Pocket kicked a stone, watching it bounce of the curb and roll down the street, kicking up dust. She shoved her hands into her pockets and stared at the ground, too caught up in her thoughts to hear footsteps behind her. A hand touched her arm, and she jumped, startled, then tensed up, ready to fight. Her tension eased when she realized who was beside her.
"Heya Slips," she greeted the blonde haired ten year old. "You headin back to Manhattan already?"
The small boy nodded at her, adjusting his cap on his sweaty forehead.
"Wanted to rest a bit, yeah? But Spot figgered I bettah head back quick, keep an eye on things." Pocket patted the little "boidie" on the shoulder, then handed him a dime.
"When ya get back to Hattan, stop over to Tibby's foist. Get ya some food. Ya desoive it." Slips gratefully pocketed the coin, grinning up at her.
"But don't stay to long, " she cautioned. "Ya don't wanna miss nothing." He nodded. "And Slips, if anything happens, and ya can't find Spot, come to me foist, alright?" Again, the small boy nodded, then turned and ran off at top speed. Pocket watched him go before setting off toward the docks.
Spot was back atop his crates when she returned. His posture was relaxed, his face calm, but the rapid tapping of his fingers against the gold tip of his cane betrayed his tension. He nodded at Pocket as she approached, but didn't speak. She, too, remained silent, merely nodding in response before joining a group of boys playing cards. A couple of hands later, she raked her winnings into a pile in front of her, smirking at the other newsies.
"Boys, your generous donations is much appreciated. "
The boys muttered good natured insults as she stood and pocketed her take. Pale blue eyes followed her as she crossed the dock, the same gaze she had felt on her through three hands of poker. Aware of his scrutiny, she made her way down the dock, in the direction of home. She knew he wouldn't be long.
"Fiver!"
The mean looking newsie who'd accosted Jack and David earlier that day jogged over to his leader.
"Yeah Spot?"
"I'se goin' in. Keep an eye on da boys."
Fiver caught Spot's arm as he brushed past, causing the smaller boy to raise an eyebrow.
"Ya got somethin ta say?"
Clearing his throat, Fiver removed his hand from the other newsies arm.
"Just thought you should know, Conlon . . . That kid what came in wit Kelly taday?"
"Da Mouth?"
"Yeah."
"What about 'im?"
Fiver hesitated, then took a quick step back, anticipating the reaction his next words would get.
"He, uh . . ." taking another step back, "he was lookin pretty close at Pocket." He paused, looking at his feet, then went on. "I mean, he . . . ya know . . . "
His words trailed off as he realized that he was talking to empty air.
The Brooklyn Newsies stepped hastily aside as their king strode purposefully down the dock, his cane tapping his leg with each step.
One of the reasons that the newsies of Brooklyn were so tough that Brooklyn, itself, was no picnic. The buildings were broken, the streets were dirty, trash and empty bottles dotted the landscape. In Manhattan, the boys at the Lodging House had it pretty good. A place to come home to, warm in the winter, dry in the rain, clean sheets, and kind hearted old Kloppman with their best interests at heart. Not so in Brooklyn. The crumbling warehouse that served as their barracks was run by a fat, mean drunk called Hadley. He mocked and belittled the newsies when he was drinkng, growled and threw things at them when he was sober. During the cold winter months, the boys braced themselves against the harsh winds that found entrance through the many broken windows. What few windows remained intact were so caked with dirt they blocked out light. Rats didn't bother to hide in the Brooklyn Lodging House, but ran boldly across the grimy bedsheets, drinking water from the puddles where rain leaked through the holes in the roof. On days like this one, the summer heat thickened the air, but the newsies of Brooklyn had long since grown immune to the heavy stench of sweat, smoke, and trash.
Spot Conlon burst into the lodging house, his jaw clenched, one hand tightened around his cane, the other fisted at his side. He stopped at the door and took a calming breath. Rumbling snores told him Hadley was already laid out on his cot in the office, dead to the world.
"Good." Spot thought. "I'm not in the mood to deal with that fat fuck today."
Passing quickly through the open room that housed the bunks, he didn't even bother looking around. At this time of day, all of his boys were either out selling the last of their papes or down at the docks. And he knew she wouldn't be in here. Taking the short flight of stairs two at a time, he reached the small loft where he spent his nights. His newsies all slept in the bunkroom, sometimes two or three to a bunk, even on the floor, but as king he had a space of his own, a space no one else was permitted in, except Pocket.
He found her sitting on his narrow bed, counting the money she'd one at cards. She knew he was there, but didn't look up.
"Guess ya gonna be needin some extra cash now," he observed, coming over to stand in front of her.
She stopped counting and looked up at him, dark brows raised inquiringly.
"Since ya ain't gonna be sellin no papes for a while," he explained.
Pocket held his gaze, cool green eyes meeting hard blue as she answered the question he hadn't asked outright.
"No, I ain't gonna be sellin papes for a while," she agreed, then resumed counting.
He sighed and sat down heavily on the bed, watching as she counted the last coin and pocketed the money. Several minutes passed as they sat, not speaking, his eyes on the ceiling, hers on the floor. Eventually Spot spoke.
"Ya shuah bout dis?"
Pocket shifted slightly, leaning a little closer, her shoulder barely touching his. Even this small contact was comforting, and he felt some of the days tension leave him.
" Course I'se sure," she told him.
She may have divided her time between Brooklyn and Manhattan, spending half of her days with her friends, the other half here with Spot, but she was a Manhattan newsie at heart. The idea of staying out of the strike hadn't even entered her mind.
Once again they lapsed into silence. Head tipped to one side, Pocket searched his face, noting the worry that tightened his lips almost imperceptibly. No one but her would have seen it; to most that he encountered, the Brooklynite was an enigma, unreadable. Spot Conlon was very skilled at hiding his thoughts, showing no emotion. His control was such that no one ever gleaned anything from his expression that he didn't want them too. Only Pocket, over the years, had learned to see the tiny details that slipped through the mask. He watched her study him, knew what she saw.
"Dey can't do it wid'out Brooklyn, Pocket," he declared, his voice gruff.
She smiled sadly. "They gonna hafta, though, aren't they Spot?" Her soft words were a statement, not a question. To him they were an accusation.
"I can't jump into this just cuz Jacky Boy got it inta his head ta be a strike leadah," he defended. She crossed her arms, glaring at him.
"Jack Kelly is standing up for something," she said hotly.
" Fa what, though?" Spot questioned. "Pulitzer ain't gonna give in ta no newies. Somebody else'll sell his papes and anybody who don't is gonna starve."
Pocket sat up straighter, green eyes bright with temper. "So what, we should just sit back and let them jack up the prices? Dontcha think 'dose pennies mean more ta us than dey do ta Pulitzer?"
"I ain't saying its right,"he shot back," An' I ain't sayng it ain't gonna hoit."
Flopping back onto the bed, he rubbed his hands over his face. "But I gotta think about me boys. Hadley don't let nobody stay here if dey don't got da penny for da night. We stop selling papes taday, we'll be out on our asses tamarra."
"So instead ya just gonna sit back and take what they give us?" she challenged.
He put a hand on her shoulder, closing his eyes against the tingle of electricity that shot through his skin. Without realizing, he began to softly stroke her back, the tenderness of his actions at odds with his grim response.
"Pride and big ideas nevah kept nobody from starvin'. Brooklyn ain't know place to be wid'out money."
Troubled, she laid back next to him. His arm automatically went around her, pulling her close, head pillowed on his shoulder. He pulled off her hat, watching as her thick black hair tumbled down around them.
"It's my job to look after my boys," he reminded her.
Spot had only been twelve years old when he took over Brooklyn, and for a while it had been a constant struggle to hold on to his power and prove he could lead. Fours years later, he still took his duties very seriously.
She sighed against his neck, and he fought to control his reaction. He reached up to stroke her hair, its softness soothing to his calloused fingers.
Pocket knew he was right. Giving up their only source of income was a huge risk for the newsies. But they both knew money wasn't his only reason.
"Don't you think he can do it?" she asked him, placing a hand on his chest.
Immediately, Spot forgot their conversation and wondered at how right it felt to hold her. His heart beat strongly under her hand, her body fit neatly tucked into his. They'd been friends for years, and he'd never let anyone as close to him as Pocket. She knew everything about him, and he knew the same about her.
He was the King of Brooklyn, and girls were drawn to both his power and his looks. Though he flirted a bit, he never did anything close to what his reputation was. Instead he was content to spend most of his time with Pocket, talking, playing cards, or just sitting in companionable silence. The nights she wasn't in Brooklyn he went on dates, mostly to protect his image. With those girls Spot was slick and coldly charming. With Pocket, he was just himself.
Thankfully, she had never shown much of an interest in other boys. She teased and flirted with some of the Manhattan boys, but seemed just as happy as he was to spend most of her time with just him.
For while now though, they had both noticed a change, a new awareness. Without actually saying anything, they had admitted to each other that their friendship was developing a new aspect. But for now, both were reluctant to change the way things had always been.
A light tap on his chest brought him out of his reverie, and she repeated her question. "You don't think he can do it, do you?"
He turned to face her, their noses almost touching. She closed her eyes, lethargic, as she awaited his answer.
"Not really," he admitted. " I don't. Jack won't outlast Pulitzer. A couple a days and he'll have ta give in, and den dey'll all be in woise shape dan when dey started." Pausing, he took a second to appreciate the fullness of her lips and the curve of her cheek. "Jack can have his little strike," he told her. "I'se stayin in Brooklyn and sellin' me papes." His arms tightened around her. "An' I think you should too. Be safer for ya here where I can look afta ya."
Pocket jerked upright, indignant. " I can take care of myself, Spot Conlon. Been doing it since long before I evah knew you!"
Spot sat up too, irritated that she wouldn't listen to him, "I know you can," he ground out, trying to keep his temper in check, " But dere's gonna be a lot of fightin. I'd feel bettah if you was here. I'll worry about ya if you'se in Manhattan."
Mouth set in a firm line, she glared down at him. "Well if ya so worried, you should come to Manhattan and make sure I'se safe." He didn't say anything. Placing a hand on his leg, she leaned into him, right up in his face. "I'm in this strike, Spot" she informed him. "I'se stayin in Brooklyn tonight, but foist thing tamarra, I'm goin back to Manhattan. Probably won't back here until da whole thing is ovah."
Spot could see the determination in her eyes and knew he wouldn't be able to change her mind. He flopped back onto the bed, muttering to himself.
"Who evah hoid a newsies goin on strike?"
She snuggled back into him, arm draped across his chest.
Who evah hoid of a twelve year old takin Brooklyn?"
Spot stopped arguing.