Spot was thankful for his position as leader of the Brooklyn newsies
that afternoon. While the others had paired up compliant with his orders,
no one had challenged his solo figure as it marched into the morning
crowds. Usually he would not have minded a selling partner; he often
brought along younger newsies to show them the ropes or invited a friend
simply for company. Today, however, he felt grateful that he had the
opportunity to sell without outside distraction.
"Mayah flees City Hall in terror!" he called to the masses, waving a newspaper at arm's length above his head. "Panic in Manhattan!"
He barely noticed the shocked faces of those he sold papers to. Although his hands moved deftly to exchange newspapers for coin, his mind had wandered far from his task. The ghost of a voice pierced his brain like a needle.
"Are ya gonna come home wid us, Ethan?"
Home. How could he possibly face them now? Images of his mother and siblings- all looking so despondent and expectant- flashed behind his eyelids. What had he ever given them besides a few dollars a month? He could almost feel Lily's thin arms encircling his waist as she silently pleaded for a kind of help that he had not been able to give.
Able? he thought with an audible scoff. Jus' not willin'. I couldn't even face my own faddah until he was dyin' and even den I could barely take it. Yeah, I'se da intimidatin', brave Spot Conlon.
He shook his head. What could he possibly give them now when he hadn't even been strong enough to confront his father only a few days prior?
"Um," an unfamiliar voice interjected into Spot's thoughts, "you there. Pardon."
Spot immediately tensed and adopted his common aura of power. A young man of roughly sixteen years of age stood a few feet away. He wore elegant dark gray attire, boots that shined in the dull sunlight, and a slightly bewildered but polite expression. Under his arm he carried several leather- bound books, most likely the complete sonnets of Shakespeare or the history of Ancient Greek civilization. His dark blonde hair was cut to the strict dictates of fashion. He was well built, as though he was comfortable with the physical exertions of a good baseball game but would never have to worry about growing prematurely weak under the stress of factory work.
When the Brooklyn newsie's stony eyes bore into his, the young man continued, "I was hoping to buy a paper. Sounds like an interesting article."
"Yeah," Spot mumbled as his frown deepened. "Heah."
"I…ah, thank you," the young man replied, somewhat taken back by the newsie's intimidating and cold demeanor. He placed a penny into Spot's palm and rushed down the sidewalk, no doubt to a small café in which he could discuss the politics of European countries or laissez-faire economics.
Spot's fingers tightened around his cane until his knuckles turned as white as chalk. The young man had not been condescending or impolite in any way, as others of his class had often been. In fact, Spot felt that had the boy been a newsie, they might have been close friends. Yet he couldn't quell the hatred that dripped into his heart like burning liquor. He found himself imagining that young man graduating from Harvard, taking over the family law firm, and gaining the respect of his family and peers. Perhaps one day that boy would have newspaper articles written about his triumphs in law or business or whatever field he chose to pursue. He stared at the boy's retreating figure until it disappeared into the crowd; and he could not stop hating.
A faint voice of reason rebuked him. Come on, Spot, get it tahgethah. Ya can't go crazy ovah some kid who ya don't know not'ing about.
His fingers began to relax and he focused on the slightly smudged headlines of a newspaper. The words swirled and blurred beneath his hands. When a familiar voice whispered gently in his ear, he whirled around in shock, expecting to see a man standing behind him.
Of course, he found only strangers marching passed, no one who would care to converse with a newsboy unless they wished to a buy a paper. Spot blinked and drew a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Jesus, Spot, no wondah ya can't handle you'se own lodgin' house, he thought caustically. Yet even with this remark, he could not deny the voice he was sure he had heard:
"Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things."
In his surprise, Spot had dropped his stack of newspapers onto the sidewalk. They still lay at his feet when another voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Hey, kid, ya okay?"
Spot glanced up to see an elderly man studying him in concern. He appeared to be one of the dockworkers, perhaps a position he had held for his entire life. His clothing was shabby and stained in several places with slick oil. He bore the potent aroma of the sea and dead fish. What hair the man had was disheveled and white as snow, while his eyes were a brilliant shade of green. His face was tanned and wizened, like leather that was prematurely showing its age due to years of misuse. The man chuckled lightly in an attempt to mollify the situation. "Prob'ly t'inkin' of some pretty goil, right?"
Groaning faintly, the man began to bend over to retrieve the fallen papers but Spot, regaining his senses, beat him to it. "T'anks, mistah. Sorry 'bout dat," the Brooklyn leader found himself saying, losing his appearance of utter control and strength for a moment.
"Don't mention it," the man replied. He nodded and gave a pleasant smile before sauntering off in the direction of the docks.
Spot watched the man as he strolled away and his heart seemed to contract in his chest. Is dat all deah is for me? Years of hard woik and determination and not'in ta show for it? He sighed heavily. I gotta get outta Brooklyn, fast.
"Spot!" The boy turned at his named to find Roxy sprinting towards him, calling out apologizes to those she hit as she ran. She hunched over and gasped for breath when she reached him, her cheeks stained as bright a red as the blood that dripped from her nose.
"Roxy, what's da maddah?" he inquired worriedly as he pulled the girl out of the flow of traffic. When they were safely in an alley, he extracted a threadbare handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her. "What happened? Was it Bulldog again?"
Holding the handkerchief to her nose, she shook her head. "Not exactly," she replied through the veil of worn cotton. "It was the Debler Street newsies, but it wasn't specifically Bulldog…well, it's kind of a long story." She swiftly related the tale of how she and Rabbit had discovered two Debler Street newsies in Spot's territory, and how she had followed Cotton back to the other lodging house in Brooklyn. "…and I don't think they're going to wait around much longer. They're getting stronger and more persistent, Spot. Jackal's insane and malicious, and I don't think we can afford to just wait around and find out what he's got planned."
"Ya heah anyt'ing specific?" he wanted to know.
She sighed. "Just that they plan on getting rid of us and taking over our territory. He said they're waiting until-" She caught the words in her throat and coughed embarrassedly. "Until we don't suspect they're going to do anything. To catch us off guard. Smooth, Roxy, real smooth, she berated herself inwardly. Why don't you just tell him that everyone, even Jackal, knows he's losing it?
Spot crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a convenient brick wall. He studied the streets solemnly, watching elderly ladies in black satin, small boys bearing wooden swords, and middle-aged men wearing their stress around their eyes walk passed. He recalled what his father had said about Brooklyn the last time they met. Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all-mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy. The words gnawed at Spot's brain. This was where he had ruled uncontested since he was fifteen and had assumed leadership of the Brooklyn newsies, the most renowned newsies in New York. And now ya can't even handle one damn group of vultuahs. No wondah you'se faddah always said ya wasn't woith not'ing.
"Spot?" Roxy asked so softly that her voice was practically lost among the din of the sidewalks.
Standing erect, the newsboy adopted more of an unemotional, controlled demeanor than usual. "Get back ta da lodgin' house and clean up, and den spread da woid ta be on da lookout for da Deblah Street newsies tahday. We'll talk more latah tahnight."
The girl nodded soberly. "Okay. I'll see you later, then." She moved to dash into the crowds, but halted for a moment. She gazed at Spot with concern, fear, and another emotion he couldn't name illuminating her eyes. "Be careful, okay?"
His body went rigid and his eyes seemed like shards of ice. "Doubtin' my ability ta take care of myself?" he demanded harshly.
"No," she replied quietly, taken back by his tone. "It's just that you're alone today." She opened her mouth, as if to elaborate, but then fell silent. Without even a word of good-bye, she rushed off and in a moment had completely vanished in the sea of bodies.
Spot did not watch her go. He slumped back against the wall, pushing a hand through his unkempt tresses. For once it seemed that the famed leader of the Brooklyn Lodging House had absolutely no idea what his course of action would be.
"Queens ovah tens," Itey declared triumphantly as he tossed his cards to the floor of the boys' bunkroom. Pulling a small pile of coins to his side, he laughed and shrugged. "Must be my night."
"I can't believe dis," Racetrack moaned. "All my winnin's at da track gone in less den two minutes."
"Look at it this way," Midnight replied as she shuffled the deck of faded cards. "That's more than two minutes than you usually get." She winked and began to deal the cards to the rather large group of players that had gathered in the bunkroom that evening.
Racetrack raised an eyebrow. "Bright side ta everyt'ing, huh?" At the sight of his new hand, his expression brightened considerably. "I'm in," he remarked cheerfully.
Soon it was down to Itey and Racetrack. They stared at each other with stoic countenances as the pile of coins grew. "Okay," Racetrack said and drew a deep breath as though for luck. He slapped down his cards. "Full house, kings ovah queens. Beat dat." Glancing at the other members of the poker game, he smirked victoriously.
Itey whistled and sighed lightly. "Good hand, Race; best one ya had all night." A smile suffused across his lips as Racetrack reached for the coins. "Not good enough, of coise, but still pretty good." He tossed his hand to the floor, revealing four sixes.
The other newsboy's mouth dropped to his knees. While Itey dragged yet more coins over to his rather large pile, Racetrack glowered at his own cards and grumbled several unprintable phrases.
"I can't believe it," Pocket exclaimed incredulously. "Ya gotta be cheatin' or somet'ing. Lemme see dose cahds."
As she reached to grab Itey's hand, an ace of spades slipped out of her sleeve and fluttered delicately to the floor. The newsies glared at the girl and she chuckled nervously. Then, holding her palms up defensively and adopting a contemptuous expression, she said, "Oh, and I'm really winnin' anyway."
Racetrack pulled the girl's dark gray cap over his face. Laughing, he then turned to a nearby bunk and shouted, "Hey, Jack! Ya wanna join da game?" When he didn't receive any answer- consenting or not- his eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "Hey, Jack!" he repeated. "Ya awake?"
"Huh?" came a distant reply. "Oh, no t'anks, Race."
Pocket turned to a slightly befuddled Racetrack and shrugged. "Must be a date wid Sarah tahnight," she invented as she began to shuffle the cards with professional speed. "Maybe dey're goin' somewheah real fancy tahnight, like da Waldorph, and dey're gonna dress up real nice- Jack's gonna have a white bowtie and tails and Sarah's gonna be drippin' in diamonds- and dey'll eat caviah and guzzle champagne like dey's drinkin' sarsaparilla. But, see, Jack has ta t'ink of a plan ta get in and make da waitahs t'ink he's da son of a railroad tycoon, so…"
Had Jack heard the elaborate story involving stolen laundry, an attacked butler, and formal stationary, he would have laughed and promised to tell Sarah about it the next time they met. That evening, however, Jack's mind was saturated with solemn thoughts and memories.
Maybe I shoulda told Wagah and Roxy about Spot's family heah…about why he left Manhattan and why he sometimes comes back, he mused and silently sighed. Aftah all, if Spot's really dat bad, dey got a right ta know why; and from what I hoid, he really is dat bad.
Scoffing lightly, he rolled his eyes. Who am I ta tell 'em about deir own leadah's past? It ain't like we'se even in da same lodgin' house or not'ing. Sure, t'ings are beddah now den befoah da strike…but would dey even believe me anyway?
For a moment he studied the laughing group of card players. Who da hell am I ta talk? I nevah even told any of dem about my parents. Off lookin' for a ranch- hard ta find one when you'se behind bars for the rest of you'se life or six feet undah. With a swift glance towards his fellow newsies, he reached deep into his pocket and pulled out the worn copy of his Western Jim comic. Although the colors had faded considerably since he had first bought it and the edges had softened and torn due to age, Jack still felt a rush of excitement at the thought of the open plains. Who can blame him for not wantin' ta be around heah, especially aftah all dat happened wid his faddah? But still, maybe I outta let 'em know…
Quickly, he shoved the paper back into his pocket, where it would remain safely out of sight. Jack heaved a silent sigh of relief when he saw Mush strolling over. Jus' in time, he thought.
"Heya, Jack," the other newsboy greeted, laughing lightly. "Wanna head ovah ta Medda's tahnight? New show. Dave and Violet already said dey'd come."
Jack cleared his throat as he leapt to his feet. "Yeah, sure," he said casually and reached for his faithful hat. As he followed Mush out of the boys' bunkroom, he frowned and thought that perhaps it would be better to stay out of Brooklyn.
An icy, damp fog was crawling into Brooklyn. Grin turned up the collar of his threadbare jacket against the slight wind that bit at his neck. He scowled noisily at the two papers tucked under his arm and gazed down the nearly empty streets. Of coise, he mumbled to himself, ev'rybody's on deir way home except me. Who wants ta buy a pape in dis weadah anyway?
He caught sight of a middle-aged couple strolling home and thrust one of his papers high into the air. "President caught in foreign scandal! Pictuahs on page nine!" The article (which was actually about the president's visit to England) did not seem to impress the couple; the passed by Grin without even the slightest glance in his direction. As they sauntered farther down the sidewalk, the newsboy spat angrily into the gutter.
"Cheapskates," he muttered as his frown deepened.
The fog was getting much thicker now. Grin gazed down the street in both directions, hoping to see someone searching out a newsie for the final newspaper in Brooklyn. Luck, however, didn't seem to be on his side that night. He scowled again and began to march down the street, heading back to the lodging house in hopes of selling his papers on the way there.
Maybe I outta take a diff'rent approach ta da whole t'ing, he pondered. It'd be cheap stuff ta burn, especially on a cold night like dis. And besides, who really wants ta read an article about da pres-
Thoughts of selling his last papers rushed from his mind as a large hand grasped his throat and pushed him against a brick wall. Gasping for air, Grin squinted to see his attacker- several attackers, in fact. Bulldog's face was nearly pressed to his so that the Brooklyn newsie detected the potent aromas of cheap whiskey and perspiration. Grin vaguely wondered if he would pass out from the mere smell before the massive newsboy had a chance to pummel him.
"Let…go…ya dirty…bastard…" Grin ordered with as much force as he could muster as he struggled to breath and tried to pry Bulldog's seemingly unyielding fingers off of his throat.
"Yeah, and maybe we can all get tea tagethah aftah," Dash drawled laughingly from behind Bulldog.
The Brooklyn newsboy glared at five of the Debler Street newsies. "Get outta…Spot's territory," he gasped.
"Sure t'ing, Grin," a disembodied voice, which chilled Grin's blood more than the wind did, wafted delicate to the group. "But da t'ing is, dis ain't gonna be Spot's territory for much longah." A figure emerged from within the icy fog, moving slowly and awkwardly but deliberately towards the cluster of newsies. Jackal's bloodless lips were curved into a malicious grin and his intense eyes boring into Grin's flesh.
Grin's eyes illuminated with fury. "Is dis da way…ya gotta…take us? Gang up…and attack us…when we'se ain't…lookin'?"
"You'se ain't exactly in a position ta be insultin' us," the Debler Street leader replied with calm satisfaction. He nodded to Bulldog, who chuckled maniacally as his grip tightened a bit more. At Grin's silence, Jackal nodded complacently.
"I'd like ta t'ink of your position right now as what's already startin' ta happen ta Spot's newsies." A smirk suffused across his mouth and he laughed humorlessly. "I know dat Spot's losin' it. Soon, you'se newsies are gonna be widout da leadahship dat protected ya and your territory all dese years. And unless ya give us dis territory right away, you'se are all gonna wish ya was nevah even born."
The Brooklyn newsie's eyes became slits as he glowered at Jackal. "You'se a…biggah…coward…den I t'ought," he murmured faintly and without fear of the hand encircling his throat.
Grin was surprised to see the faintest traces of crimson spread across Jackal's pale flesh. His eyes seemed to follow suit, as red veins flashed in contrast to the pale gray of his irises. His body tensed and he seemed to automatically lean forward, like a large jungle cat preparing to lunge; but then he seemed to regain control. With a twist of his thin lips, Jackal said, "Go ahead, boys. Let's send a liddle message ta Brooklyn."
The voices of the Debler Street newsies rose in a chorus of vicious laughter. Bulldog's hand remained firmly clenched on Grin's neck as Fist strolled over, slipping a pair of bloodied brass knuckles onto his right hand.
"Say you'se prayahs, Grin," Fist drawled as he slowly drew his arm back. The brass gleamed in the dull glow of the gaslights. Grin fought to keep his eyes from widening and his face from blanching to match Jackal's.
The Brooklyn newsboy was still struggling to break free of Bulldog's grasp when he felt his head split in two and darkness rush into his brain.
To be continued…
"Mayah flees City Hall in terror!" he called to the masses, waving a newspaper at arm's length above his head. "Panic in Manhattan!"
He barely noticed the shocked faces of those he sold papers to. Although his hands moved deftly to exchange newspapers for coin, his mind had wandered far from his task. The ghost of a voice pierced his brain like a needle.
"Are ya gonna come home wid us, Ethan?"
Home. How could he possibly face them now? Images of his mother and siblings- all looking so despondent and expectant- flashed behind his eyelids. What had he ever given them besides a few dollars a month? He could almost feel Lily's thin arms encircling his waist as she silently pleaded for a kind of help that he had not been able to give.
Able? he thought with an audible scoff. Jus' not willin'. I couldn't even face my own faddah until he was dyin' and even den I could barely take it. Yeah, I'se da intimidatin', brave Spot Conlon.
He shook his head. What could he possibly give them now when he hadn't even been strong enough to confront his father only a few days prior?
"Um," an unfamiliar voice interjected into Spot's thoughts, "you there. Pardon."
Spot immediately tensed and adopted his common aura of power. A young man of roughly sixteen years of age stood a few feet away. He wore elegant dark gray attire, boots that shined in the dull sunlight, and a slightly bewildered but polite expression. Under his arm he carried several leather- bound books, most likely the complete sonnets of Shakespeare or the history of Ancient Greek civilization. His dark blonde hair was cut to the strict dictates of fashion. He was well built, as though he was comfortable with the physical exertions of a good baseball game but would never have to worry about growing prematurely weak under the stress of factory work.
When the Brooklyn newsie's stony eyes bore into his, the young man continued, "I was hoping to buy a paper. Sounds like an interesting article."
"Yeah," Spot mumbled as his frown deepened. "Heah."
"I…ah, thank you," the young man replied, somewhat taken back by the newsie's intimidating and cold demeanor. He placed a penny into Spot's palm and rushed down the sidewalk, no doubt to a small café in which he could discuss the politics of European countries or laissez-faire economics.
Spot's fingers tightened around his cane until his knuckles turned as white as chalk. The young man had not been condescending or impolite in any way, as others of his class had often been. In fact, Spot felt that had the boy been a newsie, they might have been close friends. Yet he couldn't quell the hatred that dripped into his heart like burning liquor. He found himself imagining that young man graduating from Harvard, taking over the family law firm, and gaining the respect of his family and peers. Perhaps one day that boy would have newspaper articles written about his triumphs in law or business or whatever field he chose to pursue. He stared at the boy's retreating figure until it disappeared into the crowd; and he could not stop hating.
A faint voice of reason rebuked him. Come on, Spot, get it tahgethah. Ya can't go crazy ovah some kid who ya don't know not'ing about.
His fingers began to relax and he focused on the slightly smudged headlines of a newspaper. The words swirled and blurred beneath his hands. When a familiar voice whispered gently in his ear, he whirled around in shock, expecting to see a man standing behind him.
Of course, he found only strangers marching passed, no one who would care to converse with a newsboy unless they wished to a buy a paper. Spot blinked and drew a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Jesus, Spot, no wondah ya can't handle you'se own lodgin' house, he thought caustically. Yet even with this remark, he could not deny the voice he was sure he had heard:
"Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things."
In his surprise, Spot had dropped his stack of newspapers onto the sidewalk. They still lay at his feet when another voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Hey, kid, ya okay?"
Spot glanced up to see an elderly man studying him in concern. He appeared to be one of the dockworkers, perhaps a position he had held for his entire life. His clothing was shabby and stained in several places with slick oil. He bore the potent aroma of the sea and dead fish. What hair the man had was disheveled and white as snow, while his eyes were a brilliant shade of green. His face was tanned and wizened, like leather that was prematurely showing its age due to years of misuse. The man chuckled lightly in an attempt to mollify the situation. "Prob'ly t'inkin' of some pretty goil, right?"
Groaning faintly, the man began to bend over to retrieve the fallen papers but Spot, regaining his senses, beat him to it. "T'anks, mistah. Sorry 'bout dat," the Brooklyn leader found himself saying, losing his appearance of utter control and strength for a moment.
"Don't mention it," the man replied. He nodded and gave a pleasant smile before sauntering off in the direction of the docks.
Spot watched the man as he strolled away and his heart seemed to contract in his chest. Is dat all deah is for me? Years of hard woik and determination and not'in ta show for it? He sighed heavily. I gotta get outta Brooklyn, fast.
"Spot!" The boy turned at his named to find Roxy sprinting towards him, calling out apologizes to those she hit as she ran. She hunched over and gasped for breath when she reached him, her cheeks stained as bright a red as the blood that dripped from her nose.
"Roxy, what's da maddah?" he inquired worriedly as he pulled the girl out of the flow of traffic. When they were safely in an alley, he extracted a threadbare handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her. "What happened? Was it Bulldog again?"
Holding the handkerchief to her nose, she shook her head. "Not exactly," she replied through the veil of worn cotton. "It was the Debler Street newsies, but it wasn't specifically Bulldog…well, it's kind of a long story." She swiftly related the tale of how she and Rabbit had discovered two Debler Street newsies in Spot's territory, and how she had followed Cotton back to the other lodging house in Brooklyn. "…and I don't think they're going to wait around much longer. They're getting stronger and more persistent, Spot. Jackal's insane and malicious, and I don't think we can afford to just wait around and find out what he's got planned."
"Ya heah anyt'ing specific?" he wanted to know.
She sighed. "Just that they plan on getting rid of us and taking over our territory. He said they're waiting until-" She caught the words in her throat and coughed embarrassedly. "Until we don't suspect they're going to do anything. To catch us off guard. Smooth, Roxy, real smooth, she berated herself inwardly. Why don't you just tell him that everyone, even Jackal, knows he's losing it?
Spot crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a convenient brick wall. He studied the streets solemnly, watching elderly ladies in black satin, small boys bearing wooden swords, and middle-aged men wearing their stress around their eyes walk passed. He recalled what his father had said about Brooklyn the last time they met. Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all-mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy. The words gnawed at Spot's brain. This was where he had ruled uncontested since he was fifteen and had assumed leadership of the Brooklyn newsies, the most renowned newsies in New York. And now ya can't even handle one damn group of vultuahs. No wondah you'se faddah always said ya wasn't woith not'ing.
"Spot?" Roxy asked so softly that her voice was practically lost among the din of the sidewalks.
Standing erect, the newsboy adopted more of an unemotional, controlled demeanor than usual. "Get back ta da lodgin' house and clean up, and den spread da woid ta be on da lookout for da Deblah Street newsies tahday. We'll talk more latah tahnight."
The girl nodded soberly. "Okay. I'll see you later, then." She moved to dash into the crowds, but halted for a moment. She gazed at Spot with concern, fear, and another emotion he couldn't name illuminating her eyes. "Be careful, okay?"
His body went rigid and his eyes seemed like shards of ice. "Doubtin' my ability ta take care of myself?" he demanded harshly.
"No," she replied quietly, taken back by his tone. "It's just that you're alone today." She opened her mouth, as if to elaborate, but then fell silent. Without even a word of good-bye, she rushed off and in a moment had completely vanished in the sea of bodies.
Spot did not watch her go. He slumped back against the wall, pushing a hand through his unkempt tresses. For once it seemed that the famed leader of the Brooklyn Lodging House had absolutely no idea what his course of action would be.
"Queens ovah tens," Itey declared triumphantly as he tossed his cards to the floor of the boys' bunkroom. Pulling a small pile of coins to his side, he laughed and shrugged. "Must be my night."
"I can't believe dis," Racetrack moaned. "All my winnin's at da track gone in less den two minutes."
"Look at it this way," Midnight replied as she shuffled the deck of faded cards. "That's more than two minutes than you usually get." She winked and began to deal the cards to the rather large group of players that had gathered in the bunkroom that evening.
Racetrack raised an eyebrow. "Bright side ta everyt'ing, huh?" At the sight of his new hand, his expression brightened considerably. "I'm in," he remarked cheerfully.
Soon it was down to Itey and Racetrack. They stared at each other with stoic countenances as the pile of coins grew. "Okay," Racetrack said and drew a deep breath as though for luck. He slapped down his cards. "Full house, kings ovah queens. Beat dat." Glancing at the other members of the poker game, he smirked victoriously.
Itey whistled and sighed lightly. "Good hand, Race; best one ya had all night." A smile suffused across his lips as Racetrack reached for the coins. "Not good enough, of coise, but still pretty good." He tossed his hand to the floor, revealing four sixes.
The other newsboy's mouth dropped to his knees. While Itey dragged yet more coins over to his rather large pile, Racetrack glowered at his own cards and grumbled several unprintable phrases.
"I can't believe it," Pocket exclaimed incredulously. "Ya gotta be cheatin' or somet'ing. Lemme see dose cahds."
As she reached to grab Itey's hand, an ace of spades slipped out of her sleeve and fluttered delicately to the floor. The newsies glared at the girl and she chuckled nervously. Then, holding her palms up defensively and adopting a contemptuous expression, she said, "Oh, and I'm really winnin' anyway."
Racetrack pulled the girl's dark gray cap over his face. Laughing, he then turned to a nearby bunk and shouted, "Hey, Jack! Ya wanna join da game?" When he didn't receive any answer- consenting or not- his eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "Hey, Jack!" he repeated. "Ya awake?"
"Huh?" came a distant reply. "Oh, no t'anks, Race."
Pocket turned to a slightly befuddled Racetrack and shrugged. "Must be a date wid Sarah tahnight," she invented as she began to shuffle the cards with professional speed. "Maybe dey're goin' somewheah real fancy tahnight, like da Waldorph, and dey're gonna dress up real nice- Jack's gonna have a white bowtie and tails and Sarah's gonna be drippin' in diamonds- and dey'll eat caviah and guzzle champagne like dey's drinkin' sarsaparilla. But, see, Jack has ta t'ink of a plan ta get in and make da waitahs t'ink he's da son of a railroad tycoon, so…"
Had Jack heard the elaborate story involving stolen laundry, an attacked butler, and formal stationary, he would have laughed and promised to tell Sarah about it the next time they met. That evening, however, Jack's mind was saturated with solemn thoughts and memories.
Maybe I shoulda told Wagah and Roxy about Spot's family heah…about why he left Manhattan and why he sometimes comes back, he mused and silently sighed. Aftah all, if Spot's really dat bad, dey got a right ta know why; and from what I hoid, he really is dat bad.
Scoffing lightly, he rolled his eyes. Who am I ta tell 'em about deir own leadah's past? It ain't like we'se even in da same lodgin' house or not'ing. Sure, t'ings are beddah now den befoah da strike…but would dey even believe me anyway?
For a moment he studied the laughing group of card players. Who da hell am I ta talk? I nevah even told any of dem about my parents. Off lookin' for a ranch- hard ta find one when you'se behind bars for the rest of you'se life or six feet undah. With a swift glance towards his fellow newsies, he reached deep into his pocket and pulled out the worn copy of his Western Jim comic. Although the colors had faded considerably since he had first bought it and the edges had softened and torn due to age, Jack still felt a rush of excitement at the thought of the open plains. Who can blame him for not wantin' ta be around heah, especially aftah all dat happened wid his faddah? But still, maybe I outta let 'em know…
Quickly, he shoved the paper back into his pocket, where it would remain safely out of sight. Jack heaved a silent sigh of relief when he saw Mush strolling over. Jus' in time, he thought.
"Heya, Jack," the other newsboy greeted, laughing lightly. "Wanna head ovah ta Medda's tahnight? New show. Dave and Violet already said dey'd come."
Jack cleared his throat as he leapt to his feet. "Yeah, sure," he said casually and reached for his faithful hat. As he followed Mush out of the boys' bunkroom, he frowned and thought that perhaps it would be better to stay out of Brooklyn.
An icy, damp fog was crawling into Brooklyn. Grin turned up the collar of his threadbare jacket against the slight wind that bit at his neck. He scowled noisily at the two papers tucked under his arm and gazed down the nearly empty streets. Of coise, he mumbled to himself, ev'rybody's on deir way home except me. Who wants ta buy a pape in dis weadah anyway?
He caught sight of a middle-aged couple strolling home and thrust one of his papers high into the air. "President caught in foreign scandal! Pictuahs on page nine!" The article (which was actually about the president's visit to England) did not seem to impress the couple; the passed by Grin without even the slightest glance in his direction. As they sauntered farther down the sidewalk, the newsboy spat angrily into the gutter.
"Cheapskates," he muttered as his frown deepened.
The fog was getting much thicker now. Grin gazed down the street in both directions, hoping to see someone searching out a newsie for the final newspaper in Brooklyn. Luck, however, didn't seem to be on his side that night. He scowled again and began to march down the street, heading back to the lodging house in hopes of selling his papers on the way there.
Maybe I outta take a diff'rent approach ta da whole t'ing, he pondered. It'd be cheap stuff ta burn, especially on a cold night like dis. And besides, who really wants ta read an article about da pres-
Thoughts of selling his last papers rushed from his mind as a large hand grasped his throat and pushed him against a brick wall. Gasping for air, Grin squinted to see his attacker- several attackers, in fact. Bulldog's face was nearly pressed to his so that the Brooklyn newsie detected the potent aromas of cheap whiskey and perspiration. Grin vaguely wondered if he would pass out from the mere smell before the massive newsboy had a chance to pummel him.
"Let…go…ya dirty…bastard…" Grin ordered with as much force as he could muster as he struggled to breath and tried to pry Bulldog's seemingly unyielding fingers off of his throat.
"Yeah, and maybe we can all get tea tagethah aftah," Dash drawled laughingly from behind Bulldog.
The Brooklyn newsboy glared at five of the Debler Street newsies. "Get outta…Spot's territory," he gasped.
"Sure t'ing, Grin," a disembodied voice, which chilled Grin's blood more than the wind did, wafted delicate to the group. "But da t'ing is, dis ain't gonna be Spot's territory for much longah." A figure emerged from within the icy fog, moving slowly and awkwardly but deliberately towards the cluster of newsies. Jackal's bloodless lips were curved into a malicious grin and his intense eyes boring into Grin's flesh.
Grin's eyes illuminated with fury. "Is dis da way…ya gotta…take us? Gang up…and attack us…when we'se ain't…lookin'?"
"You'se ain't exactly in a position ta be insultin' us," the Debler Street leader replied with calm satisfaction. He nodded to Bulldog, who chuckled maniacally as his grip tightened a bit more. At Grin's silence, Jackal nodded complacently.
"I'd like ta t'ink of your position right now as what's already startin' ta happen ta Spot's newsies." A smirk suffused across his mouth and he laughed humorlessly. "I know dat Spot's losin' it. Soon, you'se newsies are gonna be widout da leadahship dat protected ya and your territory all dese years. And unless ya give us dis territory right away, you'se are all gonna wish ya was nevah even born."
The Brooklyn newsie's eyes became slits as he glowered at Jackal. "You'se a…biggah…coward…den I t'ought," he murmured faintly and without fear of the hand encircling his throat.
Grin was surprised to see the faintest traces of crimson spread across Jackal's pale flesh. His eyes seemed to follow suit, as red veins flashed in contrast to the pale gray of his irises. His body tensed and he seemed to automatically lean forward, like a large jungle cat preparing to lunge; but then he seemed to regain control. With a twist of his thin lips, Jackal said, "Go ahead, boys. Let's send a liddle message ta Brooklyn."
The voices of the Debler Street newsies rose in a chorus of vicious laughter. Bulldog's hand remained firmly clenched on Grin's neck as Fist strolled over, slipping a pair of bloodied brass knuckles onto his right hand.
"Say you'se prayahs, Grin," Fist drawled as he slowly drew his arm back. The brass gleamed in the dull glow of the gaslights. Grin fought to keep his eyes from widening and his face from blanching to match Jackal's.
The Brooklyn newsboy was still struggling to break free of Bulldog's grasp when he felt his head split in two and darkness rush into his brain.
To be continued…