It was the fourth day of military rule in Brooklyn, and the weather looked ominous. The sky was piled high with dark clouds, each one blacker than the next, and a cold wind blew through the streets. The newsies on patrol shivered as the wind whipped their thin clothes around them and an occasional drop of rain tormented them with thoughts of a deluge to come.
Up in his warehouse, Spot leaned against the windowsill and kept a close watch on the streets below. There was a business man... two women hurrying towards somewhere... another woman ducking into a building...and beyond them were his newsies, one on each curb, keeping an eye on everyone who went past. He nodded tightly, satisfied. Whenever Blue showed up, he would have warning.
This fight would be different than the first time he'd fought Blue for the control of Brooklyn. That time, he'd been a frightened ten year old who'd had to rely on wits alone. Blue had expected a couple of puny swings and a quick end to the fight, but what he had gotten was very different – thanks in a large part to Spot's cane, to the element of surprise, and to a knife that some anonymous newsie had slipped Spot's way when things got rough.
Yeah, this fight would be different. Spot was larger and stronger now, and every bit as smart as he had ever been, but this time Blue knew not to underestimate him.
Lightning crashed, and Spot started. It was as if the lightning were a great door opening, for the rain started pouring in earnest. Within seconds, the window was soaked as sheets of water cascaded down it. He leaned his forehead against the glass.
Suddenly, through the foggy reflection, he saw movement in the door to the office and whirled around, instinct making him raise his cane as if to strike. He stayed that way, looking at the spectacle.
Three of his newsies held captive a fourth boy between them. He struggled a bit, but mostly just looked annoyed.
"Hey, Chief," Pan, the boy holding the captive's left arm said, "we caught him tryin' to walk right in 'ere. He struggled and gave Whiskers 'ere a black eye," he continued, shrugging towards the newsie bringing up the rear. "What you want we should do with him?"
Spot paused for a moment. "Let him go." Pan looked incredulous, but when he hesitated, Spot slammed his cane down on the floor with a large crack. "I said, let him go. He's not a threat." Slowly, wincing, they let go. To his credit, the captive did not immediately turn around and nail them in their respective jaws; he merely adjusted his hat. "Go away," Spot continued. The boys looked at each other, confused. To whom was he speaking? Them or the boy in between them? Spot quickly clarified. "Leave him. The rest of you, cheese it. Get out. Now."
To their credit, they cleared out remarkably fast, closing the door gently behind him. Once they were gone, Spot sighed and sat down in the large chair. "Can't say I ever thought you'd show up here again."
Racetrack shrugged. "Can't say I ever thought I would neither. I ain't been back to Brooklyn since your pop fired me."
"So what're you doin' here, Race? If you came to have me thank you for everythin', I was under the impression that I'd gotten that outta the way a long time ago." Racetrack walked over to the desk, not looking happy at all. He used his hands to hoist himself into a sitting position on the desk. "'Ey," Spot said, vaguely disturbed, "Get off my desk."
Racetrack didn't move. "It ain't your desk, Patrick."
"Don't call me that," Spot snarled. "I ain't been Patrick for a long time, and you know it."
Race twisted around to stare at him angrily. "Sure, why not? Everythin' else about ya is a lie, kid, so why remember that the world did exist before you took over 'round here?"
"You want me to throw you outta here?" Spot returned. "I don't hafta sit here and listen to you talk like this."
"You wanna know why I'm here?" Race said, a trace of anger in his voice. "'Cause I still care about you, or maybe it was just the boy you was. I see you goin' off your head, and I came here to see if I could get you to stop actin' like you got no brains."
"I ain't gone nuts," Spot growled. "I'se protectin' what's mine from Blue, and if this's how I gotta do it, so what?"
"You'se a complete fake," said Race, ignoring Spot's question.
"And why would I want what's real, huh?" Spot said, spinning the chair around so he faced away from Race. "Want me to go back to being Patrick: never able to stand up for himself, cryin' every time he finds a chance, scared out of his mind that his ma's gone bonkers and his pa's gonna toss him out on the street first chance he gets? You want that, Race? 'Cause I sure don't."
They sat there in silence, each facing opposite directions. Exhausted, Spot leaned his head against the back of the chair. It had been a long time since he and Racetrack had been alone in a room. He could still remember the last time, though. He'd been nine years old.
Patrick no longer minded the weekly trips to his father's warehouse. Every time, he would sneak away and find the small room. Either Race would already be there, or he'd show up a few minutes later, cigarette in hand, cards in pocket, and a grin on his face.
On this particular day, he'd gotten there before Racetrack. When Racetrack did slip through the door, he was holding his hands behind his back.
"Race!" Patrick said happily. "It took you long enough. I was starting to worry—"
"Nah, no worries, kid. Hey, I brought ya somethin'."
"You did?" Patrick asked, amazed. "Like a gift? For me?"
"'Course, Spot." It still amused Racetrack that Patrick insisted Race calling him Spot, but he figured there was no harm in indulging the kid. After all, it made him happy, right? "Here ya go."
Patrick looked at what Race held out from behind his back. "It's a...cane?"
Race laughed. "It's not much, but I remembered last time when you said that you hated lookin' so young. I figured that if you had something like this, maybe it'd make you look older."
Patrick grinned happily. It wasn't that the gift itself was so wonderful, though the gold-capped cane was pretty nifty. It was just that Race cared enough to remember what he said and to actually bring him a gift. He reached out for it eagerly. Race handed it over with a grin that matched Patrick's own.
Patrick ran his hands over it reverently. It was smooth and cool, and just heavy enough to give it a pleasing feeling of realness, but not heavy enough that it was hard enough for him to hold. Grasping the skinny end tightly with both hands, he swung it around with all of his strength. Then switching to holding the golden end one-handed, he stabbed it forward like a sword. Finding it more than acceptable in all ways, he turned to Race happily.
He wanted to give Race a hug, they both knew, but Patrick still felt his upbringing intruding on his happiness, and so he just thanked Race formally with words and a handshake.
Shoving the cane through a belt loop, Patrick turned his attention to Race. "Tell me about being a newsie, Race. What's it like?"
Racetrack hoisted himself onto a pile of cloth, and pulled out a cigarette. Sticking it into his mouth, he felt around for a lighter. "Well," he spoke around the cigarette, "it's good sometimes and bad sometimes. On good days, ya can make around two whole bucks, and we're all pals, ya know? We stick out for each other, watch each other's backs. It's almost like... family, Spot. Yeah. They'se the best friends I could ever have. 'Course, we ain't gonna be newsies forever, and someday, we'se all gonna move on, but bein' a newsie gives you a home if you ain't got one." He noticed the way the young boy was looking up at him starry-eyed and quickly decided to change his tune. "Bein' a newsie ain't all that fun either, kid. Durin' the summer, it's broilin', and durin' the winter, it's so cold ya might freeze, but you gotta work outside, so you got nowhere to go and get outta the weather unless you take a break from sellin' – which might lose ya money. Also, Spot, we ain't rich. To people like your pop, we'se the lowest of the low. We'se a bunch of orphans and runaways with nothin' to our name our name but what we got on our back, and sometimes we ain't even got that. It's not an easy life."
"Easy?" Patrick scowled. "Yesterday, my mother thought she was St. Paul and then my father came home and beat her to get her to stop babbling, and then he almost beat me. You think my life's easy, Race? I'd rather have less clothes and more nice people. 'Sides," he added, aping Race's speech, "ya all git ta talk like however ya want, don't ya? I'se thinkin' bein' a newsie'd be kinda fun."
Race smiled slightly, but there was a bit of worry underneath. "Look, kid, I know you got a bum rap with your folks, but you shouldn't do somethin' drastic. You sound fine just the way you is. I talk like this 'cause I ain't never learned to talk differently, right?"
"If I were a newsie, though," Patrick continued, "I'd get to sell papers with you, wouldn't I, Race? And I could be Spot to everyone. I never liked being 'Patrick.' Mother named me after some dead saint."
Race shrugged. He'd gone this far in indulging Patrick, and it wasn't as if the kid was about to run away from home. He was a brave kid and he was unhappy in his home, sure, but he was still too much of a spoiled kid to make that decision.
"Yeah, sure, Spot," he said. "'Course, your last name don't sound right. 'Spot O'Connell'? Nah. Maybe if ya mixed up the letters a bit, or somethin', it might be better."
"And I could sell papers with you, Race. You're my friend, right?"
"Yeah, kid, you'se—"
Suddenly, there was a commotion outside. Both of their heads snapped towards the door as it crashed open, and the large figure of Thomas O'Connell loomed in the doorway.
"What the hell is going on in here?" he roared. His furious gaze took in the smoky room, the littered cigarettes, Patrick's terrified expression, and Race's outward calm. Seeming to decide on the worst of the two evils, he focused his rage on Race. "You're an employee here?"
"Yes, sir."
"And so, you spend my time, my money, sitting in this room, which belongs to me, smoking up a storm inside my warehouse when you should be working?" O'Connell was clearly furious.
"Well, sir—"
"I don't want to hear it, you filth!" O'Connell yelled. "You're fired. Get out!"
Patrick stared at his father, mouth open, in shock at the quickness of it all. One moment, he was in here joking with Race, the next moment his father stormed through the door and fired Race without another word. Patrick couldn't even look at Race, shamed as he was. It's all my fault, isn't it? He knew he had to speak up for Race. After all, if it weren't for him, Race wouldn't be in this mess.
"F—father?" he stammered. "You sh—shouldn't fire him." He finally chanced a glance at Race, who was hanging his head and shaking it slightly. "It was r—really my fault."
"You." His father looked furious. He barely glanced at Race and muttered, "Get out of here."
One thing to be said for Race, he was definitely smart. When told to get, he got. As he left, he quickly squeezed Patrick's shoulder reassuringly. Patrick wanted to shout after him, but knew that doing that would only make things worse. So he just sat there, waiting for whatever was coming next. His father paced back and forth in front of him for a moment, silently.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet, which was even more dangerous. "What have you been up to, boy? Is this where you've been disappearing to all this time?"
Patrick was terrified. "I... He's my friend, and I didn't want to bother you, Father—"
"Like hell!"
It was strange. He knew that his father was getting at something, but he really wasn't quite sure what. What was wrong with him being friends with Race?
"Like a girl," his father muttered. "Like a damn girl. Isn't it enough that she bore a boy who looks like a girl?"
"Father—"
"You're unnatural! Disgusting! You're not a boy!"
Patrick blanched even further. "What do you—I am a boy! I'm your son, Patrick!"
"You are not my son." His father stalked over to the window, gripping the sides of the sill. "You look like a girl and you engage in unnatural behavior with a piece of filth employee." He spat the last word. "You're not my son. Now get the hell out of my sight."
Gripping the cane as though it were the only thing keeping him alive, Patrick ran out of the room, panicked. He wasn't quite sure where he was going. Pulling the key to the room out of his pocket – he had "borrowed" it from his father one night – he clutched it to his heart.
He found himself outside the warehouse, blinking in the sunlight, dimly remembering what he and Race had been talking about. I could go be a newsie with Race! I really could! Unnoticed tears ran down his cheeks. I can't go home. I can go be a newsie, right? They could be my family. Couldn't they? He had to find Racetrack.
"Race!" he called. "Race, where are you?" He rotated, his young eyes taking in the busy street around him. "Race!" he screamed, as loud as he could. "Where are you!?" There was no response, no sight of Race. Patrick was alone, totally alone. The panic began to return. He clutched the cane in one hand till his knuckles were white and the key in the other, sure it was leaving marks.
There were people everywhere, scary-looking people, and none of them were Race. He ran a few feet in one direction, then stopped, and ran in the other, not at all sure where to go or what to do. Finally he sat down in the middle of the street and began crying. He didn't cry for long though. Weakness! rang out in his head. Shameful! He said it was all right to cry, but then he deserted me. Forcing the tears to stop, he took a deep, shuddering breath. I'll never let anyone catch me crying again.
Still half-heartedly calling Race's name, Patrick stood up and trudged down the street. "You didn't wait for me," he whispered. "You left."
"Boy? Boy? You all right?"
He glanced up, finding a woman looking at him. She clearly wasn't as rich as his parents, but neither was she poor. No, he mentally corrected himself, she's not as rich as those people I knew. I have no parents. At the thought, tears sprang anew, but he coldly forced them away.
"Yeah, I—I'se all right," he managed in return. "Only I got kinda lost is all."
She crouched down next to him. "Where's your home?"
"Where the newsies is," he replied, the words coming easier this time. "I'se a newsie. Can you help me find 'em?"
The woman looked around them. "Well, I'm not sure... I think there are a lot of them in that direction." She pointed.
He gripped his cane proudly. "Thank ya, ma'am. Spot's the name." He paused. I'm not O'Connell anymore. Mix the letters up a bit... "Spot...Spot Conlon!" Patrick blurted.
"Well, Spot Conlon," she said, sounding amused, "Good luck finding your friends."
He tipped a non-existent hat to her and strolled off down the street in the directions she had indicated, feeling stronger every second. Spot Conlon, he chanted mentally. Spot Conlon, Spot Conlon, I'm Spot now, Spot Conlon...
"Spot?"
He looked up at Racetrack. Though he had barely been able to believe it, he was taller than Racetrack now.
"What?"
"What happened to ya? I'se heard stories, of course, 'bout how the mighty Spot beat Blue, but how'd ya end up like...this?" He gestured all around him.
"None of your business, Race. You wasn't there, so I had to make myself on my own."
Racetrack twisted his head and stared at him. "Is that what this is all about?" Spot opened his mouth to reply, but Race cut him off. "Talk real, kid. For once, stop bein' a fake, and talk real."
Spot shook his head, almost despairingly as lightning flashed nearby. It had been so long since he'd spoken without a newsie accent that he barely even remembered how he had spoken without it. Suddenly moved, without quite knowing why, he opened his mouth and formed the words as carefully as he could. They sounded strange coming from his mouth, and yet so familiar.
"Is what what this is all about, Race?"
Having apparently won a small victory, the corner of Race's mouth turned up. "That I wasn't there, kid."
"Yes!" Spot snapped. "If you'd only waited for a few minutes before running off, I could've—" He choked slightly. "You deserted me, Racetrack, left me to face everything. Then I went to Manhattan to meet the newsies there, and there you were, looking so comfortable and happy when I'd nearly starved on the streets before I learned how to sell. You didn't even recognize me, did you? You changed my life, ruined what I had, forced me onto the streets, and didn't even stay to help or recognize me."
Race was somewhat staggered by Spot's onslaught. "I recognized ya," he said softly.
"W—what?"
"I recognized ya right away, Spot. It hadn't been more than a year, and I don't forget people. What I didn't recognize was the look on your face. You looked so angry and bitter. I never saw that look on your face before, even when you was angriest at your pop."
"Maybe I had a right to be angry and bitter," Spot replied, too confused to be angry. "Why didn't you say something to me?"
Racetrack laughed grimly. "In case you don't recall, you made it perfectly clear that I weren't to say a word to you. But that ain't what I came here to talk 'bout."
Spot stood up, shoving the chair out of the way and looked Race full in the face. "Fine. What did you come here for, then?"
"You was a good kid, Patrick," Race said quietly, ignoring Spot's snarled, "Don't call me that!" "You was almost like a little brother for a while. A bit of a temper, yeah, but you had common sense. Now you'se makin' your newsies starve to defend you. That ain't right."
"It's not to defend me," Spot shot back, peeved. "Why don't any of you get it? They're defending themselves and each other. Blue ain't the best guy for a kid to face in a fight," he continued, slipping back into newsie dialect. "When he comes, I don't want none of my boys to get hurt for me."
"You was plenty willin' to risk 'em durin' the strike," Race pointed out.
"That was a cause. This ain't. This is between me and Blue."
"And your pride keeps ya from findin' him and getting' it over with, huh?" Spot stiffened, so Race knew that he'd hit a nerve. "For someone who cares so much 'bout his boys, you let your pride do an awful lot of the talkin', kid."
Spot glared impotently at him, but before he could respond, there was a frantic knock at the door. "Spot! Spot! It's Blue! He's here, outside, yellin' for ya!"
"Comin'," Spot said quietly, dangerously. He shoved his cane into his belt loop, never taking his eyes off of Racetrack. "Race," he said, then paused, the sound of the rain the only sound in the room. "I thought of you as a big brother. But you should've waited for me. Anything I am that you don't like, it's 'cause of you. Think 'bout that."
Then, outwardly calm and ready for battle, he stormed out of the room, leaving Racetrack all alone.