Spot had never before had such a difficult time not breathing audibly. Now, however, crouched at Dutchy's feet and trying to pretend that they didn't smell, his every breath echoed in his ears as loudly as a foghorn.
"'Ey!" he heard from somewhere in front of the carriage. "Mind stoppin' for a minute?"
"The boss is in a hurry," Race drawled. "No time to stop, boys."
"Sorry, but we got our orders," came the reply, only an instant before the horses screamed in surprise and the carriage jerked to a halt. Spot, unprepared for a change in momentum, crashed into the front board and bit back a grunt.
"Hey!" Race yelled. "Move outta the way!"
Another voice replied. "We'se real sorry. Just let us have a quick look inside your carriage and you can be on your way, fancy as you please."
"I don't think you got the right to do that," Race insisted and Spot, knowing him as well as he did, could hear the note of fear in his voice.
"You look...familiar," the first voice said. Spot could have kicked something. Race, you idiot! I told you not to come with us, but you felt the need to protect me. When are you going to learn? Spot Conlon doesn't need protecting!
"Of course I look familiar," Race replied. "I'se small and Italian. We'se a dime a dozen in this city."
"That's prob'ly it, I guess."
"Nah, that ain't it," the second voice said. "I definitely seen you before."
"Well, ain't that special," Race said, trying to inject an air of indifference into his words. "So you seen me on a street corner someplace."
"Ain't that either."
Spot looked up at Dutchy, who looked back under the pretense of looking down his nose at the proceedings. "Do something!" he mouthed.
Though Dutchy couldn't actually respond, the message in his eyes was clear: What can I do?
Spot winced. Up front, Race was still talking fast, but he was running out of excuses, and the second that one of the Brooklyn boys recognized him, they were all done for. "Anything!" he mouthed. "Just do something!"
The blond boy sighed, an utterly unreadable expression on his face. As he picked up his walking stick, it rearranged itself into a haughty countenance. He rapped the stick smartly on the side of the carriage. "You there!" he called sharply. "Urchins!" Spot's head snapped up. Dutchy was speaking properly, even arrogantly.
"Yeah?" the first Brooklyn boy asked.
"Do not speak to me in that insolent tone of voice!" Dutchy barked. "Now, what possible reason could someone like you have for stopping my carriage?"
"Well, sir, our boss ordered us to search every carriage enterin' Brooklyn," the second boy answered more politely.
"Your boss?" Dutchy sneered. "And who is that?"
"Uh, Blue."
"Blue?" he laughed scornfully. "What manner of name is that? No, no, let me guess. Perhaps the name of some other urchin I could buy and sell with my pocket change?"
"Well, he's—"
"—someone who has no power over someone like me. You haven't the right to search my carriage, and if you persist, I shall send the law after you! Disgraceful, James," Dutchy added in Race's general direction, "that such boys should feel as though they can climb all over my carriage at will."
"Yessir," Race replied.
"Sir, we'se real, real sorry," the second boy said in a wheedling voice, "but if Blue finds out that we didn't check a carriage, he's gonna have our necks. Can't ya just let us have a quick peek?"
"Certainly not," Dutchy harrumphed, rapping the boy on his head with the stick. "If you do not let us drive on immediately, I give you my word I'll have you up on charges!"
There was a moment of silence as the two boys whispered together. Finally, the first boy said, "Fine, there's prob'ly nothing in there anyway...Go on."
As Race clucked to the horses and the carriage lurched back into motion, Spot breathed a deep sigh of relief. They'd done it! Somehow, against every single odd, they'd done it, and now he was heading back into the heart of Brooklyn.
The three boys rode in silence for several moments. Then suddenly, Dutchy slumped and let out a relieved sigh. "Well, that was a pisser, huh?"
Spot stared up at him. "Dutchy, what the hell was that?"
Dutchy smirked. "I'se talented, Spot."
"I can see that, but what was that?"
For the first time, the blond boy looked somewhat abashed. "I kinda want to be an actor. Medda's been givin' me some lessons, and she told me how to change my voice. Hope ya ain't mad..."
"Mad? Mad?" Spot shook his head, slightly dazed. "Dutchy, if I was a girl, I'd kiss ya. You saved us all."
Though Dutchy shrugged and said, "Wasn't nothin'," a pleased smile curved his face.
"One question, Dutchy," Race threw in from the front. "Why didn't you tell us you could do that? I nearly got caught up here before you decided to chime in."
"I was embarrassed."
"You? You ain't got no shame at all, Dutchy," Race replied.
Dutchy sighed. "If it got 'round that I want to be an actor, how much trouble would the others give me? 'Least if I stay quiet, I don't get soaked by anyone."
Spot decided to throw Dutchy a bone. "Yeah, I understand, Dutchy. I won't tell no one, and neither will Race."
"Thanks," Dutchy looked down at Spot gratefully. "So... What do we do now?"
Spot's angular face grew grim. "You don't do nothin', Dutchy. You sit there and don't get involved, no matter what. You too, Race," he added.
"What if you start getting' beat on again?" Race asked, clearly not liking what Spot was saying.
"If I get beat on again, you take the carriage and Dutchy and get outta here. Fast."
"What're you talkin' about, Spot?" Dutchy blurted. "We ain't gonna just desert you."
"It's my fight, Dutchy, and I ain't gonna get any of you involved in it. I got nothin' without Brooklyn, and if I can't have Brooklyn, it's better to just let Blue finish me off."
Race pulled the horses to a stop and spun around to look down at Spot with an outraged expression. "I ever catch you sayin' somethin' like that again and I'se gonna kill you myself!"
Dutchy looked between the two of them, confused. "What's goin' on?"
"Spot an' me is old friends," Race said, never taking his eyes from Spot's face, "and I'll be damned if I let him get hurt."
"Race here couldn't help me if he tried. He ain't a fighter, and I need to be able to concentrate on Blue when I fight, not whether Race's gettin' the tar beat out of him," Spot said cruelly.
A muscle under Race's eye twitched. "I can take care of myself, and I seem to 'member a time when little Spot Conlon couldn't do more than cry."
Spot was furious. "Maybe he was just cryin' at the sight of your ugly mug. Maybe he was scared at the way you was always lookin' at him."
Race's fists clenched tight on the reins. "Dutchy, would you mind gettin' out of the carriage for a bit? Spot an' I gotta talk."
Looking more than happy to oblige and get himself out of a clearly uncomfortable situation, Dutchy quickly climbed out of the carriage and walked into a shop, looking dignified as dignified as he possibly could, as Race turned the carriage into a side alley.
He sat silently for a moment, then said, "Talk, O'Connor."
"No."
"Talk."
"It's nothin', Race."
"It ain't nothin', and if you don't talk right now, I swear I'll soak you, Spot Conlon or no."
"I didn't mean anythin', Race," Spot said carefully, suddenly worried that he'd gone too far.
"I think you did. I think what you'se tryin' to say is that you think I got...funny feelings for you."
"Nah, nah, that ain't what I meant," Spot insisted, but Race was having none of it.
"You think that I think about you like most guys think about girls. That's what you'se sayin'. Well... you'se right." Spot stared up at Race, shocked, but Race resolutely kept his back to him. "I do have funny feelings for you, but you'se also the closest thing I got to family, and I'se not about to do anythin' to ruin that. So you ain't gotta worry about me tryin' anythin'."
"I ain't worried 'bout that," Spot said quickly, trying to quell the slight disgust that Race's admission had stirred in him. "I guess I kinda noticed, but I ain't about to do anythin' about it, Race. You'se kinda like a brother to me too."
"Oh?" Race laughed bitterly. "Then what was that back there, right in front of Dutchy?"
"That? That was me, tryin' my hardest to keep you from gettin' killed," Spot snapped. "You wanna protect me? Well, I'se tryin' to protect you."
"By tellin' Dutchy everythin'?" Race asked, still angry himself. "How's that supposed to help?"
"Kings like me ain't supposed to have families outside of their followers. It makes us weak. Vulnerable. Well, outside of Brooklyn, Race, you'se the only thing that I really care 'bout, and if tellin' Dutchy that you care 'bout me too is the only way to get out outta Brooklyn and back safe to Manhattan, then that's exactly what I'se gonna do. You'se my brother and my weak spot. I ain't gonna go into a fight worryin' about you. Got it now?"
Slowly, Race turned around and looked at Spot for the first time. "Yeah, Conlon. I got it now. I ain't happy, but I definitely got it."
Spot nodded, more relieved than he wanted to admit. "Good."
"So... What should I do now?"
"Now?" One corner of Spot's turned up in a lopsided smile that wasn't really a smile at all. "Now you let me go on alone."
"What?"
"It's the only way, Race," Spot replied, speaking quietly and correctly. "I want you to go get Dutchy and get out of Brooklyn as fast as you can. Things are going to get very nasty."
"What're you plannin' to do?" Race breathed, seeing the feverish look in Spot's eyes.
"It's best if you don't know."
"Spot—"
"Patrick."
Racetrack blinked, shocked. "What?"
"Patrick, Race. For one last time, it's Patrick."
The blood drained from Race's face. "You're... Are you goin' to...?"
"I would've been dead last time without your help, Race, so there's a distinct possibility, yes."
"Is Brooklyn really worth your life?" Race asked strongly, trying and failing to hide the horror in his voice.
"It's the only thing I've got that's worth anything. Please, Race, there's not much time."
Struggling to hide his shaking, Race blinked hard and held out a remarkably steady hand to Spot. "Good luck, Patrick."
Spot grasped Race's hand and shook it firmly. "Thanks. Good luck to you too, Anthony."
With that, Spot hopped out of the carriage and walked slowly but proudly away down the length of the alley.
Race watched him go and whispered one last time, "Good luck, brother." He let out a deep, trembling breath and yelled to Dutchy, who was lurking at the edge of the alley, "Dutchy, get in! We got to get out of here now!"