A/N: This is an old fic I sort of revamped...not my best, but cute. I figured I'd put all my old ones up so that I don't lose 'em forever when my computer (eventually) implodes. Enjoy :)
"Man," said Mush Meyers as he scanned the front page of the newspaper he had just extracted from the pile on his shoulder, "they jist keep getting' worse. I could write better headlines then this." He let the offensive paper flutter to the ground, a disgusted expression on his face. How was he supposed to eat if the headline writers didn't do their damn job?
Snoddy Elliot, who was out selling that day despite a bad case of the sniffles, bent down and scooped the paper back up, studying the headlines himself. "Yeah,"he snorted, "you, Mush Meyers: man who has never come into fifteen feet of an actual school."
"It don't matter. I could still do a better job then this garbage." Mush sighed loudly. Selling newspapers wasn't Mush's only job, and it certainly wasn't his favorite. Boxing, for example, was far more fun and took much less effort. It was a shame that it wasn't more dependable, too, or else Mush would've abandoned Duane Street and it's inhabitants many months ago.
"There ain't no use sellin' today." He cast an expert eye to the low, slate gray clouds building up in the sky above him. "It's gonna snow, anyway." He began to stroll down the street, digging a cigarette out of his pants pocket.
Snoddy raced to catch up with him, the eternal follower. If Mush wasn't selling...well, then he wasn't either. "So... what're we gonna do?" He asked, though the answer was obvious. Where else did the Manhattan newsies go when they weren't hawking headlines?
"I could use a cuppa coffee..." Mush said nonchalantly, ignoring the fact that his friend had froze in his tracks, his glare as cold as the icy wind that was whipping down the street.
"Tibby's?" Whined Snoddy, "C'mon Mush. You know I hate bummin' around there..." He lifted his shoulders in a tired shrug. "Maybe I'll just go back ta bed. I don't feel so good, anyway."
"Snoddy, don't be such a woman." Mush retreated a few steps, seized Snoddy's arm with his free hand (the other being occupied with the cigarette), and pulled him down the street toward the familiar establishment. "The only reason you hate Tibby's is cause nowadays it ain't just newsies eatin' there."
"Yeah…so?" Snoddy retorted, his voice a weary and congested monotone, too tired to put up any kind of a fight to his friend's determined plans. " It was nice when it was just us. Like our own little corner of the world. Other people ruin it. Like that guy—the cop. What's 'is name?"
"Uh..." Mush was momentarily distracted by a pretty girl brushing by him. As his eyes followed her journey down the street, he shrugged. "Yeah. Dugan. Tommy, I think. He ain't a bad guy, for a cop."
"I don't like 'im."
"Eh, gimme a break," he muttered, eyes still on the retreating figure, dark eyes studying the gentle sway of her hips. "You only don't like 'im cause you heard him talkin' about you that one time."
"Mush, he talks about everyone. He--"
The boys arrived at the entrance of Tibby's just as Mush held up a beefy hand to silence his friend. Whiney bastard. "Dugan's a cop. That's his job. To know things." He shook his head and yanked open the door. "Now get that puss off yer face. I ain't forcing ya to come with me. You're a free man." With that, he disappeared inside, leaving Snoddy outside to contemplate the snowflakes that had started to fall gently around him. Mush was right. He was a free man.
He just wasn't a particularly independent one.
With a final sniffle, Snoddy yanked open the door and stepped inside the warm restaurant.
It didn't take him long to pick out his friends, even in the dim light of the cozy room. There was a pack of ragged, ill-dressed young men packed into a corner table near the kitchen door. And Tommy Dugan was holding court over them all.
He was young; younger then any cop the newsies had ever seen. The boys guessed he was maybe twenty, twenty-two at the most, and one of those types who only got the position because of family power in the local precinct. Not a terribly uncommon thing in the corruption-tinged New York City Police Department.
What was uncommon about Tommy was that he never seemed to be doing anything. The boys assumed his rookie status gave him the night beats, and that left their minds at peace. It was simply explained, his constant prescence in Tibby's. Simply explained, and simply accepted.
It certainly helped matters that Tommy was as interesting as any fellow they'd met, and always seemed to have the best stories; the juiciest, most scandalous gossip to be had on the city streets. That was really the drawing point for so many of his admirers. The stories. Cops knew everything.