Disclaimer:  No, I don't own Newsies…Yet.  Mwah ha ha ha ha.


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Death to Spottie


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Madison Square


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Prologue


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            He wasn't supposed to see it happen.  Racetrack had been careless, too careless.  He had wanted to finish the job quickly, get it over with, and he didn't consider that someone may have been watching.
            Spot wasn't supposed to see the murder.


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            It started as a normal, bright and sunny day with the air crisp like fresh apples.  It was maybe a week before the college term started, and at the Walker Residence Hall of NYU—the New York University—a couple hundred unfortunate college freshmen were trapped inside the stuffy dormitory, unpacking. 
            Racetrack had already finished unpacking and was busy listening to a couple of illegally-downloaded songs of the rock genre on his brand new I-pod, waiting for his roommates to show up.  He didn't have to wait long.
            Soon a young man with curly brown hair and alert blue eyes stumbled through the door, laden with patchy leather suitcases that didn't match.
            Oh, Lord, he was probably here on a scholarship.
            He was wearing worn jeans that were ripped at the knees and a blue T-shirt.  He regarded Racetrack a bit warily, but then flashed a weak smile and said:
            "Uh, hi."
            Racetrack looked at the other boy's scuffed brown leather shoes.  They looked like old concert shoes.  He turned off his I-pod with a huff.
            "Hey."
            "Uh, my name's David Jacobs, but I guess you could call me Dave."  The corner of his lip twitched, as if unsure to smile or frown because his parents burdened him with such a dull name.
            "Racetrack."
            "Huh?"
            "Racetrack," he repeated.  "That's my name."  He gave Dave a quizzical look, like are you slow, or something?
            Dave turned his azure eyes away.  "Uh, right."  There was a moment of silence, then, "So, which bunk's mine?"
            Race was sitting on a bed with light blue sheets and a matching comforter nestled into the corner of the room.  Another bed, naked, slumped in the opposite corner.  In between, a daybed sat under the large central window.
            "You choose."
            Dave didn't like daybeds, and he wasn't sure he would like Racetrack, either, so he chose the bed in the other corner.


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            While Dave unpacked his things, Race daydreamed.  About his new life, about the girls he would meet, about the clubs he would frequent, about how normal all of it would be.  Yes, normal.  Away from his crazy Italian family, always asking for crazy stupid favors.
            Something vibrated in his back change pocket and he realized it was his cell phone.  When Racetrack answered it, he heard his father's voice say to him, "Hello, Anthony." A pregnant pause. 
            "I need a favor."


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            That night Racetrack shot someone in the ally between two loud clubhouses with a gun that wasn't really his.
            "He is very irritating," his father had said.  "He is annoying me, Anthony.  I want him dead."  His father hadn't given him any other reason.
            After the gunshot echoed off the walls of the two neighboring buildings, Racetrack pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed the weapon vigorously, careful not to let his hands touch the metal again.  When he turned to run towards the safe spot his father had planned for him, he saw a shadow standing at the other end of the ally.  He saw sharp, cold blue eyes.  And then the shadow fled.
            Cursing his luck, Racetrack retrieved his cell phone and quickly punched in a number.  There were three rings before his father picked up his line.
            "Dad.  We have a problem."


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            The next day it was raining, and no one felt much like running about in cold rain, so the students were once again forced to spend another day wasting time with things like summer reading requirements.
            Dave was having a ball of it, actually.  Sitting there on his bed, going through his book list and taking notes and sticking post-its everywhere.  His bed was covered in yellow paper feathers.  It looked like Big Bird had been run over by a few trucks.
            Racetrack was still sleeping; it was only one o'clock p.m. after all, and he had a rough night.
            He jerked awake, however, when his phone shrieked what should have been the melody of Fur Elise.  David looked over, miffed, but decided to ignore Racetrack and resumed studying.
            "Fucking phone," Race grumbled as he pressed the green phone symbol on his keypad.  "Yes?" he said after bringing it to his ear.
            "Anthony."  It was his father.  "I think we've found the little…ahem…problem we were talking about yesterday."
            "Yeah?"
            "Yes."  Racetrack winced.
            "There is a black car parked outside your residency.  Get in."  Click.  The line went dead.
            Racetrack rose from the bed and rummaged through his dresser along the adjacent wall until he pulled out a nice, slightly rumpled blue polo shirt and yanked it over his head.  The khakis he wore yesterday were on the floor, and he put those on, too, over his red boxers.  He was oblivious to the speckle of dried blood on his pant leg.
            Shuffling towards the door, he slipped on a pair of black flip-flops and said, "Gotta go, bye."
            David grunted in response.


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            "That's him?"  Racetrack was in the black car with tinted windows that allowed people to see out but not in, looking at pictures of the witness on the laptop computer.  "He's, like, nothing."  Racetrack stared hard at the picture.
            The data next to the images on the screen of the laptop informed him that the stranger was five feet, eight inches, one hundred thirty pounds, and eighteen years old.  It didn't matter that really Race would be shorter than him; Racetrack was pretty sure he'd be a puny guy.  130 pounds!  He could be blown over by a gust of wind. 
            He opened another picture file: the witness coming out of a store with a plastic bag full of CDs.  Simon Conlon, the title was.
            "So what're we gonna do about him?" he addressed a burly man with sunglasses and a black suit.
            "Mr. Higgins"—his father—"says you should find him.  Ask him if he's called the police.  If he has, kill him.  If he hasn't, kill him.  That's all."  The burly man allowed a few moments for the orders to sink into the young Italian's mind, then pointed at the door.
            Race left the car in a daze, not noticing the rain was soaking him and making the spot of blood on his khakis grow bigger and bigger.


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            When Racetrack reached his dorm room on the third floor, the daybed was made and there were suitcases in a pile in front of the bed.
            "Hey," David chirped.  He was in a noticeably better mood.  "You missed our new roommate coming in.  He's cool.  I told him you'd be back soon." Dave motioned towards the bathroom door that was close to his bed. "He's in there, drying off."  Then he went back to reading.
            Five minutes later the bathroom door opened and the best looking man in boxer shorts Race had ever seen stepped out.  He was tan, with dark blonde hair and high cheekbones and lips that could form the perfect, sexy pout.  He could have been a model, if he were tall enough.  The stranger stared openly at Racetrack with familiar, piercing blue eyes, unabashed.  "Do I know you?" he said in a deep voice.  That was when realization dawned on the Italian.
            "No," he said quickly, but I know you, he added to himself.
            It was Simon Conlon, his new roommate, and his newest target.
            "I'm Spot," Simon said, holding out his hand.  Racetrack took it.
            "I'm Racetrack Higgins."
            He foresaw complications in the near future.


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End Prologue


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[A/N]:  My muses made me right it, I swear!  They threatened to withhold big chocolate chunk cookies from me if I didn't write it!  I am so ashamed of myself.  I should have been working on See Spot Run, or Letters to an Almost Cowboy.  Ergh.  Actually, I've planned out See Spot Run!  It's AMAZING.  Normally I write on impulse, and planning something has never happened before.  []dances[].


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