A/N: A little piece on Race and Spot, their past and present friendship/rivalry. Five parts total.
Violence and language warnings.
"Jesus Christ, Spot."
"What?" Spot said, not looking up from the day-old newspaper he was trying to read.
"You gonna do somethin' about this?" Race asked harshly, keeping a steadying hand on Blink's shoulder. Blink was sitting with his head in his hands; his eyes squeezed shut. His nose was bleeding and the cards he had been holding were scattered on the floor. One of Spot's boys was wiping his fist on his shirt, a thin smile on his face.
"About that?" Spot briefly glanced over the top of the page at Blink. "No."
He had seen the whole thing from the corner of his eye.
No doubt, Race thought it had been unprovoked. The truth was Kid had been asking for it since the moment he'd walked in. The game had been going pretty well, considering Race was winning and his own boys were losing their money at an increasing rate. It was only a matter of time before tempers flared and someone got decked. Kid Blink got the honor.
"He was askin' for it," Spot said. He flipped the paper over and searched the back for anything remotely interesting.
Even though Racetrack came to Brooklyn regularly, Spot never played cards when he was in. He had the feeling Race cheated, though he couldn't ever pin him for it. That, and he didn't like how Race could read him so well, how he could call his bluffs and win with irritating consistency. It had been years since they had sat at the same table.
"I dwidn't wask fwor wit," Blink protested, holding his sleeve to his nose to staunch the blood.
"My boy told you to not to let your cards show. Twice," Spot replied, finding an article on the bottom of the page. Something about The Refuge slashing its budget. Maybe they'd close it altogether, that'd be a red-letter day in his book. Not that he spent much time there. A dollar went a long way to convincing the bulls of innocence.
"That ain't no reason to sock 'im, and you know it," Race retorted.
He probably had a point, not that it mattered.
"What am I, your mother?" Spot said with faint sarcasm, "Hit him back if you got a problem."
The boy that had punched Kid was almost twice the size of Race. Spot chuckled to himself. He could only hope Race would actually do it, he looked angry enough and it would've been the best entertainment he'd had all week. Getting Race to fight was like an art form in itself, he always avoided it if he could.
"We're done here," Race said sharply, tossing his cards on the table.
Spot smiled behind the newspaper. Predictable. Cut and run at the first sign of trouble. That's why he lived in Manhattan, he knew he couldn't cut it in Brooklyn. He'd left the first day Spot wormed his way to the top. He knew it would've been trouble to stay.
"What about our money?" demanded one of the other boys.
"What about it? You lost your heads, the game's over. Tough luck," Race said as he pocketed his own coins and helped Blink to his feet.
His boys weren't too happy about that, he could feel the tension in the silence. Spot lifted his eyes to find most of them were looking at him, waiting for an indication of how far they would be allowed to go. With a nod of his head, they would take the money by force; if he did nothing, they would do nothing.
Race was looking at him as well, almost daring him to do something about it.
That settled it.
He could care less if his boys got a chance to win their money back, but he took any opportunity he was given to mess with Race.
"Pick up your cards and play, Higgins," Spot told him with just enough authority to get under his skin. If there was one thing Race hated more than losing, it was being told what to do.
It was about more than putting him in his place, though Spot never got tired of reminding him who was higher up in the world. Race took pride in being one step ahead of everyone else and Spot took pride in making him realize he wasn't.
"No," Race said, careful to not look him in the eye or do anything that would be considered open disrespect. Smart boy. Though, it was probably killing him to keep his wisecracking mouth shut.
"It's awright, Rwace," Blink said, touching the bridge of his nose gingerly. He winced and swore under his breath.
"No, it's not," Race said, clearly directing the comment at Spot. "I'll come back when you teach them some manners."
Glancing to Blink, Race said a few words that Spot couldn't hear and motioned for him to go outside. Blink looked hesitant, but complied.
Spot nodded briefly, indicating he should be allowed to pass. They didn't need someone bleeding all over the cards.
"Finish the game," Spot said coolly. It was more than a request; it was a demand, though Spot was careful to keep his voice even. He knew Race would recognize the tone for what it was, a warning that he was going too far.
"Fuck you," Race said, managing to hold back whatever else he wanted to say. There was more irritation than anger in his voice, so Spot let it slide.
It was good to know Race still had heart in him, Spot had always thought Manhattan had made him soft. He would have smiled if his boys weren't there. The situation being what it was, however, Spot regarded Racetrack with mild indifference.
Race looked at Spot harshly; Spot returned the sentiment.
"Finish the game," Spot repeated, a hint of a threat in his voice. It had the calculated effect. He watched as Race resentfully picked up his cards.
They were only in his hand a moment before he unceremoniously dropped them on the floor.
"You finish it," Race replied bitingly. With a parting challenge in his eyes, he turned to the door, not waiting to see what effect his words had.
Spot couldn't keep the smile from his face any longer. It had taken such little effort.
He was on his feet before Race took a step. To his boys, he had been insulted in his own house; to him, it wasn't nearly that serious, but he wouldn't let on. He had his reputation to uphold. Chairs scraped against the floor as he followed Race out the door. They were probably looking forward to a good fight. On another occasion, he wouldn't have minded an audience, but this was personal.
"Back off!" Spot barked over his shoulder. They obeyed and didn't follow. Instead, most moved to the window, trying to see through the filthy glass.
He was going to enjoy this.