The rain came down in torrents as newsies scattered across the square, hugging their 'papes' close to keep them dry, rushing off in different directions to hawk the headlines and make what little money they could.
Racetrack loitered on the bakery steps, watching the newsies disperse through the fall weather before ducking inside.
The air was thick with flour and the smell of baking pastries; a window displayed various debacles and loaves of golden-brown bread. The baker glared at Race from under his poofy white hat, looking somewhat ridiculous, but threatening nonetheless.
" 'Mornin, your majesty," Race said with a crooked smile.
"Higgins," The old man growled, "haven't you got another job yet?"
"Nonsense, sir. Sellin' papes is fine for me – wanna buy one?"
A ragtag, undernourished girl with long black hair emerged from the oven room, her face flushed from the baking heat. She brushed flour off her apron and began arranging the pastry window.
The baker noted Race's distracted gaze, and smirked. "Gimme a paper, Higgins."
His attention restored to its proper place, Race handed the baker a paper from his stack of 50, and the old man placed a penny in his hand.
"Thank you, your lordship," Race said around his cigar, and the baker rolled his eyes before ducking back into the oven room.
A heavy silence mingled with the powdery air, and Race shifted his weight from left to right, not daring to look up at the girl placing cakes in the window display. He stood with one hand in his pocket, and the other holding his cigar as he took one long drag, before he stubbed it out and put it in his vest pocket for later. She was humming a fast, tarantella tune, and unbeknownst to Racetrack, was smiling at him.
"May I offer you a coffee?" She asked, her Italian accent hardly noticeable except where she put the emphasis in 'coffee'.
Race looked up, wearing a dark smile. "Yeah, sure."
She began to bustle about behind the counter, and he leaned forward to watch her prepare his drink. "Hey – what's your name?"
She looked up from pouring the steaming liquid, and offered him a small smile. "Gianna Divio. What's yours?"
Race felt nervous under her glaze, and squelched the desire to light up his cigar again. "I'm Race – Racetrack."
Gianna wrinkled her too-pointy nose. "How unusual." She pushed a white porcelain cup, brimming with dark, hot coffee.
Race thought for a second that the cup of black, more importantly, free, coffee was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, rivaling the few times when his 'hot tips' had actually paid off.
"I'm a newsie- all newsies have nicknames," he explained absently, as his hands moved of their own accord and cupped the warm mug, drawing it towards him.
Gianna leaned on the counter, picking at her fingernails. "Nickname," she tried out the word, rolling it on her tongue as if it were completely foreign. "Then what's your real name?"
Race shrugged. "Doesn't really matter." He nursed the coffee cup, supping slowly – how often did he get free coffee, after all?"
There was a loud curse from the oven room that made Gianna jump, and rush back to help the yelping baker.
Race paused for a second, considered his paper and gulped down the coffee. "Thanks!" he called pointlessly, and nipped out the door.
Race waited a day before sneaking into the bakery again, making sure Skittery didn't' see him. This time, Gianna greeted him with a smile.
"I can't give you anymore coffee," she apologized, "The baker got mad at me last time."
Race pulled a chair away from the little round customer's table, and sat next to the counter. "I though he might'a. I came to pay you back."
"Coffees cost two cents." She leaned forward, resting her forearms beside a plate of éclairs. Race looked at her out of the corner of his eye – her cheeks were too thin and her lips were chapped, but she maintained the Sicilian dark grace that he admired.
He nodded expectantly, and placed one of his newspapers in front of her. "That'll pay for half, And I guess the pleasure of my company'll just have to make up for the other penny," he said, shrugging in mock-seriousness.
Gianna turned the newspaper towards her, and studied the front page.
"There's a story on page six you might like."
She was about to flip to the story, when the baker barreled out from the oven room, glaring at Race. "Gianna, you need to get back to work."
"You can't go!" Race protested, "I ain't finished payin' you back yet!"
"She can," The baker growled, "and has to go, Higgins."
"Come back later," she urged, forgetting the American concept of personal space and touching his arm.
Race winked and hoped doff his chair, "I'll make like a tree and leave, then."
Gianna smiled at him, and turned back to the baker.