The streets of Brooklyn were quiet. As Spot walked slowly through the nearly deserted lanes, his back was straight. This wouldn't be the first time the remainder of his life could be measured in mere moments. If he was about to die, he was going to do it proudly: no whimpering, no slouching in fear.
He hadn't told Race the full truth, and that gnawed at him, but only slightly. If he didn't want Race to know that his great master 'plan' wasn't much of a plan at all, then it was for the best. Racetrack and the rest of the Manhattan boys would stay out of this, and that was exactly what Spot wanted...or what he told himself that he wanted. It was really the only way he could protect them.
A grim smile cracked his face. I am the great Spot Conlon, and I have no plan. It didn't matter, though. Beyond Brooklyn, what meaning did his life have? His family might care about him, but they really knew nothing about him and what the past five years had made of him. There was Racetrack, of course, and Race definitely cared about him – more than he should – but Race didn't want to accept it either. He still believed that deep inside, Spot was still that frightened boy, and that he would always know more than Spot would. And then there was Brooklyn. Brooklyn asked everything of him that he was willing to give, and more. Brooklyn expected only the best from him. It knew who he was and welcomed him for it.
"For Brooklyn!" he muttered, turning the corner. He paused, the warehouse looming in front of him. Though Blue was nowhere in sight, Spot had no doubt that if he wasn't watching from a window, one of his scouts would inform him of Spot's presence within moments.
Spot automatically reached for his cane, before remembering that he didn't have it anymore. His lips firmed. I'm here to take back what's mine, you bastard. And you'll have to kill me before I give up. Looking as casual as he could, he hooked his hands into the top of his pants and swaggered over to stand in front of the warehouse in an unconscious imitation of where Blue had been waiting for him last time.
As he stood there patiently, he was keenly aware of boys peeking out from corners, whispering. In fact, a general rustling was heard up and down the street. It seemed, though, that no one wanted to be the first to face him down.
Finally, Blue, looking larger and more self-important than ever, stepped out of the door to the warehouse, Spot's cane hooked through his belt. "So it is you," he said with a smug tone in his voice, noting Spot's bruises and his apparent isolation. "And what're you doin' in this neck of the woods?"
"Ain't it obvious?" Spot replied coolly. "You got hold of some things that belong to me, an' I've come to get 'em back."
Blue smirked and snapped his fingers. Within seconds, the streets were crawling with Brooklyn newsies, more than a few looking apprehensive. "You mean these? They ain't yours anymore, Spot, if they ever was."
Spot ignored Blue's words. "Yeah, I came back for my boys. And for my warehouse. And my streets. And..." He motioned at the gleaming cane.
Blue let out a sharp whistle. Within seconds, a small boy dashed out of the crowd to stand next to him. Spot suppressed a smile, recognizing the young newsie.
"You!" Blue snapped. "What's your name?"
"Bowtie," came the ready response.
"Bowtie, I got an important job for ya. I want to you to spread the word to all of Brooklyn that this bum's showed up 'ere." Blue's eyes locked on Spot's. "And tell 'em that they need to come, jus' in case he's got...friends around."
"Yes, sir!" Bowtie nodded. Then, as he turned, he nodded again, almost imperceptibly, in Spot's direction, and ran off.
At least that much will go right. Good job, Bowtie. If I survive, I'll remember this.
"So. What've you got up your skinny little sleeve, Spot?" Blue asked. "You got some sort of army, maybe? Those wimps from Manhattan? Or a gun? You got a gun under there?"
Blue didn't really expect an answer, Spot knew. His taunts were meant to unsettle Spot, nothing more. So he didn't respond. He continued to stand still, his body stance deceptively relaxed. He watched. And he waited.
"....an' that's that. So, what d'you guys think?" Dutchy sat back, feeling relatively pleased with himself. The others were all silent, staring at him. He was somewhat surprised; he knew it was a good idea, but he hadn't really expected them all to be struck dumb by his brilliance.
Always quick, David was the first one to find his voice. "Are you nuts?" he sputtered. "Dutchy, that's got to be the worst plan I've ever heard, and—"
"—and you was here when Jack started the strike, I know," Dutchy finished, offended. "It's a good plan, guys!"
Racetrack, who had been pacing back and forth by the door, paused briefly. "Same damn plan that I had, ain't it?"
"No, it's totally different," Dutchy exclaimed, now wishing that everyone would stop staring at him. "You jus' wanted to go an' back Spot up, right? I say that we should go in with bats, an' chains, an', um, other things. We go in fast, and we soak anyone who gets in our way. We ain't jus' gonna back him up. We can take on Brooklyn."
"He is crazy," David muttered to Jack. "We can't take on anyone, let alone Brooklyn."
Jack had a pensive look on his face. "Maybe not, Dave, but Spot backed us up when we needed him."
"That's what I said," Race snapped, "but no one listens to me, do they?" Everyone stared again, but this time it was at the normally unflappable Race. "What're you guys gawkin' at? If we don't hurry, Spot's gonna get himself killed! So let's just go!"
"Race?" Mush said quietly. "Are you okay?"
In response, Race started kicking the doorframe in frustration. "No, I ain't okay. Got that? I ain't okay, guys. Spot's the closest thing I ever had to family, and you'se guys is just sittin' around and debatin' whether to go help him. If you guys ain't gonna go, then I'se gonna go by myself!"
"Hold it, Race," Jack said sharply. "No one's said that we ain't going. We'se just tryin' to find the best way in."
"My way's best," Dutchy cut in. "Unless anyone can think of anythin' better right now, we ain't got time."
"He's right," Swifty put in. "We gotta get goin', guys."
Jack glanced at David, who shrugged. "If we're going to go, then let's go."
"Right," Jack said. "Swifty, you go find the rest of the guys. Tell 'em to meet at the bridge right now, and bring what weapons they got. And Race?" He sighed. "Try to stay calm."
"So, Spotty-boy," Blue jeered, "who was the whimpering lady cryin' over you before? Was it your mommy? Did she come to protect her baby boy?" Spot froze. It was only for a second or two, but Blue noticed. "It was, wasn't it?" Blue started laughing loudly, and called out to the rest of the boys on the wide street. "Didja all hear that? Little skinny boy 'ere needed his mommy to take care of him!"
If I die, I die proudly. Proud of all of it.
"That's right, Blue," Spot said, allowing the inflection to drop from his voice. "It was my mother. I have a family, and if I wished it, I could have more money than I know what to do with." He looked around. Everyone, even Blue, was gaping at him in astonishment. "But I don't wish it. Do you know why that is, Blue? Do you know why, you ignorant bastard?" As Blue had done, Spot raised his voice to every newsie on the street. "Do any of you know why? Because it's what I chose! I am here because I want to be. I'm here because I'd rather be with my boys than anywhere else. I'd rather starve with you all than be pampered and bathed. I'd rather be here. With all of you. And if I die tonight, then I die with pride, because I die among you!"
He could sense the mood on the street shifting slightly, though it was hard to tell in which direction. All he could do was hope that his speech, a speech he had never thought to make, would remind them of all he had done for them. They would probably never know how much it had cost him to make it.
At least Blue can't think of anything to say. Indeed, the older boy was standing stock-still, apparently dumbstruck by Spot's bold words.
Eventually, though, Blue found his words again. "Then, you'se a fake," he sneered loudly. "The famous Spot Conlon ain't one of us, and he never was. We don't need your kind 'ere, and we never did!" There was a definite murmur of assent on the street.
"A fake?" Spot said angrily, his voice carrying to the furthest corners of the street. "Tell me, boys, everything I've done the past five years... Was that all fake? Was it a fake when I got rid of this joke of a leader the first time? Was it a fake when I organized the boys of Brooklyn so that we weren't being preyed on by scam artists and petty thieves...expect for those of us who are scam artists and petty thieves, of course?" At that, a small chuckle ran up and down the road. "Was it a fake when we joined with newsies from around the city and defeated The World? We all came from somewhere, boys. Each of us had a mother and a father. Does it really matter if mine are still alive or not?"
"Yes, it matters!" Blue yelled back. "Spot always pretended to be one of us. He always acted like he was...like he knew what it was like to be poor an' alone. An' all that while, he was just some rich boy!"
Emotions on the street were rising. Spot sensed it, and he began to slowly shift into a defensive position. He no longer had faith that his boys would fight for him, but he would fight for them anyway, and for himself.
"At least I cared about them!" Spot shouted. "You never gave a damn about a one of us, Blue, but I did!" His hands itched for the cane. It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing for it, but he hadn't lived this long by acting on every single instinct of his.
"It don't matter anyway," Blue snapped. "I got the power 'ere, and I'se not plannin' to give it up."
Spot took a deep breath, noting how Blue's hand was inching towards his side. He couldn't tell from a glance whether it was a gun or a knife that Blue held concealed. If it's a knife, I have a chance. If it's a gun...then I hope that he aims for my head. Better a quick end.
In any case, the feeling in the street was turning ugly. Any second now, someone was going to throw a punch, and there would be chaos. And Spot would win. Or he would lose.
Not wanting to wait any longer, Spot started to walk forward purposefully. He was ready.
But before he could reach Blue, a wild roar rang out from down the street. Startled, Spot swung his head around. He was somehow not surprised at the sight that met his eyes.
Racetrack, you idiot.