Chapter Three

The Noose Tightens


-

Racetrack

-


Nighttime always relaxes me. It's a time for messing around with my friends, the worries of the day over. You have as many pennies as you've earned jingling in your pocket, and you don't have to worry about selling papes for another eight hours. You're free to kick back and bet all of your money in a poker game.


Cards are fun in the Lodging House- the only decent opponent I play is Blink, so I rip off everyone else who dares try a hand with me. It's funny how every newsie who sidles up to me has that hopeful gleam in their eyes. This time will be different, they tell themselves.


But it never is.


I'm lounging on my stomach on my bunk, idly throwing dice with Skittery and Specs. Those two are good to talk with, but lousy at games. I've already conned Snipeshooter out of two pennies, so I'm in a pretty good mood.


Boots comes running up to me, his eyes wide against his dark face. "Race, there's someone here t'see ya!" He tells me excitedly. We rarely get visitors. As I stand and stretch briefly, I realize that Jack isn't back yet. With Davey and Cowboy gone, I suppose I'm in charge for the night.


I follow Boots to the door, aware of the eyes of my friends resting on my back. Briefly I pray that this visitor isn't Conlon. Spot and I have never gotten along.


It isn't Spot, though. The stranger watches to make sure I've seen him, then runs down the stairs and opens the door at the foot of them, turning to make sure I'm following. Kloppman gives me a funny look and reminds me I'd better not take longer than half an hour, because he'll be locking up then. Looks like Jack won't make it back home for the night.


I pull the door shut behind me, allowing myself to look over the stranger. The kid is around my height, maybe a year or two older, with scarred knuckles and wide shoulders. I hardly even glance at his face. On the streets you learn that facial features rarely matter- it's the strength and size of your opponent that you should take note of.


Opponent? Odd, isn't it, how defensive I get. I narrow my eyes at the kid, jerking my chin slightly to indicate I'm waiting for an explanation.


He shuffles his feet, glancing to his left. The movement immediately makes me wary. Why have I come out here alone? I should have taken Swifty with me, or one of the bigger guys.


"What the fuck d'you want?" I demand irritably when I get no response. The newsie stares at me again, his dark brown eyes narrowed. They glitter in the moonlight. The moon is the only real light out at night- the stars are choked away by the streetlights and smog. I don't know why I'm so suspicious of this kid.


No reply again. He turns to his left, repeating the previous motion. Fuck. There had better not be someone else with him. "What's yer problem? Cat got yer tongue?" I taunt, grumbling an Italian curse under my breath. Who the Hell does this kid think he is?


"Shut up," The kid snaps at me, cocking his head, obviously listening for something. I bristle. I must be imagining things. I can soak this kid, I just know it. We're evenly matched, but I've taken down older men two heads taller than me.


"What did you just say?" I deliberately draw out my words. In my agitation, my accent has turned more Italian than anything. I scowl ferociously.


"I said shut up, you scab!" The boy responds vehemently, fixing me with a beady glare. This is too much for me. I tackle him, bringing him to the ground in an instant. The thing that shocks me the most is that he doesn't struggle. I pin his elbows to the ground with my knees. Even though we're the same weight, he doesn't try to throw me off. I dig my knees into his elbows, knowing it must hurt like Hell. The kid doesn't even cry out.


"Who are you?" I request forcefully, nearly snarling. In seconds I've turned from a mildly irritated, distrustful newsie into a snapping Italian terror. When he doesn't reply I jerk my knees painfully into him again, then lift his head by his nose and smack it down on the cobblestones. Not hard enough to knock him unconscious, but hard enough that finally he cries out in pain.


"I...I'm Ferry!" The boy gasps, hunching his shoulders. I don't move my knees, and rest my hands heavily on his chest.


"Well, that explains everyt'ing, now doesn't it?" I quip sarcastically.


"I'm from Harlem." He growls. I stare. Harlem? Where that bitch Twitch is leader? He takes my surprise for terror and actually spits in my face. I hit him once, hard, then wipe the spittle away with one of my calloused hands. Stupid little bastard.


"Inside o' that building are forty boys who'd be more than glad t'kick yer sorry ass," Once again I speak slowly, my voice almost a drawl. Holy shit- I almost sound like Jack. "Don't ya realize the odds're terrible? Thirty t'one. I wouldn't bet on you any day." Why am I reasoning with this kid? I don't give a flying fuck for anyone from Harlem.


"Racetrack..." Ferry winces. The side of his face is puffing up. As he speaks, he grows less hesitant. "Real name Anthony Higgins. Parents both immigrated from Italy. Mother was a factory worker, 'til she got killed in an accident wit' a machine. Father was a dirty drunk who beat Racetrack weekly. Race ran away, an' his father was shot by some men coming t'collect money Race's dad lost in a bet. His body was found floating in t'river. Racetrack stays away from water now. He sells around fifty papes a day, sometimes more if it's a good day for sellin'. Then he catches a ride t'the tracks. Sometimes he pays for his papes with tips on who t'bet on. He's fond of cigars, and his hands shake if he doesn't get one every eight hours or so. Usually wears a brown vest. Has his eye on a pretty blonde girl named Jamie, but all o' the Manhattan newsies know Jamie would never date him. She's from a respectable family. His best friends're Jack, Mush, and Kid Blink. He an' David get along well. When agitated he'll speak in Italian, though he does his best not t'use the language. He can't read, but he can write his name. Can never keep his mouth shut in an argument. Always has t'have the last word. Fights well, especially in mob scenes- his blood heats up and he hardly knows what he's doin'. He pins people with his knees, is left-handed. Uses sticks t'fight wit' if the opportunity presents itself. Shaves every three days, bathes once a week. Steals better than he lets on, an' cheats well too. Puts a sock on his left foot, then his right. Has a nasty scar on his back that never went away, probably left from his father. Has a thing for blondes. Really, likes any girl who isn't Italian. Sells in Little Italy sometimes, makes good money there. Likes t'drink, especially on Saturdays. Likes horses a lot, too. Grumpy in the mornings."


As Ferry speaks, I just stare at him. How does he know that about my Pa? How does he know...all of that? I put my left sock on first? No one knows all that about me, not even me. Who is this kid? Who is this little, stinking shit of a Harlem newsie?


"Che...che perché lo fai? A' a farti fottere! Andarsene, pezzo di merda!"

I'm speaking in Italian now, so rapid I can't stop it. Each word drops from my mouth scorchingly and sizzles like tears on hot cobblestones. I am so angry I can tell my cheeks are hot with blood. I draw my fist back and hit him as hard as I can. I do it again.

He's smiling.

Smiling at me, like he wants me to hit him.

Shit.

I have to go inside. I have to walk away from this.

I'm shaking. Shaking so bad that I feel like I'm going to vomit. I'm not cold, not from the night. His words have spooked me even worse than I thought. I'm like one of those horses at the tracks that everyone bets on that gets real scared at the last second and loses the race. Only I'm even more frightened than that.

I stand up, slowly, putting my entire weight into my knees before standing. I want him to hurt. His nose is bleeding- there is blood on my fist. Stupid, stupid. I want to hit him again, but by now even my teeth are chattering. Any blow by me will be wild and do little damage.

He gets up, slowly. I force myself to keep away from him, but I watch him with half-lidded, suspicious eyes. He looks like shit. A slow smirk crawls across my face.

"Here," Ferry tells me, darting at me. I dance away, ready to swing at him again, but he grabs my hand and presses something into it. I disbelievingly try to punch him with that fist but he's out of my reach. I try to run after him but he's quicker than I am, darting down the street.

"Say hi to Davey for me!" The Harlem boy yells over his shoulder. I give up my chase, dismissing it as futile. Shaken and disturbed, I bang on the door of the Lodging House, shouting for Kloppman to let me in. The elderly man opens the door, scolding me. He locks it behind me with his frail hands, and I run up the stairs before he has a chance to lecture me.

The boys all look up as I enter, panting. Only the youngest newsies are asleep- the rest are still talking loudly, joking around and playing cards. My bloody fist is still clenched. I remember that the Harlem kid put something inside of it, and slowly open my fingers.

Money.

Twenty-five entire cents. I've never held this much money in my hand at one time.

Why did Ferry give it to me? As a reward? A reward for punching him and making him bleed?

It makes no sense. I am so terribly confused right now. With all of these faces staring at me I can't think. I walk silently past the boys who call out to me and into the washroom, thankful for the door with I can slam shut behind me. No one follows. I'm grateful for that.

I lean against the sink with one hand, staring at the money with another. No one knows that about my mother, or that my Pa was shot. Or that he used to beat me. I have dreams about it sometimes, real bad dreams full of red and shouting. I wake in a sweat sometimes, but no one knows. At least, I don't think any of the Manhattan boys do.

What does Twitch want with me? I can smell the stink of the Harlem leader beneath all of this garbage. Twitch is cunning, I've heard, though I've never met him. He has Jack and Spot worried, and that makes me wary. Those two are rarely concerned with other leaders.

What else does Twitch know? What other information does he have in his grasp? I have to tell Jack. I have to tell someone.

I turn on the sink and wash off my hands, letting the rusted water turn red before twisting it off. I dry my hands on my pants, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm terribly pale. To be honest, I look like shit.

When I re-enter the bunk room, I get many inquisitive stares. I clear my throat, then throw the twenty-five cent piece on the floor.

Wearily, without explaining myself, I glare at the money and stomp on it. "Don't touch it," I warn the boys, then throw myself down on my bunk. The jovial murmurings are dampened now, darkened by my sudden change of mood. They don't know what's going on, or who I spoke to. Mush tries to speak with me but I shake him off in irritation. Jack has to be the first to know. Jack, and only Jack.

I can't sleep. As boys return to their bunk beds, I can hear gentle snores and the rustling of them getting comfortable in their sleep. I'm so disturbed by my situation that it continues to haunt me. When I close my eyes, I see the money. I can hear Ferry's snide words in the back of my mind.

"Say hi to Davey for me!"

David. David's the one leaking information.

The Walking Mouth.

Fuck.