole big thing. Who knows."

"They married on shipboard? How romantic," Katherine enthused.

"Yeah, if you call it romantic when half the families is dead of fever and the other half wants to kill ya for kissin', but they made it okay. Ma was part of what they call Irish gentry, not one 'a' those that came over 'cause of the famine back in the '40s. She was real educated, got herself a good job as a parlor maid. Pop, he was more a workin' guy, but he knew he was comin' over here, so he taught himself English, at least enough to follow the conversation, you know? So by the time they had me, well, they still had to live in the tenements, but they was—we were okay."

"So, when wasn't it okay?" Katherine asked.

Crutchie bought time with her sandwich. "They wanted more kids, but Ma—somethin' was wrong inside, I think. She couldn't carry 'em, 'cept little Joey, he got lucky and stuck. And the more she tried, the thinner and sicker she got. She always bounced back, but after we lost Joey, she—lost heart, you know? And Pop, he had the same problem the whole city does with bosses. He kept gettin' his pay cut, 'cause he spoke English good enough to speak up for better workin' conditions, and the new immigrants couldn't, so they'd work for less. But Pop was still an immigrant, so the bosses figured treatin' him like dirt was okay. So he bounced from job to job for a few years, 'til his luck and Ma's prayers just ran out. That's when he got on at the last factory, started the printin' press strike."

"I remember that," Katherine said. "I would see the strikers on my way to—work, if you could call it that. Sneezing my way through flower shows. I couldn't decide if they were foolish or brave."

"Both," Davey and Crutchie said at the same time, before exchanging a rueful smile. "Papa says strikes are like war," Davey added. "Necessary at times, but they never end well."

"Pop felt the same way," Crutchie said. "He worried about me and Ma. He used to tell me, 'Lotta, Principessa—that's Italian for 'princess,' he always called me that. Some nickname for a kid like me, huh? Anyway, he said, 'I do not like the worry in your eyes, my dear, or your mama's. You tell me, I will come home.' Said it to Ma, too. But we were proud of him. We wanted him to win, and nobody wanted it more than me. I wanted things to be better for us. I knew I had to help."

"So you became a newsie?" Davey asked. "What, you dressed up like a boy?"

"I meant to, at first," Crutchie said. "But it was hard enough, convincin' my folks at all. I told 'em it was only 'til Pop could get work, and even then, he slapped me over it, which was big. He never hit anybody, never, and you know how people talk about Irish and Italian tempers. But he shocked me so bad, he made me cry. I remember askin' him, did he think it was easy for me, watchin' New York break my daddy, my hero?" Crutchie gulped just thinking of it.

"So what then?" Katherine had a hand to her throat, scooted up to the edge of her chair.

"He hugged me so hard I thought he was gonna pull me apart. Apologized all over, in English and Italian. And he looks at Ma and goes, 'It is her time, Moira.' So I promised Ma I would dress as a girl, wouldn't come back talkin' and actin' like some street urchin, and off I went. You should've seen me, I was pathetic."

"You could never be pathetic," Katherine declared. "I've known you for maybe two days altogether and I've figured that out."

"You've got no idea." Crutchie's lips spread into a chagrined smile at the memory from almost two years ago now, in the flower shop district.

"Excuse me, ma'am, can I interest you in a copy of the World?"

Nothing. The woman hadn't even heard her. Carlotta cleared her throat, tried for a louder voice. The wind wasn't as high as in winter, but it still stole her words. Maybe she'd have better luck with the man coming out of the café next door. Yes, of course. Women didn't read newspapers, men did.

"Excuse me, sir? Moment of your time? I wondered if you…"

"I don't have time, missy. Get outta the street 'fore you get yourself run over."

Okay, so he was busy. Maybe she had to start a little slower. Ah, that older gentleman, feeding the pigeons the crumbs of a bagel. Anybody who'd feed birds had a kind heart, right?

"Ahem. Excuse me, sir. I'm the World's new newsgirl, and I…"

"Let me save you the speech, young lady. I do not want a newspaper, and you should go home where you belong. Delinquent kids like you are gonna ruin our country."

An ember stirred in Carlotta's chest. She grabbed it, tried to smother it, like Ma coached her to. Ladies did not respond to diatribes like that. But this man had never been where she was. He hadn't walked his feet bloody for three days just to sell five lousy papers and buy back twenty-five. He hadn't had to smile and tell his parents everything was okay when it wasn't.

"Oh, yeah? Well, here's some news for you! I am not a delinquent, and I belong where I can help my family! So take that home and think about it—and I hope you choke on that lousy bagel!"

A high-pitched laugh rose over the man's grumbles and some scandalized society lady gasps. "So. Finally got a rise outta Saint Lotta, did they?" It was the blonde newsgirl, Mr. Wiesel's best female seller, the one who dropped hemlines and showed leg to make sales, tossed her curls at anything male that moved. "You can use that, you know. Men like feisty little immigrant wh—"

Carlotta pasted her smile back on. "I suppose you would know, Nancy." She walked away, not knowing where. She'd just lost every respectable customer in newsgirl territory, so what was she gonna do now?

"I can't believe it, either."

"Yeah, Jack would eat that up. Too bad she ain't a boy."

"Hey, if the papes move, who cares? Point is, she ain't no priss. We oughta get her on our side or she'll outsell us all."

"Right, Specs. I seen her around, she can't sell. Jack would eat her for lunch, is what."

Jack—where had Carlotta heard that name? Right, Mr. Wiesel, her first day. "Well, you're no Jack Kelly. You're not even Nancy Tomlinson. But Pulitzer just landed me with stock and I'm desperate, so if you think you can do it, knock yourself out." Jack Kelly. Maybe… She waited for the newsboys to move on, then hurried to catch up to the one called Specs, staying far enough behind so he wouldn't notice.

The newsboys ended up gathered in the Bowery. Ma would pull out Carlotta's full name and invoke all the saints if she knew; the Bowery wasn't anywhere close to the best neighborhood. But beggars, choosers, and all that. Carlotta wasn't supposed to know, but Pop was so desperate for work, he was goin' to somebody with connections to the Irish and Italian mafias. So she hid behind a wall, looked around, tried to find somebody who looked like a leader, listened out for Jack's name. Then she heard the blonde guy with the cigar say it. Now or never. Straighten spine, smile. No, maybe don't smile. This is business.

"Excuse me." No, that hadn't gotten her anywhere. She marched straight into the group. "Are you Jack Kelly?"

He turned, dark eyes narrow, brown hair at a rakish angle under the newsboy cap. "Maybe, who's askin'?"

She stuck out her hand. "My name is Carlotta Murphy. I need…"

"And let me guess. You're head of catechism class, come to save us all." The newsboys cracked up.

Okay, that was just it. Carlotta dropped her hand. "Yeah, you're hilarious. My name is Carlotta Murphy. I'm a newsgirl, which I know is a joke to you, but it's not to me and it's not to my family. My father's a printing press striker desperate enough to go to the mob for work, my mom's sick, and I've been at this for three darn days." She yanked off her shoe, stuck a bloody sock in his face. "And you are the last person I'd ask for help, but they say you're the best, so here I am."

Jack elbowed the cigar smoker. "See, even the girls have heard of me. Which, Carlotta Murphy. Why ain't you down at the coffee shops and flower kiosks, charmin' fellas outta a pape while they buy roses and chocolates for their gals?"

"A lot of reasons. Mostly because I want to sell papers, not my legs. So, can you help me or not?"

Jack gave her a once-over. "I like her. She got more moxie than the rest of you bums."

"Uh, she is right in front of you."

Jack offered his hand. "Right. Let's go. We split the take sixty-forty."

"Don't you mean fifty-fifty?"

"That's until I see how you do. Like anybody's gonna say no to a girl. If she does it right, that is. Stick with me. Remember, I am the best."

"That sounds like the cocky little son-of-a…it sounds like Jack," Katherine amended. "But clearly, it worked."

"Yeah. By the next week, we had more customers than we knew what to do with. I'd tell little kids stories, Jack would draw 'em pictures on the pape corners, you name it. I thought we was gonna be some kinda dream team, open up the newsie business to girls and guys all over Manhattan, but then I got to Newsies' Square one morning and he was gone. Specs caught up with me. He said they threw him in the Refuge for stealin'." Crutchie's face heated. "I thought he musta robbed a customer or somethin', he wasn't the nice guy I imagined. To be honest with ya, at the time…I kinda…had a crush."

Katherine's lips pursed. "It hurts, doesn't it?"

"Stung a little, but didn't have time to think about it. 'Cause that was the same day I got sick. Jack had been sayin' I was ready to sell on my own, and I'd been at it a day or two, doin' okay. But I was so broke up about him, I wasn't careful. Tangled with this dirty bum—literally, guy stank to high heaven—tried to steal my papes and my money. I cleaned up after, but…guess I caught it from him. I came home, fell asleep on the couch. Woke up thinkin' I was in hell, I burned and hurt so bad."

"Oh, Crutchie." Davey reached for her hand, but she didn't let him take it.

"Yeah. So then here I am, in the hospital, dumped another load of crap on my folks with my medical bills. The mob killed Pop over money—don't know who, don't know which mob, don't care. I broke my mom's heart. They took me to the Refuge and I thought I'd never see Jack or anybody ever again. 'Cept obviously, here I am."

"Here you are," Katherine agreed. "Maybe your father didn't win that strike, but it sounds like his daughter won something bigger."

"Yeah, yeah. Speakin' of, I got a bet to win, too."

Newsies' Square, Just Before Closing

"Here they come," Davey announced. Katherine had left after lunch, saying she had another engagement at the match factory. And indeed, Crutchie had glimpsed her there while sellin' across the street, so she'd relaxed in terms of Katherine shootin' straight about her motives. But as to her bet with Jack, she couldn't relax yet. He and Specs had teamed up today; Jack argued it was fairer if he had a smaller partner with glasses. And like Crutchie, Jack carried papes with him. How many, she couldn't tell.

The two pairs of newsies faced each other, and the two leaders took deep breaths. "Ready?" Jack asked.

"If you are," Crutchie agreed.

Jack spit into his hand. "Okay, then. May the best man—or woman—win."

The other newsies gathered, and Jack signaled to Race, as impartial counter and their best mathematician. He signaled for quiet over their chatter and nodded to Crutchie. "Ladies first?"

"Why not?"

"Okay, hand 'em over—no, Jack, no fair countin'. Let's see, that's…wow! Out of the gate, folks! I've got a deficit of three here, meaning Manhattan's finest newsgirl, half Irish, half Italian—well, it's prob'ly a fourth, but who cares about fractions—all sunshine, patron saint of Denton's Dirty Dozen Newsboys, has sold a whopping 97!"

A cheer went up, until Race yelled, "Hey, shaddup! Okay, now for the next total, Cowboy Kelly himself, the man with the longest sales record in Manhattan, the…"

"Hey, Race, while we're young!" Finch yelled from the back.

"Okay, keep your pants on—whoa, I can tell, this is gonna be what they call a photo finish…and remember, we got dates and cold hard cash on the line, folks…"

"Higgins, I'm gonna kill you," Jack ground out.

"Aaaaannnnnnnd…oh. Oh, dear. Was not expectin' this, folks. Our man with the Manhattan record has also sold 97. We got a draw."

The newsies indulged in a collective groan, until Jack reached into his pocket for a nickel. "Crutchie, call it in the air."

"Heads."

Jack flipped and caught the nickel. Crutchie caught the beginnings of the smirk before he looked up. "It's tails. Looks like I keep my dignity—and you lose some money."

More cheers, back claps, and good-natured ribbing followed. Henry, who'd been on kid patrol, showed up with the youngest newsies, Les in the lead, and some of them congratulated Jack while others commiserated over Crutchie's loss. Little Man tugged on her skirt, and she leaned down so he could whisper in her ear.

"If you don't wanna spend the money, you can give it to me," he said. "Jack don't hafta worry 'cause he sells so much. But, if you're savin' it in case you get hungry or somethin'."

Crutchie spread her smile a little too thin. No one could know the truth, that she saved for the inevitable day when she got sick again, or when her injury acted up so badly she couldn't avoid a doctor. If she had the money, they couldn't argue that maybe she should just wait to die. Oh, they never said so, but she knew. But no way a little kid should know that.

"It ain't like that," she said. "I promise. The way Mrs. Martinelli feeds us? I couldn't be hungry if I tried." Well, she was. They all were, the way they burned food off. But hunger was different from starvin'. "Jack won, so I gotta do what's fair. Remember what we talk about?"

"Newsies can joke and tease and have fun, but we ain't mean on purpose 'cause the world's got enough of that?"

"Exactly. You go on with Henry and the others. I'll catch up."

"You'll be home before curfew, right? Jack and Race and them's been tellin' us all week about the stories you make up, not the ones outta books, and Jack said if you lost, he was gonna ask you to tell us one."

"He did, huh? Well, that wasn't in the original terms, but for my favorite newsies, I will definitely make an exception. And yeah, I'll be home way before curfew, kid. Save me a spot at the table—and you tell Finch, from me, if he messes with my cappuccino again, I'll tie a knot in his shorts."

A Few Blocks from the Lodging House, Late Afternoon

"You actually did it, Crutchie. Not sure I can believe it."

"Yeah, well, I hope you're happy. I'm out a dollar."

"Which you're gonna make back in no time, and you got more left. And you didn't even keep the terms of the bet." Jack held up the colored pencils she'd gotten him. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

"Hey, you said to buy stuff that was about my dreams, right? One of those dreams is, helpin' people. Knowin' I did somethin' for them."

"Oh. 'Cause you gotta ask for help, right?"

"Yeah. I wanna give, not take. You'll use those, right?"

"Yeah, I will. So, how about you?" Jack tapped Crutchie's news bag, which currently held an inexpensive, yet good quality secondhand journal and pen. "I'm guessin' you got reporter dreams like Katherine?"

"No. I—it's tough to explain, and you'll think I'm stupid or a snob."

Jack stopped, turned, a smidgen of hurt in his eyes. "Crutchie, it's me. I wouldn't do that to you."

"You think school's pretty stupid, right? And it's stupid for me to want to learn stuff, because I'm a girl?"

"Sure, but that's 'cause I ain't any good at it, and I hate sittin' still, and…oh. Okay. Yeah. But, Crutch, I know you're scary smart. You could be a college lady. And if that's what you wanna do, then you should. Is that what you're doin' with the journal? Essays or somethin'?"

"No. Before—everything, I was good at school, but English was my best subject. I loved stories and poetry. I studied at night when we first met, but it was too much. I got so tired, I couldn't keep up. So I started collectin' words out of the papes. Didn't have a place to write 'em down. I thought now…and, I always wanted to try poetry. Write down the stories I made up. I thought…" She shrugged. "Who am I kiddin'? I got as much chance of bein' a poet and novelist as I do of ditchin' this crutch."

Jack sighed, real deep, like Pop used to after a long day at work. "You know somethin', Crutchie? I always felt bad for you haulin' that bad leg around, but that ain't nothin'. You're carryin' way too much. You coulda told me it was important to you to keep up. I'd have figured out somethin'."

"You can't undo the past, Jack."

"Yeah, but I can help now. And let me tell you somethin'. You don't just get to write now, 'cause of the bet. You have to, 'cause it's who you are. You ain't this. Or this." He pointed toward Newsies' Square, then her crutch. "You ever think where you'd wanna go to college?"

"I—there's a Catholic girls' school in Massachusetts, St. Catherine of Siena's. Sister Veronica—that was my English teacher—she talked to Ma and Pop about me stayin' on through high school and then gettin' a scholarship. You tellin' me I could do that? They'd take a crip girl?"

"If they don't, I'll make 'em," Jack teased. "No, seriously. If anybody could, it'd be you. Pretend polio hadn't happened. Wouldn't you be savin' up for that scholarship right now? Or whatever?"

"I…I guess I would."

"So forget the dang crutch for once. St. Catherine's, Santa Fe, wherever. You'll get there. And I'll be there when you do."

"Thanks, Jack. Ya know, after I got sick—you didn't have to stick with me like you did."

Something indiscernible crossed Jack's face, just before he grinned. "You were my sellin' partner. My kid sister. What else was I gonna do?"

"Lose the female market without me?"

Laughter and banter carried them toward home, until a hulking shadow blocked their way. No, two. One hulking, and one strangely smaller. A shadow dressed in a secondhand purple pastel dress and wearing sweet pea toilet water.

"Hey there, Kelly. Takin' your pet crip for a walk?"

"No," Nancy spoke up. "Most of New York just knows, she needs to use the bathroom outside." When Crutchie didn't answer, the blonde girl yanked on her braid. "You gonna answer me, gimp girl? Or did some newsboy finally teach you your place, shut your mouth?"

"She ain't gonna say nothin'." It was Morris, Crutchie recognized now. "She knows good and well what happens when she does."

"Hey, Delancey." The toe of Jack's shoe hit the toe of Morris'. "You got a problem, talk to me. Leave Crutchie alone."

"Love to, Kelly. Really, I would. But the thing is, I've moved on from you. Here lately, the crip is my problem. 'Cause she's my girl's problem. And anybody hurts my girl, they answer to me."

"Yeah? What'd Crutchie do to her, then? And while we're on the subject, what'd she ever do to you, or Oscar, or anybody?"

"She stole my place!" Nancy accused. "And now she's tryin' to steal food out of every newsgirl's mouth. Aren't you, gimp girl?" She moved to grab Crutchie's shoulders, and Crutchie glimpsed something in the gaslight above them. A chain. No, not just a chain. A chain with her Ma's chipped green cameo on the end.

"You let go of her, you little…" Jack began.

Crutchie tugged her friend's sleeve. "Jack, leave it. They want you to get into a fight so they can get the bulls' attention and…"

"Shut up, crip. Kelly, you and your little crip partner been gummin' things up for me and my brother and my girl too long. Well, I hope you enjoyed today, 'cause you and all the newsies just sold your last paper."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Curses sprinkled Jack's demand.

"Nothin', 'cept that Wiesel's my uncle, and Nancy here is his best newsgirl, legitimate, not 'cause of pity points. And as such, we got privileges. You ain't gonna make it much longer, Kelly, and when the last headline runs, you'll be in jail. And your little girlfriend here?" He yanked Crutchie's braid so hard it came down, held on, and tore out strands at the roots. "Plenty of people want her to take your place at the Refuge—life sentence like."

Lodging House Rooftop

"What did he mean?" Crutchie asked, more to herself than to Jack.

"I dunno, but we can't let those two think they won. Tomorrow, we go out there and sell like our lives depend on it."

"Don't they always?"

"Tomorrow, they do for sure. You with me?"

"Sure. But first, you're comin' with me."

"Why?"

Crutchie pulled herself up. "I promised the little kids one of my stories. I'm thinkin', the one I told you that time, about the Irish gardener's daughter who talked to swans?"

"Right, and the—was it the reformed pirate and somethin' about restorin' a cursed ship?"

"I'll refresh you on the details on the way down."

"But if you've got the details…"

"Details, yes. Pirate, no. Nobody does a pirate voice quite like Captain Jack Kelly."

Jack shook his head. "Okay. I'd rather fix a cursed ship than the Delanceys any day."