Author's Name: Becky
Rating: R
Content: Slash, angst, romance
Summary: While coping with dreams of his dubious past and strange feelings towards Snipeshooter, Racetrack gets caught up in a deal with an old friend of his.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Disney does. I do, however, own the four original characters (Flex, the Leader, Mosca, and One-Lung). Not that anyone would want to take them. ^_^;;
Author's Notes: This is my first "Newsies" fanfic, so forgive me if it isn't quite up to par. I don't have a great deal of experience with turn- of-the-century New York City slang, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I'd also appreciate any reviews--constructive criticism, what you thought of the story, marriage proposals, all that. (Um, thank you to Stage, for correcting me in one part...silly mistake, I know. ^_^)
--Beautiful Catastrophe--
[A hundred times I have thought: New York is a catastrophe, and fifty times: It is a beautiful catastrophe. --Le Corbusier]
Everyone loves Jack first. If you could pry open the walls that most 'a these kids put around their thoughts, if you could shift through the memories like pages in a book, back to the very first morning an' the very first time their small hands sacrificed a quarter an' wrapped around a smooth stack 'a papes, if you could do that, you'd know that the first face that really stands out in the crowd is the Cowboy's.
Take Snipeshooter, for instance. Lookin' at him, you'd think he was forty years old, with eyes so hard you could bust rocks on 'em, an' a smile that's always edged. But once upon a time he was fresh (as green as any kid from New York can pos'bly be) and you can bet he was scared as hell when he first stumbled into line at the distribution center. But there was Jack, as always, ready with a grin an' a arm 'round his shoulder an' at that moment, Snipeshooter loved Jack. On that first day, when it's all so big, it's impossible not to love someone who makes it seem so easy.
Some kids start lovin' him and never stop. That'd be fellas like Mush an' Crutchy an' Davey. An' me, I guess. Yeah, you could say I love him. But it's kinda like tryin' to describe the color 'a fire to a blind guy. You can show'm how it burns, but he'll never see it. Or somethin' like that.
Dunno why I'm so introspective tonight. My hands keep reachin' 'a their own accord to the small metal cup on the table next to my bed. There's a coupla stubby cigars in there, 'a course, an' also a pair 'a wooden dice, an' a pack 'a scruffy old cards. It's for the dice I'm reachin', but since I can't really think 'a anythin' to do with 'em, I pull my hand back underneath the thin blanket. Bricks're attached to my eyelids, but sleep's tauntin' me from somewhere far away--that's nothin' new, anyway.
Again, my fingers brush the edge 'a the cup. Annoyed, I push myself up, blinkin' as a streetlamp suddenly becomes visible through the window. In a second, the stupid dice're in the palm 'a my hand, solid an' smooth with age. They make a clickin' noise as I toss 'em in the air an' catch 'em, then quickly roll 'em 'cross the surface 'a the blanket. Six an' five. I'm good. Luck 'a the Irish, though I ain't a mick.
The sound 'a rustlin' cloth shifts into the almost-silence, an' a hoarse voice whispers, "Race, that you?"
Now Snipeshooter, he's as Irish as they come; he's got this little snubbed nose an' wiry, curly brown hair surroundin' a round face. The semi- darkness makes him different, softer somehow. Like one 'a them fairy-tale creatures Crutchy sometimes tells the small kids about.
"Race?"
"Yeah, yeah, what is it, kid?" The reply comes out sharper than I meant it to. Not that it phases Snipes; like I said, he's pretty tough.
"'Nother--" He lets out a massive yawn, "all-nighter, I see."
Not much gets past Snipeshooter. An' I haven't been gettin' an enormous amount 'a shut-eye, lately. I blame my bed; it ain't the most comfor'ble thing in the world, an' my back can only take so much. I tell Snipes this, an' he laughs harshly, like he knows I'm lyin'.
"Whatcha got there?" He asks at length, gesturin' sharply in my gen'ral direction.
I've been fiddlin' with the dice, throwin' 'em down on the blanket an' scoopin' 'em up again. The calloused pad 'a my pointer finger lingers on the six dots carved into one 'a the dice. Wish I could be as lucky at the track. "Go back to sleep," I say absently.
"You ain't my boss."
I think he's tryin' to pick a fight, but then, I can never tell with Snipeshooter. Maybe he's just bein' cranky. Ignorin' him, I fall back onto my none-too-soft pillow, the dice held firmly within the protection 'a my fist.
"So stupid," he mutters faintly, an' I can hear him crawlin' back under his blanket. I wait for his breathin' to become slow an' loud, but it never does.
________________________
[he doesn't know which way to go. he's on the second floor, and mama is on the fourth still, for all he knows. the stairway beyond where he stands is crowded with people. the air is unbearably stifling, and the walls are strangely hot. neighbors who only that morning smiled at him and patted his head rush by him, yelling, pushing, he thinks they've gone insane. someone shoves him as they pass, and he falls onto his rear end. tears, hot and shameful, prickle behind his eyes, but he won't let them fall because he's a big boy and papa will spank him if he does. but papa is upstairs with mama.
glass breaks somewhere--sounds like it comes from the floor above him. there's a roaring in his ears now, and he isn't sure if it is just him, or if everyone else can hear it.
"Geddout, geddout, come on!"
a short man with broad shoulders and a dirty face knocks on closed doors down at the other end of the second floor. one of the doors open, and a young woman peers out, her eyes full of fear.
"What is it, the war, it's a war, yes..."
she babbles and starts to weep, hiding her face in her hands. the man tugs her hair sharply, forces her hands away.
"Fire! Geddout, grab your children. Geddout!"
soon the woman, her two children, and three other families are down the now nearly-empty stairway. the people have disappeared so fast. mama and papa are still on the fourth floor. they want the china that is all they have left of home in the other place, the old country. they want the money, too. the coins saved up and placed in a small jar underneath mama and papa's mattress.
suddenly arms wrap around him from behind. the man's breath is hot in his ear, and he is too afraid to tell the man that he is waiting for mama and papa.
down the dark staircase, the roaring is louder. crack, crack, crack, at first he thinks it is the man's weight on the old wooden stairs. it's hard to breath, it is so smoky. where are--]
______________________
Fierce blue eyes watch me. My arms sting where he's been pinchin' me, an' I rub the sensitive flesh, glarin' back at him.
"So ya fell asleep after all. Are they bad?" Snipeshooter means the nightmares, I think, an' seein' no point in denyin' that they exist (they do, God, they do), I shrug like it don't matter. After so much water under the bridge, you'd think the memories'd fade, become unreal--like somebody else's life, somebody else who did an' saw an' felt all those things. Like worms dryin' out in the sun.
Thankfully, he doesn't ask me to give details 'bout the nightmare, just sorta nods an' smirks in that annoyin' way 'a his. Stands up (he was sittin' on the edge 'a my bed), all tough an' boyish, an' hooks his thumbs in his trouser pockets, a gesture I've come to associate with mischief on his part. "Better hurry if ya wanna sell today," he remarks casually, an' before I can ask what the hell he means by that, he's gone.
And, I quickly realize, so's ev'ryone else.
Into the washroom, clothes half on, I brush my teeth in record time, wash my face, smooth back my hair--smooth. Yeah, real smooth. Wond'rin' if the bastard woke me up late on purpose--decide that, knowin' Snipes, that's prob'ly how the case stands. Damnit, I can imagine the other fellas laughin' their heads off, even here, runnin' down the staircase and wavin' to a puzzled Kloppman--oh, they really planned this one out. Pulled the wool over the old man's eyes, too. Goody.
Down in the sunbathed streets, the smell 'a human sweat an' even more unpleasant things, mixed with the mouth-waterin' aroma 'a various meats an' breads bein' sold from dark little shops, is over-powerin'. Pushcarts line the sidewalk, boastin' ev'rythin' from mismatched, outta-date shoes to dull pots an' pans. This's the center 'a the universe, for most 'a us Manhattan boys. A coupla waves to familiar faces, an' more'n a coupla rueful glances on my part, directed towards the nearby bakery and butcher shop. The nuns've long since retired to the mysterious recesses 'a the cathedral, a place I've never cared to visit. Too gloomy.
The distribution center ain't far from the lodgin' house. It's pretty dismal, without the early mornin' singin' an' fightin'. Most 'a the fellas've already bought their papes and've headed off for their various sellin' spots. Me, I arrive just before ol' Weisel (Weasle to us) decides sellin' time's over for the mornin' edition.
"Mornin', Weasle," I grin, purposely impudent with my arm restin' on the counter. Numerous pairs 'a narrowed eyes watch me from behind Weasle, the eyes 'a guys like the Delancey brothers, eyes eager to see blood and violence--nothin' like the playful shovin' that goes on between pals. We're talkin' knives an' brass knuckles, the whole nine yards. Fishin' what comes to a total 'a fifteen cents outta my pocket, I ask for thirty papes--today sure as hell don't feel like a good day. Say somethin' smart to one 'a the guys in back, an' then beat it before any 'a them get the idea that they can trounce me here, without my guardian cowboy.
Sellin' papes ain't just somethin' you do to make money. It's practic'ly a lifestyle. A newsie's gotta take care 'a hisself in business as well as in everythin' else; whatever profit he makes is his, an' any loss is his, too. He's gotta learn to lie, ev'ry word that falls from his mouth has to positively shine--brightly enough that ev'ryone within a half- mile radius takes notice.
An' it don't hurt to look cute, either. Usually, though, I don't hafta bother too much with that part. My lies don't hafta be as creative as the other fellas', either, an' that's because where I do my sellin', they know me.
Coney Island: horse racin' capital 'a New York an' prob'ly the whole country. It ain't so complicated to catch a train from the Lower East Side 'a Manhattan (home sweet home, right?) to Brooklyn an' Coney Island, which ain't really an island. There's a bunch 'a resorts for big-shots, men who can afford to bet thousands 'a dollars a day, but I ain't one 'a them and neither're many 'a the guys who frequent the races. There's other stuff to spend money on, too, if you got money...a score 'a restaurants, the Switchback Railway, Sea-Lion Park, it goes on. But the only thing really worth seein' is the races.
The Sheepshead Bay track's been 'round since before I was even born, but I swear by all the saints that it was made with me in mind. 'A course there's other tracks--the one at Gravesend and the Brighton Beach track-- but they ain't as good, in my honest opinion, as Sheepshead. Take Brighton: all the sand ain't helpin' the horses any, an' it almost always floods if there happens to be a rainstorm durin' one 'a the races. There's nothin' ter'bly wrong with Gravesend, but hell, Sheepshead was there first, an' Sheepshead is the owner 'a my heart.
I scan the headlines for catchy words, stories that can be turned inside out an' upside down. Slip into the midst of a gath'rin' crowd an' start shoutin' at the top 'a my lungs: "Extry, extry...!" Another day in the street trade. By noon I've sold all my papes. Forty-five cents in all, thirty cents profit. I treat my lustily growlin' stomach to a hotdog bought from a street vendor, then shuffle my way to the tracks, lickin' my fingers clean.
"Well, if it ain't Racetrack Higgins." This from a black man 'bout twice my height, leanin' against a fence that surrounds the track. He's a reg'lar gennelman, in his fancy tweeds--he makes more money in a day then I do in a week, though I've no idea what he does for a livin' (I can guess, though, an' I'm guessin' it ain't anythin' he can write home 'bout).
"How's it rollin', Flex?" Shake his hand, perfunctory greetin'. A boxin' match is in full swing (pardon the pun) somewhere off to the right, spectators millin' 'round like flies, occupyin' themselves 'til the races start. A cheer goes up; the favored fighter is winnin'. I stare at the bloody face 'a the guy who's losin', stare anywhere rather than meet the dark gaze of Flex Amerson.
"Fine, Race, pretty fine." He grins wide an' his teeth're so white, they nearly blind me. "Real fine. Look, you know most ev'rybody on the Lower East Side. Ev'rybody that matters, hm? James Mosca an' One-Lung Pete an' all 'a them?"
"I ain't real close chums with 'em, no," I reply cautiously. "We ain't bosom friends or nothin' like that." Which is true; nobody in their right mind'd get close to James Mosca; he's the sorta fella who'd getcha drunk'n then rob ya blind, with no remorse at all, because he'd consider it a tame thing to do. One-Lung Pete is a wheezin', cross-eyed lunatic. They say he carved up his folks an' ended up in fed'ral prison for a year before he escaped. I've never actually met either 'a them, but my sources're reliable. Anyway, Mosca heads a gang that mainly does business on the Lower East Side, 'round Little Italy, an' One-Lung Pete is his second-in- command. The other boys in the gang ain't as bad as them two, but they're pretty damned close. Skittery thinks it's funny to tell the younger newsies about Mosca's gang in gory details, but Skittery is a bastard. Most 'a the rest of us simply avoid the subject altogether.
"We're good friends, Race." It ain't a question, an' that worries me. Flex in gen'ral worries me; I never see him anywhere but the tracks, an' then, rarely. But he's always got some dangerous as hell scheme racin' through that bald head 'a his, an' resist though I might, I usually get dragged into it. The scheme, not his mind, thank God. "Y'know," an' he looks suddenly as saintly as the nuns over near the distribution center, "y'know, I've always made it a point to help you in times 'a need. Like when you got a dept to repay, an' you can't gleam up the cash in time, I lend you some outta me own pocket, don't I?" He does. "So you won't refuse me if I have a little job that only you can do. I know you won't, 'cause I'm your pal, an' pals help each other. Especially when one 'a them hasn't quite paid back the other for the last time he helped him in his time 'a need."
Very loaded statement. So I haven't been able to fork over the eight bucks I owe him. I'm not doin' so well, lately. Ain't sleepin' so good. But I nod agreeably, not lettin' him see how annoyed or worried I am. "Gotcha loud an' clear, Flexy-boy. Whatcha got for me this time?"
He frowns at the nickname, I'm gratified to see. "You ever hear that James's soft on Italians?"
"Funny, I thought ev'ryone was soft on us." Another frown, an' I sober up. "Not that I can recall."
"Well, he is. Real soft. For obvious reasons--he's an Italian, himself, him an' mosta his gang. Most kids who get in his way, his boys soak 'em without askin' questions. But a cute little wop like you--" My face goes red at what may or may not be an insult. "--has a pretty good chance 'a gettin' right up close to ol' James hisself."
"Why would a fella wanna do that?" Translation: what d'you want me to do? What ill-fated adventure am I to embark on now? Am I gonna die painfully, or painfully?
"Because, my dear Mr. Higgins," an' if he smiles any wider, his mouth'll fall off, "the hon'rable James Mosca, much like yourself, owes me a bit 'a money that'd come in handy right about now. So much money, it'd make your eyes roll."
An' he's too much of a coward--sorry, self-preservationist--to get it hisself. I'm convenient, an' my race just may hold the baddies off long enough for me to get the cash an' transfer it safely into Flex's hands before Mosca changes his mind an' sends his boys after me. Oh, wonderful. That's Flex for ya. But there're cords that tie me to him tighter than old depts, an' I just nod an' then nod again, tellin' myself that since I haven't died yet, there's no reason for me to die doin' this stupid favor for Flex. Favor. Ha.
"You sure I won't just take the money an' catch me a train West or somethin'?"
"Aw, you wouldn't do that, Race." Translation: I have ways of findin' you an' makin' you suffer. We're on such good terms, Flex'n me.
"Nah, not me. I'm too nice for the likes 'a you," I half-joke, an' he laughs hollowly, then pulls a pocket-watch (on a gold chain, the creep) out an' says, "Time for the races, pal. You gonna bet today?"
I shouldn't bet, but I admit that I will anyway.
"The kid's honest, at least. Listen, I need the dough by this time next week. An' don't go flashin' it around or anythin' stupid like that--I know you won't, 'cause you got more sense'n most fellas." Pauses, puts the watch away. "You can consider the eight bucks repaid, by the way, if you manage to pull this off."
"I will. I'm good, Flexy-boy."
"You better be. I'm off." He turns away, head an' shoulders taller than anyone else 'round him.
I keep tryin' to think how this could pos'bly be worse, but my mind's a blank.
_____________________
["Where's ya folks, kid?" he doesn't answer. he's afraid of the dark-eyed girl and the giant standing silent at her side. clothes torn, body unwashed, he's walked the streets of brooklyn for two days, not even stopping to sleep or eat. he can't sleep, can't close his eyes for long because of the pictures imprinted on his mind. and his stomach feels twisted, alien within him.
"What're you, dumb or summin? Ya got no family? What's ya name?" thin hands pinching him, searching his pockets. he doesn't bother to stop her; he doesn't own anything worth stealing. "Don't look very old. Baby- face." her hair is brittle black, falling over her shoulders in a messy tangle. around her neck is a rough cord, knotted tightly, on which hangs a cheap bronze charm. skin like coal, the palms of her hands pink as they rest on her hips. but it is the giant he watches, eyes wide and exhaustion- bright.
"Flex." the girl turns to the giant, who smiles. "What d'you s'pose we should do with the kid?"
the scene fades. suddenly he's in the warehouse, sitting on the dirt floor, legs crossed. his feet are clad in new boots; he wears reasonably classy clothes and a too-large hat tipped back on his head. he's living the high life, friends around him in groups of three and four, tossing dice and dealing cards and laughing and joking. the day's work is done--most of them managed to fill their quota. he overdid himself; three purses and a pocket-handkerchief full of coins. he loved the respectful light that flickered in the leader's eyes, those eyes that are usually so dark, so full of something he can't name. she let him keep the coins.
"Kid! Roll it, kid."
he grabs his dice, a handsome wooden pair with edges still sharp, the polish brilliant even in the ebbing sunlight. he bought them (a strange concept in itself! he rarely buys anything any longer) just last week, and is hopelessly proud of them. maybe not the finest pair of dice among the company, but they're his, and that makes up for their relative plainness. tosses them into the circle drawn crudely in the dust.
about to declare that he is the victor when a giant shadow falls over the group. "Flex, where ya been?" the leader wraps an arm about the giant's waist but he shakes it off. eyes (so intense they nearly burn holes into the confused faces of the leader and the company) dart around the warehouse, panicked. "The bulls," he pants. "The bulls're comin'."
scene shifts abruptly. dark. it's so dark, and he can't see where he's going. someone pushed him down this street a few minutes before, away from the throbbing crowd of theives, away from the leader and the giant. past shadowy tenements, past alleyways with staring eyes, past factories and he runs and runs and runs and runs--]
______________________
Bolt up, sweat-slick an' pantin'. Hair fallin' black an' wet in my face, hands clenched in beddin', knuckles white an' shakin' like a leaf. Afraid I'm gonna scream, teeth clamped down hard, eyes squeezed shut. Whooshin' sound in my ears, shriekin' in my head, not sure where I am for a minute.
Soft breathin', careless snorin', the occassional moan, it all filters in slowly, the violent colors 'a the nightmare runnin' into gray obscuity like a paintin' in the rain. Streetlamp shinin' in the darkness, through the dirty window a coupla bunks away. The lodgin' house, familiar an' homely, enshrouded in the semi-darkness.
I slide out from the meager comfort 'a my blankets, tip-toe to the door, tryin' not to bump into anythin' along the way. The stairs creak ominously, damn, they've never been so loud before. Feel my way 'round, an' as soon as my hand closes on the doorknob, I'm out into the cool night. Even at this hour, the occassional carriage rolls by, clangin' an' clackin'. A night messenger scurries into a call box, his foot tappin' impatiently.
Collapsing bonelessly onto the steps leadin' down into the street, I rest my forehead on my knees. Really need a good smoke, but Lady Luck kicked me between the legs--yesterday? is it past midnight yet?--at the track. I have about seventeen cents to my name...s'pose I'll have to snag a cigar from some bigwig's pocket. In the morning. Or later today...well, whatever.
Flex. 'A course he's on my mind. Biggest toad in the goddamn puddle. Shouldn't bother me so much, but...but.
Seven years. Seven years is a long time, an' most 'a it's been spent here, in the center 'a the universe. Peddlin' papes an' playin' craps an' bettin' at the tracks an' watchin' kids drift in an' outta the trade. It ain't such a bad life, I guess.
Creak 'a the door openin' behind me. "Y'know, I don't think you'll ever sleep the 'tire night through." Tensin' up, avoidin' those hor'ble blue eyes. Force my face into a blank, emotionless state, stare straight ahead, no! he's sittin' next to me, now. Can't think of anythin' to say, so I just stare an' stare at the trashy hotel 'cross the street, the night messenger retreatin' into its shady interior.
"You're quiet, lately," Snipeshooter remarks. "Quiet ain't good on you, Race."
"Yeah?" Try to remember exac'ly what I said when I got back to the lodgin' house after sellin' outta the evenin' edition. Most 'a the little ones were already snoozin', two an' three to a bed. Jack, like some sorta central sun (he should be on stage, really, he should), soakin' up the attention of the other boys with some amusin' story. The usual game 'a poker was in full swing. An'...where did I fit in? Oh. Watched the game from the nearest convenient bunk, 'cause I needed the little bit 'a dough I had left to buy papes in the mornin'.
Was I actin' queer? Honestly can't recall.
"An' you look peaked. Like you ain't eaten in days or somethin'--"
"Hey, look, it ain't none 'a your bus'ness, anyway," I interrupt him testily. "Why're you up, huh? You think it's good sport to trample on me patience?"
"No. I always know when you're awake." That said coldly, but my belly gives an awkward little jump. Can't help but glance at him, boyish profile outlined crudely by the streetlamps. It's been a year since the strike, an' he's taller--not quite as tall as me (I'll admit that pleases me; it ain't often that I can consider myself well-endowed in the height department). An' those eyes, smoky blue, void 'a anythin' other than contempt.
"Fine," little more than a mutter. "Don't get huffy, kid."
"I ain't the huffy one," he retorts companion'bly, an' now he doesn't look so severe. "I was just sayin' that you been actin' funny."
"It's the moon. Has an affect on me. Makes me pos'tively nutty." Old stories of wolves an' men come to mind, an' I almost smile.
"You're full 'a shit. Some 'a the fellas reckon you've knocked up some cherry, an' got her old man after you to marry her--no?" Seein' my confusion, he smirks. "I didn't b'lieve it, meself. You ain't as stupid as that. But I know it ain't just lack 'a sleep that's messin' you up."
"Why's it gettin' to you, 'a all people?" Asked more to avoid the direction this conversation is goin' in than to actually receive an answer. Yeah, so I'm a bit of a coward.
"I--Well." Silence, somethin' tightly bound that wants to be said. Wait. But he rises, opens his mouth, closes it again. "Nothin' else to do," he says at last, an' I leave it at that because I really don't wanna know what he might've said.
"That right? Well, ain't nothin' wrong with me. I'm just in a funk, is all. I'll be meself in a week or two--" an' that, at least, is true, "an' then you'll feel pretty fuckin' stupid. You'n all those other idiots." I manage a laugh, an' stand up, lookin' down at him. He leans against the door, eyes wide an' there's somethin' there--God, I must be losin' it. My blood feels like lightnin'--race, race, race, like the horses I idolize. Is that my heart beatin' so hard--an Injun drum beneath my thin undershirt?
He coughs, rubs his arm, an' disappears into the lodgin' house. Whoa, whoa, what was that? I start to follow--stop. Sit back down on the steps. Losin' it. Losin' my mind.
An hour or a minute passes. Cloud on the skyline. Horizon lightens-- the world's beginnin' to awaken. I can hear Kloppman pulling himself laboriously up the stairway...scrape 'a boot soles on wood. More people in the streets now. Seventeen cents, an' it's time to get dressed.
I make an extra effort to act myself this mornin'. Slap the Cowboy on the back, joke 'round with Blink, punch that bastard Skittery (not hard-- don't want a fight with him so early). Racetrack Higgins, the man 'a the moment. I'd be damned good on Broadway.
Buy thirty-four papes an' for once sell in Manhattan since I don't have enough money for train fare anyway. It's hard goin', an' my heart ain't really in it, thoughts turned inward, checkin' off names in my head. See, I know I'm gonna hafta go after Mosca (what a fucked up way to say it-- "go after", like I'm a copper on the trail 'a some crim'nal) eventually, an' I ain't plannin' to charge headfirst into Little Italy--'cause I'd bet a week's wages that's where I'll find him--on my own. Jack would seem the obvious choice--but though he may be the King 'a escape attempts an' flashy search-an'-rescues, he ain't so good when it comes to subtlety. So, scratch that bright idea. Then, for some reason, Snipeshooter comes to mind, an' 'a course that's just what I need, to get that kid involved in this. I mean, he can take care 'a hisself, but...no. Better that he never catches wind 'a this. Don't spend all the day analyzin' that, Race, get back to the state 'a--ah. I know. The perfect fella for this.
With some surprise, I realize my papes're all sold, an' I've made more than I expected (some cherry musta given me five cents for a pape-- prob'ly an outta-towner). Pocket my earnin's an' slowly make for Boots' sellin' spot.
Boots is a real character, he is. At fourteen years 'a age, he's a midget, an' a smart-ass at times, but if ever you need information or help in shady dealin's (or any number 'a other things), he's the guy to see. His sellin' spot's near Wall Street, where all the bigwigs go to bet their money legally (his charmin' interpretation 'a the Stock Market). On dry days, he'll frequent the areas nearer to the Brooklyn Bridge--which's why he's on such good terms with Spot Conlon, (in)famous leader 'a the Brooklyn newsies.
Ain't visitin' ol' Boots for pleasure, on the contrary, this's strictly bus'ness. He ain't as good a headline-hawker as Jack, but he can manage over fifty papes a day, so I s'pect he's still somewhere in the Financial District. Thank God he has a monopoly on mosta the pape sellin' goin' on there, otherwise it'd be near impossible to find him. After only an hour, I come 'cross him shoutin' his little head off, down to about ten papes. I wave an' hurry over to him.
"How's it?" He clasps my hand briefly, calls out, "Hudson's water's 'spected to be poisonous--dead fish wash up on northern bank!"
Two papes taken by a pair 'a suits. "Nice," I compliment.
"Thanks. Nearly done, now...experts worried 'bout drinkin' water--!" Keep up with his fast pace, up the street, up in the world.
"Hey, mister," a tiny girl 'a no more'n eight years accosts a gennelman a few feet from the two 'a us newsies. She's impos'bly dirty-- can't even make out the real color 'a her skin. I watch (Boots is down to five papes) as she begs the guy to buy one 'a her bruised flowers, one 'a many that're tucked into a small, ragged basket. He tugs her ears roughly an' hands her a penny, looks at the flower, an' in the instant his eyes're off her, her hand darts into his pocket an' out again faster'n sight, almost. The man walks away, none-the-wiser, an' the kid hides whatever she snitched in the bottom 'a the basket.
"Somethin' amusin'?" All his papes gone, Boots nudges me hard.
"Nah. Wanna get somethin' to eat?"
"Yeah, sure. Big game 'a cards tonight--whaddya say we save our meager fortunes?"
"You got a great mind, Boots, kid," I grin, an' we catch a "free" ride on a trolley car uptown a bit before hoppin' off an' meanderin' into a Jewish grocery. I engage the owner in conversation, an' when I leave three minutes later, Boots, safely hidden in a nearby alley, has a loaf 'a bread, an' a bottle 'a beer under one arm.
"Whaddya get him so in'rested in?" He asks. "I thought maybe I should go back'n see if I couldn't take the cash-box, too."
"Nothin' really in'restin', swear," grabbin' the beer an' swiggin' it down. Boots grabs it back an' takes a taste hisself before splittin' the bread. After a minute, he leads me down the alley, onto a narrow street an' down a ways, away from the store. We finish off the beer in no time at all, an' the bread soon after. Banter back an' forth, shallow surface talk, an' then I say, "So, ah, Boots. Skittery still tellin' them tales?"
"Eh, you know him. Likes that sorta thing. He's bas'cally a good guy, but ev'ryone's got their thing. Know what I mean?" I nod. "Why you wanna know?"
"Just curious."
"Eh, he's been really goin' on 'bout Mosca's gang, again."
"Yeah? That so?"
"I kid you not." Boots, his monkeyish little face alight with good- humor, clambers up a tenement fire-escape, leanin' dangerously far over the railin'. "I s'pect he makes up half 'a what he says--y'know, Mosca gets fiercer an' fiercer, an' Mickety Bates gets weirder, an' One-Lung gets uglier, dependin' on the size 'a the audience."
"Well, hell," I breathe.
"That's what I said," laughs Boots, swingin' himself over the side 'a the fire-escape, to land gracefully in front 'a me. "Jack thinks it's hilarious, but Crutchy says those kids've got enough to think about without Skittery pourin' half-baked tales into their ears--they jump at their own shadows as it is. Almost time for the noony to be out." The noony is the afternoon edition of the World, an' it is 'bout time to head on over to the distribution center. How our lives revolve 'round that central point. "If we hurry, we might get a decent place in line," says Boots, an' since I heartily agree, we leave together.
I offer thirty cents, aimin' to make the greatest pos'ble profit--for diff'rent reasons than Boots', though I wish I could participate in the evenin' card game, too--who knows, if I do well, I might be able to. Tag along back the Financial District, an' by now Boots has become suspicious; he keeps glancin' at me, uncertainly. Rarely do two newsies sell so near each other. Bad business. Spreadin' the workforce, an' all that.
"You got somethin' on your mind, Racetrack?" He inquires finally, carefully. "Maybe somethin' you been meanin' to say?"
"Actua--"
"Wait, wait, not here." Dark eyes become guarded, calculatin'--some sorta machine whirrin' behind his childish features. I seen it in guys smaller'n him, but it still sends chills down my spine. "C'mon," slips ghostlike onto a side street.
Boots knows Manhattan like the back 'a his hand, ev'ry alleyway, ev'ry nook, ev'ry pier an' ev'ry buildin'. Probably not so much out 'a love for the city than as a desperate need for a hidin' place--or two, or ten--when the bulls come knockin'. His pace is quick, leads me past whores- -they jeer at us, askin' if we're man enough to give it a go--an' pimps, drunks an' opium-lovers, a multitude 'a people from the underworld, yet onward we tread. An' then he ducks into the shaded interior of a tavern, a crooked finger beckonin' me to follow.
Buys two beers from the bar an' settles into a wooden booth near the back 'a the smelly room, grinnin' now. "Hope you can hold your drink well. They don't like it so much if you come in here without buyin'."
"You're lookin' at the beer guzzlin' champion 'a the Lower East Side," braggin', even if my nerves're on edge. Feels likes they're bein' dashed against a brick wall repeatedly. Oh, fantastic.
Breaks down laughin'. Calms down, an' sips at his beer, eyein' me over the rim 'a the cup. "Now, here we are, in peaceful anonymity--" True, true. The constant roar covers anythin' incriminatin' I might say. "--an' I'm all ears, chum."
So I tell him. Slowly at first, an' then my speech catches up with my thoughts, an' the minutes speed along an' I'm tellin' him everythin', about Flex, an' the money, an' Mosca an' Little Italy an' the danger I'd be puttin' myself in--an' Boots, if he should come along, as I'm askin' him to. "Yeah, I'm askin' you," I conclude, I ain't nervous an' I ain't beggin'...don't lie, I am. God, I am. "So, whaddya say, Boots?" D'you really wanna send me off to the butcher-shop alone, pal? Or wouldja commit suicide for my sake?
The dim light reflects in his impos'bly black eyes, makes his gaze feral. Metallic. Sorta creepy. An' he's got that look again, the one that shows he's thinkin' hard an' fast...thinkin' mechanically. His lips tilt up--he holds out his thin hand an' I shake it, gratefully. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah."
We plan, lay strategies out before one another in the duration 'a the day--when to approach Little Italy (tomorrow night, because Boots doesn't want to miss any editions 'a the World--he's gotta make money sometime, he says, an' daytime is that time), who to get to back us up in case we get in above our heads (Blink, Snoddy, an' Bumlets, who're all three larger'n us, an' at least partially trust-worthy--they're also indepted to Boots, which, though beneficial to me, reminds me uncannily 'a my own situation), stuff like that, stuff I hadn't bothered to think through. Boots is the Master 'a details.
Before I've had time to really let it all sink in, we're headin' back to the distribution center for the evenin' edition. I part with Boots, knowin' that I should feel relieved, an' knowin' that I don't. Sixty papes, makin' my way uptown an' down again. By the end 'a the day, I've totaled ninety-four cents--a great sum. Guess I'll get to play the games tonight, after all.
_____________________
"Heya, kid, whatcha got for me today, hmmm? C'mon, whatcha got?"
friendly hand on his shoulder, thin, spidery fingers tugging at the bag he holds in a tight embrace. he smiles impishly at the leader, artfully avoiding her questing hands. reminds him of the day he first saw her, when she and her giant brother found him alone on a brooklyn street. he laughs, "Wait, wait. I got a deal for you, Madame."
lifted eyebrow, amused snort. "Oh, do you? You little runt. All right, let's hear it."
sits on ground, staring around for a moment at the interior of the warehouse. sunlight filters in through the boarded windows. it's rather cold, winter beginning where autumn left off. down-turned crates litter the large room, and the leader rests cross-legged on one of these, head cocked to the side, listening, waiting. he's glad the other kids are in the city, roaming and stealing and living while they can, away from this suddenly lonely place. "You answer me a coupla questions, an' I give you-- " reaches into the bag and pulls out a small golden earring and a thin string of pearls, both of which sparkle invitingly. the leader sucks in her breath. he's pleased--he really had to work for these darlings.
"Oh, sure, anythin' you wanna know, kid. Damn, where'd ya--"
"Nuh uh, I'm askin' the questions." threads the pearls 'round his wrist. likes the heavy feel of them. "I...I'm wond'rin'. I'm wond'rin' what's that thing 'round your neck for."
surprised. stares at him for a moment, then swiftly pulls the cord over her head, the charm so dull it barely reflects light, barely shines at all. bronze, lighter than her skin. in the shape of a horse, which in itself sends his heart racing. "Dunno that it's for anythin'," she says, voice low and thoughtful. "No--it's from Flex, y'know, an' I can't remember for the life 'a me where he got it, but I've had it since we was kids."
"You're not from here, are you?" you're not from here, you're from some other, better place. wants her to tell him everything, wants to get into her head and see all that she's seen. some brilliant place far from here.
"The South, kid. South Carolina. My folks was from there, anyway. They moved up here after the War, an' Flex'n me took care 'a 'em both when they got the Fever." proud, almost-smile on her thick lips. "They used to always say...that the land was like somethin' straight outta Eden there, even though they worked all the time, an' they said their masters was kinder'n many, an' never beat 'em or nothin'. They said..." pauses, biting her lip. "They said that here, it's another sort 'a slavery. A worse sort, 'cause the slaves' masters ain't even alive, they're only machines, an' so they can't feel pity. That's why," pats his shoulder, "this is such a good thing, kid. The company, an' the stuff we do. Even though the rest 'a the world may call us lousy crooks, an' worse, we ain't slavin' away at the factory or the mill, an' we ain't got no masters but ourselves. Even I can't tell you what to do, kid--no one can ever tell you what to do."
no, he thinks, she's wrong. the machines aren't the masters. the masters are the people who own the machines, the people who know of the horror that the lower class calls life, and who do nothing about it. and those masters rule everything, from the knowledge in the peoples' heads, to the laws that condemn the few joys they have. and what hope do the people have of ever changing that? how to change the world, when all you've got is a handful of stolen jewelry and no future?
asks to hold the necklace, and she shakes her head, putting the simple charm on its simple cord back around her slender neck. "Sorry, kid. Some things're just too important to let anyone handle. See, this is all I got left 'a my childhood."
scene fades into nothing and then it's night. yes, it's night, and he's running down some dark street, away from the beat of boots on cobblestone, away from shouts and screams from the throats of people who, only a few hours before, lived in a cheerful, if not entirely stable, bubble on the outskirts of society, somewhere between sin and virtue, kids with nothing and no one who were all taken in by a girl who gave them hope and said, hey, it's all right. it's all right.
gasping, now, nearly weeping. stumbles, falls, scrapes his knee and tears his nice coat. chokes down his sobs, and keeps running, fear making his blood pound in his ears. what if the bulls catch up with him? what about the company? on he runs, and runs, and runs--]
_____________________
Eyes fly open, breath catches. Sweaty, sticky; heartbeat so, so loud. I think I might vomit. Always that dream, always that sensation 'a not bein' able to escape, 'a runnin' toward some nameless place. Hate it, hate it more'n anythin' in the world. Why can't I fuckin' forget...why can't the past stay buried, why ev'ry night these dreams?
Try to move, an' bile rises in my throat. Sprint on unsteady legs to the washroom, to a chamberpot, an' there my stomach comes up through my throat, achin', burnin' like the pits 'a hell. The smell 'a my own vomit starts it all over again, an' there I am, tremblin' an' moanin', eyes painfully dry an' guts heavin', dyin' where I stand. Lurch away, towards the pump, where I stick my entire head under the openin' an' let the frigid water soak me, wash out my mouth, spit.
Voices. Jack's, confused an' raspy with sleep: "Whuzzit? Who--"
"I'll handle it." Snipes. Crawl away from the pump, shiverin', cursin' softly. Damnable boy. Toss my wet hair outta my face, try to stand, fail. Bare feet slap against floor, an' a warm hand wraps 'round my elbow an' pulls me up with a grunt. "Ugg, shit, you're drenched." Warmth, arms pullin' at me, tuggin' me towards--where?--my bed, I guess. Awkward, 'cause I'm taller (only consolation) an' staggerin' more than anythin' else. Ashamed.
Shoved onto the mattress, my rear end encounters the boards beneath the stuffed beddin', the thin pillow. "Kid," I croak. Tryin' to play the cool guy, as always, the street-smart superior with ev'rythin' under control, an' the nightmare comes back so vividly for an instant I nearly-- no, no, calm down, calm down Race. "Kid, gimme a cigar." Know it'll only make me sicker, but damned if I care.
Silence, someone murmurin' (in their sleep, I s'pose) from across the room, an' then, "What is it that's eatin' you from the inside out, Race?"
Dunno why those simple words make the queasiness recede an' my heart-- well, do whatever the hell it's doin', bumpin' around like some loony in an asylum. Makes me shiver, too, but pleasantly, as if I've suddenly walked into this warm room after sleepin' on the streets for a coupla nights. Bizarre as hell, an' I dunno what to do. I know what it is, but I don't wanna say.
"Some corpses," carefully, softly, "are better left buried, kid."
"Don't let whatever corpse you're carryin' around rot your mind." My eyes've adjusted all their gonna, an' though he hisself isn't clear, I can make out his sharp eyes, starin' not at me, but in me. Wrong, so wrong. "Got yourself into somethin' too deep? Is that it?"
"No," I say. Lyin'.
Disgusted, he sneers an' grabs my shoulder, hard, angrily. "Such a phony, ain't ya, Racetrack--the truth ain't poison, I wanna hear you say somethin' true for once, I really do."
"How..." Stop. Choose words. "How d'you know so much? Why should it matter to you?"
"Because I ain't made 'a stone. You got ev'ryone worried about you, an' that little facade you showed this mornin'--that may 'a fooled the other fellas, but I'm dif'rent, Race, I...I'm right across from you, an' I know how you lay awake at night long as you can, an' I hear you say things when you finally do sleep. I've got so used to you, I--" Sharp intake 'a breath, the hand on my shoulder tenses.
Mind sorta numb. "I dream 'bout things that happened a long time ago," I hear myself sayin', somewhere far away, somewhere a million miles away. "Before I was a newsie, before Manhattan an' before I was Racetrack."
Remember Jack, young, decidedly unleaderlike, findin' me when I first entered Manhattan over the Bridge, panicked an' depressed. Keepin' to myself, until he got me to go with him to see his friend, who was the leader 'a the Manhattan newsies then. Remember sneakin' off to the tracks, walkin' the familiar streets 'a Brooklyn at first, then learnin' 'a the train an' takin' advantage 'a the quick transportation. Remember when the boys found out about it, an' dubbed me "Racetrack", jokingly, laughin' an' pattin' me on the back.
Searchin' for the company 'bout a year after we were busted, an' findin' no one, until one day, tryin' to decide which horse to bet on, there was Flex Amerson, taller an' older, more haggard, his mouth smilin' but his eyes dead. Dead like his sister. Guess that's the way the jolly world goes 'round.
"Nothin'll ever take away those memories," I mutter, defeatedly, slouchin' over so he can't see my face. "Ev'ryone's got old corpses in their brains, Snipes, an' I ain't no exception. Just I can't seem to get away from mine."
"Race..." He trails off, soundin' uncertain. Unusual in Snipeshooter 'a the snappin' eyes an' mischievious smile--man-boy, caught somewhere in between, too old, we're all too old.
Reach up an' take his hand off my shoulder, warm an' square in mine. Calloused, workin' hands. Nothin' left to say, so I just sit still for a moment, starin' at him an' tryin' to figure out what it is that's changed in him, other than the sadness I can see fightin' a war behind his youthful features. An' then it dawns on me; maybe it isn't he who's changed. Maybe it's just the way I see him.
Yanks his hand away, an' stalks off, loudly. I'm left cold an' thoughtful.
By the time the sun rises, Snipeshooter still hasn't returned. Boots gets me aside to discuss the Plan (yup, in capitals) for a few hurried minutes, an' then it's time to buy papes an' start the day rollin'. I made a bit 'a money on last night's game, so I start with fifty papes (courtesy 'a Weasle) an' go to my usual sellin' spot at Coney Island. The day moves slowly, even with the races, an' at first I think my watch must be broken, but, no, it's fine. I try to think 'a the Plan, but then my mind drifts off an' it's Snipes I'm seein', furious an' disoriented, stormin' outta the lodgin' house with those demon eyes 'a his aflame.
After three eternities, I'm in front 'a the lodgin' house, the bloody evenin' sun castin' monstrous shadows over me. Boots approaches, Blink an' Snoddy an' Bumlets (who can't seem to meet my eyes) followin' close behind. I grin in what I hope is a reassurin' way, an' Blink cheerfully spit- shakes with me. Snoddy keeps bitin' his lip nervously, an' Bumlets--well, can't say what his problem is.
"Ready, Race?" Boots squares his small shoulders.
"Oh, hell, ready as I'll ever be. Shall we march on, calvary?"
"Onward ho," agrees Blink.
I've never been into Little Italy before, an' in fact would never've dared go there had not this unfortunate situation come up. I've heard stories--ev'ryone's heard stories--about the brawls, the killin's, the tenements dirtier than dirt an' the wild-eyed kids who live by no man's rules. The kids're the worst, I'm told.
Boots walks beside me, erect, wordlessly, an' once we're in sight 'a Mulberry Street, even Kid Blink lapses into uneasy silence. It ain't dark, but it ain't full daylight either, 'a course, an' once we've walked a ways (eyes on us, I swear, we're always watched) Boots says, "Mosca's headquarters're in the back of a restaurant called the Gardens. Should be comin' upon it, soon."
"If you say so." Onward, onward, an' there, a wooden board nailed to a rickety door, readin' "The Calabria Gardens". Pause outside the door, face the other boys. "Well, boys," I grin, feelin' suddenly more alive than I have in days, "ready or not."
The door creaks, an' the air inside is muggy, scented with exotic foods. A low steady hum 'a voices drifts to the five 'a us, an' one 'a the guys is breathin' hard--Snoddy, I think. A few electric lights in fancy glass holders hang from the ceilin' an' color ev'rythin' a pale, parchment yellow. A few people're in the restaurant, sittin' at tables an' glancin' up at us suspiciously. We ignore the employees an' make our way to the back 'a the room, where a glowerin' boy about my age stops us.
"State your bus'ness," he scowls.
"Mr. Higgins, here to speak to Mr. Mosca," says Boots, at my side, always the diplomat. "He's got a message from a friend 'a his."
"A message, eh? Mr. Higgins. I'll ask the boss if 'e wants to talk widdya. Don't be gettin' any ideas, you or your pals." He turns an' exits through another door, which clicks shut--I can hear a lock turnin'.
"Wonder what's got him, right, fellas?" They laugh tensely, an' Bumlets' hands're clenched so tightly I think he might hurt hisself. I tell him to take it easy. Few minutes pass, an' then the kid reappears, smilin' darkly. Time to meet the legends.
We're led into another room, darker, smaller, but the air here is cool. A coupla tables line the walls, an' at these tables sit a handful 'a guys, mostly older'n me, an very much bigger. A man with lanky limbs an' a low brow stands as we enter; I offer my hand, but he just stares at it for a moment before sayin', "Who the hell're you?"
"Racetrack Higgins," I answer, makin' myself smile--someone has to. "You're--"
"Mosca." James Mosca. He looks sorta...dead, y'know, washed out an' blank. But the muscles in his arms are apparent even under his shirt an' I'm sure it ain't a good idea to mess around with him. "Whaddya want?"
"Got a message--well, a request--from Flex Amerson. He says he wants the payment now," I say, my voice barely shakin' at all. Money ain't the best topic with a gangster, especially not with a room full 'a other gangsters. Suicide, my mind keeps whisperin'.
Movement from the back 'a the room. Outta the shadows comes the most gorgeous kid I've ever seen. Long-lashed, vibrant green eyes, skin so pale it's moon-kissed, delicately pointed chin, dark hair curlin' 'round perfect shells 'a ears. Even the dull, shapeless clothes she wears can't detract from her beauty--but why's she wearin' a fella's clothes? She notices my wanderin' gaze, an' frowns. "What payment?" she asks, breathlessly, huskily.
Mosca studies me, an' suddenly his eyes widen. "Oh, that."
"What payment, what's this kid talkin' about?"
"I got it, Peter," says Mosca distractedly. Motions to the small boy who lead us in, an' murmurs somethin' to him.
"Quit gawkin'," Boots whispers in my ear, "at One-Lung Pete. He'll gut ya in the blink 'a an eye...surprised he hasn't done it yet." I give a violent start, then flush hotly. Okay. Weird. Skittery never mentioned anythin' about...well.
The kid scurries off, an' we're left in the oppressive silence with Mosca an' One-Lung--good god, don't think 'a that!--glarin' at us like we're bugs they'd dearly love to squash. The other men in the room ignore us completely, now, slappin' down cards an' slurpin'--whiskey or beer, I don't know--drinks. Just when my smile has finished dyin' a slow, painful death, the boy slides back into the room, his fist wrapped 'round somethin'.
Mosca grabs whatever it is an' shoves it into my grasp, nearly snarlin', "Now, you have ten minutes to get outta Town--" I hope he means Little Italy, "or I'll come after you meself. Understood?"
"Perfectly," Boots an' I say at the same time. One-Lung Pete smiles, then, so frigidly I think I can feel my innards freeze. An' then we're outta that god-forsaken room, outta the restaurant, racin' down Mulberry Street an' back into the familiar world that we own. Blink laughs a trifle hysterically, an' I join in, an' we're all laughin' an' jokin'; friendly slaps land on my back.
"We made it, it's a fuckin' miracle!" Kid Blink whoops loudly. Bumlets an' Snoddy're both talkin' at the same time, their relief practic'lly touchable. I start to say somethin', an' then remember the thing that Mosca shoved at me.
It's a box. Brown an' grease-stained, kinda bent. I unfold the openin', and empty the contents into my oustretched palm, preparin' to count out a ridiculous amount 'a cash, but there is no cash. What falls into my hand is a charm on a rough cord an' a folded piece 'a paper.
"What is it, Race?" The fellas've gotten ahead 'a me, an' I hastilly drop the necklace an' paper back in the box, which I thrust into my pocket.
"Nothin'," I laugh off their concern. "We did great, damnit, let's go back an' celebrate."
We do just that. Jack an' the others're confused by our wild, reckless attitudes, but we stay up well into the night gamblin' an' foolin' around. At last, Boots admits that he has to get to sleep if he wants to sell tomorrow, an' Bumlets agrees. Snoddy an' Kid Blink reluctantly tumble into their beds, as well.
But me. Well, sleep eludes me. Trudge down the stairs an' outta the lodgin' house, sit on the stairs an' pull out the box. Necklace with its horse charm, bronze, surprisin'ly heavy. The paper which I unfold. Writin', sharp an' neat. Ink. Blacker than the night. By the light 'a the streetlamps I read:
[Kid,
I ain't gonna say I'm sorry I lied to you. There ain't any cash, in fact, I'm flat broke. James Mosca never owed me anything, except the few things friendship entails. Like taking care of this until I felt the time was right. And the time is certainly right, kid; you may not realize it, yet, but maybe someday...I think you know why I lied.]
"I never woulda gone if I'd 'a thought this was what I was goin' after," I mutter bitterly. I know.
[So I'm gonna try to keep the explanation as short as humanly possible. Recognize that pretty little necklace? Yeah, I know you do. The truth is, kid, I want out. This whole life business...it ain't my thing, anymore. Got nothing left, no family, no purpose, no hope. In the end, you were the strongest of all of us. No one's left from the company except you and me and soon just you.]
Bite my tongue. This guy's unbelievable. Somethin' sharp bites into my flesh, an' I realize I've been squeezin' down on the charm with it's pointed little hooves. The letter's wet, for some reason.
[I wish there was some slice of wisdom I could give to you, but all I've ever learned is how to beat the system. And even that was all wrong. You can never beat the system, because you're part of it. I'll just wish you luck, kid. I have the feeling you won't need it, though.]
No signature, but I know, anyway, who this is from. No other person could be so goddamned selfish, leavin' me here alone, all my old friends dead or vanished. Only Flex. Drop the necklace, that awful charm with its broken memories, an' hide my face. My wet face. I can't be cryin', like a little girl, like a baby. I can't be.
I'm not. It's rainin'. An' I become aware that I'm listenin', too, for the familiar sound 'a the door openin', an' steps behind me. Waitin' for distant blue eyes an' scoffin' voice that's so much 'a part 'a me I can't even understand why, exac'ly. Shudderin' in the icy rainfall, an' the door is still, no footstep falls upon the stair. Only night sounds, carriages rattlin' though the streets an' shoutin' from far away. The streetlamps flicker.
I think this is what they mean when they talk 'bout bein' "broken- hearted".
The thought 'a goin' back into the lodgin' house makes me sick to my stomach, so into my pocket goes the box an' the letter, an' after a moment's hesitation, 'round my throat goes the cord. The charm is almost a comfortin' weight 'gainst my chest. Step down onto the glistenin' cobblestones, my step heavy at first, then lighter as I walk further, past the distribution center, ever onward, onward. Past lights an' sounds an' proof that the world still goes 'round even if I know I'll never see that grinnin' black face at the tracks or anywhere, that face with all its emotional baggage an' hare-brained plots an' schemes.
It seems I walk for hours, not really thinkin' about anythin'. Mind curiously empty. Almost calm. The rain has stopped, leavin' the city wet an' shimmerin'. Uptown a bit, encounter a crowd 'a rich snobs, an' filch a cigar outta some guy's pocket. Get a light from another guy, an' then I really am almost okay. Dunno what it is 'bout smokin' that can cheer a guy up right smart.
Take a street downtown again, an' by the time my feet've really begun to ache, I'm back at the lodgin' house, an' the sight 'a it no longer makes me so nauseous. Put out the cigar, which is down to an unsmokable stub. Sally up the stairs, into the bedroom. About to flop into my bed, but it seems someone else already had that bright idea.
He's really small, curled up like that. Snipeshooter, I mean. This intense sensation wells up in me, an' I wanna do somethin' to him, but I'm not sure what. So I just leave him there an' scoot in beside him, hand lingerin' on the charm even as I finally let my eyes close, darin' any dreams to come.
_____________________
...
_____________________
Awake to find that mornin' hasn't even arrived yet. Start to roll over an'--but he's watchin' me, wide awake. I'm startin' to think that his eyes're more like jewels than rocks. Jewels like the ones I once snatched from old women an' young alike an' presented proudly to the leader.
An' then suddenly, like some sorta epiphany, the puzzle pieces click together an' I whisper, "No dreams."
He doesn't say anythin', an' his hands've somehow gotten caught in the clothes I didn't bother to change outta. He doesn't move 'em, so I don't mention it. Quiet. Someone snorts loudly. I think it's rainin' again, because there's a pitter-patterin' sound against the window.
Then his hands're hot against my face, an' his lips land on my chin, an' on the corner 'a my lips, an' I must be crazy because I'm pullin' him to me, as close as two bodies can get, an' it doesn't matter, all the girls I've ever flirted with an' cornered in seedy bars, none 'a them were like this, none 'a them made me feel like I was kissin' a storm. Makes an' odd sound in his throat, hands in my hair now, tuggin' gently, pressin' his lips to mine so hard I'm afraid he'll hurt hisself but even that doesn't matter because he wants it, he really does.
Pull away, gasp in air that is too fresh an' lick teasin'ly at his tremblin' lips, trailin' cautious fingers over his burnin' flesh, down his firm back, over the bones that stick out there. An' somehow it all makes sense now, the way he knew when the nightmares were the worst, an' it doesn't matter that he can be an asshole an' that he steals my cigars sometimes--his cynicism, his anger, the way he looks at me like he can see what I'm thinkin', what I want. Nip at his bottom lip, slip my tongue into that moist cavern of a mouth, fall in love with the quiet noises he makes.
He jerks away abruptly, graspin' at me an' he whispers feverishly, "I- I didn't mean to--to feel this, I couldn't've guessed--"
"Shhh, shhh," I breathe into his hair, that thatch of unruly curls. "Me neither, kid. 'S'okay, me neither, just--" Trail off, an' hold him so tight I nearly break him. Listen to his harsh breathin', feel the rise 'an fall 'a his chest against mine. Die a little with ev'ry beat 'a his heart.
"This's really messed up," he murmurs after awhile. "A total..."
"Catastrophe," I finish. But I don't care. Beginnin' to think that I could get used to this.
"I'd better..." He sits up, clearer, now. The sky is lightenin' outside, the streetlamps fadin' out. "So no one will....well." Glances at me, face blank an' then pensive. Somethin' glintin' behind his eyes-- desire, regret, both, maybe?
I'm about to say somethin' when he leans down an' kisses me, delicately, like it's the first time. Press my hand to his chest, feelin' his heart pulse, then he's gone, slippin' under the covers 'a his own bed an' leavin' me fightin' for control with my baser instincts which're tellin' me to do things I definitely don't want the small kids to see.
Mornin' in the lodgin' house. Kloppman's come an' gone, an' mosta the fellas're grumblin' 'bout bein' woken up so early, though it isn't any earlier than usual. Boots grins at me, gives me a thumbs up--job well done, Racetrack. Jack slaps someone in the ass with a towel, an' a fight ensues--'a course I join in, since it was Skittery who Jack slapped. An' as we head off to peddle the papes, I catch Snipeshooter's eye an' give him a brilliant smile which he replies to with a softer, more subtle one 'a his own.
Coney Island, land that I love. I'm outta papes in no time, an' the races're callin' me, a siren song, enchantin'. Pos'tively beautiful.
Rating: R
Content: Slash, angst, romance
Summary: While coping with dreams of his dubious past and strange feelings towards Snipeshooter, Racetrack gets caught up in a deal with an old friend of his.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Disney does. I do, however, own the four original characters (Flex, the Leader, Mosca, and One-Lung). Not that anyone would want to take them. ^_^;;
Author's Notes: This is my first "Newsies" fanfic, so forgive me if it isn't quite up to par. I don't have a great deal of experience with turn- of-the-century New York City slang, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I'd also appreciate any reviews--constructive criticism, what you thought of the story, marriage proposals, all that. (Um, thank you to Stage, for correcting me in one part...silly mistake, I know. ^_^)
--Beautiful Catastrophe--
[A hundred times I have thought: New York is a catastrophe, and fifty times: It is a beautiful catastrophe. --Le Corbusier]
Everyone loves Jack first. If you could pry open the walls that most 'a these kids put around their thoughts, if you could shift through the memories like pages in a book, back to the very first morning an' the very first time their small hands sacrificed a quarter an' wrapped around a smooth stack 'a papes, if you could do that, you'd know that the first face that really stands out in the crowd is the Cowboy's.
Take Snipeshooter, for instance. Lookin' at him, you'd think he was forty years old, with eyes so hard you could bust rocks on 'em, an' a smile that's always edged. But once upon a time he was fresh (as green as any kid from New York can pos'bly be) and you can bet he was scared as hell when he first stumbled into line at the distribution center. But there was Jack, as always, ready with a grin an' a arm 'round his shoulder an' at that moment, Snipeshooter loved Jack. On that first day, when it's all so big, it's impossible not to love someone who makes it seem so easy.
Some kids start lovin' him and never stop. That'd be fellas like Mush an' Crutchy an' Davey. An' me, I guess. Yeah, you could say I love him. But it's kinda like tryin' to describe the color 'a fire to a blind guy. You can show'm how it burns, but he'll never see it. Or somethin' like that.
Dunno why I'm so introspective tonight. My hands keep reachin' 'a their own accord to the small metal cup on the table next to my bed. There's a coupla stubby cigars in there, 'a course, an' also a pair 'a wooden dice, an' a pack 'a scruffy old cards. It's for the dice I'm reachin', but since I can't really think 'a anythin' to do with 'em, I pull my hand back underneath the thin blanket. Bricks're attached to my eyelids, but sleep's tauntin' me from somewhere far away--that's nothin' new, anyway.
Again, my fingers brush the edge 'a the cup. Annoyed, I push myself up, blinkin' as a streetlamp suddenly becomes visible through the window. In a second, the stupid dice're in the palm 'a my hand, solid an' smooth with age. They make a clickin' noise as I toss 'em in the air an' catch 'em, then quickly roll 'em 'cross the surface 'a the blanket. Six an' five. I'm good. Luck 'a the Irish, though I ain't a mick.
The sound 'a rustlin' cloth shifts into the almost-silence, an' a hoarse voice whispers, "Race, that you?"
Now Snipeshooter, he's as Irish as they come; he's got this little snubbed nose an' wiry, curly brown hair surroundin' a round face. The semi- darkness makes him different, softer somehow. Like one 'a them fairy-tale creatures Crutchy sometimes tells the small kids about.
"Race?"
"Yeah, yeah, what is it, kid?" The reply comes out sharper than I meant it to. Not that it phases Snipes; like I said, he's pretty tough.
"'Nother--" He lets out a massive yawn, "all-nighter, I see."
Not much gets past Snipeshooter. An' I haven't been gettin' an enormous amount 'a shut-eye, lately. I blame my bed; it ain't the most comfor'ble thing in the world, an' my back can only take so much. I tell Snipes this, an' he laughs harshly, like he knows I'm lyin'.
"Whatcha got there?" He asks at length, gesturin' sharply in my gen'ral direction.
I've been fiddlin' with the dice, throwin' 'em down on the blanket an' scoopin' 'em up again. The calloused pad 'a my pointer finger lingers on the six dots carved into one 'a the dice. Wish I could be as lucky at the track. "Go back to sleep," I say absently.
"You ain't my boss."
I think he's tryin' to pick a fight, but then, I can never tell with Snipeshooter. Maybe he's just bein' cranky. Ignorin' him, I fall back onto my none-too-soft pillow, the dice held firmly within the protection 'a my fist.
"So stupid," he mutters faintly, an' I can hear him crawlin' back under his blanket. I wait for his breathin' to become slow an' loud, but it never does.
________________________
[he doesn't know which way to go. he's on the second floor, and mama is on the fourth still, for all he knows. the stairway beyond where he stands is crowded with people. the air is unbearably stifling, and the walls are strangely hot. neighbors who only that morning smiled at him and patted his head rush by him, yelling, pushing, he thinks they've gone insane. someone shoves him as they pass, and he falls onto his rear end. tears, hot and shameful, prickle behind his eyes, but he won't let them fall because he's a big boy and papa will spank him if he does. but papa is upstairs with mama.
glass breaks somewhere--sounds like it comes from the floor above him. there's a roaring in his ears now, and he isn't sure if it is just him, or if everyone else can hear it.
"Geddout, geddout, come on!"
a short man with broad shoulders and a dirty face knocks on closed doors down at the other end of the second floor. one of the doors open, and a young woman peers out, her eyes full of fear.
"What is it, the war, it's a war, yes..."
she babbles and starts to weep, hiding her face in her hands. the man tugs her hair sharply, forces her hands away.
"Fire! Geddout, grab your children. Geddout!"
soon the woman, her two children, and three other families are down the now nearly-empty stairway. the people have disappeared so fast. mama and papa are still on the fourth floor. they want the china that is all they have left of home in the other place, the old country. they want the money, too. the coins saved up and placed in a small jar underneath mama and papa's mattress.
suddenly arms wrap around him from behind. the man's breath is hot in his ear, and he is too afraid to tell the man that he is waiting for mama and papa.
down the dark staircase, the roaring is louder. crack, crack, crack, at first he thinks it is the man's weight on the old wooden stairs. it's hard to breath, it is so smoky. where are--]
______________________
Fierce blue eyes watch me. My arms sting where he's been pinchin' me, an' I rub the sensitive flesh, glarin' back at him.
"So ya fell asleep after all. Are they bad?" Snipeshooter means the nightmares, I think, an' seein' no point in denyin' that they exist (they do, God, they do), I shrug like it don't matter. After so much water under the bridge, you'd think the memories'd fade, become unreal--like somebody else's life, somebody else who did an' saw an' felt all those things. Like worms dryin' out in the sun.
Thankfully, he doesn't ask me to give details 'bout the nightmare, just sorta nods an' smirks in that annoyin' way 'a his. Stands up (he was sittin' on the edge 'a my bed), all tough an' boyish, an' hooks his thumbs in his trouser pockets, a gesture I've come to associate with mischief on his part. "Better hurry if ya wanna sell today," he remarks casually, an' before I can ask what the hell he means by that, he's gone.
And, I quickly realize, so's ev'ryone else.
Into the washroom, clothes half on, I brush my teeth in record time, wash my face, smooth back my hair--smooth. Yeah, real smooth. Wond'rin' if the bastard woke me up late on purpose--decide that, knowin' Snipes, that's prob'ly how the case stands. Damnit, I can imagine the other fellas laughin' their heads off, even here, runnin' down the staircase and wavin' to a puzzled Kloppman--oh, they really planned this one out. Pulled the wool over the old man's eyes, too. Goody.
Down in the sunbathed streets, the smell 'a human sweat an' even more unpleasant things, mixed with the mouth-waterin' aroma 'a various meats an' breads bein' sold from dark little shops, is over-powerin'. Pushcarts line the sidewalk, boastin' ev'rythin' from mismatched, outta-date shoes to dull pots an' pans. This's the center 'a the universe, for most 'a us Manhattan boys. A coupla waves to familiar faces, an' more'n a coupla rueful glances on my part, directed towards the nearby bakery and butcher shop. The nuns've long since retired to the mysterious recesses 'a the cathedral, a place I've never cared to visit. Too gloomy.
The distribution center ain't far from the lodgin' house. It's pretty dismal, without the early mornin' singin' an' fightin'. Most 'a the fellas've already bought their papes and've headed off for their various sellin' spots. Me, I arrive just before ol' Weisel (Weasle to us) decides sellin' time's over for the mornin' edition.
"Mornin', Weasle," I grin, purposely impudent with my arm restin' on the counter. Numerous pairs 'a narrowed eyes watch me from behind Weasle, the eyes 'a guys like the Delancey brothers, eyes eager to see blood and violence--nothin' like the playful shovin' that goes on between pals. We're talkin' knives an' brass knuckles, the whole nine yards. Fishin' what comes to a total 'a fifteen cents outta my pocket, I ask for thirty papes--today sure as hell don't feel like a good day. Say somethin' smart to one 'a the guys in back, an' then beat it before any 'a them get the idea that they can trounce me here, without my guardian cowboy.
Sellin' papes ain't just somethin' you do to make money. It's practic'ly a lifestyle. A newsie's gotta take care 'a hisself in business as well as in everythin' else; whatever profit he makes is his, an' any loss is his, too. He's gotta learn to lie, ev'ry word that falls from his mouth has to positively shine--brightly enough that ev'ryone within a half- mile radius takes notice.
An' it don't hurt to look cute, either. Usually, though, I don't hafta bother too much with that part. My lies don't hafta be as creative as the other fellas', either, an' that's because where I do my sellin', they know me.
Coney Island: horse racin' capital 'a New York an' prob'ly the whole country. It ain't so complicated to catch a train from the Lower East Side 'a Manhattan (home sweet home, right?) to Brooklyn an' Coney Island, which ain't really an island. There's a bunch 'a resorts for big-shots, men who can afford to bet thousands 'a dollars a day, but I ain't one 'a them and neither're many 'a the guys who frequent the races. There's other stuff to spend money on, too, if you got money...a score 'a restaurants, the Switchback Railway, Sea-Lion Park, it goes on. But the only thing really worth seein' is the races.
The Sheepshead Bay track's been 'round since before I was even born, but I swear by all the saints that it was made with me in mind. 'A course there's other tracks--the one at Gravesend and the Brighton Beach track-- but they ain't as good, in my honest opinion, as Sheepshead. Take Brighton: all the sand ain't helpin' the horses any, an' it almost always floods if there happens to be a rainstorm durin' one 'a the races. There's nothin' ter'bly wrong with Gravesend, but hell, Sheepshead was there first, an' Sheepshead is the owner 'a my heart.
I scan the headlines for catchy words, stories that can be turned inside out an' upside down. Slip into the midst of a gath'rin' crowd an' start shoutin' at the top 'a my lungs: "Extry, extry...!" Another day in the street trade. By noon I've sold all my papes. Forty-five cents in all, thirty cents profit. I treat my lustily growlin' stomach to a hotdog bought from a street vendor, then shuffle my way to the tracks, lickin' my fingers clean.
"Well, if it ain't Racetrack Higgins." This from a black man 'bout twice my height, leanin' against a fence that surrounds the track. He's a reg'lar gennelman, in his fancy tweeds--he makes more money in a day then I do in a week, though I've no idea what he does for a livin' (I can guess, though, an' I'm guessin' it ain't anythin' he can write home 'bout).
"How's it rollin', Flex?" Shake his hand, perfunctory greetin'. A boxin' match is in full swing (pardon the pun) somewhere off to the right, spectators millin' 'round like flies, occupyin' themselves 'til the races start. A cheer goes up; the favored fighter is winnin'. I stare at the bloody face 'a the guy who's losin', stare anywhere rather than meet the dark gaze of Flex Amerson.
"Fine, Race, pretty fine." He grins wide an' his teeth're so white, they nearly blind me. "Real fine. Look, you know most ev'rybody on the Lower East Side. Ev'rybody that matters, hm? James Mosca an' One-Lung Pete an' all 'a them?"
"I ain't real close chums with 'em, no," I reply cautiously. "We ain't bosom friends or nothin' like that." Which is true; nobody in their right mind'd get close to James Mosca; he's the sorta fella who'd getcha drunk'n then rob ya blind, with no remorse at all, because he'd consider it a tame thing to do. One-Lung Pete is a wheezin', cross-eyed lunatic. They say he carved up his folks an' ended up in fed'ral prison for a year before he escaped. I've never actually met either 'a them, but my sources're reliable. Anyway, Mosca heads a gang that mainly does business on the Lower East Side, 'round Little Italy, an' One-Lung Pete is his second-in- command. The other boys in the gang ain't as bad as them two, but they're pretty damned close. Skittery thinks it's funny to tell the younger newsies about Mosca's gang in gory details, but Skittery is a bastard. Most 'a the rest of us simply avoid the subject altogether.
"We're good friends, Race." It ain't a question, an' that worries me. Flex in gen'ral worries me; I never see him anywhere but the tracks, an' then, rarely. But he's always got some dangerous as hell scheme racin' through that bald head 'a his, an' resist though I might, I usually get dragged into it. The scheme, not his mind, thank God. "Y'know," an' he looks suddenly as saintly as the nuns over near the distribution center, "y'know, I've always made it a point to help you in times 'a need. Like when you got a dept to repay, an' you can't gleam up the cash in time, I lend you some outta me own pocket, don't I?" He does. "So you won't refuse me if I have a little job that only you can do. I know you won't, 'cause I'm your pal, an' pals help each other. Especially when one 'a them hasn't quite paid back the other for the last time he helped him in his time 'a need."
Very loaded statement. So I haven't been able to fork over the eight bucks I owe him. I'm not doin' so well, lately. Ain't sleepin' so good. But I nod agreeably, not lettin' him see how annoyed or worried I am. "Gotcha loud an' clear, Flexy-boy. Whatcha got for me this time?"
He frowns at the nickname, I'm gratified to see. "You ever hear that James's soft on Italians?"
"Funny, I thought ev'ryone was soft on us." Another frown, an' I sober up. "Not that I can recall."
"Well, he is. Real soft. For obvious reasons--he's an Italian, himself, him an' mosta his gang. Most kids who get in his way, his boys soak 'em without askin' questions. But a cute little wop like you--" My face goes red at what may or may not be an insult. "--has a pretty good chance 'a gettin' right up close to ol' James hisself."
"Why would a fella wanna do that?" Translation: what d'you want me to do? What ill-fated adventure am I to embark on now? Am I gonna die painfully, or painfully?
"Because, my dear Mr. Higgins," an' if he smiles any wider, his mouth'll fall off, "the hon'rable James Mosca, much like yourself, owes me a bit 'a money that'd come in handy right about now. So much money, it'd make your eyes roll."
An' he's too much of a coward--sorry, self-preservationist--to get it hisself. I'm convenient, an' my race just may hold the baddies off long enough for me to get the cash an' transfer it safely into Flex's hands before Mosca changes his mind an' sends his boys after me. Oh, wonderful. That's Flex for ya. But there're cords that tie me to him tighter than old depts, an' I just nod an' then nod again, tellin' myself that since I haven't died yet, there's no reason for me to die doin' this stupid favor for Flex. Favor. Ha.
"You sure I won't just take the money an' catch me a train West or somethin'?"
"Aw, you wouldn't do that, Race." Translation: I have ways of findin' you an' makin' you suffer. We're on such good terms, Flex'n me.
"Nah, not me. I'm too nice for the likes 'a you," I half-joke, an' he laughs hollowly, then pulls a pocket-watch (on a gold chain, the creep) out an' says, "Time for the races, pal. You gonna bet today?"
I shouldn't bet, but I admit that I will anyway.
"The kid's honest, at least. Listen, I need the dough by this time next week. An' don't go flashin' it around or anythin' stupid like that--I know you won't, 'cause you got more sense'n most fellas." Pauses, puts the watch away. "You can consider the eight bucks repaid, by the way, if you manage to pull this off."
"I will. I'm good, Flexy-boy."
"You better be. I'm off." He turns away, head an' shoulders taller than anyone else 'round him.
I keep tryin' to think how this could pos'bly be worse, but my mind's a blank.
_____________________
["Where's ya folks, kid?" he doesn't answer. he's afraid of the dark-eyed girl and the giant standing silent at her side. clothes torn, body unwashed, he's walked the streets of brooklyn for two days, not even stopping to sleep or eat. he can't sleep, can't close his eyes for long because of the pictures imprinted on his mind. and his stomach feels twisted, alien within him.
"What're you, dumb or summin? Ya got no family? What's ya name?" thin hands pinching him, searching his pockets. he doesn't bother to stop her; he doesn't own anything worth stealing. "Don't look very old. Baby- face." her hair is brittle black, falling over her shoulders in a messy tangle. around her neck is a rough cord, knotted tightly, on which hangs a cheap bronze charm. skin like coal, the palms of her hands pink as they rest on her hips. but it is the giant he watches, eyes wide and exhaustion- bright.
"Flex." the girl turns to the giant, who smiles. "What d'you s'pose we should do with the kid?"
the scene fades. suddenly he's in the warehouse, sitting on the dirt floor, legs crossed. his feet are clad in new boots; he wears reasonably classy clothes and a too-large hat tipped back on his head. he's living the high life, friends around him in groups of three and four, tossing dice and dealing cards and laughing and joking. the day's work is done--most of them managed to fill their quota. he overdid himself; three purses and a pocket-handkerchief full of coins. he loved the respectful light that flickered in the leader's eyes, those eyes that are usually so dark, so full of something he can't name. she let him keep the coins.
"Kid! Roll it, kid."
he grabs his dice, a handsome wooden pair with edges still sharp, the polish brilliant even in the ebbing sunlight. he bought them (a strange concept in itself! he rarely buys anything any longer) just last week, and is hopelessly proud of them. maybe not the finest pair of dice among the company, but they're his, and that makes up for their relative plainness. tosses them into the circle drawn crudely in the dust.
about to declare that he is the victor when a giant shadow falls over the group. "Flex, where ya been?" the leader wraps an arm about the giant's waist but he shakes it off. eyes (so intense they nearly burn holes into the confused faces of the leader and the company) dart around the warehouse, panicked. "The bulls," he pants. "The bulls're comin'."
scene shifts abruptly. dark. it's so dark, and he can't see where he's going. someone pushed him down this street a few minutes before, away from the throbbing crowd of theives, away from the leader and the giant. past shadowy tenements, past alleyways with staring eyes, past factories and he runs and runs and runs and runs--]
______________________
Bolt up, sweat-slick an' pantin'. Hair fallin' black an' wet in my face, hands clenched in beddin', knuckles white an' shakin' like a leaf. Afraid I'm gonna scream, teeth clamped down hard, eyes squeezed shut. Whooshin' sound in my ears, shriekin' in my head, not sure where I am for a minute.
Soft breathin', careless snorin', the occassional moan, it all filters in slowly, the violent colors 'a the nightmare runnin' into gray obscuity like a paintin' in the rain. Streetlamp shinin' in the darkness, through the dirty window a coupla bunks away. The lodgin' house, familiar an' homely, enshrouded in the semi-darkness.
I slide out from the meager comfort 'a my blankets, tip-toe to the door, tryin' not to bump into anythin' along the way. The stairs creak ominously, damn, they've never been so loud before. Feel my way 'round, an' as soon as my hand closes on the doorknob, I'm out into the cool night. Even at this hour, the occassional carriage rolls by, clangin' an' clackin'. A night messenger scurries into a call box, his foot tappin' impatiently.
Collapsing bonelessly onto the steps leadin' down into the street, I rest my forehead on my knees. Really need a good smoke, but Lady Luck kicked me between the legs--yesterday? is it past midnight yet?--at the track. I have about seventeen cents to my name...s'pose I'll have to snag a cigar from some bigwig's pocket. In the morning. Or later today...well, whatever.
Flex. 'A course he's on my mind. Biggest toad in the goddamn puddle. Shouldn't bother me so much, but...but.
Seven years. Seven years is a long time, an' most 'a it's been spent here, in the center 'a the universe. Peddlin' papes an' playin' craps an' bettin' at the tracks an' watchin' kids drift in an' outta the trade. It ain't such a bad life, I guess.
Creak 'a the door openin' behind me. "Y'know, I don't think you'll ever sleep the 'tire night through." Tensin' up, avoidin' those hor'ble blue eyes. Force my face into a blank, emotionless state, stare straight ahead, no! he's sittin' next to me, now. Can't think of anythin' to say, so I just stare an' stare at the trashy hotel 'cross the street, the night messenger retreatin' into its shady interior.
"You're quiet, lately," Snipeshooter remarks. "Quiet ain't good on you, Race."
"Yeah?" Try to remember exac'ly what I said when I got back to the lodgin' house after sellin' outta the evenin' edition. Most 'a the little ones were already snoozin', two an' three to a bed. Jack, like some sorta central sun (he should be on stage, really, he should), soakin' up the attention of the other boys with some amusin' story. The usual game 'a poker was in full swing. An'...where did I fit in? Oh. Watched the game from the nearest convenient bunk, 'cause I needed the little bit 'a dough I had left to buy papes in the mornin'.
Was I actin' queer? Honestly can't recall.
"An' you look peaked. Like you ain't eaten in days or somethin'--"
"Hey, look, it ain't none 'a your bus'ness, anyway," I interrupt him testily. "Why're you up, huh? You think it's good sport to trample on me patience?"
"No. I always know when you're awake." That said coldly, but my belly gives an awkward little jump. Can't help but glance at him, boyish profile outlined crudely by the streetlamps. It's been a year since the strike, an' he's taller--not quite as tall as me (I'll admit that pleases me; it ain't often that I can consider myself well-endowed in the height department). An' those eyes, smoky blue, void 'a anythin' other than contempt.
"Fine," little more than a mutter. "Don't get huffy, kid."
"I ain't the huffy one," he retorts companion'bly, an' now he doesn't look so severe. "I was just sayin' that you been actin' funny."
"It's the moon. Has an affect on me. Makes me pos'tively nutty." Old stories of wolves an' men come to mind, an' I almost smile.
"You're full 'a shit. Some 'a the fellas reckon you've knocked up some cherry, an' got her old man after you to marry her--no?" Seein' my confusion, he smirks. "I didn't b'lieve it, meself. You ain't as stupid as that. But I know it ain't just lack 'a sleep that's messin' you up."
"Why's it gettin' to you, 'a all people?" Asked more to avoid the direction this conversation is goin' in than to actually receive an answer. Yeah, so I'm a bit of a coward.
"I--Well." Silence, somethin' tightly bound that wants to be said. Wait. But he rises, opens his mouth, closes it again. "Nothin' else to do," he says at last, an' I leave it at that because I really don't wanna know what he might've said.
"That right? Well, ain't nothin' wrong with me. I'm just in a funk, is all. I'll be meself in a week or two--" an' that, at least, is true, "an' then you'll feel pretty fuckin' stupid. You'n all those other idiots." I manage a laugh, an' stand up, lookin' down at him. He leans against the door, eyes wide an' there's somethin' there--God, I must be losin' it. My blood feels like lightnin'--race, race, race, like the horses I idolize. Is that my heart beatin' so hard--an Injun drum beneath my thin undershirt?
He coughs, rubs his arm, an' disappears into the lodgin' house. Whoa, whoa, what was that? I start to follow--stop. Sit back down on the steps. Losin' it. Losin' my mind.
An hour or a minute passes. Cloud on the skyline. Horizon lightens-- the world's beginnin' to awaken. I can hear Kloppman pulling himself laboriously up the stairway...scrape 'a boot soles on wood. More people in the streets now. Seventeen cents, an' it's time to get dressed.
I make an extra effort to act myself this mornin'. Slap the Cowboy on the back, joke 'round with Blink, punch that bastard Skittery (not hard-- don't want a fight with him so early). Racetrack Higgins, the man 'a the moment. I'd be damned good on Broadway.
Buy thirty-four papes an' for once sell in Manhattan since I don't have enough money for train fare anyway. It's hard goin', an' my heart ain't really in it, thoughts turned inward, checkin' off names in my head. See, I know I'm gonna hafta go after Mosca (what a fucked up way to say it-- "go after", like I'm a copper on the trail 'a some crim'nal) eventually, an' I ain't plannin' to charge headfirst into Little Italy--'cause I'd bet a week's wages that's where I'll find him--on my own. Jack would seem the obvious choice--but though he may be the King 'a escape attempts an' flashy search-an'-rescues, he ain't so good when it comes to subtlety. So, scratch that bright idea. Then, for some reason, Snipeshooter comes to mind, an' 'a course that's just what I need, to get that kid involved in this. I mean, he can take care 'a hisself, but...no. Better that he never catches wind 'a this. Don't spend all the day analyzin' that, Race, get back to the state 'a--ah. I know. The perfect fella for this.
With some surprise, I realize my papes're all sold, an' I've made more than I expected (some cherry musta given me five cents for a pape-- prob'ly an outta-towner). Pocket my earnin's an' slowly make for Boots' sellin' spot.
Boots is a real character, he is. At fourteen years 'a age, he's a midget, an' a smart-ass at times, but if ever you need information or help in shady dealin's (or any number 'a other things), he's the guy to see. His sellin' spot's near Wall Street, where all the bigwigs go to bet their money legally (his charmin' interpretation 'a the Stock Market). On dry days, he'll frequent the areas nearer to the Brooklyn Bridge--which's why he's on such good terms with Spot Conlon, (in)famous leader 'a the Brooklyn newsies.
Ain't visitin' ol' Boots for pleasure, on the contrary, this's strictly bus'ness. He ain't as good a headline-hawker as Jack, but he can manage over fifty papes a day, so I s'pect he's still somewhere in the Financial District. Thank God he has a monopoly on mosta the pape sellin' goin' on there, otherwise it'd be near impossible to find him. After only an hour, I come 'cross him shoutin' his little head off, down to about ten papes. I wave an' hurry over to him.
"How's it?" He clasps my hand briefly, calls out, "Hudson's water's 'spected to be poisonous--dead fish wash up on northern bank!"
Two papes taken by a pair 'a suits. "Nice," I compliment.
"Thanks. Nearly done, now...experts worried 'bout drinkin' water--!" Keep up with his fast pace, up the street, up in the world.
"Hey, mister," a tiny girl 'a no more'n eight years accosts a gennelman a few feet from the two 'a us newsies. She's impos'bly dirty-- can't even make out the real color 'a her skin. I watch (Boots is down to five papes) as she begs the guy to buy one 'a her bruised flowers, one 'a many that're tucked into a small, ragged basket. He tugs her ears roughly an' hands her a penny, looks at the flower, an' in the instant his eyes're off her, her hand darts into his pocket an' out again faster'n sight, almost. The man walks away, none-the-wiser, an' the kid hides whatever she snitched in the bottom 'a the basket.
"Somethin' amusin'?" All his papes gone, Boots nudges me hard.
"Nah. Wanna get somethin' to eat?"
"Yeah, sure. Big game 'a cards tonight--whaddya say we save our meager fortunes?"
"You got a great mind, Boots, kid," I grin, an' we catch a "free" ride on a trolley car uptown a bit before hoppin' off an' meanderin' into a Jewish grocery. I engage the owner in conversation, an' when I leave three minutes later, Boots, safely hidden in a nearby alley, has a loaf 'a bread, an' a bottle 'a beer under one arm.
"Whaddya get him so in'rested in?" He asks. "I thought maybe I should go back'n see if I couldn't take the cash-box, too."
"Nothin' really in'restin', swear," grabbin' the beer an' swiggin' it down. Boots grabs it back an' takes a taste hisself before splittin' the bread. After a minute, he leads me down the alley, onto a narrow street an' down a ways, away from the store. We finish off the beer in no time at all, an' the bread soon after. Banter back an' forth, shallow surface talk, an' then I say, "So, ah, Boots. Skittery still tellin' them tales?"
"Eh, you know him. Likes that sorta thing. He's bas'cally a good guy, but ev'ryone's got their thing. Know what I mean?" I nod. "Why you wanna know?"
"Just curious."
"Eh, he's been really goin' on 'bout Mosca's gang, again."
"Yeah? That so?"
"I kid you not." Boots, his monkeyish little face alight with good- humor, clambers up a tenement fire-escape, leanin' dangerously far over the railin'. "I s'pect he makes up half 'a what he says--y'know, Mosca gets fiercer an' fiercer, an' Mickety Bates gets weirder, an' One-Lung gets uglier, dependin' on the size 'a the audience."
"Well, hell," I breathe.
"That's what I said," laughs Boots, swingin' himself over the side 'a the fire-escape, to land gracefully in front 'a me. "Jack thinks it's hilarious, but Crutchy says those kids've got enough to think about without Skittery pourin' half-baked tales into their ears--they jump at their own shadows as it is. Almost time for the noony to be out." The noony is the afternoon edition of the World, an' it is 'bout time to head on over to the distribution center. How our lives revolve 'round that central point. "If we hurry, we might get a decent place in line," says Boots, an' since I heartily agree, we leave together.
I offer thirty cents, aimin' to make the greatest pos'ble profit--for diff'rent reasons than Boots', though I wish I could participate in the evenin' card game, too--who knows, if I do well, I might be able to. Tag along back the Financial District, an' by now Boots has become suspicious; he keeps glancin' at me, uncertainly. Rarely do two newsies sell so near each other. Bad business. Spreadin' the workforce, an' all that.
"You got somethin' on your mind, Racetrack?" He inquires finally, carefully. "Maybe somethin' you been meanin' to say?"
"Actua--"
"Wait, wait, not here." Dark eyes become guarded, calculatin'--some sorta machine whirrin' behind his childish features. I seen it in guys smaller'n him, but it still sends chills down my spine. "C'mon," slips ghostlike onto a side street.
Boots knows Manhattan like the back 'a his hand, ev'ry alleyway, ev'ry nook, ev'ry pier an' ev'ry buildin'. Probably not so much out 'a love for the city than as a desperate need for a hidin' place--or two, or ten--when the bulls come knockin'. His pace is quick, leads me past whores- -they jeer at us, askin' if we're man enough to give it a go--an' pimps, drunks an' opium-lovers, a multitude 'a people from the underworld, yet onward we tread. An' then he ducks into the shaded interior of a tavern, a crooked finger beckonin' me to follow.
Buys two beers from the bar an' settles into a wooden booth near the back 'a the smelly room, grinnin' now. "Hope you can hold your drink well. They don't like it so much if you come in here without buyin'."
"You're lookin' at the beer guzzlin' champion 'a the Lower East Side," braggin', even if my nerves're on edge. Feels likes they're bein' dashed against a brick wall repeatedly. Oh, fantastic.
Breaks down laughin'. Calms down, an' sips at his beer, eyein' me over the rim 'a the cup. "Now, here we are, in peaceful anonymity--" True, true. The constant roar covers anythin' incriminatin' I might say. "--an' I'm all ears, chum."
So I tell him. Slowly at first, an' then my speech catches up with my thoughts, an' the minutes speed along an' I'm tellin' him everythin', about Flex, an' the money, an' Mosca an' Little Italy an' the danger I'd be puttin' myself in--an' Boots, if he should come along, as I'm askin' him to. "Yeah, I'm askin' you," I conclude, I ain't nervous an' I ain't beggin'...don't lie, I am. God, I am. "So, whaddya say, Boots?" D'you really wanna send me off to the butcher-shop alone, pal? Or wouldja commit suicide for my sake?
The dim light reflects in his impos'bly black eyes, makes his gaze feral. Metallic. Sorta creepy. An' he's got that look again, the one that shows he's thinkin' hard an' fast...thinkin' mechanically. His lips tilt up--he holds out his thin hand an' I shake it, gratefully. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah."
We plan, lay strategies out before one another in the duration 'a the day--when to approach Little Italy (tomorrow night, because Boots doesn't want to miss any editions 'a the World--he's gotta make money sometime, he says, an' daytime is that time), who to get to back us up in case we get in above our heads (Blink, Snoddy, an' Bumlets, who're all three larger'n us, an' at least partially trust-worthy--they're also indepted to Boots, which, though beneficial to me, reminds me uncannily 'a my own situation), stuff like that, stuff I hadn't bothered to think through. Boots is the Master 'a details.
Before I've had time to really let it all sink in, we're headin' back to the distribution center for the evenin' edition. I part with Boots, knowin' that I should feel relieved, an' knowin' that I don't. Sixty papes, makin' my way uptown an' down again. By the end 'a the day, I've totaled ninety-four cents--a great sum. Guess I'll get to play the games tonight, after all.
_____________________
"Heya, kid, whatcha got for me today, hmmm? C'mon, whatcha got?"
friendly hand on his shoulder, thin, spidery fingers tugging at the bag he holds in a tight embrace. he smiles impishly at the leader, artfully avoiding her questing hands. reminds him of the day he first saw her, when she and her giant brother found him alone on a brooklyn street. he laughs, "Wait, wait. I got a deal for you, Madame."
lifted eyebrow, amused snort. "Oh, do you? You little runt. All right, let's hear it."
sits on ground, staring around for a moment at the interior of the warehouse. sunlight filters in through the boarded windows. it's rather cold, winter beginning where autumn left off. down-turned crates litter the large room, and the leader rests cross-legged on one of these, head cocked to the side, listening, waiting. he's glad the other kids are in the city, roaming and stealing and living while they can, away from this suddenly lonely place. "You answer me a coupla questions, an' I give you-- " reaches into the bag and pulls out a small golden earring and a thin string of pearls, both of which sparkle invitingly. the leader sucks in her breath. he's pleased--he really had to work for these darlings.
"Oh, sure, anythin' you wanna know, kid. Damn, where'd ya--"
"Nuh uh, I'm askin' the questions." threads the pearls 'round his wrist. likes the heavy feel of them. "I...I'm wond'rin'. I'm wond'rin' what's that thing 'round your neck for."
surprised. stares at him for a moment, then swiftly pulls the cord over her head, the charm so dull it barely reflects light, barely shines at all. bronze, lighter than her skin. in the shape of a horse, which in itself sends his heart racing. "Dunno that it's for anythin'," she says, voice low and thoughtful. "No--it's from Flex, y'know, an' I can't remember for the life 'a me where he got it, but I've had it since we was kids."
"You're not from here, are you?" you're not from here, you're from some other, better place. wants her to tell him everything, wants to get into her head and see all that she's seen. some brilliant place far from here.
"The South, kid. South Carolina. My folks was from there, anyway. They moved up here after the War, an' Flex'n me took care 'a 'em both when they got the Fever." proud, almost-smile on her thick lips. "They used to always say...that the land was like somethin' straight outta Eden there, even though they worked all the time, an' they said their masters was kinder'n many, an' never beat 'em or nothin'. They said..." pauses, biting her lip. "They said that here, it's another sort 'a slavery. A worse sort, 'cause the slaves' masters ain't even alive, they're only machines, an' so they can't feel pity. That's why," pats his shoulder, "this is such a good thing, kid. The company, an' the stuff we do. Even though the rest 'a the world may call us lousy crooks, an' worse, we ain't slavin' away at the factory or the mill, an' we ain't got no masters but ourselves. Even I can't tell you what to do, kid--no one can ever tell you what to do."
no, he thinks, she's wrong. the machines aren't the masters. the masters are the people who own the machines, the people who know of the horror that the lower class calls life, and who do nothing about it. and those masters rule everything, from the knowledge in the peoples' heads, to the laws that condemn the few joys they have. and what hope do the people have of ever changing that? how to change the world, when all you've got is a handful of stolen jewelry and no future?
asks to hold the necklace, and she shakes her head, putting the simple charm on its simple cord back around her slender neck. "Sorry, kid. Some things're just too important to let anyone handle. See, this is all I got left 'a my childhood."
scene fades into nothing and then it's night. yes, it's night, and he's running down some dark street, away from the beat of boots on cobblestone, away from shouts and screams from the throats of people who, only a few hours before, lived in a cheerful, if not entirely stable, bubble on the outskirts of society, somewhere between sin and virtue, kids with nothing and no one who were all taken in by a girl who gave them hope and said, hey, it's all right. it's all right.
gasping, now, nearly weeping. stumbles, falls, scrapes his knee and tears his nice coat. chokes down his sobs, and keeps running, fear making his blood pound in his ears. what if the bulls catch up with him? what about the company? on he runs, and runs, and runs--]
_____________________
Eyes fly open, breath catches. Sweaty, sticky; heartbeat so, so loud. I think I might vomit. Always that dream, always that sensation 'a not bein' able to escape, 'a runnin' toward some nameless place. Hate it, hate it more'n anythin' in the world. Why can't I fuckin' forget...why can't the past stay buried, why ev'ry night these dreams?
Try to move, an' bile rises in my throat. Sprint on unsteady legs to the washroom, to a chamberpot, an' there my stomach comes up through my throat, achin', burnin' like the pits 'a hell. The smell 'a my own vomit starts it all over again, an' there I am, tremblin' an' moanin', eyes painfully dry an' guts heavin', dyin' where I stand. Lurch away, towards the pump, where I stick my entire head under the openin' an' let the frigid water soak me, wash out my mouth, spit.
Voices. Jack's, confused an' raspy with sleep: "Whuzzit? Who--"
"I'll handle it." Snipes. Crawl away from the pump, shiverin', cursin' softly. Damnable boy. Toss my wet hair outta my face, try to stand, fail. Bare feet slap against floor, an' a warm hand wraps 'round my elbow an' pulls me up with a grunt. "Ugg, shit, you're drenched." Warmth, arms pullin' at me, tuggin' me towards--where?--my bed, I guess. Awkward, 'cause I'm taller (only consolation) an' staggerin' more than anythin' else. Ashamed.
Shoved onto the mattress, my rear end encounters the boards beneath the stuffed beddin', the thin pillow. "Kid," I croak. Tryin' to play the cool guy, as always, the street-smart superior with ev'rythin' under control, an' the nightmare comes back so vividly for an instant I nearly-- no, no, calm down, calm down Race. "Kid, gimme a cigar." Know it'll only make me sicker, but damned if I care.
Silence, someone murmurin' (in their sleep, I s'pose) from across the room, an' then, "What is it that's eatin' you from the inside out, Race?"
Dunno why those simple words make the queasiness recede an' my heart-- well, do whatever the hell it's doin', bumpin' around like some loony in an asylum. Makes me shiver, too, but pleasantly, as if I've suddenly walked into this warm room after sleepin' on the streets for a coupla nights. Bizarre as hell, an' I dunno what to do. I know what it is, but I don't wanna say.
"Some corpses," carefully, softly, "are better left buried, kid."
"Don't let whatever corpse you're carryin' around rot your mind." My eyes've adjusted all their gonna, an' though he hisself isn't clear, I can make out his sharp eyes, starin' not at me, but in me. Wrong, so wrong. "Got yourself into somethin' too deep? Is that it?"
"No," I say. Lyin'.
Disgusted, he sneers an' grabs my shoulder, hard, angrily. "Such a phony, ain't ya, Racetrack--the truth ain't poison, I wanna hear you say somethin' true for once, I really do."
"How..." Stop. Choose words. "How d'you know so much? Why should it matter to you?"
"Because I ain't made 'a stone. You got ev'ryone worried about you, an' that little facade you showed this mornin'--that may 'a fooled the other fellas, but I'm dif'rent, Race, I...I'm right across from you, an' I know how you lay awake at night long as you can, an' I hear you say things when you finally do sleep. I've got so used to you, I--" Sharp intake 'a breath, the hand on my shoulder tenses.
Mind sorta numb. "I dream 'bout things that happened a long time ago," I hear myself sayin', somewhere far away, somewhere a million miles away. "Before I was a newsie, before Manhattan an' before I was Racetrack."
Remember Jack, young, decidedly unleaderlike, findin' me when I first entered Manhattan over the Bridge, panicked an' depressed. Keepin' to myself, until he got me to go with him to see his friend, who was the leader 'a the Manhattan newsies then. Remember sneakin' off to the tracks, walkin' the familiar streets 'a Brooklyn at first, then learnin' 'a the train an' takin' advantage 'a the quick transportation. Remember when the boys found out about it, an' dubbed me "Racetrack", jokingly, laughin' an' pattin' me on the back.
Searchin' for the company 'bout a year after we were busted, an' findin' no one, until one day, tryin' to decide which horse to bet on, there was Flex Amerson, taller an' older, more haggard, his mouth smilin' but his eyes dead. Dead like his sister. Guess that's the way the jolly world goes 'round.
"Nothin'll ever take away those memories," I mutter, defeatedly, slouchin' over so he can't see my face. "Ev'ryone's got old corpses in their brains, Snipes, an' I ain't no exception. Just I can't seem to get away from mine."
"Race..." He trails off, soundin' uncertain. Unusual in Snipeshooter 'a the snappin' eyes an' mischievious smile--man-boy, caught somewhere in between, too old, we're all too old.
Reach up an' take his hand off my shoulder, warm an' square in mine. Calloused, workin' hands. Nothin' left to say, so I just sit still for a moment, starin' at him an' tryin' to figure out what it is that's changed in him, other than the sadness I can see fightin' a war behind his youthful features. An' then it dawns on me; maybe it isn't he who's changed. Maybe it's just the way I see him.
Yanks his hand away, an' stalks off, loudly. I'm left cold an' thoughtful.
By the time the sun rises, Snipeshooter still hasn't returned. Boots gets me aside to discuss the Plan (yup, in capitals) for a few hurried minutes, an' then it's time to buy papes an' start the day rollin'. I made a bit 'a money on last night's game, so I start with fifty papes (courtesy 'a Weasle) an' go to my usual sellin' spot at Coney Island. The day moves slowly, even with the races, an' at first I think my watch must be broken, but, no, it's fine. I try to think 'a the Plan, but then my mind drifts off an' it's Snipes I'm seein', furious an' disoriented, stormin' outta the lodgin' house with those demon eyes 'a his aflame.
After three eternities, I'm in front 'a the lodgin' house, the bloody evenin' sun castin' monstrous shadows over me. Boots approaches, Blink an' Snoddy an' Bumlets (who can't seem to meet my eyes) followin' close behind. I grin in what I hope is a reassurin' way, an' Blink cheerfully spit- shakes with me. Snoddy keeps bitin' his lip nervously, an' Bumlets--well, can't say what his problem is.
"Ready, Race?" Boots squares his small shoulders.
"Oh, hell, ready as I'll ever be. Shall we march on, calvary?"
"Onward ho," agrees Blink.
I've never been into Little Italy before, an' in fact would never've dared go there had not this unfortunate situation come up. I've heard stories--ev'ryone's heard stories--about the brawls, the killin's, the tenements dirtier than dirt an' the wild-eyed kids who live by no man's rules. The kids're the worst, I'm told.
Boots walks beside me, erect, wordlessly, an' once we're in sight 'a Mulberry Street, even Kid Blink lapses into uneasy silence. It ain't dark, but it ain't full daylight either, 'a course, an' once we've walked a ways (eyes on us, I swear, we're always watched) Boots says, "Mosca's headquarters're in the back of a restaurant called the Gardens. Should be comin' upon it, soon."
"If you say so." Onward, onward, an' there, a wooden board nailed to a rickety door, readin' "The Calabria Gardens". Pause outside the door, face the other boys. "Well, boys," I grin, feelin' suddenly more alive than I have in days, "ready or not."
The door creaks, an' the air inside is muggy, scented with exotic foods. A low steady hum 'a voices drifts to the five 'a us, an' one 'a the guys is breathin' hard--Snoddy, I think. A few electric lights in fancy glass holders hang from the ceilin' an' color ev'rythin' a pale, parchment yellow. A few people're in the restaurant, sittin' at tables an' glancin' up at us suspiciously. We ignore the employees an' make our way to the back 'a the room, where a glowerin' boy about my age stops us.
"State your bus'ness," he scowls.
"Mr. Higgins, here to speak to Mr. Mosca," says Boots, at my side, always the diplomat. "He's got a message from a friend 'a his."
"A message, eh? Mr. Higgins. I'll ask the boss if 'e wants to talk widdya. Don't be gettin' any ideas, you or your pals." He turns an' exits through another door, which clicks shut--I can hear a lock turnin'.
"Wonder what's got him, right, fellas?" They laugh tensely, an' Bumlets' hands're clenched so tightly I think he might hurt hisself. I tell him to take it easy. Few minutes pass, an' then the kid reappears, smilin' darkly. Time to meet the legends.
We're led into another room, darker, smaller, but the air here is cool. A coupla tables line the walls, an' at these tables sit a handful 'a guys, mostly older'n me, an very much bigger. A man with lanky limbs an' a low brow stands as we enter; I offer my hand, but he just stares at it for a moment before sayin', "Who the hell're you?"
"Racetrack Higgins," I answer, makin' myself smile--someone has to. "You're--"
"Mosca." James Mosca. He looks sorta...dead, y'know, washed out an' blank. But the muscles in his arms are apparent even under his shirt an' I'm sure it ain't a good idea to mess around with him. "Whaddya want?"
"Got a message--well, a request--from Flex Amerson. He says he wants the payment now," I say, my voice barely shakin' at all. Money ain't the best topic with a gangster, especially not with a room full 'a other gangsters. Suicide, my mind keeps whisperin'.
Movement from the back 'a the room. Outta the shadows comes the most gorgeous kid I've ever seen. Long-lashed, vibrant green eyes, skin so pale it's moon-kissed, delicately pointed chin, dark hair curlin' 'round perfect shells 'a ears. Even the dull, shapeless clothes she wears can't detract from her beauty--but why's she wearin' a fella's clothes? She notices my wanderin' gaze, an' frowns. "What payment?" she asks, breathlessly, huskily.
Mosca studies me, an' suddenly his eyes widen. "Oh, that."
"What payment, what's this kid talkin' about?"
"I got it, Peter," says Mosca distractedly. Motions to the small boy who lead us in, an' murmurs somethin' to him.
"Quit gawkin'," Boots whispers in my ear, "at One-Lung Pete. He'll gut ya in the blink 'a an eye...surprised he hasn't done it yet." I give a violent start, then flush hotly. Okay. Weird. Skittery never mentioned anythin' about...well.
The kid scurries off, an' we're left in the oppressive silence with Mosca an' One-Lung--good god, don't think 'a that!--glarin' at us like we're bugs they'd dearly love to squash. The other men in the room ignore us completely, now, slappin' down cards an' slurpin'--whiskey or beer, I don't know--drinks. Just when my smile has finished dyin' a slow, painful death, the boy slides back into the room, his fist wrapped 'round somethin'.
Mosca grabs whatever it is an' shoves it into my grasp, nearly snarlin', "Now, you have ten minutes to get outta Town--" I hope he means Little Italy, "or I'll come after you meself. Understood?"
"Perfectly," Boots an' I say at the same time. One-Lung Pete smiles, then, so frigidly I think I can feel my innards freeze. An' then we're outta that god-forsaken room, outta the restaurant, racin' down Mulberry Street an' back into the familiar world that we own. Blink laughs a trifle hysterically, an' I join in, an' we're all laughin' an' jokin'; friendly slaps land on my back.
"We made it, it's a fuckin' miracle!" Kid Blink whoops loudly. Bumlets an' Snoddy're both talkin' at the same time, their relief practic'lly touchable. I start to say somethin', an' then remember the thing that Mosca shoved at me.
It's a box. Brown an' grease-stained, kinda bent. I unfold the openin', and empty the contents into my oustretched palm, preparin' to count out a ridiculous amount 'a cash, but there is no cash. What falls into my hand is a charm on a rough cord an' a folded piece 'a paper.
"What is it, Race?" The fellas've gotten ahead 'a me, an' I hastilly drop the necklace an' paper back in the box, which I thrust into my pocket.
"Nothin'," I laugh off their concern. "We did great, damnit, let's go back an' celebrate."
We do just that. Jack an' the others're confused by our wild, reckless attitudes, but we stay up well into the night gamblin' an' foolin' around. At last, Boots admits that he has to get to sleep if he wants to sell tomorrow, an' Bumlets agrees. Snoddy an' Kid Blink reluctantly tumble into their beds, as well.
But me. Well, sleep eludes me. Trudge down the stairs an' outta the lodgin' house, sit on the stairs an' pull out the box. Necklace with its horse charm, bronze, surprisin'ly heavy. The paper which I unfold. Writin', sharp an' neat. Ink. Blacker than the night. By the light 'a the streetlamps I read:
[Kid,
I ain't gonna say I'm sorry I lied to you. There ain't any cash, in fact, I'm flat broke. James Mosca never owed me anything, except the few things friendship entails. Like taking care of this until I felt the time was right. And the time is certainly right, kid; you may not realize it, yet, but maybe someday...I think you know why I lied.]
"I never woulda gone if I'd 'a thought this was what I was goin' after," I mutter bitterly. I know.
[So I'm gonna try to keep the explanation as short as humanly possible. Recognize that pretty little necklace? Yeah, I know you do. The truth is, kid, I want out. This whole life business...it ain't my thing, anymore. Got nothing left, no family, no purpose, no hope. In the end, you were the strongest of all of us. No one's left from the company except you and me and soon just you.]
Bite my tongue. This guy's unbelievable. Somethin' sharp bites into my flesh, an' I realize I've been squeezin' down on the charm with it's pointed little hooves. The letter's wet, for some reason.
[I wish there was some slice of wisdom I could give to you, but all I've ever learned is how to beat the system. And even that was all wrong. You can never beat the system, because you're part of it. I'll just wish you luck, kid. I have the feeling you won't need it, though.]
No signature, but I know, anyway, who this is from. No other person could be so goddamned selfish, leavin' me here alone, all my old friends dead or vanished. Only Flex. Drop the necklace, that awful charm with its broken memories, an' hide my face. My wet face. I can't be cryin', like a little girl, like a baby. I can't be.
I'm not. It's rainin'. An' I become aware that I'm listenin', too, for the familiar sound 'a the door openin', an' steps behind me. Waitin' for distant blue eyes an' scoffin' voice that's so much 'a part 'a me I can't even understand why, exac'ly. Shudderin' in the icy rainfall, an' the door is still, no footstep falls upon the stair. Only night sounds, carriages rattlin' though the streets an' shoutin' from far away. The streetlamps flicker.
I think this is what they mean when they talk 'bout bein' "broken- hearted".
The thought 'a goin' back into the lodgin' house makes me sick to my stomach, so into my pocket goes the box an' the letter, an' after a moment's hesitation, 'round my throat goes the cord. The charm is almost a comfortin' weight 'gainst my chest. Step down onto the glistenin' cobblestones, my step heavy at first, then lighter as I walk further, past the distribution center, ever onward, onward. Past lights an' sounds an' proof that the world still goes 'round even if I know I'll never see that grinnin' black face at the tracks or anywhere, that face with all its emotional baggage an' hare-brained plots an' schemes.
It seems I walk for hours, not really thinkin' about anythin'. Mind curiously empty. Almost calm. The rain has stopped, leavin' the city wet an' shimmerin'. Uptown a bit, encounter a crowd 'a rich snobs, an' filch a cigar outta some guy's pocket. Get a light from another guy, an' then I really am almost okay. Dunno what it is 'bout smokin' that can cheer a guy up right smart.
Take a street downtown again, an' by the time my feet've really begun to ache, I'm back at the lodgin' house, an' the sight 'a it no longer makes me so nauseous. Put out the cigar, which is down to an unsmokable stub. Sally up the stairs, into the bedroom. About to flop into my bed, but it seems someone else already had that bright idea.
He's really small, curled up like that. Snipeshooter, I mean. This intense sensation wells up in me, an' I wanna do somethin' to him, but I'm not sure what. So I just leave him there an' scoot in beside him, hand lingerin' on the charm even as I finally let my eyes close, darin' any dreams to come.
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...
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Awake to find that mornin' hasn't even arrived yet. Start to roll over an'--but he's watchin' me, wide awake. I'm startin' to think that his eyes're more like jewels than rocks. Jewels like the ones I once snatched from old women an' young alike an' presented proudly to the leader.
An' then suddenly, like some sorta epiphany, the puzzle pieces click together an' I whisper, "No dreams."
He doesn't say anythin', an' his hands've somehow gotten caught in the clothes I didn't bother to change outta. He doesn't move 'em, so I don't mention it. Quiet. Someone snorts loudly. I think it's rainin' again, because there's a pitter-patterin' sound against the window.
Then his hands're hot against my face, an' his lips land on my chin, an' on the corner 'a my lips, an' I must be crazy because I'm pullin' him to me, as close as two bodies can get, an' it doesn't matter, all the girls I've ever flirted with an' cornered in seedy bars, none 'a them were like this, none 'a them made me feel like I was kissin' a storm. Makes an' odd sound in his throat, hands in my hair now, tuggin' gently, pressin' his lips to mine so hard I'm afraid he'll hurt hisself but even that doesn't matter because he wants it, he really does.
Pull away, gasp in air that is too fresh an' lick teasin'ly at his tremblin' lips, trailin' cautious fingers over his burnin' flesh, down his firm back, over the bones that stick out there. An' somehow it all makes sense now, the way he knew when the nightmares were the worst, an' it doesn't matter that he can be an asshole an' that he steals my cigars sometimes--his cynicism, his anger, the way he looks at me like he can see what I'm thinkin', what I want. Nip at his bottom lip, slip my tongue into that moist cavern of a mouth, fall in love with the quiet noises he makes.
He jerks away abruptly, graspin' at me an' he whispers feverishly, "I- I didn't mean to--to feel this, I couldn't've guessed--"
"Shhh, shhh," I breathe into his hair, that thatch of unruly curls. "Me neither, kid. 'S'okay, me neither, just--" Trail off, an' hold him so tight I nearly break him. Listen to his harsh breathin', feel the rise 'an fall 'a his chest against mine. Die a little with ev'ry beat 'a his heart.
"This's really messed up," he murmurs after awhile. "A total..."
"Catastrophe," I finish. But I don't care. Beginnin' to think that I could get used to this.
"I'd better..." He sits up, clearer, now. The sky is lightenin' outside, the streetlamps fadin' out. "So no one will....well." Glances at me, face blank an' then pensive. Somethin' glintin' behind his eyes-- desire, regret, both, maybe?
I'm about to say somethin' when he leans down an' kisses me, delicately, like it's the first time. Press my hand to his chest, feelin' his heart pulse, then he's gone, slippin' under the covers 'a his own bed an' leavin' me fightin' for control with my baser instincts which're tellin' me to do things I definitely don't want the small kids to see.
Mornin' in the lodgin' house. Kloppman's come an' gone, an' mosta the fellas're grumblin' 'bout bein' woken up so early, though it isn't any earlier than usual. Boots grins at me, gives me a thumbs up--job well done, Racetrack. Jack slaps someone in the ass with a towel, an' a fight ensues--'a course I join in, since it was Skittery who Jack slapped. An' as we head off to peddle the papes, I catch Snipeshooter's eye an' give him a brilliant smile which he replies to with a softer, more subtle one 'a his own.
Coney Island, land that I love. I'm outta papes in no time, an' the races're callin' me, a siren song, enchantin'. Pos'tively beautiful.