This is turning out to be quite a "cocky" story. I probably won't update for a few days because I am going on vacation. If there is anything you don't like or do like about the story, please review!
Ugly felt hopelessly uncomfortable as she sat at a booth with Kyro, Lewis, Curlup and Hawk at Browze's cock fight. Dirty old men and boys were crowded around the arena as two plucky little cocks hammered each other amid screeches and flying feathers. Grubby looking males crowded around booths drinking, smoking and laughing wickedly together. Others rushed the bar, ordering pitchers of cold, foamy beer or glasses of hot whiskey. The hall was decorated with violently bright flags and streamers. Browze, who ran the joint, was Puerto Rican. He was holding court at the prime table, laughing it up with Roan and the rest of Brooklyn's underground royalty. Lewis sipped his beer, looking scalded as usual. Kyro was watching the cock fight with disquieting fascination and Hawk and Curlup were chatting animatedly, excited to have been invited at all.
Ugly scanned the crowd around her. The only other females were waitresses or brightly painted girls, hanging on to their men and looking bored. She took a sip of whiskey, enjoying the burning sensation as it rolled down her throat. She looked at Kyro. His silence was becoming maddening. Did he feel anything at all? She felt a hand brush her shoulder and turned, groping for her knife. She met Spot's glowing blue eyes. Two of his boys stood behind him, surveying the scene eagerly.
"Hey," he nodded.
"Hey," she replied. "Roan is"- she stopped as Roan appeared at Spot's side. He reached out his long fingers and they shook hands.
"Glad you could make it, Spotty-Boy," he said. "Come over here, there's some people I want you to meet. Your boys can stay here." Ugly felt twinge of rejection as Roan led Spot to the important table. What the fuck was he doing with Spot anyway?
Spot and Roan approached the busy table. A few of the men were making bets on the next match. Another was squeezing the breast of an amply endowed prostitute. They all looked up when Roan spoke. "Hey boys, I want to introduce you to someone," he pulled back his chair and sat down, taking a swig of the whiskey from a mug on the table. Spot sat down next to him, masking his feelings of awkwardness beneath his tough glower. "This is Spot Conlon. He's the newsboy leader who fucked Hearst and Pulitzer in the strike last summer." The men regarded him, sizing him up. Spot sat firm.
"Let's here it for fucking those rich dicks!" Browze drawled in a heavy Spanish accent. The entire table lifted their glasses in cheers. Spot picked up a random beer and took a swig with the others. It burned his throat and caused his eyes to water a little. It was whiskey.
Roan pulled a rolled cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. He offered one to Spot, who took it. As the rest of the table returned to their various conversations, Roan leaned in toward Spot and pointed each one out, describing their various merits. "…And that's Greco, he runs the Port 'O Call Bar and the Regency Hotel over on 8th, among other things, that's Flint, he's the best damn knife thrower below Queens, Klavio oversees the Brooklyn mob, that's Browze's, of course, he's one fucked up son of a bitch," Browze, who had been listening in, smiled at them.
"This boy is my special one. He is the príncipe. The príncipe," Browze slurred.
Roan rolled his eyes. "Those Puerto Rican's can't hold their liquor," he told Spot loudly.
"You!" Browze accused, pointing and laughing. He turned to Spot, grinning, then all of a sudden his eyes became strange and wild. "You keep an eye on this one. He will kill you. He killed my brother."
Roan looked at Browze darkly. "None of that Browzy. Guido was not your brother."
"He was like my brother," Browze insisted. Some of the other men at the table were watching out of the corners of their eyes.
"Guido was a loony fuck who killed himself. Killed himself, ya here me?" Roan said stiffly. Darkness hung over the table for a moment, conjured up by Roan's dark mood. Then it passed away and left no trace.
"I think Browzy needs another drink," Roan said amicably. He turned around in his chair and called to a waitress. "Senorita, Browze needs another whiskey, rápido!" she immediately dropped what she was doing and scurried to the bar to fulfill his request. Roan turned back to Spot who was watching him curiously. Roan shrugged and tapped the ash of his cigarette on the edge of a tray. "Where's Raj? I wanna put fifty on this next one," he leaned in toward Spot conspiratorially, "you need to bet on this one, it's a sure thing."
Raj came over and took their bets. When the match was about to start, Roan got up to watch at the fence and Spot followed. The crowds automatically parted as he approached. Spot couldn't help but be impressed. This was the kind of power he aspired to, not just over Brooklyn, but everywhere. Roan put his right foot on the lower rung of the fence and rested his arms on the top. He puffed his cigarette as two boys arrived with cages and slid them on either side of the ring. In one cage, a big, black rooster was jumping wildly against the gate. In the other, a gold crested rooster strutted back and forth. The bell rang and the cocks were released, hurtling maniacally toward each other.
In the wee hours of the nights the fights had ceased and the festivities were fizzling. Spot had loosened nearly off the handle with the help of whiskey and cigarettes and Roan was fairly smashed as well. They had returned to the table where Ugly and the rest of their collective gang members had spent most of the night.
"So, Spotty boy, whaddya think of my Brooklyn?" Roan asked. He was leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table, legs crossed at the ankles, feebly smoking yet another cigarette.
"There ain't no better place on this earth then my Brooklyn," Spot replied, tapping ash off his cigarette. He was sitting in his chair with his shoulders kind of slumped, perfectly relaxed. Roan craned his head back and blew smoke into the air peacefully.
Ugly was watching the two of them warily. One night together and they were as thick as thieves. Lewis was downright pissed off. Who did this Conlon kid think he was anyway?
"So, Conlon," Lewis smeared. "What is it you newsies do exactly?" He spit out the title like it was a nasty curse word.
Spot shot him an annoyed look. "Whatever the fuck we want, dumb ass," he replied.
"Fucking right!" Roan agreed lifting his glass and clinking it against Spot's.
A young prostitute with nearly exposed breasts laid her delicate fingers on Roan's shoulders. "Can I trouble you for the time tonight?" She propositioned in a husky voice. Roan dropped his feet to the floor and regarded her with a look of absolute abhorrence.
"What are you, new?" Curlup called out. The hooker retracted her hand and backed off.
"Don't ever touch me again, you dirty bitch," Roan snarled gutturally. "You're lucky I don't cut your fucking hand off," he threatened, looking like he might just do it anyway. Her face blanched and she turned and walked quickly away. Roan turned back to the tables. "I don't do whores," he mumbled to Spot by way of explanation.
"What about this girl?" Spot asked, nodding toward Ugly. Ugly was heated by the question. Sometimes, she wondered if anyone even noticed she was a girl.
Roan looked across the table at her with his dark eyes. "No, never this one. She's special," he replied. An image flashed before her mind. It was of Lewis cradling his bleeding hand as Roan whispered, Lewis, you're my favorite, do you know that? My very favorite. Roan continued to watch her and Ugly dropped her eyes, suddenly afraid. When she finally looked up again, she noticed Spot's eyes were still on her. He held her gaze for a moment before looking away.
Roan lifted his shirt and scratched his hard stomach, revealing a path of dark hair leading down into his trousers. He stood up. "I better get going. I got some business to attend to," he said. "Spot," they shook hands, "always a pleasure. Don't stay out too late, boys," he warned his gang before heading out the door.
Silence fell across the table after the slight deflation at Roan's exit. Spot continued to smoke, staring fixedly at the table with an intense look in his clear, blue eyes.
"Just what exactly do you think your doing with Roan?" Lewis slurred stupidly.
Spot shot him a look. "Shut up, Lewd," Ugly ordered, irritated.
"No, I mean it, I really wanna know," Lewis was starting to get worked up. "I mean, you're a fucking little newsboy, for chrissake. This is a joke!" Spot felt a flash of rage. Without thinking, he picked up the nearly empty mug beside him and pitched it at Lewis with his perfect aim. The mug cracked against his head, splitting down the middle. Lewis cried out in pain and grabbed his face. "You fucking little bitch," Lewis jumped to his feet to retaliate, but Spot was up first. He whipped his slingshot out of his side pocket and took aim. Lewis froze. "A slingshot? You carry a fucking slingshot?" Lewis mocked.
"You're not carrying anything, Lewd," Ugly commented. Lewis looked at her, one eye swelling beneath his hand. A look of absolute betrayal caused the revealed side of his face to droop visibly.
He turned back to Spot. "He'll get sick of you, you know? And then what? And then whatever the fuck he wants. He's the one in control, and don't you forget it. He's always the one in control. He'll get sick of you. And trust me, it's a long way to fall," Lewis finished delivering his little speech and left them in silence.
Spot carefully tucked his slingshot back into his pocket, but kept the marble out, rolling it back and forth on the table beneath his fingers. He didn't care what that weirdo said, no one was in control of him but him.
Still to come…
Will Spot remind us why we love him so much?
Will Ugly get in touch with her feminine side?
Will Kyro actually speak?
Will Roan stop being so strangely delicious?
Was the cock fighting a clever bit of foreshadowing, or just another way for the young authoress to work "cock" into the story?
Either way, lots of surprises are in store…