My Way Home
Chapter 2
By Hotshot
Dennis 'Rebel' Bennett
And
Gabriel 'Spot' Conlon
It all happened because of Rebel; without him there would have been no Brooklyn and the newsies may not have won the strike. But he was born and they did. There were problems along the way but everyone had problems. These two knew how to face them.
Lawrence Conlon was a young man, barely finished with his first year at the university when he met Audrey Bennett. She was in a class slightly lower than his but still a radiant beauty. The two spent all their time together possible. Lawrence treated her like any gentleman of high class should, all the while never letting her close. His family was not the nicest of people and the business he was involved in barely allowed him to see her.
She knew this. He never told her but being a woman she could always tell something was wrong and tried not to push him. The few times she had he had hit her. She came back only because in those days it was seen as meaning the woman had done something wrong. She had already convinced herself that she was in love with him.
It was when they two of them went out that caused a problem. Audrey had a passion for dancing so he'd often bring her to a bar where she could dance. Sometimes the two of them would dance all night, and others they'd mix dancing with numerous drinks from the bar. It was one of the nights where they drank that problems started. Lawrence barely remembered leaving the pub but woke up next to Aubrey the next morning. Carefully, trying not to wake her he got out of bed, dressed, and left. She watched him form the bed, barely conscious.
The relationship went downhill. Neither of them remembered that night much, but other things just started to happen. They would fight more often, or he would be called away for work too much.
Audrey was five months pregnant when she found out. Her family sent her away for several months, not telling Lawrence anything other than she was visiting relatives. This left him free to see several other women. Almost a month after she came back he finally decided to drop by and visit. He entered the house to find her holding a child in her arms. With a quick look at the baby there was no denying who the parents were. The little boy had Audrey's face, but his eyes were identical to Lawrence's, a peculiar shade of green. Because of the scandal the child would cause the two were soon engaged. Neither really wanted it but it was the only way.
Lawrence hated the idea of being married. So early in his life he was tied to one woman. Audrey knew her life already. She would eventually be tied to one man. Though she had not expected it to be Lawrence she accepted the fact quickly and grew to love him again. The first several weeks after their marriage were wonderful for both of them and Lawrence nearly forgot what she had taken from him. Audrey's parents had taken the baby for a weekend, which they spent much of in the bedroom.
The little boy's name was Dennis. Legally his last name was Bennett, but he would be sent to the school with the last name Conlon so people would not know the reason the two were married. Life was good for about three years for the child. In that time Lawrence acted like a father. Though he was often at work he would try to be home early and treated Audrey like a queen and Dennis like the most precious gift on earth.
It was a few weeks after Dennis had turned three that Lawrence came home from work one night. Something had not gone right at the 'office' that day. They lived in a large mansion but he was in complete hatred of the other people occupying it at this time. He wanted the freedom he'd had before. It didn't help that he was drunk as well.
"You, it's all your fault," he cried out stumbling into the kitchen. He continued a slur of words and insults that made his wife look up from the pots she was cleaning.
"Lawrence, not in front of your son," she motioned towards Dennis who was sitting in a corner of the room. As her husband came up behind her she smelled the beer on his breath. The smell sent shivers through her spine. Over the past few years she'd learned he was a hit man, and for some reason that they were married didn't assure her that her wouldn't hurt her. It was also unknown that him hitting her was a common occurrence. He pulled her around by the shoulders and hit her soundly across the face. She cried out slightly backing into the counter. He hit her again.
"Don't hit my mommy!" with all the voice and strength a three-year-old could muster Dennis attacked his father's legs with his fists.
With one swift kick of his leg Lawrence Conlon sent the small child sailing across the room. He turned back to his wife to continue his beating of her. The small child only sat in the corner watching what was soon to become his life.
The beatings became more frequent. Usually it was when he was drunk, but over the next two years he came home drunk less and less, but they were still beaten. Dennis learned how to fight from several poorer boys who lived near their house and tried to fight back. Lawrence was just too big and strong for the young boy. Though he hated them now it wasn't the reason they were beaten. Lawrence Conlon wanted his freedom back. He loved his work and had picked up violent tendencies from it. Being married the only women that would even look at him were whores. For that he hated his life. The only way he knew of to control his family was by beating them.
Audrey became pregnant again when Dennis was five. Her first son was already unbreakable since he was used to the beatings and spent all day with the boys on the streets. He also had a smart mouth, which got him in more trouble. Audrey usually spent her days praying that Dennis would calm down and that her child would be a boy. Lawrence had threatened to kill the child if it was a girl. He wanted a 'legitimate heir'.
The couple's second son was born in late January, and named Gabriel or Gabe for short. The boy was exactly the opposite of his older brothers. He had Lawrence's face and Audrey's shocking blue eyes.
For several months after the baby was born things went back to normal. When Lawrence went back to beating them he avoided Gabriel. The little boy escaped any punishment until he was two-years-old.
Even though they had a large house Dennis and Gabriel shared a room. One night Gabriel started crying form his bed. No one knew why, he'd probably just had a bad dream. Rebel was a heavy sleeper and slept through it. Lawrence pulled himself out of bed and walked down the hall. Audrey could immediately sense his mood and ran after him. The old man pulled the boy out of his bed screaming for him to shut up. Dennis was awake immediately at his fathers voice in the room. Lawrence hit the child several times before leaving him on the floor, dragging his wife along with him.
Dennis had merely sat there watching his brother being beaten. He'd never tried to get close to his little brother. It had been every man for himself, but now their father had hit him and they had a way to connect. Gabe was sitting very still on the floor, looking afraid to start crying again.
"You ok?" Dennis asked.
"Daddy hit me," Gabe whispered, his voice shaking.
Dennis pulled his little brother into his lap and rocked him back to sleep. They had a bond now. Dennis was soon teaching his little brother how to protect himself. Gabe also picked some of his brother's language, for which neither of his parents was too pleased with.
A few months after Gabe had first been beaten a doctor came to visit the boys' mother. Dennis prayed she wasn't pregnant again. He didn't think he could manage protecting two siblings. Being beaten had forced him to grow up very quickly and he acted like men years older than him did.
The doctor brought him and Gabe into the room when he came back the next day. Their mother was sitting weakly on the bed but managed a smile for them. Gabe bounced up onto the bed and Dennis managed a grim smile.
"Your mother has told me about being beaten," the doctor said, directing his speech at Dennis, "Unfortunately there is nothing I can do about that as it is a family problem. It seems that over the past few days your father has caused internal bleeding in your mother's body. Since there is no way to reverse the damage I am afraid she will not live more than another week."
Dennis turned to look at his mother who nodded grimly.
"I highly doubt that your father will take the time to care for her so I need you to help her. Dennis, I want you to make sure she gets plenty of rest…" The doctor went on to list foods that she could eat and how to make her comfortable. "And if you find her and she's gone I want you to come to my office immediately, I don't care what time it is." The doctor got up to leave and the two boys sat with their mother until she fell asleep. Dennis broke the news to his father who ignored it.
"That isn't possible, get out of my way."
For the next several days Dennis was either watching his mother or younger brother. He avoided his father as much as possible. One afternoon he walked into her room to find a man in a suit sitting by her bed with a sheet of paper in his hand. "Who's he?"
"Dennis this is my lawyer, Mr. Lynn," she said, "Christian this is my son."
Dennis shook the man's hand and helped Gabe climb onto their mother's bed. "Why's he here."
"I'm making out my will. Dennis you're going to need to sign it."
"Why me?" He was confused as to why he should sign a formal document like that.
"I want you to be your brother's guardian. I don't want Gabe or you in this house any longer than you need to be. My will shows that that was what I wanted. I want you to get yourself and your brother out of this house the day you turn eighteen. After that you need to take care of him until he turns eighteen. Do you understand?"
After Dennis nodded vigorously Mr. Lynn went on to explain the process of the will. The nine-year-old signed his signature right below his mother's and left the room so she and Mr. Lynn could speak privately. After Mr. Lynn was gone he went back in.
"What if he keeps beating us?"
"If he does that get yourself and your brother out of here. I don't care what you do, just keep him safe and don't ever come back here. I love both of you very much." She wrapped both of them in her arms and they cried. The next morning Dennis entered the room with his mother's breakfast. She was paler than usual and not awake yet. He put the tray on a table and went over to her, pulling his hand back immediately when he felt how cold her skin was. He walked out of the room and locked the door so Gabe wouldn't go into the room. Then he went to fetch the doctor.
The funeral was small. The boys and their father, the rest of their mother's family, Mr. Lynn's family and the doctor were the only people there. Gabe stood holding his brother's hand and bawling. Dennis stood beside his father still as stone, and not letting a tear fall down his face. He'd sworn to himself that he would never cry again.
It became a full time job to take care of his brother that winter. Their father was barely ever home, and when he was he was drunk. Dennis got beaten several times a week and suffered silently happy only with the fact that his brother was left alone. Weeks after Gabe had turned four Dennis was upstairs when his father got home. He nearly jumped two feet in the air when he heard a cry. In seconds he was down the stairs and found his father beating on his little brother in the living room. The glare in his father's eyes showed the man was only angry, not drunk, and taking his anger out on the first person he saw. He picked up a fire poker and swung. It came in contact with the back of the older man's skull, knocking him out cold.
Dennis grabbed his younger brother and pulled the boy upstairs. In a swift motion he slammed the door shut.
"You ok?"
"Why'd Dad hit me?" Gabe snapped, "I didn't do anything to him."
"I dunno," Dennis lied, "But Mom told me that if he ever hit you again she wanted us to get outta here. Now go get the box under Mom's bed and yell if you see the old man wake up."
"Where are we gonna go?"
"Somewhere safe, now move!" Dennis motioned with his head and watched his brother take off down the hall. In the next few minutes he grabbed several sets of worn down clothes out of the closet. Most were packed in a small bag but he left two out. "Change!" he ordered, shoving a set at his brother in exchange for the box. He packed a few things in the rapidly filling bag and dragged his brother downstairs. In a last second impulse he pulled his fathers cane off the floor. It was black with a gold tip that would be heavy and make a good weapon. He closed the door quietly behind them.
The brothers ran for miles before slowing their pace and by that time they were in Brooklyn. There was snow falling and it was getting dark. Knowing they wouldn't be able to find a room anywhere Dennis hurried his brother into a deserted doorway to spend the night. Gabe started to cry again, he was cold, and hungry, and wanted to go inside. Dennis shook his brother's shoulders.
"Listen to me Gabe," he said, "I'se sorry but we ain't got a home no more. We'se gonna live on the streets 'til I get enough to find us better. I dunno I'll become a newsie or sumthin'. But Gabe, you can't cry. You'se gotta be brave and help me. I can't take care a both of us on a newsies salary. You live on the streets an' if they see you cry they'll break ya."
Something about the way the words were said made them sink into the little boys mind. He quieted and stopped crying, and soon was asleep in his brother's arms. Dennis knew he'd have to keep watch or they'd be killed. It was so cold he thought they might freeze to death as well. He watched a candle burning in a nearby window, and yawned, he was so tired. Soon he'd drifted off. He never saw the three older boys who found them, or felt himself being separated from his brother, and carried off.
He woke up warm and dry the next morning lying on a thin mattress. At first he was comfortable and felt at home, until he remembered the past nights events. He shot out of bed, hitting his head on the bunk above his and cried out, "Shit!"
"Now that ain't the kind a language a kid your age should be usin'." A voice responded to his outburst from beside his bed. The voice held authority but Dennis didn't care.
"Where's me little brother?" he yelled, gaining the interest of several older boys in the room.
"I don't like your tone," the older boys voice seemed to be warning.
"Well I don't give a-" Dennis started.
"I'm Dock Briggs by the way, leader of the Brooklyn newsies." He spat in his palm and held out his hand.
Dennis' stomach dropped, he had just screamed at the leader of the group he was hoping to join. This couldn't be good. He gulped, "Dennis Bennett." He spit shook with the older boy.
"Well since you've calmed down a little why don't you tell me why you and the kid were out on the streets last night. Ya woulda frozen ta death if me boys hadn't found you."
"Tell me where he is first." Dennis demanded.
Dock sat down at the edge of the bunk. "He's downstairs with a few a me boys. Don' worry, they won't hurt him or nuthin'. I just wanted you to get some sleep an' he'd have woken you up by now. Now, answer my question."
"We ran away. Me an' Gabe. Our dad beats us an' me mom died a few months ago. She told me 'fore she died that she wanted us to get out if he beat us again. I let 'im hit me but he near threw Gabe across the room last night so I hit him with a fire poker an' we ran."
"Your brother got a full name?"
"Gabriel Conlon. We'se got different last names 'cause I was born 'fore my parents got married. I was sorta hopin' we could be newsies but I guess after the way I talked to you…"
"If I kicked kids out for that this lodgin' house would be empty. You can stay. I'll take the two a you'se sellin' wit' me tomorrow an' show ya the ropes." He paused, "Are you always a little rebel like that?"
Dennis shrugged, "Just sorta picked it up somewhere. My mom was like it too."
"That's what we'll call ya then. Rebel. It fits ya. Your bruddah will get a name eventually. Newsie names can't be changed so he'll hafta go by Gabe for a while. I got some rules for you though, an' I leave it to you ta explain 'em to him."
"Alright," Rebel agreed, satisfied that they had somewhere to stay.
"You sell wit' a partner 'til youse at least eleven, an' you gotta learn to fight wit' me boys an' teach your brother. I don' care where you sell but don't go into another borough, an' be back here by ten sharp. Don' get in fights if youse can help it but if someone challenges you youse gotta win. Will your dad be lookin' for you and your bruddah?"
"Probably, but ain't no way I'se goin' back there. I won't let 'im take Gabe either."
"Almost everyone here knows you two is brothers. Afta this though I don't want you telling any of the other newsies. It's too risky. You got it?"
"Yeah," Rebel stood and followed the older boys downstairs. Gabe was sitting in front of a fireplace with several other boys. Rebel pulled his brother into his lap and sat there, being introduced to countless newsies and trying to keep names straight.
* * *
Being younger Gabe got used to the change a lot faster than his brother, and seeing as he was too young to sell he spent every afternoon selling with an older newsie. He sold with Pages near the pub, went to the bridge with Toro, and even sold with Dock occasionally. Somehow his young mind comprehended that he was only to call Dennis Rebel form now on and that they could not act like brothers unless the two were alone.
He was learning to be a Brooklyn newsie too. That meant he was learning to fight and use a slingshot. When he came in one night with a black eye that a boy his age named Roman had given him Rebel nearly had a fit. Gabe only complained that it didn't hurt all that much. He was good with a slingshot too, and soon had one of his own. Many of the boys wanted to bring him selling with them because he was so cute all the ladies would stop and buy his papes.
No one really realized the inward changes that he was going through. He'd seen deaths through illness and injury by the time he was six. The child he had once been was being forced to grow up just as fast as his brother had. He was hardening in a way, becoming one of the hard, cold, and commanding boys that Brooklyn was known for. Violence entered his mind too, as he displayed one day on another boy.
A group of younger boys was quickly growing and were soon allowed to sell by themselves in the afternoons. There was always an older newsie nearby anyway. It had started with just Gabe and Roman, but grew with the additions of Pickpocket (who was very close with Gabe), Swinger, Royal, Ace, Wiser, and Scruff. The little band of boys sold their papers in the park everyday. There was some fighting for leadership, and they rotated the roles daily.
"Get outta me way!" Roman yelled at Gabe one day, "It's my turn to be leader."
"No," Gabe claimed, "You were yesterday. That means it's my turn."
Roman walked and stood directly in front of Gabe; he was nearly a head taller. "Why should a shrimp like you ever be leader? No one would ever think of making you leader. You're so short any of the other newsies could just step on you and squash you like a bug."
Gabe's face went almost a deadly calm, "What'd you say?" he asked in a voice matching his look.
"I said I'se leader and there's nuthin' you can do about it, Shorty." Roman shoved Gabe back slightly.
He'd given a name, but Gabe wasn't about to accept being called 'shorty' for the rest of his life. His deep blue eyes glazed over to an icy glare. Without a second thought he launched himself at the taller and stronger boy, with such fury that they were soon a ball of dust with punches being thrown and obscene words being muttered.
Dock was first on the scene, as he had been selling at a nearby street corner, and seen the signs of a fight. He pulled the two apart and was surprised to see that Roman was the more injured of the two. Gabe was pulling against the leader's grasp wanting to fight more. "Ey, what's goin' on here?"
"Roman named Gabe 'Shorty'." Pickpocket said.
"I ain't gonna be called 'shorty' by no one!" Gabe yelled, "I'll be leader of Brooklyn one day. All you just wait and see!"
"With and attitude like that maybe you will," Dock released him but with a warning look.
"But his names Shorty. I thought newsie names were permanent after they were given." Roman slowed with them as they reached the lodging house.
"Usually," Dock said, "but he beat you in a fight over it so it ain't." He smiled as Rebel approached, "Lookit what the kid did to Roman. Gonna have a nice shiner and some scars from it."
Rebel shot Gabe a look. He accepted that Gabe was going to be violent and a fighter. He just wanted him to fight scabs, not the other Brooklyn newsies.
"Well Gabe," Dock said, "Choose youse selling spot."
"Huh?"
Dock explained, "When a newsie wins his first real fight he gets to choose a selling spot for the next day. The newsie who has it has to give it up too. So where d'you wanna sell tomorrow?"
"The Brooklyn Bridge!" Out of all the spots in the city that was Gabe's favorite.
Several cries of protest were heard.
"What?! That's the best spot in Brooklyn!"
"He can't sell there!"
"The kid sure knows how to pick 'em!"
"That's it!" Dock yelled, snapping his fingers, "You'se got a newsie name!"
Gabe looked up at him confused.
"Since you picked such a good spot that's just what we'll call you, Spot."
Rebel nodded, even though his brother seemed to think it was a sissy name, "Don' worry Spot," he tried out the name, "In a few years just hearing the name Spot Conlon will strike fear in the hearts of any newsie in New York!"
The name stuck and that was what he was known as to all the newsie. Over the next year he quickly overcame the other newsies in fighting ability and talent with a slingshot. Dock actually made him take care of the newer newsies who were coming in.
* * *
Like his brother Rebel also caused a few upsets. He picked up everything he was taught quickly and while he was not as violent as his brother if he was provoked he was probably more deadly. By the time he was twelve he'd broken one boy's jaw, and another's arm. He often carried the gold-tipped cane, and had very accurate aim. He still tried to keep his younger brother out of trouble and usually sold near him. During one week in spring money was tight and they couldn't make rent and get food. The two of them came up with a trick to steal some. It worked for the first two days but on the third they missed sight of the police officer standing nearby. He grabbed Rebel by the back of the shirt. Rebel screamed for his brother to run, but Spot, being slightly on the short side couldn't beat the police to a nearby alley.
They were sentenced to the house of refuge for three months. Until that point the two had only heard stories of how horrible the place was. They were separated the minute they got there and Rebel didn't see his brother for more than a week. He almost expected Spot to be covered with bruises when he finally saw him again. Spot had a few bruises but nothing that he hadn't had before. Before they'd been there a month Rebel knew to get out of there, Spot was sick so it wasn't exactly the best place to be. They were in the same room by then though.
"I don't want you to get sick in here," Rebel complained one night.
"Oh, and you think I wanted to get sick. I swear the roof of the lodging house is probably warmer than here. I'll be damned if I'm gonna let myself die here."
"Don't you dare talk like that!"
"You mean swearing or talkin' about dying?"
"Both, you're seven, you shouldn't have to worry about that stuff yet."
Spot narrowed his eyes, "Why not Dennis, I mean three a my friends have died in the past few years."
"Well, you'se too tough, it ain't gonna happen to you."
"You wanna get outta here then?" It was their roommate Stretch who asked.
"A couise, why?" Rebel looked at the boy who was staring out the window.
"Well, in here we'se got a bit of a code to help everyone out, you'se two have upheld it for the past few weeks so I'll help you. Every Friday a group of nuns come to deliver food, an' Snyder's men ain't allowed to touch the carriage. That's tomorrow night, all you gotta do is get outta dishwashing early."
"Thanks for the advice."
Stretch grinned, "No problem, it gives us a reason to cause some trouble 'round here."
Rebel helped his brother into a nun's wagon the next night. When they got out a few blocks later they both ran as though their lives depended on it. Rebel slung his brother onto his back when he began to lag behind. A figure was approaching them from farther down the alley. He pulled back into a small space between several large crates and hushed Spot when he complained.
"That's dad," Rebel whispered, recognizing the man. There were two more approaching from the end of the alley. Even as the attack began Rebel didn't make spot turn away. If anything he wanted his brother to end up too tough; it was safer that way. It took the two men less than five minutes to overpower the third man and with a quick twist they'd broken his neck. The two boys stayed hidden until they were sure everyone was gone, and started walking again.
"Rebel, we gotta go to the cops!" Spot whispered frantically.
"We can't." Rebel's answer was short.
"But, he just killed that guy."
Rebel was scared out of his mind and turned to his brother pushing him tightly up against a wall, "What're we gonna tell them Spot, that we just escaped from the refuge and watched our father kill some rich guy in an alley. I mean first of all they'll send us back to the refuge, probably for longer than before, and when we get out we'll be sent right back with Dad. Is that what you want?" He shook his brother as he spoke.
"No," Spot admitted.
"We don't say a word about this to nobody, you hear me?"
"Yeah." As Rebel started walking again he followed.
They reached the lodging house only minutes later. It was well past curfew but Rebel was sure someone would be awake. He knocked loudly at the door and heard a few loud protests from inside. Dock opened the door a moment later with a tired look on his face, wearing nothing but his long johns. His eyes widened a little, "Get in here! What the hell are you doing outside in this weather!?"
"Got out of the refuge," Rebel managed to mumble.
Their leader almost smiled, "Well, no wonder you and the kid look almost half starved then. Let's get you something to eat."
It was barely a month later that Dock left. Their leader had been talking about getting a real job for a while and had found work on some type of boat. Not to the surprise of many he left Rebel in charge. The boy was very intelligent and organized, as well as one of the best fighters so he was an obvious choice. He threw his brother in charge of any new recruits and often laughed at how seriously Spot took his job of making sure everyone was in by curfew. It was really a funny scene around Spot. He'd claimed the Brooklyn Bridge as a permanent selling spot and most of the boys, even older, were scared of him. It confused a lot of them that Rebel could actually control him, but then, they didn't know the secret.
Blackjack came to them less than six months after Rebel became leader. He reported in to Spot but was very close with Rebel. They were the only two who knew his reason for coming. Supposedly his family situation was horrible, just his dad, and if he stayed he was in his room all the time. His father was powerful so the cops often found him and returned him to his home. Rebel had almost three years on Blackjack but they were close, Blackjack was third in command when he was around, and highly respected with his skill at cards.
Rebel was a fair ruler, but he served with the hard hand of any Brooklyn ruler. His boys trusted him and came to him with larger problems. Boys were praised for their useful abilities, and punished when the trouble they caused was big enough. As I said he was fair most of the time, but God help you if you got on his bad side. Once his temper was lit his wrath would be unleashed. There would be blood at least and often broken bones to mark these occasions. Spot was violent as well, 'soaking' anyone who challenged him in the younger ranks, but he was punished for fighting as well as any other boy, no brotherly privileges. The one way he helped his brother was with his eyes. Spot's glare was perhaps his deadliest weapon. His eyes were stone hard and blue; it seemed like to slabs of ice were staring at you. His look had the power to silence many and intimidate even the toughest boys. All that were new saw him as some puny kid who would never amount to anything but quickly crumpled under that glare. He could get the truth out of any liar or spy and stare down any opponent with those unnerving eyes. That is until one night.
He was practicing with his slingshot in the loft when Blackjack got back. He'd given no reason for needing to be out late so Spot was ready to give him the business. He pulled a small child out into the dim light with him. A girl barely as tall as Spot and just as scrawny.
"Who is she?" he asked, immediately glaring at her, trying to show her he was boss.
"This is my sister. I had to get her out of the house." He gave Spot both a reason for being late and an answer to his question.
"What exactly does your old man do to you?" Spot asked, wondering what on earth would possess Blackjack to bring a little girl to the Brooklyn lodging house. "What's your name kid?" he asked the girl, acting as though she were inferior.
"Brooke Lynn." She responded with just as much attitude.
"No kid, I'se Brooklyn." Over the past several months many boys had referred to him as Brooklyn because he was the paradox for what a Brooklyn newsie should be
"Spot, her name is Brooke. Our fathers last name was Lynn." Blackjack explained
"She don't got a newsie name." He was surprised; she was after all the sister of his brother's best friend.
"I been tryin' to think a one but nuthin' fits. I call her En Brooklyn, but that ain't a good newsie name."
"What's it mean?"
"In Brooklyn." Andres looked around absently, "Maybe you could think a one tomorrow."
"Can she shoot?" Before Blackjack could answer Spot pulled out a slingshot. "Can you shoot this?"
"Yes," she matched his tone. Spot watched Blackjack give her shoulder a warning tap.
Spot placed the slingshot in her palm and placed three bottles on the rafters, "Show me." He showed her where to back up to and gave her three marbles. She took aim and hit each one perfectly. Spot was impressed but didn't show it.
"What about cards?"
"She's the only one who can beat me at Blackjack occasionally and she beats me at poker all the time."
"Alright, she can stay. We'll think of a name tomorrow." He looked her in the eye and she met his gaze to which most others would look away from. "Welcome to the newsies Brooke." He spit in his palm and held out his hand.
She copied his action and nodded to him with a smirk similar to his own, only succeeding in making him more interested in what kind of life she'd possibly had.
He complained to his brother that night about the girl, also filling him in about what to expect the next day.
Rebel just laughed, "Well, get used to it Spot, not everyone's gonna be as wounded by that gaze as the other boys. Personally I hope she can challenge you at a thing or two."
The next day Spot aptly named her for her speed with her fist into an older newsie's face. One of the few boys Spot didn't like so he really didn't mind that much, seeing as Mitchell was one of the few newsies he didn't like.
Hotshot, as she was now to be called was pushed into selling with either her brother or Pickpocket and Spot. Like he did she was silenced with a secret; she couldn't tell anyone outside Brooklyn that she was related to Blackjack. Despite the dislike he had for her at first Spot grew to like her over the next several days. She often chose to sell with him more because he and Pickpocket were near her age. He had to admit the girl was spunky and had an attitude that was different then most girls her age. Had he known the events that would occur over the next hundred years he would have called her a tomboy and thought she'd been born in the wrong century. He watched the police take her and her brother away, but knew she'd be back; Blackjack always was.
She was soon, and each time she returned she seemed slightly tougher than before. Rebel was meanwhile working with Blackjack and Wise on something. Wise's younger cousin Wiser, who was a year older than Spot were the only newsies who went to school. It was too late for many of the boys Rebel's age to learn a lot, but Spot's generation were forced to sit in a room with them every evening and learn whatever the older boys were learning in school. Rebel wanted his younger brother and friends to have more of an opportunity than he had.
The group that had been known as Spot's 'little' group had grown as well. Not only did it include Pickpocket, Hotshot, Wiser, and Roman but also had nearly a dozen more members. The whole group made up an army of sorts that could discourage almost any other group. They had all bases covered; muscle, fighting skill, brains, wit, and talent. Rebel had no doubt that one of them would be leader and they'd become the pride of Brooklyn after he left.
Rebel meanwhile, was having trouble controlling a few of his boys. Mitchell had become increasingly restless after a girl had been allowed in. Rebel was constantly arguing with the younger boy and knew Spot would have problems later. He also wanted to halt the hostility between Brooklyn and the Bronx. Flick Maddel was named for his abilities with a switchblade and had a burning hatred for Brooklyn newsies. Flick and his gang had injured several of both Rebel and Spot's friends and Rebel didn't like having to worry about his boys. He worried about Spot the most. While his brother could fight he was still his little brother. He was scared Spot would get into to much trouble to handle by himself, and if Hotshot was with him, well that was a different story. The girl had an attitude and usually didn't think things through before she spoke. Rebel knew Spot very well, the boy was tough but he was tougher. Spot still thought that being nice to boys from the other boroughs and Rebel knew Flick's boys would take advantage of that.
Spot developed a habit of going off with boys from other boroughs too. He had a few friends in Manhattan, Jack Kelly and Racetrack Higgins. The two boys were selling near the bridge one day and Race made a bet, which he lost and therefore offered to buy Spot lunch. The two became frequent visitors to Brooklyn for Manhattan business and just to hang out.
By the time Spot was twelve Rebel and his council of sorts had already decided that he would be the best choice for the next leader. Sure, he still had a few lessons to learn, but he was closer than any of the others. It was also during this time that Hotshot returned with news that her brother had been killed. Leaving his brother to help her sell the next day Rebel went to the graveyard where her mother and siblings had been buried to look for his friends grave. He couldn't find it though. Neither could he find the grave of her stepfather. He hated the man with a passion after hearing what he'd done to Hotshot and Blackjack. Before she was caught again there was a startling revelation in Spot and Rebel's lives.
Rebel had been having more trouble than usual with Flick and the Bronx lately. Every day another boy came home sporting a new bruise or cut. He was under an unbelievable amount of stress, which meant Spot was as well. Not many of the boys knew they were brothers, and though he couldn't show it Spot still looked up to his brother, still wanted to take some of the weight upon himself.
He came in one day with a black eye and some cuts from fighting one of the Bronx boys. Rebel only groaned when he saw the younger boy. Spot was enough trouble as it was. As he heard it Pickpocket and Hotshot had been selling with him and an older Bronx newsie had come up to them. Spot had run his mouth. The other guy had only gotten off about two good shots before the trio was on him, the ring he wore caused the scratch.
"Out so I can talk to him," Rebel snapped at everyone in the room, "Pickpocket, Hotshot, go get some water and washcloths." Everyone left in a hurry.
"Gabe, what the hell is wrong with you, picking a fight with Flick like that. I know you think you're tough but he coulda killed you!"
"What did you want me to do!" Spot screamed back. He could see his two friends at the door but they were going to wait until the worst was over to come in. "You want me to just let that bastard harass us."
"That's exactly what I want you to do kiddo; that way I can make sure you don't get yourself killed!"
"I'm not gonna go out there and get myself killed, Reb. Do I look that stupid to you! I know he's dangerous! You think you gotta be the leader all the time and take everything on yourself. It don't work that way, I mean I barely sold out all this week trying to figure out a way to help. And then this happens and you blow up at me. I don't need this right now. It ain't your job to watch me no more; I can take care of myself."
As if a sudden switch had been flipped something in him changed. His breath became short, as though he'd run the entire way from the refuge to the lodging house without taking a breath. "Reb," he managed, trying to take in another breath. His breath was getting shorter and shorter. His chest seemed to be tightening, as though some large snake or something was constricting around him. His breaths were shallow and hard to take. For the first time in his life he was actually truly scared that something was wrong with him. He turned his wide eyes toward his brother, looking for help for the first time in years.
Rebel froze. Was he really so wrapped up in making sure nothing happened to jeopardize his leadership that he had missed his own brother getting sick. The look of fear in Spot's eyes was what stopped this train of thought. When Spot got sick his look only expressed one thought, boredom. Never one of being tired or crummy, just bored. Now there was the unmistakable look in spot's eyes, one of pure, unadulterated fear. Those wide blue eyes turned to him. Rebel could only look back into them. He had no earthly idea what was wrong with his brother, and no idea how to help.
"Try to match my breathing, Spot." A voice whispered in his ear. "I know you're scared, just try to match my breathing." Hotshot stood next to him and took a deep breath placing her hand on his shoulder. She then made herself take some shorter breaths, lengthening each one. "Relax Spot, just breath, in and out, in and out. You're doin' better, c'mon."
Within a few minutes his breathing was back to normal. Spot sank into a nearby chair, still slightly shaken.
Hotshot walked over to Rebel and hit him hard in the chest. He stepped back a bit shocked. "Why the hell are you getting' him all stressed when he's got asthma, huh?"
"I didn't know," Rebel snapped at her, "What's he got?"
"Asthma, it's a breathing condition." She turned to face Spot, "that the first time you've ever had an asthma attack?"
He nodded.
"I doubt his are brought on by physical activity, but stress, nervousness and anxiety are all triggers." She glared at Rebel for a moment.
"Where can we get him medicine to make it go away?" Rebel asked.
"Ya can't. It ain't contagious neither. All he's gotta do is learn to control his breathing and have some people around here who can help him. I wouldn't exactly go and tell all the boys though. He'll be outta the running for next leader if ya do."
Spot was sitting on the bunk in Rebel's private room when he came in that night. Spot was just sitting there, staring across the room and picking at the threadbare blanket his brother had acquired. "I thought I was gonna die." He stated, "I seriously did."
Rebel nodded, "Well, at least now a few of us can relish in the fact that you're mortal like us and not some God." He grinned at his brother's face, "I was worried too kiddo. Stop worrying about Flick and the Bronx. I'll tell you if somthin's up." He opened the door. "Now go get to bed."
Spot's asthma attacks weren't common, but they weren't a rarity either. Other than Hotshot and Pickpocket, Swinger, Royal, Wiser, Scruff and Roman knew about them, and how to help. They were the boys who stood behind Spot and fully supported him being the next leader. It didn't help that the Bronx's threats only increased over the next six months.
Finally in late February the message that Rebel had been waiting for came, bearing one short message. 'Get out of Brooklyn if you want to live' was scrawled across a sheet of paper. Rebel wrote a short, rude reply for the Bronx messenger to send back.
"Flick will show up any day now," he told his boys at dinner that night, "I want everyone to be careful. Everyone sell in groups, not just the kids. I don't want a single god damned casualty on account of him. Carry your weapons, and be prepared. This is probably gonna end in a fight you guys, I'm almost sure of it. Anyone who ain't willing to fight should go over to Manhattan now, but don't expect to come back after the fighting's over. Lastly, if anyone, anyone, sees Flick in Brooklyn come find me immediately and rally the others to get back here." As he paused before sitting down he looked over his boys, not a sole moved to leave. They were all in it until the end.
The next week was fill of threats and injuries to both sides. Flick's boys were traveling in and out of Brooklyn and a good amount of fights broke out. Rebel wasn't surprised when after almost two weeks Roman approached him. The bow was nursing a bloody nose and had a small cut running up the back of his arm, one that reached from his wrist to about three inches below his elbow.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked. Roman was the biggest of the younger boys, and not easily beat in a fight, usually coming out without a scratch.
"I ran into Flick," he said slowly, adding a few choice adjectives, "Guys really good with a switchblade that's all I have to say about it. He said that he and his boys will be at the Brooklyn pier at eight, and that they're gonna take Brooklyn."
The grin that was on Rebel's face faltered, go gather the others and tell everyone to get back to the lodging house for lunch, we ain't sellin' the afternoon edition. If you wanna fight tonight I suggest to have Wise take care of those cuts."
Roman nodded and ran off. Rebel watched him for a moment before walking through a maze of allies that any newsie could be familiar with. He ducked into the back of a shop. "Razor," he said to the man working in back, "I need some blades, good and sharp."
"Bronx finally decide to come try their luck at a fight?" the younger boy asked, he wasn't quite Rebel's age but almost.
"Yeah, you gonna come?"
"I get outta work at five; I'll come then. It's on the pier, right?"
"Where else." He left through the back and made his way quickly back to the lodging house. It was starting to rain, the perfect weather for a fight.
They started getting back an hour later. First the older boys, then Spot and the boys his age, and the younger ones. They all knew what was going on. That was one of Roman's faults; he talked too much.
Razor arrived at five with the switchblades and knives, all recently sharpened. Boys who didn't get blades found clubs or slingshots to use as weapons. Rebel picked his best shooters to attack from the roof and from the fire escapes. He desperately wanted to keep Spot in the lodging house, the brotherly side of him coming out, but that would give something away. Besides Spot was easily one of the best fighters. He gave two words to Spot and his band as they collected themselves with weapons, "Watch yourselves."
"They ain't gonna fight fair," he told Spot, "but when the leader goes down the fight's over so whoever backs down first, me or him. I ain't gonna back down. I might not come back in here Spot."
"You will," Spot said in a strained voice, "He can't beat you."
"Well if I don't my orders are for you to take over, got that." He received a nod in return. "I'm just glad Hotshot ain't here. She'd be too hard to keep in the longing house. I swear that girl is gonna cause a few major fights before she's done bein' a newsie."
All the Brooklyn newsies were assembled outside when the Bronx came into view. Those with slingshots were hidden too far back on the roof to be seen and those who were armed for the fire escapes sat just inside windows. The Bronx knew they'd be there though.
Flick Maddel was hard as nails and looked it. He led his boys down the pier with a sneer on his face. There was no doubt in Rebel's mind that he had at least five switchblades hidden in the folds of his clothes. "So Bennett," Flick drawled, "you call that an army. You might as well surrender now." He glanced at Spot and the younger boys, some of whom (Spot included) still looked a bit scrawny and younger than they were. "Why don't you send the little kids inside where they won't get hurt, yet."
"Did you come here to talk or to fight?" Rebel's voice was even but vented anger as he spoke.
It seemed as if Flick's first switchblade jumped into his hand from out of thin air. He flipped it open and pointed it across the open space between the two leaders, directly at Rebel's chest. It was a sign that he was ready.
Rebel pulled his father's cane out of his belt loop, tossing it and catching it near the heavy gold tip. At the same time those with the slingshots stepped out of their hiding and took aim. Boys with switchblades and clubs readied their weapons. Flick's boys did the same. Each side stood silent for a moment, until Flick charged; then all hell broke loose.
Flick had crossed the distance between him and Rebel in seconds. The other boys knew not to interfere with those two as they fought. The other boys moved toward each other in a wave of bodies. The two waves met with a crash.
Though Flick had insisted that Rebel's army was small it was the Bronx who were outnumbered. Other than the actual water falling form the sky there was also a rain of marbles coming down, each carefully aimed. The eerie sound of metal striking metal filled the air, cries following many or these as one boy or another lost their hold and his opponents blade sliced into his arm.
More marbles flew through the air. A never-ending wave of them was continuously raining down on them, though it was now becoming unclear to those on the roof who was from Brooklyn and who was the Bronx. Constant thuds and cracks were heard as those with clubs slammed into anything and anyone they could get near. Bones broke and blood erupted from the injured.
Many of the boys were losing their hold on weapons. Those that didn't have any just fought with their hands. Several of the Bronx boys had sets of brass knuckles to their name. A constant sound of metal on flesh and cried of pain echoed through the scene.
The Bronx boys were unfamiliar with their surroundings, or at least not as familiar with them as the Brooklyn boys were. The Brooklyn boys knew every bump and gully in the boards, and what to avoid when wet. The wooden boards became slick and slippery quickly and while the Bronx faltered and slipped Brooklyn kept its sure footing. Several splashes were heard as they tumbled Bronx boys into the harbor. Some splashed in after to continue the fighting and only make it harder for their opponents.
Screams filled the air and yelling echoed along the entire pier. The whistles of the police wouldn't be heard for at least another hour. They liked to see the street rats take care of each other so they didn't have to do the dirty work. There was not a single boy left without injury. Bruises, black eyes, and long, deep gashes were everywhere. Blood bathed each boy from at least one place on his body.
Spot watched as a Bronx boy forced Pickpocket over the edge of the pier with a club. He used a running tackle to propel himself and the boy into the deep, murky water as well. The two of them surfaced at the same time. Spot took hold of the boy by the front of his shirt and launched a fist into his face. The boy reeled away, swimming under the pier as soon as he gained his senses. Spot reached out and pulled his friend with him to the ladder. "You ok?" he yelled to be heard above the noise.
"I'll be fine," Pickpocket yelled back quickly scaling the ladder but ducking at the top when another boy swung at him with a blade. Spot gave his friend a quick push. Pickpocket flipped over the top, back onto the pier, giving the boy a swift kick to the stomach. Spot pulled himself up next to Pickpocket and went after the boy with his fists having lost the blade Rebel had given him. He pounded on the boy every time he left a large enough area or his chest, stomach or face exposed. Pickpocket went on to help someone else.
The battle was fierce, but none was worse than the one Rebel was fighting. Flick had been preparing for this moment for days. He was ready to spill some blood, and end a life. His reason for hate was still unclear, but it was there burning more brightly than ever. As he moved toward Rebel the Brooklyn leader swung at him with the cane. The heavy gold end caught his knuckle and sent his knife flying. Another was in his hand almost instantly.
A series of short jabs followed but Rebel was quick to move. Flick twisted and caught him good across the arm. A cry, not even really able to be called that, escaped Rebel's lips. But he kept moving. He swung upwards with his cane, digging the end into Flick's cheek. The boy growled and swung his arm in a wide arc, his blade sliding along Rebel's stomach for about six inches, pouring new blood to the wood they fought on.
Rebel knocked another knife from the boy's hand and again another one replaced it. "What," Rebel jeered, "I thought you were a master with a switchblade." He watched the boy closely as they circled one another.
"I am," Flick hissed.
Rebel forced a chuckle, "If you were the master you'd be able to beat me with just one."
It was a challenge and Flick knew it. He stripped his torso to his undershirt and pulled three more knives out of nowhere, dropping each to the ground in turn. He stopped holding just one with a devilish grin crossing his face. The lightning of the storm only illuminating the grotesque scar. Without a second shot he launched himself at Rebel, a war cry echoing from his lungs. Rebel took a step to the side, hoping to dodge him, but it wasn't enough. The impact sent both boys skidding several feet along the pier's wooden surface, surely causing a number of scratches. Flick was on his knees leaving Rebel on his back. He lifted up his switchblade to bring it down into Rebel's chest. Rebel swung up his cane and the blade dug into it, leaving a horrific score in the heavy, blackened wood. A hiss escaped Rebels lips and he tried to flip the boy off of him. Flick just laughed and pushed downward with the blade.
After a moment the Bronx leader seized an opportunity to swing his blade around and bring it down painfully through the outside of Rebel's arm, a deep, jagged cut. Rebel yelled out in pain and several boys near them momentarily paused in their fighting. He swung his cane around brining the end into Flick's stomach and knocking him backward, onto the slick wood of the pier. The boy's switchblade flew from his hand and out of his reach. Rebel dropped his cane and lunged at the boy, bringing his fist across his enemy's jaw.
Flick used the momentum of Rebel's punch to roll over so he was on top in the pile. He used his arms to hold a struggling Brooklyn leader's shoulders down. "So, I hear that little Spot kid's your brother." Another blade appeared from nowhere. He carefully held it inches from Rebel's neck. "I'll make sure he's the one I torture the longest and I'll personally kill him."
With a surge of adrenaline Rebel flipped again. He could barely hold Flick's blade away from him. "I'll kill you 'fore I let you anywhere near him."
"I knew I was right. You ain't gonna be able to protect him if you'se dead, an' don't worry, I'll be sure to enjoy it." He drove his blade arm up.
"No!" Rebel yelled at the same time. He drove his arm down on the boy's head, forcing it to the side. A snap was heard and the body under his stilled, and went limp. Rebel pushed himself up; it was over. His opponent's neck was broken.
"Flick's down," a boy nearby yelled. Almost immediately the entire fight stopped. One boy stepped forward and felt Flick's neck for a pulse. "He's dead."
Rebel took several deep breaths looking over all the boys. He picked a small boy that he knew wasn't one of his, "You, c'mere."
The young boy approached him cautiously, "What's your name?"
He swallowed, "Outrage Ameadeo."
"Where'd outrage come from?"
"Flick named me that 'cause I never get mad."
"Did you want to come here tonight?"
"No, we had to though. He was our leader."
Rebel turned to the waiting fighter. Outrage couldn't have been much older than Spot. "Listen up Bronx, Outrage here is your new leader. Anyone who wants to argue that can stay here and fight my boys some more." No one moved so he went on, "I want you all to get back home. Come back tomorrow if anyone's missing. Brooklyn stay out here 'til they're gone, then get inside." He looked over all the boys as they began to move again. Each was bloody and drenched in rain. All winced as they moved and many limped. As the Bronx disappeared from sight his boys began to make their way inside.
"Rebel?" Spot stopped next to his brother.
"Go inside," Rebel spoke in an emotionless voice, glaring out over the water. He could see Spot out of the corner of his eye. His brother was bloody and sporting several bruises. Spot stared at him for a minute and then continued inside. Rebel looked down at Flick's body. He'd actually killed a man. His hands shook as he brought them up to wipe the tears from his face. He made his way around the pier, checking each body to see how many Brooklyn had lost. Their only loss was the last body he came upon. Razor lay in a pool of blood, a Bronx blade still lodged in his stomach. Rebel dropped to his knees crying for his lost friend. He shook with tears and whispered a prayer. For what seemed like forever he sat there, looking over the dead boy. The rain was already washing away the blood that had been spilled on the boards of the pier that night.
He was the first one awake the next morning and walked through the lodging house looking over his soldiers. Spot and his crew lay on several chairs in the common room, having been too tired to make it to their beds. He looked over his brother for injuries. Spot's face was scratched and his eye was almost sealed shut. His lip was busted and his arms and hands were covered with several defensive bruises. What worried Rebel the most was the long cut across his brother's collarbone and onto his chest. He ran a hand over Spot's damp hair.
"Mmnh…" his brother moaned and rolled his eyes open, "hey Reb."
"You ok?"
Spot nodded, "yeah." He ran his tongue over his lips, "everyone else ok?"
Rebel shook his head, "Most of 'em. Razor didn't make it." He looked down into his brother's eyes. A sad look was in them but he hadn't seen Spot cry since the night they'd left home. "There's about half a dozen Bronx guys out there. Our fighting's definitely improved." He pushed his brother's feet off a stool next to the chair and sat down. "Now lemme get a look at this cut 'cross your chest. Gonna have to bandage it to avoid infection."
Spot grumbled about not being a baby but unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way. "'S gonna leave a pretty good battle scar."
Rebel hit his younger brother lightly and shook his head. He wrapped a bandage around the boy's chest and then moved among the small group. "C'mon, help me check on the rest of your boys."
Spot looked after his brother as he left the room, thinking he must have just slipped and said yours. He pulled himself out of the comfortable warmth of the chair and trailed after his brother.
Exactly one week after that day Spot found himself being shaken awake by his older brother. "Get up now. Go around and wake everyone else up and get dressed. I want the entire lodging house out back in fifteen minutes."
Spot moved to several nearby bunks waking boys off and sending them off. He pulled on some clothes to fend off some of the cold weather that still lingered. He hurried through the house and yelled at the boys who were not yet out of bed, yanking blankets and mattresses away from them. He made a final sweep of the lodging house before walking out the back to where his friends were congregating.
Rebel sat on his throne of crates looking at them. He'd been tired and depressed for most of the week, but now he looked as though everything had been lifted. He motioned for Spot to come stand with him. He placed a hand on Spot's shoulder and sighed before standing to speak. Spot caught the look in his brother's eyes and his jaw dropped open a little. He couldn't, he wouldn't?
"I'm leaving," Rebel said, confirming Spot's fears, "I can't do this anymore and trust me, I've thought long and hard about this and I have to leave. I don't want to, but I can't stay here after what I did last weekend. And I will be back for visits so don't think you've seen the last of me. Now, on to your new leader. I'm going to leave you with someone who I think will be the best for Brooklyn. He's got a good head on his shoulders, and he knows how to take care of himself, and you guys." Several of the popular boys in the crowd began to brag about what they do, since they knew they were up for it. "Spot."
Everything stopped.
"Spot is going to be your leader, he's going to choose his own officers, and if you don't like the way he leads, well, you can always leave. I know you all think he's just a little kid who doesn't know anything, but he's been here almost as long as I have." He nodded, "Take care of yourselves."
Spot was lost in the crowd that swirled to the distribution center, murmuring excitedly. All his friends were coming up to his, congratulating him, sucking up too. As he reached the distribution and moved to get in line everyone moved out of his way to let him be first. He waited for Pickpocket in silence. His friend approached with an armload of papers and they began to walk out.
Mitchell stepped in front of him, "You gonna let her stay when she comes back?" he asked.
"Yes," Spot sneered.
Mitchell dropped his fifty papers to the ground and spat on them, "That's what I think of Brooklyn then."
Spot clenched his fists in anger but controlled himself, "Then get out." He pushed past the older boy and took up and authoritative walk toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
Spot returned to the lodging house as soon as he had sold out the morning edition. He would have to skip lunch, not that he'd have much of a meal either way. He walked up to find his belongings in Rebel's room, and hopped out onto the fire escape. He made his way quietly to the roof and found his brother sitting there.
"What're you doing up here?" Rebel didn't even turn around.
"It's my lodging house; I'll go where I please." Spot glared at his brother's back. He couldn't help it. Rebel had been his only family for the past nine years and now he was just leaving.
"Spot, don't be like that," Rebel groaned, "I can't stay."
"Why the hell not?" Spot yelled, "It's not like anyone's making you leave. What about me, huh? What am I gonna do without you?" Rebel turned and Spot almost jumped back. The great Brooklyn leader had been crying. "Reb?"
"I shouldn't have brought you here. Spot I just can't stay. I killed a guy, I mean as much as everyone hated Flick I still killed him, and it scares the hell outta me to know I'm capable of that." Suddenly he grinned, "You'll be a better leader than me."
"No I won't."
Rebel rolled his eyes, "Trust me on this one will you. Spot I've watched you grow up here and you couldn't do anything else if you tried. All the boys trust you, but they're scared of you too," he laughed, "and with good reason. One day everyone in New York is gonna know who you are."
"Ya think so."
"Of course, why else would I be leaving you in charge. I mean it's not like I'm leaving permanently. I'll stop by in a month or two to see how you're doing." He was quiet for a moment, "You pick your second yet?"
Spot shook his head, "I can't decide between Pickpocket and Hotshot."
Rebel shrugged, "Than have both; I'll tell Pickpocket to move his and Hotshot's stuff into that smaller room. And stop worrying, some of the older guys promised to help you out a little for the first few weeks with any problem guys."
"You mean Mitchell?"
"Basically."
"Then forget it; he left this morning."
Rebel nodded, "Thought he might. I've got to go pack, but this is for you." He handed Spot their father's old cane."
Spot looked up at his brother; the cane was Rebel's prized possession.
"What?" Rebel grinned, "Every good leader needs a trademark weapon. I'll see you around."
"See you later." Spot remained sitting on the roof for the remainder of the afternoon. It wasn't until Pickpocket came up to find him that night that he climbed back inside.
Hotshot showed up one evening the next week in an almost hysterical state. She told, rather than asked, Spot that she was staying permanently. Spot and Pickpocket helped her to cut off her long hair. Later that night she came to find him, "Where's my stuff?"
"Third floor room next to the center."
Hotshot's eyebrow went up, "Rebel left?"
Spot didn't respond but that was enough of an answer for her.
Over the next year Spot began to become more mature, in more ways than one. When before he was used to being a complete idiot around everyone he became more serious and reserved, though there were times when he needed to joke around with his friends. Roman and a few other boys also introduced him to several girls. And so began the rumor of Spot's being a ladies man, the one who had a different girl each nigh. To be truthful it wasn't much of a stretch from the truth. Few girls could keep his attention or interest for long. He and Hotshot had a relationship that was not known to anyone outside Brooklyn, but it couldn't really be described as a real relationship. They had a mutual understanding that they hung out all the time. She gave Spot space with his girls, and she flirted with some of the guys.
Several other girls followed Hotshot's lead and moved into Brooklyn; Candy, Laze, Frenchy, and Sweet among them. Spot barely noticed that his force was growing. He was focusing a lot of his energy on getting Mitchell's force out of Brooklyn, and out of the running for any power. Only when they finally backed off did he have room to breathe.
Soon it was back to being in control though, Brooklyn was hosting a meeting for the leaders of all the boroughs to establish some guidelines and rules. It was a highly eventful weekend. It wasn't until then that Spot actually realized he had some power as a few of the boys cowered when he yelled at them for a side conversation.
As Rebel had predicted soon enough when newsies heard the name Spot Conlon they moved out of the way and shut up. His power wasn't limited by anything, well almost nothing. Those who knew him back in Brooklyn, his friends, didn't bow before him. Had they done that, however, Spot would have been nervous. They joked around and often got into shouting matches against him, but they were smart. They wouldn't fight him.
It was in the early summer of the year 1899 that Spot was finally dragged into another battle. His spies form all over the city began coming in to see him the day the prices on all of the papers were raised. Jack Kelly, and the newsies in Manhattan were planning a strike. Sure enough Jack came walking down the pier tailed by a few other boys that afternoon. He recognized the younger one, Boots, but the other wasn't familiar. He also looked to have a home seeing as his clothes were neither stained nor ripped.
Boots gave Spot a few marbles, and Spot almost laughed, even after these years the younger boy was still scared. He grinned at the kid and then turned to Jack, questioning him about the rumors.
The new boy answered for Jack, claiming that the strike was no joke.
"Oh yeah, yeah," Spot jeered, "What is this Jackie-boy, some kinda walkin' mouth."
"He is a mouth," Jack admitted, "But a mouth with a brain and if you got half a one you'll listen to what he has to say."
Spot sat back nodding for the boy to say his piece.
"Well, we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So, we're talking to newsies all around the city-"
Spot interrupted him, "So they told me, but what'd they tell you."
"They're waiting to see what Spot Conlon is doing, you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the most respected and famous newsie in al of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they join and we'll be unstoppable. So you gotta join, I mean. well, you gotta!"
Spot smirked, You're right Jacky-boy, brains. But I got brains too, and more than just half a one. How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at ya with a club? How do I know you got what it takes to win?"
Jack spoke up, "'cause I'm tellin' ya Spot."
As much as Spot wanted to help he couldn't, not yet at least, "That's not good enough Jackie boy, you gotta show me."
Hotshot approached him as the three boys left. "Why ain't you helpin' Jack? I thought he was your friend."
"He is, but I gotta look out for Brooklyn right now. And besides I got you to go over there and come back when they need help. I'll help 'em, but only if they need it."
She nodded, "I'll be back tomorrow."
It was early the next morning when she came back grinning, "I know something you don't know."
"Well, it's too early for games so spit it out."
"Pulitzer's paying that distribution manager over in 'hattan to hire some thugs to bang up the boys. They don't know it and if you don't go help they don't stand a chance."
Spot sighed, but called down into one of the rooms for everyone to get dressed and head to Manhattan. He gathered several of his best shooters. "Stay here Hotshot."
Yeah, yeah," she yelled back to him.
Over in Manhattan he and his boys climbed unnoticed onto the roofs of several buildings. He watched as the trap unfolded and the Manhattan newsies were trapped inside the small area. He almost laughed at how easy it was. They definitely needed his help. He gave a signal and several boys stood up. He himself jumped down to a nearby fire escape and called out, "Never fear Brooklyn is here!"
Beating back the thugs was almost easier than many of their wars against other boroughs. The older men ran as soon as they saw the Brooklyn army, armed with clubs, waiting outside. After the celebrating had ended Spot told Jack one thing, "Me and my boys are staying, 'cause if you don't have my support this strike ain't goin' nowhere."
He was right, with Spot's help, it did run much more smoothly. He helped to plan the rally and was grinning with pride the entire time it went on. He was one of the few Brooklyn boys caught, and even then it took three cops five minutes to subdue him long enough for a fourth to knock him out. And when he woke up in a jail cell no guard that walked by was safe. He threw a bit of a fit and injured one of the guards that entered the cell to get him for their trial.
The trial itself was an experience. His sarcastic wit showed through and probably would have gotten him into more trouble. At hearing they would have to spend two weeks in the refuge he nearly fell over, and probably would have done so had the others not been standing behind him. Snyder definitely had it out for the newsie and his asthma would probably not stay at bay for the entire stay there. He wasn't willing to let anyone else in on his secret. Thank God Denton had been around in those days.
And finding out Jack was a traitor; it brought him back to many memories of Flick. /he and Rebel had been friends when they were younger and it turned into a battle. It tore something inside of him to see Jack in the scab's uniform and he went into a fit of rage. It was good that the others had been there to hold him back, else he may have gotten enough anger and adrenaline pent up to get by the cops and kill Jack.
It was hard to remember what made him return for the rally for all sweatshop kids. Only three of his newsies were prepared to go if he didn't. The argument he'd gotten into with them turned into a shouting match that the entire lodging house listened in on. It wasn't until one of them forced Rebel's cane into the palm of his hand that he snapped out of a sort of daze. That was it; he was going to lead them over. Anyone who didn't follow him was as good as gone.
He ended up breaking up with Hotshot later that year; not exactly easily but it happened. It wasn't like he really had that much of a relationship with her anyway. There were plenty of girls around for him to go after, but none of them held his interest. Then she introduced him to Canada. She was older than Spot by about three months, was tall for a girl with short coppery hair and hazel eyes.
The girls he'd been used to were ones who threw themselves at him and very outspoken girls. Unlike his often loud followers Canada was shy at first when they met. By the end of the evening, however, the two were chatting away as if they'd known each other for years. She was intensely melodramatic and joked around a lot that night. Unlike his other girls she wasn't willing to be one of his one-night stands, which caught his attention. She stood up for what she wanted, and on many occasions dragged him to church with her.
She was smart; she understood the way Spot ran his newsies, and the way everything worked. Canada ended up spending a lot of time in Brooklyn, usually selling the afternoon edition there. She quickly got used to Spot's demanding attitude, and the strict penalties he gave out to his boy. He became accustomed to her habit of blowing everything out of proportion and habit of paying more attention to her books than to him. Once you saw them together you began to realize how well they complimented one another.
Rebel had been only eighteen when he left Brooklyn to find a new life. Spot was nowhere near ready to leave when he turned eighteen. It may have been that he couldn't picture himself doing anything else that kept him there so long. He often found himself staying at Rebel's apartment until all hours of the night, however, the two of them talking about everything. Rebel's wife Lily was always there, and chatted with them constantly, even more when Spot brought Canada. Rebel's apartment was nicer now; Lily's father was a rich lawyer, a Mr. Nathaniel Edwards, and Rebel had received money from his father's fortune after he'd been out in jail. Spot's money only sat in a bank.
One night he was sitting up on the roof of the lodging house, a place he often found peaceful, watching the boys below jumping off of the docks or playing card games. He swung his legs over the edge and chuckled to himself as Specs picked Hotshot up and dropped her into the water.
"Gabriel David Conlon!" Canada's angry voice exploded behind him, "what the hell is wrong with you!"
He turned to face her, "What?"
"I hear you've spent the last two nights with Hummingbird. What do you have to say for yourself Spot, huh? I thought you said you weren't going after every girl in sight anymore."
Spot laughed again, "Is that all." The couple had a habit of going through the same discussion every week, "I can tell you right now that I'd never even look twice at that prissy little bitch. And I most definitely have not been spending any time with her. Who told you I did?"
"Whisper."
"Do you know why we call him Whisper?"
She grinned, "Why?"
"Because he gossips more than anyone I know, and that includes you and your friends." He kissed Canada sweetly on the lips and pulled her up onto the wall next to him. They made out for a while before he pulled back and spoke again, "Roman left today."
"I'm sorry Spot, I know you two were close."
Spot shrugged, "Do you think that I should be leaving soon."
She shook her head, "Nope."
"Why not?"
"Spot," she rolled her eyes, "You have lived here since you were what, three. There's no way you're done with these boys yet. You're at the peak of you're leadership and there's no way in hell I'm going to let you give that up."
"And when I decide I want to."
"When you decide to leave I'll be here with you." She leaned against Spot's shoulder and he put an arm around her. "Who're you gonna leave in charge."
"Stand," Spot said, "He's young but he real smart, knows how things work, and how to keep 'em that way."
"Hmm…" Canada smiled, "Sounds like someone I know."
"Yeah," spot smirked, "It does, doesn't it." He stared off into space as Canada began to talk quietly about some upcoming activity over in Manhattan. He focused not on her voice but his thoughts. She was right though, there was a lot left to be done before he stepped down. Since his brother had left Spot had pulled together the Brooklyn newsies, thrown out any that weren't worthy, and been part of the biggest strike to date. It wasn't enough for him though; he had to make his life perfect, something worth learning about a hundred years from now. He needed to live every moment to the fullest, and every day to the brink. That was the only way to accomplish anything. Being a newsie, and being with Canada were the only things that were important to him and he'd be damned if he'd give either up without a fight.
A/N: Another chapter, finally, you're probably thinking. I sincerely thank anyone who actually took the time to read all of this, and I am going to start trying to cut back chapters, 20ish pages is a little long, unless of course you guys like them that way. As you can probably see if you read all of my stories I'm working on a few others at the moment, and this is really tedious to write. I may end up discontinuing it eventually but I'll try not to. Expect updates to be few and far between for now, maybe I'll have more time in the summer.
I hope you all liked Spot and Rebel. I'm sort of surprised no one has been guessing Spot, seeing as he's a very popular character, and Lange, if you're reading this, I'm sorry you're not in this much but I'm trying to make it go along with the other stuff I wrote, and your scene is a very important one. Please tell me all of you loved Asthmatic!Spot.
Now on to shoutouts:
Kaylee: You're smart in thinking Jack won't come in until later, exactly how I plan it.
CC: Glad you like it, if you leave another review care to be more specific in what you liked.
Dreamy: I actually have girlfriends for all the guys except Les and Snipes, sorry about that. As for the Race story, Dude, maybe when I have time I'll start, 'cause y'know he's very cool with the Boston accent.
Kasin: I'm sorry to have confused you. The thing is that the Manhattan newises thought Hotshot was a girl until she went over there in the beginning of PSAPT, so basically if Race went over there when he was fifteen he would have thought she was a guy because she dressed like one.
Laze: Ah, but PSAPT is finished now, I think I just got a real Racetrack inspiration all of a sudden back then.
Frenchy: Thank God for translation sites is all I have to say. That woulda been wicked hard to translate all by myself.
GG: Everyone seems to like Blink for some odd reason.
Ok, all, so vote for shorter or long chappies and guess who's next. Hinthintitsnotblinkhinthint.
Forever roaming the rooftops,
~Hotshot~~~