Same Day, 7:00 P.M.
"Rash o' moidas plagues New Yawk! Five found dead in Brooklyn las' night!"
Not one member of the unlikely group of partners had felt any desire to sell the evening edition of the World, but skipping it again simply hadn't been an option. Race, Mush, and Blink had been forced to give all their profits from the morning edition to Flick and Secret. If they didn't sell that evening, not one would be able to pay for a bunk in the lodging house that night. Kloppman would likely let it slide, but they figured it wasn't worth it to risk otherwise. As for the girls, they were still far shorter on money than they should have been, from being unable to sell that morning, and therefore the five had no choice but to suffer each other's company again. The girls' consent had been bought by a system they worked out: they would spread out all over Central Park, each taking his or her own personal spot, and none would intrude on the others' territory. Thus, no interaction was necessary, though Secret flat-out refused to sell anywhere near the pond.
"Gruesome pitchas included!" Racetrack added, for the benefit of any sick-minded customers, surprisingly common on the streets of New York. Selling a paper to a gnarled old man whose expression said that this was the most exciting news he'd heard since the Civil War, Race pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. Only seven...the minutes seemed to drag by. But he was doing well; only a few papers left. With luck, he'd be able to get to the tracks in time to place his bet on Shadow Queen before she ran. Of course, her sire, Grey Lightning, was some country stallion no one had ever heard of, but her dam, Rains Fire, had been decent in her day. Anyway, Race had this feeling about Shadow Queen. He'd watched her train...there was something inside her, some inner fire, that would make her come through. He was certain of her; even more certain than he'd been of Searchlight, Definition Of Speed, and Algernon's Pride, his last three losing longshots.
"Bloody massacre, shockin' photographs!" Flick rattled off dutifully, oblivious to Racetrack's similar embellishment on the illegal duck hunters, as he was selling on the other side of the park.
"Moidas, ya say?"
Flick spun toward the voice, poised for flight; people who wanted to stop and chat were not the type of customers a newsie wanted, particularly a newsie who used what Jack Kelly had coined the "improvin' da truth" method. She relaxed when she saw who had posed the question. It was a very small boy...shorta den Racetrack...whose age she had trouble guessing, due to the contradiction between his size and his hard, streetwise face. His hair was black, his eyes brown, and his skin a dark tan-olive. Ragged and underfed, he looked like pretty much any other young street kid, except for a strange expression in his eyes that Flick, for all her poker-aquired skills, couldn't identify. One thing was certain, however; she very much doubted that he had a penny to spare on a newspaper. She turned away, ignoring him.
"Dere really are moidas, y'know." Huh? Flick kept her eyes on potential customers, but found she was listening intently in spite of herself to the words of the kid who stood behind her. "All da time," he was saying. "Practic'ly ev'ry day. But da people dat get killed, dey ain't wealthy or important. Deyre nuttin'. Street trash, y'know. It happens ev'rywheah, ev'ry day, but ya neveh see it in da papes. Dey write articles 'bout duck hunts instead. 'Cause when da poor die, no one notices. No one cares."
Three newspapers fluttered to the ground, forgotten. One heart pounded ferociously, blood screaming through veins, hands clenched, knuckles white. A pair of eyes turned very slowly toward the boy, eyes the deep sick black-blue of fresh bruises. My God...who is dis kid!? An what da...does he...how can he...he can't! I won't...I didn't...it neveh...how much does he...no...
The kid was gone, vanished as quickly and strangely as he had come. A breeze lifted Flick's three remaining papers and carried them across the park. Flick swayed. Scarlet swam before her vision. She couldn't think...she didn't understand...she wanted to scream...she wanted to soak someone.
"Flick?"
She whirled, ready to slam her fist through whoever dared to approach her now, if she didn't pass out first.
"Ya done?" Racetrack asked hesitantly. "Da oddas are...ya okay?" He frowned, taking a step closer. "Ya look kinda...Flick?"
Flick stared at him for a moment as if she didn't recognize him. Then she shook her head, but not to answer no; more as if she was trying to clear it of something. "I'se fine," she replied shortly, "an' yeah, I'se done sellin'." And she tore off in the direction of the lodging house.
That Night, 10:30 P.M.
Coincidence.
Flick lay in her top bunk in the Newsboys Lodging House. Sleeping newsboys lay in the bunks all around her; her best friend slept soundly, for once, in the bunk below her. Secret. If only I could tell 'er...but no. It'd kill 'er. It was jist a coincidence, anyway. Flick squirmed and rolled over. She told herself the August heat was the reason her night-shift was moist with sweat. Still, even if it was coincidence, jist because o' da headline I 'appened ta be hawkin'...dat kid shoah did undastand. He told it jist like it is. No one notices...no one cares. Who WAS dat kid? How old was he, anyway? What kinda woild is dis, wheah a kid da size of a postage stamp talks like some kinda old man? The cotton was awfully itchy. The thin blanket was too heavy. She pushed it away restlessly. What d'ya mean, 'What kinda woild is dis', Flick? Ya already know what kinda woild it is. Ya's been loinin' dat all yer life.
But it neveh really hit home till...
T'ings wasn't always so bad. Dere was so many good times...
May 1, 1892, 11:00 A.M.
SKREEEEEEEEEEE!
With a shriek, the eight-year-old girl dropped the flute, then dissolved into helpless giggles, joined by her eleven-year-old companion.
"Goil," the older girl groaned, wiping tears from her eyes and retrieving the flute from the grass, "dat's what it sounded like da foist time I tried it, but youse been tryin' fer t'ree yeahs!"
"It ain't like I'se spent much time practicin'!" Flick protested indignantly, rising to her feet and scooping up a thin bundle of newspapers. "I'se been too busy wit all da odda t'ings ya's taught me...sellin' papes, playin' pokah..."
"What ya's mostly been busy wit," Song declared wryly, also rising, "is gettin' inta fights! An' I neveh taught ya DAT!"
"I'll say ya didn't," laughed the younger girl, absently stroking the roughly cut edges of her hair, which had grown shorter rather than longer over the years. "Ya couldn't land a punch on someone if dey stood t'ree inches away an' gave ya a cleah shot!"
"Ah, shuddup!" Song snapped, grinning and swinging her papers at the redhead. "I'se da musical talent in dis liddle duo. Yer da tomboy...even weahin' pants now, fer God's sake! Why would I need ta loin ta fight when I got you?"
"Ya wouldn't, I guess," Flick mused, smiling sweetly. "I dunno how ya su'vived fer eight yeahs widdout me!"
Squealing in indignation, the blonde charged at her partner. Laughing, the two of them raced through the streets of Harlem till both were out of breath, then settled on their usual corner to hawk headlines.
After selling about half her papers, Song tucked the rest into her belt. Her face settled into a brilliant, eager smile, as if this was the moment she'd been waiting for all day.
"I'se gonna play," she announced. Barely taking her eyes from the headline she was trying to improve, Flick nodded. Song disappeared into a nearby alley, and after a couple moments, music, breathtaking in the unearthly beauty of its melodies, began to drift out of it. Used to the sound, the younger girl continued to sell until her last newspaper was gone. As she considered whether to tell Song she was done or wait until Song finished playing, a commotion arose across the street. Frowning, Flick stared straight ahead for a moment, and made out two figures that seemed to be engaged in some sort of scuffle. Without thinking (which was how she tended to do everything), she dashed across the street and stopped in her tracks.
One of the figures was a girl who looked about Flick's age. Black hair cascaded down the girl's back; her eyes (creepy eyes, the redhead couldn't help noticing) were wide with fear and pain, and she was struggling valiantly. The other figure was a young man in his twenties. He had the girl's arms twisted behind her back, and his feet pinned hers to the ground. He was shouting.
"Wheah are dey!? Don't play dumb wit me, kid! Ya betta tell me dis instant, ya filthy liddle piece o' trash, or I'll break yer neck! Wheah are dey!? WHEAH ARE DEY!?"
Sweat and tears mingled freely on the girl's face, which was the color of paper. The man gave her wrists another cruel twist, and she gasped sharply. But still she said nothing.
"YA GOT TEN SECONDS TA TELL ME WHAT I WANNA KNOW..."
"I won't tell! I ain't eveh gonna tell nuttin''!"
These words, laced with agony, had barely escaped the victim's lips when a small fist connected squarely with the man's stomach. It was the fist of an eight-year-old girl, but it was a hard, muscled, much practiced, and entirely unexpected fist. It was enough to make the man release his captive's wrists, both hands shooting to his stomach as he pivoted in disbelief. The dark-haired victim and the red-haired assailant wasted no time; both were off, back across the street and into the alley where the music had just stopped.
"Are ya okay!?" This question was exclaimed by two voices simultaneously: by Song to Flick, and by Flick to the girl she had just rescued.
"I'se fine," both objects of the question replied, though the brunette was rubbing her wrists ruefully. Song raised her eyebrows.
"Someone's got some 'splainin' ta do."
Flick sighed, turning to the former victim. "My name's Flick," she announced. "An' dis," she gestured toward the blonde flute-player, "is Song. What's yer name?"
Flick and Song both stared at the black-haired, bright-eyed child. She lifted her head high, lower lip protruding stubbornly, and stared back at them. "It's a secret."
August 9, 1899, 5:30 A.M.
Flick woke to the dismal rhythm of rain pattering the roof of the lodging house. She rolled her eyes resentfully at the leaky ceiling, as if both rain and dream were its fault. With the dream's vivid images still flickering through her mind, it took her a moment to realize, with a start, that Racetrack wasn't standing on the bunk ladder with a cigar and a taunt. She had woken up on her own. Flick was the heaviest sleeper in New York; she never woke up on her own. Normally it took fire, water, or a painful crash to the floor. Musta been da dream. 'Least dat's one good t'ing it caused. Now maybe I won't be late gettin' my papes fer once, an' Secret'll 'ave nuttin' ta nag me 'bout. She'll find sometin' else, o' course. Yawning, Flick reluctantly raised herself to her elbows and pushed her covers aside, dragging her sleepy, protesting body onto the ladder and down to the floor. She glanced into the bunk below hers; Secret was still fast asleep. Flick's face softened contentedly at the sight. She din't wake up cryin' las' night. Foist time since...foist time fer a while. She's gettin' betta. Maybe. Maybe soon I'll be able ta stop worryin' 'bout 'er so much. Flick hadn't an inkling how much Secret worried about her.
Brushing through the sheet that still hid the bunk bed, the redhead glanced around the bunkroom and saw thirty evenly breathing or softly snoring newsboys. For the first time in the history of the world, she was the only one up. Returning to the bed she shared with Secret, Flick allowed herself one last wistful glance at her bunk before pulling the patched old bag out from under the bed. May as well get sometin' constructive done. I prob'ly wouldn't be able ta get back ta sleep anyway.
Humming softly to herself without even noticing, she reached into the bag and drew out the rather rumpled pair of pants she had worn the day before. Her mind elsewhere, she plunged her hands into the pockets of the pants, figuring she may as well count her profits from yesterday; she'd been too shaken from her encounter with the strange little boy to do so last night.
Flick's hands froze. Her humming stopped in mid-tune. She stared for a moment at the pants in her lap, then yanked the pockets inside-out. They were empty.
According to Racetrack's pocket watch, which he snatched groggily from the small table beside his bunk, it was 5:35 A.M. when the entire lodging house was woken by a fiery demon standing in the middle of the room.
"A'right, who's got it!?" shrieked the fiery demon, who wore a worn and very wrinkled white nightgown and sported a head of wildly tangled red hair, as well as eyes the shade of Boots' darkest blue marble.
"WhassamattaFlickgobacktasleep," Blink moaned from the bunk above Racetrack's; but some of the newsies were a bit more awake. Secret was at Flick's side the second her friend's hysterical accusation shook the bunkroom. Jack vaulted down from his bunk to land directly in front of the two girls. Sitting up with great effort, Race groaned as the other newsies dragged themselves out of bed to form a groggy ring of spectators. Just how many times was this scenario going to repeat itself?
"What is it now, Flick?" Jack demanded, crossing his arms impatiently. His dirty-blonde hair was tousled, and he did not look like he appreciated being roused twenty-five minutes early; he wasn't such an unresponsive log as Flick, but he wasn't exactly an early riser either.
"Betcha anytin' ya awready know, Cowboy," Flick snarled in reply, her face an inch from the Manhattan leader's and her cheeks rapidly turning from milk to roses. The surrounding boys, and the shadow of a girl by her side, watched the now-familiar transformation apprehensively.
Cowboy matched her glare for glare. "Sorry ta disappoint ya, yer Ladyship, but I ain't got da slightest idea what yer tawkin' 'bout."
Flick's eyes flashed like twin orbs of lightning. Dey shoot sparks, Race marvelled from his new position, standing between Blink and Mush. Dey honestly do.
The girl spoke slowly, each word seeming to sizzle the air in the bunkroom. She addressed the newsies as a whole, though her eyes never left Jack's face. "Someone in dis room has got fifty cents dat dey removed from da pockets o' da pants I wore yestaday. I dunno who, or how, or when, or why. All I know is dat whoeveh's got it had betta give it back wittin ten seconds or I sweah I'll soak ev'ry one o' youse."
Silence fell. Every one of the newsboys stared open-mouthed at Flick. Race's eyes darted hopefully to Secret, the only person ever known to have any sort of calming effect on the dragon; but even Secret's normally unreadable expression now betrayed her shock. She was in no condition to intervene before her friend did something drastic. Racetrack was a poker player. He read expressions as easily as newspaper headlines. And right now, Flick's expression spelled drastic.
Da** it, Higgins, what has gotten inta ya dese days? he demanded, even as he found these traitorous legs of his carrying him over to the isolated trio.
"Flick..."(the words came out of his mouth, though he'd give anything to know who was saying them), "...Jack din't steal yer money."
The dragon whirled on him. Race flinched. His mind flashed back to the occasion on which Jack had accused the two girls of being spies for Queens. He had defended them then, and he remembered how Cowboy's anger had almost turned on him. What a perfect reversal of the situation. He might have enjoyed the irony if there had been anything to enjoy.
"Ya'd know, huh, Racetrack?" she snapped, her voice lashing out like a whip. "Bet da two o' youse split it, huh? Too bad it was jist a couple lousy quartas, ya musta had ta leave da odda two Musketeers outta da bargain." Her eyes flew from Race to Blink and Mush, then continued over the surrounding crowd...to Specs, Skittery, Crutchy, Bumlets, Jake, Snaps. Beams of accusation seemed to shoot out and pin each boy in place. Watching, Race felt himself shiver. She don't trust any o' us, he realized. Not one. And for some reason, the thought chilled him. What makes 'er so slow ta trust? So quick ta soak? So eaga ta fight...but not ta tawk...not ta make friends. What sets her apart, her an' Secret? Why...?
"Dis's pathetic." Jack's voice was acid. "Yer some goil dat showed up at our lodgin' house one night, refused ta leave, insisted on becomin' a newsie, ignored anyone dat tried ta stop ya, so we let ya stay, an' now yer accusin' all o' us. Tawk 'bout bitin' da hand dat feeds ya."
Suicide, Race decided, and Flick supported this conviction: her fist whipped back in a blur, ready to swing, and Jack's fists shot up in a half-defensive, half-offensive position. Something was about to explode.
"None o' us stole yer money, Flick!" Race yelled desperately.
Now her fist was frozen in mid-swing and her eyes were on him again. She looked confused, desperate, almost trapped. She could soak anyone she pleased, but she didn't know who to soak. Fifty cents ain't no joke fer a newsie. Ya gotta sell fifty papes ta make dat, an' it buys a hun'ert. He glanced around at the tense, bewildered faces, the faces of the friends he had known and lived with for years. But it wasn't one o' us. None o' us would do dat. I'se shoah o' it.
At that moment, to everyone's enormous relief, Secret recovered her wits.
"Yer shoah it was in dose pockets, Flick?" she asked in her usual soft, calm tones. Flick glanced at her briefly.
"Positive."
"An' yer shoah it ain't dere now?"
"Toined 'em inside-out."
"Den," Secret concluded logically, voice carefully neutral even as she poised to grab ahold of Flick's sleeve if she charged anyone, "not ta jump ta conclusions or nuttin', but I'se willin' ta bet da money din't toin inta one o' Spot Conlon's 'liddle boids' an' fly out da window."
"Flick...Secret..." came a hesitant voice from the back of the crowd, and everyone turned in surprise toward Mush, face upset and earnest. "Ain't dere anyone else dat coulda taken it? Dere ain't one o' us dat'd do sometin' like dat. Ain't dere any odda possibility?"
Taken aback by shy Mush's contribution, Flick's fist slowly uncoiled, her arm falling limply to her side. Slowly, Race relaxed, watching the crimson glow fade from Flick's cheeks, watching them grow as pale as usual...no...paler. Mush's words hung in the air.
Ain't dere anyone else dat coulda taken it? Ain't dere any odda possibility?
Flick's next words were not accusing or threatening; they were a whisper of realization, disbelief, and anger...but anger no longer directed at anyone present.
"Dat kid."