Disclaimer:I do not own Newsies or any of the Newsies characters. To the best of my knowledge, Disney owns them.
I am making no money from this story. I seriously doubt the sanity of anyone who would pay money to read anything I have written.
A/N: My sincere thanks to my kind and talented beta, SakiSaki
While the rest of the world celebrates Valentines Day, Race chooses to spend his time at one of Spot Conlon's card games.
Rated M for SLASH and sexual content.
A Card Game in Brooklyn
The day began as usual for Racetrack Higgins. He was jolted into consciousness by Mr. Kloppman, who relentlessly tapped his stick against Race's bunk. Then there was the jockeying for position in the washroom, and trying to shave with cold water, while Mush and Blink bumped him from either side.
"Someday the two of you are gonna cause me to slit my throat!" he shouted.
"We should only be so lucky," Blink chuckled.
At the distribution center, everything was as usual. Race sat alone searching the newspaper for a catchy headline, while the other guys laughed and horsed around.
After settling on a headline that was only slightly improved, Race headed out into the streets.
Racetrack never had the desire, or the need, for a partner. He did quite well on his own.
Race sold especially well to the ladies. The fact that he looked much younger than his years was definitely a plus. Race would grace the ladies with a beaming smile from his boyish face. If he was lucky, his smile would earn him not only a penny for the newspaper, but an extra penny for his charm. Yes, Race could be quite charming when he wanted to be.
Today, Race sold out in record time.
Instead of going back to the distribution center for the afternoon edition, or heading off to Brooklyn's Sheepshead Racetrack, he went back to the lodging house. Race needed to get some rest.
Tonight, he would be in Brooklyn for one of Spot Conlon's card games. These events often ran late into the night, and sometimes went straight through until morning.
Spot's day was also routine.
Spot sat on his perch, watching the sun rise over Brooklyn. He was always the first to rise. If they hadn't seen Spot go to his room each night, his boys would swear that he never slept. Spot was always sitting in his perch when the others stumbled out of their abandoned warehouse home.
That's when Spot's business day began. Anyone with a problem, grievance or business matter would line up to see him. Spot would give advice, settle arguments, and in general lay down the law. He truly was the King of Brooklyn.
From there, it was off to the Brooklyn distribution center and then out to sell his papes.
There was no selling to sweet ladies for Spot. He sold at the docks, warehouses, and bars in the worst parts of town. There was no charming smile either. Spot almost dared the people to buy his papers. He was cocky and rough, yet he sold out every day. There never was anyone who could outfight, outsmart or outsell Spot Conlon.
Spot's afternoons were busy as well. He never stopped to eat. That, along with his lack of sleep, and overabundance of energy, was why he remained so slim.
Spot would walk the length of his territory, gathering news and checking on his boys. Spot took his position as leader seriously. Nothing happened in his town or to his boys without him knowing. That's the way things worked in Brooklyn.
When the others returned to the lodging house, Racetrack stretched and climbed out of bed. Again he washed and shaved, this time without the interference of Mush and Blink.
Race put on his clean shirt, grabbed the small satchel from under his bed, then set off on his way.
He met Jack standing outside the building. Jack was pacing impatiently, waiting for David.
"Hey Race," Jack said. "Looks like you're off to one of Spot's all-nighters. Ain't you got better things to do on Valentine's Day?"
"No, Jackie-boy," he replied. "I think I'll leave Valentine's Day to you, and the other girls around here." Then after giving Jack the old Racetrack smirk, he disappeared up the block.
For once, Race didn't have to walk, or hitch a ride across the bridge. He was lucky enough to get a ride on a beer wagon. The fella driving was an old track buddy of his. The man took Race straight to the docks that Spot called home.
As he walked the length of the pier, Racetrack could feel the eyes of Spot's sentries watching. Though he never saw those who kept watch, he knew they were there nonetheless. Nobody dared tried to stop him. Everyone knew that Racetrack Higgins was a respected associate of the Brooklyn leader. Racetrack knew that the sentries were a necessary part of Spot's life, but their presence always made him feel uneasy. They were an ominous bunch to say the least.
Race entered the warehouse to find that Spot was holding court. One of Spot's newsies had been caught roughing up some of the younger boys, and stealing their money. Instead of showing remorse, the boy spat in Spot's face and questioned his parentage.
Spot then administered the usual punishment.
When he was through, the boy was escorted out of Brooklyn, and Spot was left to bandage his own torn knuckles.
Though no one but Racetrack took notice, Spot was disturbed by Race's presence. Albeit the handing out of reprimands and punishment where a part of Spot's duties, he preferred that they be kept private. Brooklyn's business was not something to be shared with outsiders.
"You're early," Spot said coldly
The Brooklyn leader's remark drew little more than a nod from his guest.
Then after giving some whispered instructions to his second in command, Spot gestured for Race to follow him.
They ascended the stairs to the loft room, which doubled as Spot's living quarters and office.
Spot stopped and called back to his right-hand man. "Send Boxcar over to Maxie's for a couple'a samwiches and some beer. Then I don't wanna be disturbed unless dere's an emergency."
The loft room was modest and functional. There was a bed and nightstand in one corner, a makeshift desk against the wall, and a table with a few mismatched chairs in the center. A small footlocker and a couple of nails in the wall held Spot's few personal belongings.
Despite what anyone thought, Spot never benefited financially from his position. His income came exclusively from the papers he sold. Though they were offered, Spot never took a bribe, kickback, or a portion of any money earned by the Brooklyn newsies.
Racetrack sat at the table, and pulled out his cards. "The usual stakes?" he asked.
Spot nodded, placed his money on the table. Then he settled in across from Race.
The two played a couple of hands, then there was a knock on the door. It was Boxcar with their dinner.
Spot took some of his money from the table and gave it to the boy.
"Keep the change kid," Spot said with just the trace of a smile.
"Gee, thanks, Mr. Conlon," the boy replied. "Thanks a lot!"
Race couldn't help but smile. Spot had a soft side, especially for the little guys. Race knew that the couple of cents change Spot gave that kid seemed like a fortune to the boy.
"Whadda you lookin' at?" Spot grumbled.
"Oh nothin'," Race replied, smiling even wider.
Racetrack could see things in Spot that nobody else could. It had been that way from the beginning.
Theirs was an unusual relationship. To the outside world one was a tough as nails, no-nonsense hard-ass, and the other was a smart-mouth gambler, and charmer of innocent ladies.
Now, they were alone behind closed doors, and their defenses were put aside.
As more hands were played and money exchanged, Spot even managed to laugh at his partner's witty remarks.
"Damn. This food is awful," Racetrack grumbled. "I think they got his meat from the nag I lost that money on yesterday."
"Well if you bet on her she didn't make it ta the butcher shop. Dat nag went straight ta the glue factory," Spot laughed.
After a while, Spot stood up to stretch his legs. He walked over to his footlocker and took out a bottle of whiskey.
"So what's Jackie-boy and the fellas doin' tonight?" Spot asked as he took a drink.
"There all out celebratin' Valentine's Day," Race replied. " The way I figure it, Jack should be tryin' to get into Davey's pants just about now. And Skittery ain't climbed out'a Snitch's pants since he got in 'em a year and a half ago, so we know damn well what he's doin'."
"I guess da fire alarms are gonna be ringin' in Manhattan t'night with all dat heat goin' on," Spot said taking another shot of whiskey.
Then Spot reached over and grabbed a package off of his desk. "Here," he said. "I found dis on da docks the udda day. I thought maybe you could use 'im."
Race opened the paper to find a small package of cigars. This was Spot's way of giving him a Valentine's Day present.
"Many happy returns of the day!" Spot exclaimed as he took another drink.
"That stuff is gonna kill you someday," Race said, referring to the cheap whiskey Spot was drinking.
"Who are you kiddin'?" Spot replied coldly. "You know damn well dat some bummer with a score ta settle is gonna kill me long before dis stuff does."
A chill ran down Racetrack's spine. Unfortunately, he knew there was a good chance that Spot was right.
Race reached into his satchel and pulled out a bottle of Irish whiskey. "Here," he said as he placed it on the table. "I came across this the other day. I don't care much for the stuff so I thought you might want it."
Race would have preferred to admit that he bought the whiskey as a gift for Spot. If it was any occasion other than Valentine's Day he could have, but there was no way Spot would ever admit to being Racetrack's sweetheart. Not out loud anyway.
Spot opened the bottle and poured them both a drink.
"Here's ta all da sweethearts of da world," Spot proclaimed as his eyes locked with Race's. They raised their glasses and swallowed the whiskey.
Spot poured them another drink and said, "Here's to Cupid, and his arrows of love." With eyes locked once again they both threw back the warming liquid.
"Ya know, Race. It's a funny thing about love. How life makes it easy for some people, and whit uddas, it ain't so easy. Ya know what I mean?"
Race simply nodded. He knew how hard it was for Spot. Jack Kelly had it easy in comparison. Though Jack and David didn't advertise their relationship, they could still be themselves amongst their close friends. In Manhattan, they could go for a walk or out to a dinner without raising any eyebrows. But that was Manhattan. Brooklyn wasn't just another borough. It was another world. Brooklyn had different ideas, and different rules. If anyone found out about Spot, he would be dead before morning.
Spot poured yet another drink. "And here's to keeping secrets," he said as he raised his glass. But this time Race did not drink with him. This time Race slammed down the glass causing the whiskey to splash across the table.
"I may have to abide by the rules of Brooklyn," Racetrack spat, "But I don't have to drink to them!"
Spot stood up and threw his glass against the wall. Then in a few short steps, he locked the door, picked Race up from his seat and slammed him against the wall.
"Whadda you know about being me?" he spat. "Whadda you know about having to be responsible for everyone all of the time? Whadda you know about being watched 24 hours a day? Whadda you know about having to be the great Spot Conlon, and be constantly afraid that someone will find out what-and who-you really are?"
Spot grabbed Racetrack by the shirt and pulled him pulled close. Then, slamming him against the wall again, Spot hissed, "Whadda you know about being afraid that if someone does find out then you won't live through another day?"
Spot stared in Race's dark eyes waiting for him to answer. He was waiting for Race to argue or agree or to give him a solution. . . . Anything.
But Race remained silent. He had no answers. There was no solution.
Spot released his grip on Races shirt and turned away. Then in an instant, he was pushing Race back against the wall, covering Race's mouth with his own. Spot's hands gripped so tight on Race's arms they were sure to leave bruises. Spot's teeth were digging into his lips so hard Race could taste blood. A surge of heat flashed through Race's body settling in his groin.
In an instant Race pushed Spot away. Then he grabbed Spot's shoulders and pushed him against the wall. Spot struggled only for a moment as Race's tongue entered his mouth. Spot surrendered immediately as a groan escaped from deep inside his throat.
This is what Spot wanted. This was what Spot needed. He no longer wanted to be in charge. He wanted to give himself up to Race. He wanted Race take the lead. He wanted Race be the strong one.
But this was nothing new. This is what Spot always wanted. He wanted the one person in the world that he trusted to take charge over him.
Hands wandered and clothing was quickly discarded. Race leaned spot over the table and soon it was over.
Now they lay in bed, with Spot's head resting on Race's chest.
"I'm so tired'a dis Race," Spot whispered. "I don't want to be the leader of Brooklyn. I want to be rid of it all. I want to get that bar like we talked about. We could run it, just you and me. Then we wouldn't have ta answer to anyone. I wanna be with ya, and tell ya how I feel without being afraid of who might hear."
"I know," Race said softly as he stroked Spot's hair. "We'll have it someday. Things will be different of us. You'll see." But as much as they wanted it to be true, they both knew that it was just a dream. They would never have enough money to escape. But at least the dream was something they could hold on to. It was something to give them hope.
They were joined in passion again that night. But the second time was different. It was slow and gentle and beautiful..
In the morning when Racetrack awoke he was alone as always.
Spot was already on his perch, waiting for his day as leader to begin.
Race quickly dressed, and went out to Spot.
"I'll be back in about a week," Race said sadly.
"Don't forget," Spot replied, his voice having a slightly urgent tone.
"Never!" said Race as he looked into Spot's steely grey eyes. Then he turned away, and headed back to Manhattan.
END