Disclaimer: Nope,
don't own Newsies.
[A/N]: Just revised a little bit. Added
something I left out.
==
Death to Spottie
==
Chapter One
==
Madison Square
==
"Dad, I can't do it." It has been a week since Racetrack met Spot
and Dave, and most of the students ambled about on the streets, trying to enjoy
their last weekend of freedom. Dave had
been awake since eight o'clock a.m. sharp and since had gone to a study group
in a room across the hall. It was now
10:43 a.m., and Racetrack was desperately trying to weasel out of his latest
assignment. He perched on the edge of
the slightly yellowed bathtub, cell phone against his ear, with the bathroom
door shut and locked. He hadn't felt
comfortable talking to his father in the bedroom about his target with Spot
still sleeping in the room.
"And, why not, Anthony?" Mr. Higgin's voice was clipped and toneless.
Race searched his mind for a
reasonable answer. He couldn't find
one. "Because he's my roommate," he whispered through clenched
teeth. "I can't go around killing my
college roommates."
"You are not going around killing college roommates. You are protecting your family by eliminating a threat."
"He probably hasn't told
anybody."
"Have you asked him?"
Racetrack suddenly felt very
small against his father's voice.
"Well, no."
"Then how
do you know?"
==
In the few days that followed
his introduction to Dave and Spot, Race spent time getting to know fellow
freshmen, and he found he had Spot figured out pretty well. He thought he did, at least.
In the mornings Spot always
went to the Coffee Tree to get his daily dose of caffeine, then until noon
walked slowly around the local parks and gave tips, both musical and monetary,
to the street musicians. He didn't eat
lunch, which explained his thin figure.
It seemed that the only thing he ate all day was a croissant to go with
his coffee for breakfast and a small dinner.
Racetrack didn't know him well enough to realize that Spot ate junk food
like a crazed addict when he was alone.
As far as Racetrack was concerned, Spot was a normal,
average college freshman. He seemed
nice—helping people unpack, stopping a few fights, and even making a few
upper-classmen friends.
Thursday, however, this image
of Spot was shattered. Race was
strolling back to his room from a lunch he had with Jack, someone he had met
from down the hall, when he saw Dave sitting on the floor outside their door,
his head in his hands. Normally, Race
wouldn't have cared, but there was loud, slit-your-wrist rock music shaking the
dorm and he figured that whatever problem Dave was having probably concerned
him as well.
He kicked Dave gently with his
foot. "Hey."
Dave looked up. At least he wasn't crying.
Racetrack looked at their
closed door and flinched when something heavy crashed into it. "What's going on in there?"
"Uh, not really sure." Dave laughed weakly. "Don't go in there, though. I think he's going through something. I came back from study group and then he
stormed in there and told me to get out.
And then…" He looked at the door
woefully. Something slammed against it
in response.
Racetrack noticed that a small
crowd had gathered in the narrow hall, trying to look inconspicuous.
"Isn't that Spot's room?" a
girl with long blonde hair asked.
"Yeah, poor Spot," another
blonde said. They left, shaking their
heads and swaying their hips.
Poor
Spot? What about the room? It sounded like it was in shambles.
A few minutes of angry music
and loud thumps against the wall passed, and then suddenly the music was gone,
replaced by a suffocating silence that seeped through the walls into every
room. The whole world waited with their
breaths held.
Spot opened the door and
everybody watching left nervously, pretending they had seen nothing. Those who were unfortunate enough to meet
Spot's icy eyes quickly turned away, meek.
Dave stood up slowly, as if
any sudden movement would send Spot into frenzy. He tried to say something, opened his mouth,
and when no sound came out, closed it again.
Racetrack was more to the point.
"What the hell was that?"
"We might have to fix up the
walls. Just a little."
"What the Hell was that?" Racetrack repeated, louder. Spot glared at him with blue-marble eyes, and
Racetrack was surprised when he shrank back involuntarily.
"I'm getting a drink." Spot walked away, the energy around him
crackling, sizzling.
When Racetrack and Dave peeked
through the open door, they saw dust and plaster and holes in the wall. They saw Spot's bed messy, with sheets
ripped, and white feather everywhere.
They saw a glass bowl in the center of the room, a wadded up paper ball
afire inside.
After they frantically
extinguished the fire, the picture of a pretty brunette in the arms of Simon
Conlon was barely distinguishable.
==
On Friday something strange
happened. Spot and Race were at a party
on the fourth floor of their dormitory.
Not together, of course, but it was nice to know a few people there.
The party had been advertised
as 'Open your Doors and BYOB.' Masses of
people shifted in and out of various rooms, some with doors open, other with
doors closed. People emerging from
closed doors usually had eyes glazed over or cheeks bright red.
Racetrack was talking to Jack,
both sipping at their beers lightly, not wanting to make asses of themselves
until later on in the night. They stood
next to the doorframe; someone with a screwdriver and a couple of beers had
decided to unhinge the door and throw it in the middle of the street (after
much lugging about and bumps and bruises).
A cooler stood next to them at their feet, bright red, open, and
beckoning. A living area was situated to
their side, complete with a sofa, a loveseat, and a coffee table.
Spot was drinking every single
person he came across under the table.
He had no problem making an ass of himself, anytime.
"I am the King of Brooklyn!" Spot cried, flinging his arms wide and
then climbing onto the short table. "Bow
to me, fools!"
Jack looked
at him, concern in his chocolate eyes.
"I'm worried about him."
"You mean his mental state?"
Race quipped, always one for sarcasm.
There was a moment's silence
where Jack sipped against at his beer.
"I guess so." Sip. "Someone should, you know, check on him."
"Why?" asked Race bluntly,
swallowing the rest of his alcoholic beverage.
"Don't you know?" Jack's eyes were starting to become
unfocused. Racetrack shook his head.
"I thought you guys were,
like, roommates, or something?"
"Yeah, so?" The empty beer bottle dangled between Race's
fingers.
"So, don't you talk about anything?" Jack leaned close to Race's face,
scrutinizing him. Race briefly wondered
why Jack wasn't hanging around his other friends; he was so pretty.
Brunette hair, brown eyes, nice build.
But then Race remembered. Oh
yeah, Jack was weird. His goal in life was to move to Santa Fe. Who would want to live in the middle of
nowhere when he's got New York?
"No." Race narrowed his eyes. "Has he told you anything? How do you
know him?"
"Old friend of mine, back in
middle school. We went to different high
schools, though. He's told me things."
Things, Racetrack
thought. Things like how he saw a murder
take place in the ally between two clubs things? Things like that? The sweat was cold against Race's
temples. He needed another beer.
And miraculously, a bottle
appeared before his eyes. Attached to
the bottle was a hand, then an arm, then Spot, grinning like someone who was
very, very drunk. It only took a moment
for the Italian to realize that he, in fact, was.
"Hey Spot," Jack said, his
voice slow. Racetrack took the beer in
front of him and mumbled a quick thanks.
"You will speak when spoken
to, vermin," Spot demanded of Jack. "I
am the King of Brooklyn." He puffed out
his chest and put his hands on his hips.
He actually looked intimidating, but whether it was because of the
stance or because of the manic look in Spot's eyes, Race didn't know. The effect was ruined when he burst into a
fit of unmanly giggles and draped an arm over Jack's shoulders. Jack looked at him with furrowed eyebrows.
"How much have you had to
drink?" He clucked like a mother hen.
"Not talking about me, I
hope." Spot had a way of evading
questions, Race knew, because at that moment he recalled what he and Jack had
been discussing and all thoughts of Spot's drinking problems fled. Race shuffled nervously on his feet.
"Actually, we were." The shorter boy shot an annoyed look at Jack.
"Oh?" Spot stood up straighter and brought his arms
to his sides. His eyes changed into blue
marble again as he glared at them both in turn.
It was amazing how frightening he could be. He was drunk,
for God's sake!
The marble settled onto
Jack. Race let out a breath, surprising
himself.
"You didn't tell him, did
you?" Spot whispered harshly.
"Of course not, you think I'm
stupid?"
"Well, you know, you could've
fooled me."
"Just for that, I'm telling
him."
"You tell him and I'll fix you
so good, you won't be able to tell girls from boys." Oh, Race had to remember that threat for
later use.
"We're in New York, dumbass;
normally, you can't tell girls from boys anyway!"
"Fuck you, man."
"You wish."
"Don't tell him." Did they realize that Racetrack was standing
there, listening? Did they realize
Racetrack knew what they were talking about?
"Fine." Jack's shoulders slumped slightly. Spot's eyes softened to their natural color,
a deep, ocean blue, and he turned away.
"I'm getting another
drink." He walked towards the cooler by
the door, swaying slightly.
And that wasn't even the strange thing that happened.
==
The strange thing that
happened is that Spot asked Racetrack later on in the night to come to the
Coffee Tree with him the next morning.
Of course, he had been very,
very drunk. More so than before. And after starting a game of '7 Minutes in
Heaven with Spot (Girls and Boys),
Race reasoned that Spot had not been in his right mind.
He knew that if Racetrack went
with him, it would be a perfect time for Race to strike, right? He knew he was a dead man, right? Just to humor him, Race had said sure, why
not?
==
Present
"All you need to do is go with
him to that Coffee Bush. At precisely
11:35 a.m. you are to make sure he is in the car again; then get out of there,
Anthony."
"Then who's taking care of
him?"
"Little Vince." Racetrack gaped. Thank the Lord that his father couldn't see
him now. He couldn't close his mouth
properly. "Anthony?" his father said,
sounding more annoyed than worried.
He recovered his senses. "Little Vince?!" he screeched into the
phone. Then:
"I mean," in a whisper,
"Little Vince?"
"What's wrong with Vince?" his
father demanded, sounding very put-out.
"Well, Dad, he's not exactly
very," he gulped, "discreet." There was silence on the opposite side of the
conversation.
"But he gets the job done,
Anthony." That was it. End of discussion. "Now go get your roommate and have some
coffee." Before he hung up, Race swore
he could hear his father cackle into the other end of the line.
==
End Chapter One
==
[A/N]: This is by far the longest
chapter I have ever written in my entire life.
This is sad.
Studentnumber24601: Thank you so much for your review! Now watch as Spot does a strip tease on your table!
Spot: Er…
MS: Remember, you're drunk, Spot.
Spot: Right. Okay.
[]proceeds[]
Sapphy: Haha.
ItalianHitman!Race is incredibly sexy.
I lurve him. Feel free to use him
in any of your fics because your writing rocks!
Mushs-grl13: ThanQ for the
review! ::Hands her a biscotti, because
they are delicious and Italian::
Read and Review PLEASE!!!