"We crossin' the bridge?" Spot Conlon asked his long-time and childhood best friend Patrick Johns, better known as PJ.
PJ stretched his arms high over his head and took a look at the Brooklyn Bridge. It was nearly midnight and the cool September air had a slight breeze. PJ pushed his dark brown, shaggy hair out of his honey eyes. "We gotta sleep, Conlon."
The two fourteen-year old boys were on their way home from Manhattan after visiting fellow newsies for a poker tournament. It was being held at their lodging house and it was mostly Manhattan boys with a few Brooklyn boys. Usually the poker nights consisted of a few rounds, but since it was a tournament it had lasted for a few hours and rum and whiskey were snuck in. Both boys had a few drinks, but Spot was drunk and stumbling all over the place. PJ agreed to stop drinking while he was ahead for the walk back home.
Spot took off his gray hat and spun it around slowly on his fingers. "Why don't we'se just sleep there?" he slurred in an agitated tone as they started the bridge.
"'Cause then we woulda had to get up earlier and walk all the way back in the morning. It's just easier dis way."
The coins in Spot's pockets jingled as he tripped over himself. He had had the most drinks out of everyone to celebrate his victory that night. It was amazing that someone as tipsy as he had miraculously won the pot with a very lucky royal flush. He took out one of coins from his pocket and the sling shot, his weapon of choice, from his belt loop. Without much energy he stopped at the bridge rail and placed the coin to shoot it into the water. Weakly he let go of the sling shot's end and tried to pinpoint where the coin went in the dark. He looked around, completely dumbfounded as to where it could be. PJ stood next to him as Spot turned around furiously trying to locate where it went. PJ took out a cigarette and matches, and lit it up blindly in the dark.
"It went off da bridge, smart one," PJ finally told him sarcastically. He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and took a long drag, exhaling the smoke above his head.
Spot gave up his search and plopped down on the ground with his back against the ledge. He held the sling shot in front of his face and examined it closely. It was worn down a little bit and formed to his fingers at the handle from its frequent and dependable use. Looking up at PJ he noticed he had a cigarette. "Ya got any more?"
PJ let out a small, amused laugh; Spot couldn't be trusted with much of anything while he was intoxicated. He would probably end up burning himself or catching his clothes on fire. Then he would blame PJ for allowing him to do that. "Sorry. Last one."
"Damn..." he said slowly.
There were a few other people walking the bridge back to the Brooklyn Lodging House that night. One of them was their eighteen-year old fearless leader, Spits. He walked with a sense of importance and anyone who crossed him was sure to be sorry. In one of his suspender loops was a black gold-tipped cane that played into his entire image as the feared and respected ruler of the Brooklyn newsies. He walked by himself without needing an entourage or bodyguard. No doubt he was returning from the Bronx for a meeting with its leader regarding territory issues. Spits' newsies knew about it but didn't have the balls to ask him what would be happen at the meeting. Whenever leaders met it meant important and secret business.
"Hiya, boys," Spits greeted in a calm and cool tone.
Spot looked up at him with his piercing grey-blue and now dilated eyes. The moon provided just enough light for him to recognize him. "Hey, Spits." He raised his arm up high and waved, shaking Spits' hand violently.
Spits had a creeping smile growing on his face. "Heard about the poker tourney uptown. Good ta hear one of my boys won."
PJ turned around and stomped out his cigarette. "He got lucky." Bringing his palm up to his face he spit in it lightly as Spits did the same, and shook each others' hands. PJ wanted desperately to ask him how the meeting went, but couldn't. It was on the tip of his tongue and he had to bite his lip to hold it in.
"It's gettin' late. You rememba the back way in?" Spits asked him. The curfew at the lodging house was eleven, and if they were back any later there was hell to pay.
"Yeah. Up the fire escape and through da back window."
"Good. See ya boys later." Spits tipped his hat to them and continued his way along the bridge.
Spot watched him and squinted his eyes. He looked up at PJ, who was taking out a new cigarette, and stared for a few moments. PJ looked back down at him.
"You gots somethin' ta say?" he questioned.
Blinking a few times he brought his head back down and buried his head in his arms that rested on the tops of his knees. "I'm tired..."
"Yeah, we should probably gets goin'." PJ waited until his cigarette was finished to start back again. After his final drag he tossed the butt over the railing and gently kicked his friend's arm to wake him up.
"What da hell?" Spot reacted quickly. He jumped up and took a couple of steps backward for balance. PJ laughed at him and Spot crossed his arms firmly over his chest.
"All right, let's go," PJ decided. And so they slowly made their way home.
At around the halfway point, distinct and seemingly mad footsteps were heard behind them. There were a few snickers and hushed talking too. Spot was completely in a daze and just continued walking. PJ got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and he slowed his pace a little bit. Finally he spun around in one quick motion to see two tall and bulky guys standing angrily before him. The darkness of the night shielded their faces but the outlining over the bodies was still very noticeable. Although, the moon did show a scar in the shape of a B on one of the guys' forearms, and PJ knew who they were in a heartbeat. He didn't like the answer to that either.
"Isn't it a little late for yous guys ta be out?" one of them asked in a raspy voice.
"What d'you want?" PJ queried. His fists were clenching at his sides.
"Oh, we just wanted ta have a lil' chat with ya, dat's all," another piped up.
Spot finally turned around and took his place next to PJ. The guys towered over the two as they glared at one another.
"What d'you want in Brooklyn? The meeting's over," PJ reminded him, now getting even more angry.
"Not for us." One of the men swiftly threw a punch directly at PJ's face, hitting him square in the mouth. PJ stumbled a little bit backward, but came right back up again to knock the guy hard on the cheekbone. They stood there throwing punches for a few seconds at each other and eventually PJ tackled him to the ground.
The other guy shot his head toward Spot and gave him a threatening look. Spot swung his arm quickly at him, but it wasn't quick enough as he ducked out of the way. Instead of hitting Spot in the face as he was expecting, he pounded his stomach with punches repeatedly until Spot fell over backward, clutching his stomach in agony. Since his reaction time was slowed down because of the alcohol, he swung absently at the air, trying to hit his attacker. He was still on his back, giving the guy a perfect chance to do even more damage. The Bronx thug bent over Spot's midsection and proceeded to swiftly take out a knife from his pocket. Spot saw the blade glisten in the moonlight for a split second as he tried to fight the guy off by shoving, kicking, punching, and doing everything he could in his weakened power. This was completely uncharacteristic of Spot and a first that someone had gotten this far in a fight with him.
While still trying to pin down his own attacker, PJ glanced back behind him to see if Spot was okay. He noticed the guy standing over him with a death grip on his knife and holding it over his friend.
"Spot!" PJ screamed with fear and anger running through him. He jumped off of the guy and ran over to the other two. Spot lay helplessly and already bruising on the ground. The guy that was beating the shit out of him took the blade and scraped along his shoulder in a fast motion, leaving a long and thin laceration. Instinctively PJ tackled the guy to the ground and sat over his stomach trying to get the knife out of his hand. Spot managed to get to his knees but instead of assisting PJ, like he would normally have done, he crawled nearly six feet away and began to vomit uncontrollably.
Almost three minutes passed and PJ still was struggling over the thug. His biceps were already sore from fighting, and with all the energy he could muster he knocked the guy in face with his left arm and stole the dagger from him with his right. Not intending the stab him, he got off of him and went over to Spot who had taken a break from puking and was now lying along the ground.
A pair of cops was seen and heard blowing their whistles wildly and sprinting over to the four boys. It was unusual since the cops were not likely to be found after a fight like this.
"Beat it!" shouted the one who PJ was first fighting, and he got to his feet and darted in the other direction.
PJ looked back to see the cops nearing them. He shook Spot's shoulder furiously and tried to help him up. "Conlon, let's go! We gotta get of heah!" PJ's attempts at helping his friend were wasted as Spot fell back down every time he tried to get up. "Come on!" PJ looked back again and saw the guy who was on the ground ready to ram right into them with another blade in his hand.
Without thinking and with his mind going a hundred miles an hour, he stuck the knife into the attacker's stomach just as he was charging into him. The thug bent over, clutching his stomach in pain and agony as he dropped to the ground in defeat. PJ watched in disbelief and shock. Although it was in pure self-defense, he never intended to kill anyone; never. He let the knife slip from his hand as it tumbled to his feet. Knots churned over in his stomach as suddenly everything was quiet and motionless.
He looked down at Spot, who was still breathing but looked unconscious. His eyes went back to the cops who raced to him and pinned his arms behind his back as they dragged him away. Tears ran down his face and the other cop inspected the now dead attacker.
"Conlon!" PJ yelled, "get up! Spot!" His voice fell dead as he watched the scene become more and more distant.
Spot managed to open his swollen eyes as he eyed his best friend being taken away. Blood trickled down his arm from the deep cut on his arm. Never had he been in so much emotional and physical pain. It was almost like he had blacked out and he was just now waking up. The last thing he could remember was the glint of the blade.
Although he wouldn't remember the chain of events before this, he would never forget the sight he was seeing before him at that very moment. It would stick with him for as long as he lived.