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Part 6: Cashing In

It felt risky, going outside of Brooklyn so soon. It was only a few hours after Spot and Rummy had spoken, and word had come from Manhattan to meet them at Tibby's. Spot was terrified that again it was some devious scheme by Count, and he had been set on not attending. But Swifty had said it was urgent. And if anyone could lose a trail, if indeed he had been followed, it was Swifty. Spot tried to remind himself of that as he crossed the bridge and made his way to the small diner. As usual, only the newsies were the occupants there. Spot wondered how Tibby made any money.

Spot saw Jack, Race, Twig, and several others surrounding a back table. He crossed over, and after a quick round of greetings they got down to business. Jack took the initiative and said to Spot, "Look, we discussed it, and we decided that we gotta move now, the sooner the better. Even if it means that Brooklyn ain't up to it completely, we have to send the message home that Count can't do this and get away with it. We gotta do it soon, before our guys get discouraged, and they get stronger."

Jack looked ready for a full-fledged battle with Spot, but he and everyone were surprised when Spot calmly responded, "You're right." Jack and the others stood there, gaping, as Spot continued. " Brooklyn can't win by fighting this one. But Brooklyn has more to offer than brute force. I know it. My newsies know it, and I'm here to try and get you all to trust us. But Count doesn't."

Silence ensued for a moment, until Race, apparently struggling to contain the smart ass within, couldn't contain it. He burst out, "Can we count on that?" Race ducked as everyone threw their napkins at him, groaning. Immediately after, the serious atmosphere reclaimed everyone, and finally Jack said, "We know there's more to Brooklyn than brute force, Spot. We know you guys got heart, and all that. But what makes you think you can win this?"

Spot leaned back. He hadn't felt this much like himself, the great Spot Conlon of the greatest borough, in a long time. He tipped his hat at Jack, flashed his quirky smirk and said glibly, "We got more than that, Jacky boy. We're all street rats, we know the rules of the street better than anyone. But more importantly, nobody knows how to use those rules better than Brooklyn. Now fellas, listen up." Spot leaned forward and began to slowly explain the plan he and Rummy had cooked up. Everyone else simply held on and watched, and Spot took the leader position he had re-grown to love.

Rummy led the way to Harlem. He had never been there before, but Spot had given him fine directions. With him was ten Brooklyn newsies. They weren't the largest newsies; in fact, little Crackhead was with them. But they didn't want to look too intimidating, that wasn't the plan. No Neck was with them, though. He was pretty beat up, but he was the only really tough, big newsie that wasn't too hurt or well known to cause a panic. He also wasn't known to be too close to Spot, and that would work in their advantage as well.

The Harlem Lodging House loomed ahead. Several Harlem newsies were hanging out on the steps, but when they saw the Brooklyn delegation, they quickly stood up. One ran up the stairs, probably to inform Count. Rummy heard No Neck say through clenched teeth, "They can't even stand their own ground without letting Count know and getting approval. Are they newsies, or what?"

Rummy whispered back, "That's what we're here to find out." They slowly approached, until the two boroughs had lined up facing each other. Ten Brooklyn to eight Harlem, at the moment. All eight Harlem had looks between smug confidence at having defeated Brooklyn, and absolute terror at..the same. One that had been seen going after Carver was present, and looked petrified at No Neck. To his credit, No Neck held in his fury well. None spoke until Buck came out.

Swaggering, hands on hips, he questioned loudly, "Give me one good reason why I don't let these boys pummel you all.again?" Over his shoulder, Rummy heard Crackhead hiss, "Because you couldn't!" Nonchalantly, Rummy elbowed him to be quiet, even though none of Harlem had heard. Rummy ignored his question, saying, "We have to speak to Count."

Buck placed a hand over his heart in mock faint. "And I won't do? I'm hurt." When he received no laughter, his eyes narrowed and he spat, "None of you Brooklyn scum get to see Count." Rummy prayed to the gods of temperance to help keep Brooklyn's newsies' tempers under control, as he replied, "Well, good for that news. We aren't part of Brooklyn anymore."

At that, a surprised silence befell all. Buck looked around helplessly, before finally realizing that he was in charge there. Rummy wondered why Count had put him as second. Maybe he was the only one who Count could trust. Knowing what he did about Count, he guessed he didn't trust too easily. Shuffling a bit, trying to act in control, Buck finally said, "Ok, fine, you can go up to see the boss, but the rest of your boys have gotta stay down here."

Rummy crossed his arms and said defiantly, "You can't expect me to go up there alone?" At that, Buck shuffled some more, before scratching his head and saying, "Uh, no, of course not. I meant, you can come up here, but someone's gotta stay down here. That one," he pointed at No Neck, "He's gotta stay here as.a.what's the word?" Rummy shook his head impatiently. "Never mind, we get it. You sure about that?" Rummy turned to look at No Neck. The tall Brooklyn newsie folded his arms at that, looking very pleased with the arrangement. The one that had gotten Carver looked much less pleased. The other seven looked less than giddy as well.

Rummy smiled internally. Before Buck could change his mind, he, Crackhead, and the others hurried up the stairs, leaving one very vexed Brooklyn newsie, and eight now backing up Harlem newsies, to get reacquainted. The house was in between Manhattan's and Brooklyn's. It was more worn than Manhattan but lacked any of the character of Brooklyn's. Once upstairs, they waited to be announced, and then entered the bunk room. It was similar to most newsies' bunk rooms. Some newsies were arguing, some sleeping, one reading, the young ones playing marbles and the older ones playing cards. Rummy surveyed the room, until his eyes landed on the other guy who had been at the diner his first night as a newsie.

Count hadn't changed. He still looked full of himself, more so than Spot or Jack. He was dressed in pants and an undershirt, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He stood in the middle of the room, all eyes upon him. Slowly exhaling, he said, "Well, well, well, if it ain't the little tugboat that couldn't. Where's your leader, Spotty? Is little puppy still with his tail between his legs?" At than, Harlem took its cue from their leader and laughed. Rummy merely stood there, unshaken, and Brooklyn took its cue from him. He calmly said, "Yes, I believe he is."

That shut them up. Count stared at him suspiciously, as any good leader would. Rummy continued. "I imagine any leader would be, after the hit you threw him. It was perfect." At that, Count let a small smile slip out, but he still had his guard up. "Oh, ya liked that? My boys can give you some more, if you're into getting killed." Before he could advance, Rummy cut in smoothly. "You misunderstand. We aren't part of Brooklyn anymore. We don't want to be part of a territory that has its leader desert, and can't protect itself. He wasn't even there for the fight."

Count looked less hostile, but still wary. "Spot bailed, huh? Can't say I blame him. But why should I believe you?" Rummy smiled. "Good question. Frankly, I think the answer, at least in my case, is simple. I have no loyalty to Spot. Hell, I've only been a newsie for a few days, and most of those have been getting beaten up. I live on the streets, I know this life. All if want is to make a living, and I figure the best way to do that, to look out for my interests, is to hook up with the best leader. That would be you."

Count smiled. Rummy couldn't think of a person who didn't like to be complemented. He continued. "And these other guys, well, Spot didn't get close to anybody. This is how it is in Brooklyn. You look out for yourself. I didn't want to come to Harlem alone, so I convinced these guys to come along. It's all self-interest. I'm sure you can understand that." Finally Rummy paused. Count looked at the three Harlem newsies that used to be Brooklyn ones, and they nodded their agreement. Count was looking him up and down, before finally saying, "You were the one who couldn't throw a punch, right? Why would I want you?"

"Well, all the Brooklyn newsies who could throw a punch are now dead, by you, and I'm still here, so I figure you could use a newsie who has brains instead. We last longer. And these guys with me have the muscle." Rummy shot back. Count paced a moment, before finally turning around. A malicious smile played on his lips as he said, "Well, I'd be more than happy to have you all." With a hand he quieted down the roar of protest from Harlem. "With, of course, a little loyalty test."

Rummy gave no reaction. He merely said calmly, "That sounds more than fair. What do you want us to do?" If Count was surprised by this, he hid it well. Pacing again, he drawled, "Oh, I don't know. There are so many options. What to do, what to do? I guess I could always ask you to bring me something. Or someone. The bloody, lifeless body of your former leader should about do it, wouldn't ya say?" At that, he spun and faced Rummy and the others. All of Harlem hooted in agreement. Rummy wanted to smile as well. It was all running, well, as good as Count's hit had.

"Sounds fair. See ya in a few." Rummy and the others had started heading back out, when Count stopped them. "You can't honestly expect me to let you go alone, do you? How do I know Spot ain't already dead? Or that you are just gonna run information back to him?" Rummy shrugged, indicating that this was, indeed, a problem. Then Count offered, "I guess I could let you take some of my boys with you, to make sure. There's ten of you.ill send thirty, just to make sure you don't try nothing on them. When you got him, come back."

Rummy feigned regret. "Oh, you're not coming with us?" At that Count burst out laughing. "What do you think I am, an idiot? Come back here when you're done. And don't get any revenge ideas. I'm sending some good ones.you remember, the ones that kicked your asses before? The only reason I'm giving you this chance is because you seem smart. I could use a man like you, if you're serious." With that, Count ran off the names of the chaperons. It included the scabbing former Brooklyn newsies. With a final nod, Rummy led the way down the stairs. Miraculously, neither No Neck nor the eight Harlem newsies out on the porch before were around. Leading the way, Rummy thought that, whether hot or cold, revenge was dish that would always taste sweet.

Rummy led the way into Brooklyn, keeping them on winding streets until finally a Harlem newsie named Twister complained. "I don't think you even know where this Spot Conlon is!" The other Harlem newsies murmured in agreement. Rummy kept them moving for a couple more blocks, into a dead-end alley, before finally stopping and saying, "Well, patience is not always rewarded." Looking at the confused faces on the Harlem newsies' faces, Rummy continued. "True, I must confess, I lied. I do not know where Spot is. This was all a big misuse of trust, and I feel so ashamed." At that he stepped forward, and gave a wide smile. Noises could be heard at the entrance, and suddenly ten other Brooklyn newsies appeared. They had taken off their bandages, and most were still barely conscious. Ripping his nose bandage off, Rummy said, "And this beating we are going to give you certainly won't help develop our relationship."

Twister laughed, saying, "Brooklyn really is as stupid as Count said! We outnumber you guys, and you're already half dead! It'll be like a massacre!" At that, Brooklyn and Harlem resumed fighting, Harlem using the weapons they brought, Brooklyn merely defending themselves. Slipping out of the alley, Rummy added quietly, "Well, It only has to look like a massacre." He ran down the street, to where some policemen were gathered. Panting and feigning fear, he cried out, "Officers, help us please! Some kids from Harlem came in here, and we were just going back from selling our papers, and they started killing us! My dad is a respectable, voting member of the Brooklyn community, and he will be very upset by this!"

The bulls hurried after Rummy, and indeed, the scene they found there, Brooklyn newsies lying bloodied and broken on the floor, Harlem newsies standing over them with weapons poised to beat, was true to what Rummy said. When the police whistle went off, Harlem looked up and tried to run, but the Brooklyn newsies managed to trip most of them, and the bulls blocked the rest. Handcuffing and dragging off Harlem's finest, several of the bulls promised to bring around ambulance wagons to take the Brooklyn newsies back to the hospital. One even tossed Rummy a quarter, saying that he was planning on running for office someday, and hoped that Rummy would relay the good work he'd done as an officer to his voting father.

Pocketing the change, Rummy left Crackhead with the injured newsies, while he and the rest ran back to Harlem, not wanting to be late for the final scene. Once making it to Harlem, they carefully snuck around the lookouts Count had posted until the reached the park near the lodging. Rummy was amazed at how many newsies were camouflaged there, and sure plenty more were nearby. He met Jack and Spot, and said, "Everything went perfectly. I don't think we lost anybody, but all of Harlem was taken. Ready?" Rummy didn't need to ask. Even in the dark he saw the gleam in Jack and Spot's eyes. Spot nodded. "Hell yea."

Once inside the lodging, Rummy went in first. Count stood up and said, surprised, "That was fast. Good work. Where is he?" Rummy smiled, stepping back to reveal the other eight Brooklyn newsies, plus the addition of a still breathing Spot. Count, to his credit, recovered fast, and said, "Oh, is this pathetic. What, you want to go down fighting? Fine, we can kick your asses again." As he and the other Harlem newsies in the room approached, Spot said snidely, "Oh, I hardly doubt that'll happen." Swiftly pulling out his slingshot, he shot and crashed the window behind Count. Count stood there confused for a minute, thinking Spot had somehow missed, when he realized by the sounds of hundreds of newsies rushing into the lodge that the shot had been a signal.

The look on Count's face was priceless. Spot almost wished it didn't have to end, but quickly he and Count had singled each other out. Well, at least I'll get to soak that angry look off of him, Spot consoled himself. Slowly circling, Spot went into his fighter's trance. It was a calm zone, where he focused on nothing else but the relish of pummeling Count. Jack and Twig had offered to take on Count, but Spot had refused. No matter how sick he was, or how broken or tired, he would not lose to Count. Even if he died from it, he would keep going until he had avenged Brooklyn.

Count wasn't willing to give the first strike. Fine, thought Spot. Softly, but without weakness, he said, "This one's for you, guys." Then pushing Badger and Carver out of his mind, he moved in on Count, faking with a right to the stomach and getting in a good jab to Count's chin. Count stumbled back, but soon retaliated. They went round, trading punches. It was hard to tell for Spot if he was getting the worst end or not. He thought he was getting in more shots, but he was in worse shape to begin with. Count went for his knee, cracking in, and as Spot went down he felt a sharp pain in his left ankle again, which still hadn't healed. Praying it would support him, he lunged at Count's chest, pulling him down and rolling on top, breaking Count's nose with his cane.

Somehow, Count found a bat and swung it, managing to land blows to Spot's back, legs, and arms. His shoulder that had been dislocated years before threatened to spasm. Spot forced himself to calm, knowing it was the calculating fighter, not the strongest fighter, that was the best equipped to win. Count held the bat in his right hand. He was right-handed. Therefore, when he swung, he would be leaning in facing right. Spot positioned himself, letting Count get in a few shots, then before blacking out rammed his cane into Count's neck. Count thrust his head back, choking. While he was like that Spot grabbed the bat from his hands and slammed Count's knees, sending him crashing to the ground. Climbing over him, Spot threw one perfect blow, sans bat, to Count's temple, rendering him unconscious.

Then he paused, standing over Count, bat still in his hand. He should be able to do this. One swing, and Count would never bother them again. Count had had no problem killing Spot's newsies, or at least ordering it to be done. If Count could make that choice, for his newsies, didn't that make him the better, stronger leader? It wasn't as if Count could be arrested for anything, and even if he were it wouldn't be for long. And Count wouldn't just stay out of New York. He'd come after Spot and the others again. It was Spot's responsibility to protect his newsies, even if it meant sacrificing himself.

He raised the bat, then thought back to his conversation with Rummy. How Rummy had defined himself. He didn't steal from children, and he wasn't a murderer. Sure, it had been a joke at the time, but still, Rummy had said that, because of this, he wasn't like Count. He had morals. Spot never thought of himself as having morals before, but the few times he'd come close to killing someone, he'd always stopped or been stopped. Now there was no one. It was his call, as the leader, not as a regular guy.

Spot looked around. The room was mostly empty, Manhattan and the Bronx having soaked Harlem. Outside, Spot could hear the battle still raging on, but from the voices he knew that Harlem was getting their asses whipped this time. Not feeling a smile, Spot brought the bat down in a series of fast, hard blows to Count's legs, arms, and stomach. He heard bones crack, and no doubt he'd done some injury. But he didn't touch Count's head. Finally stepping back, Spot looked down. Count was covered in blood, and he was breathing shallowly. He was still alive, but whether he would make it, Spot really wasn't sure. It was unlikely he would receive medical attention anytime soon. Count would have to pull through this one on his own. He didn't know if that made him a murderer or not. Spot let the bat slip from his fingers and limped out of the room, leaving Count's fate to nature, and God, if he existed. Badger and Carver were avenged, but that feeling would only last a little while. Spot knew that, and knew that grief, if he could still feel it, would come after and last longer. And Count? Well, Spot wasn't sure he could like or respect him all the more if he didn't die.