Spot shuffled the deck absently as he walked. Race had left it behind after he'd stormed out in all his bigheaded glory. It was pure luck that Spot had found the cards before someone else decided to swipe them.

They were Race's best, though that fact didn't make Spot handle them with any more care. Part of him wanted to throw them into the river or give them to the meanest kid he knew and tell Race to go fetch. So many possibilities.

He could always keep them for himself. It was a nice deck. He knew it would drive Race mad to see his beloved cards permanently just out of reach. Spot flipped the cards over and glanced at the faded design on the back. Old, but nice. They had been his once, back when he played.

Race hadn't asked for them back and probably wouldn't as a matter of pride.

They both had pride. Maybe too much, maybe just enough.

Brooklyn wasn't the easiest place to live, it never had been. Being young made it worse. It meant scraping for food and fighting it out for a place to sleep and sell. Some kids never pulled themselves out of the heap, growing oddly content with the battle. Most thought Brooklyn kids were mean, they were right. Mean and proud.

Race was never mean, though. He saw no need to kick other kids around, even when they deserved it. He had complained along with the rest of them, but he had been satisfied. All he'd wanted out of life was a sure tip, a deck of cards and a few friends to sit around a table and play with.

Spot hadn't been so easily satisfied. Sure, he'd sold his papers, played cards, and joked around. But his mind never stopped working, trying to find a way up and out. He saw some living better than others and it wasn't because they were smart, or because they worked hard. It wasn't even because they were well liked. The respect they had came from their strength. Respect born of fear.

He couldn't pin down the exact moment he knew. Maybe it was after being kicked out to the street one night even after he'd paid, but the realization came to him with sudden clarity. He was better than every single kid around him and he wouldn't be satisfied until they all knew it.

Ambition, Race had called it. He'd said too much ambition was unhealthy, whatever that meant. But it quickly became clear that ambition and lack of it was what separated them. Spot supposed that was when they truly began to part ways, though Race didn't leave his side until much later and with just cause.

Spot stopped shuffling the cards long enough to smooth out a crease on one of the corners. It was out of habit, he could care less if Race got the deck back with half the cards missing. Served him right.

The sound of running footsteps drew his attention. They were light and erratic, just a young kid. Nothing to worry about. The bulls had polished shoes that clicked heavily against the cobblestones. Anyone else he needed to avoid wouldn't be running, they'd be waiting quietly around a corner or sidling up to him with a smile.

The small feet fell quickly instep with his.

"What?" Spot asked, continuing to walk at his own pace.

"T-The Thursday game got moved," the small boy said hurriedly, struggling to keep up.

"Where?"

He already knew where.

"Manhattan," the boy confirmed. Spot did his best to keep the annoyance from his face.

In a matter of a few days, Race had systematically moved every major game out of Brooklyn. He could only imagine how many strings Race had to pull to get that done. But he'd done it, the lousy bastard. He expected Race would come back at him with something, but nothing like that.

The kid had brains. But for someone so smart, he had his moments of sheer stupidity, like the other night. Of course, that was part of the fun. Spot liked how he could make Race reckless. He liked pushing him just far enough that he forgot to be careful, if only for a moment.

Even when he took a big gamble, Race knew exactly what he was doing. A game of cards might be a game of luck to some, but to Race it was a game of skill. Each move was exact, each loss was planned. Just like his revenge. He didn't risk anything, carefully planning the best way to attack without setting a foot in Brooklyn. He was real smart. That was half the reason Spot liked him, he kept him on his toes.

"So?" the boy piped up.

"So what?" Spot said, almost forgetting he still had company.

The boy hesitated, but finally worked up the courage to ask. "Can he come back? If he says he's real sorry, you know, real real sorry?"

Spot looked down sharply at the boy, who promptly paled and fell back another step. Someone had put him up to that.

Nobody liked having to go so far out of Brooklyn to play a game and they had been indirectly hinting all week that what Race did wasn't so bad, that he had possibly been drunk at the time and that he'd been telling anyone who would listen that he was deeply sorry. Right. They just wanted the games back. Spot just wanted a moment's peace.

"Fine. Quit botherin' me about it," Spot replied with forced indifference. He couldn't have people thinking he cared one way or the other.

He'd already decided to let Race back in. It wasn't worth the trouble and he'd rather deal with one kid with a chip on his shoulder than fifty angry ones he had to live with. He didn't expect an apology, but he'd lie and say he'd gotten one.

Race would never apologize and mean it, not to him anyway.

"So there was this girl," Blink started, launching enthusiastically into his latest story. Mush just rolled his eyes, but listened anyway.

The restaurant was crowded and they had been lucky to get a seat, let alone a table. Hats were off, dishes were piled with food and the noise was almost unbearable. Jack was hanging over the top of the booth, attempting to swipe Dutchy's coffee off of the next table. Race moved his plate just in time to avoid Jack's shoe in his sandwich.

"Coffee?" Jack offered as he righted himself and put the cup on the table triumphantly. By the delayed shouts of surprise, it was clear Dutchy had just found out what was missing. Jack grinned guiltily.

"Shut up, this is the best part." Blink waved him off. "So then I--"

Race took a bite of his sandwich and blissfully ignored the commotion around him. It was a controlled chaos, but he had patience for it. Things couldn't have been better. The sun was shining, the headlines were good and Spot Conlon had cracked.

Sure, he'd held out longer than Race had anticipated, but it was still a resounding victory.

Of course, Spot hadn't actually said he was allowed back in, but made it known that he wouldn't be stopped. And Race didn't actually say he was sorry, rather he indicated that he wasn't not sorry. To top it all off, he said he would only apologize if Spot came out of Brooklyn to hear it, which had just as much probability of happening as Hell freezing over. Spot left the relative safety of home for few circumstances, least of which would be a one-minute, half-assed apology. It was his own thickly veiled way of saying Spot could go screw himself.

At the very least, he had gotten a laugh out of the whole thing. At the most, he had made Spot finally realize who he was dealing with. There were other kinds of power besides fear and strength. Doing people favors, saying the right thing, letting them win sometimes, it all added up. A good word went farther than a black eye. Spot may have forced him out, but he could just as easily force his way back in without raising a finger.

"Would you get your fingers off my plate?" Race said, smacking Jack's hand away a second too late. He had taken the other half of his sandwich and was making quick work of it.

"What? It's not like your eatin' it," Jack said with his mouth full before he took a sip of his misbegotten coffee. Race didn't argue, he was in too good of a mood. It truly was a wonderful day.

"--So there I am, and I turned around, real quick," Blink continued, barely able to contain himself, "and you could see her bare leg. All the way up to the knee!"

"There's no way. You're makin' that up," Mush said, not believing it for a second. There were a few groans from the other boys who had been listening. Race couldn't help but laugh, it was probably the one story Blink hadn't embellished and nobody believed him.

"Shit," Jack breathed.

"I'm bein' serious, I swear!" Blink insisted.

Race glanced to Jack, picking up a note of fear in his voice. As he followed Jack's eyes to the front door, all conversations stopped and the restaurant fell silent. There was a sudden tension in the room and it didn't take long for Race to figure why. The smile drained from his face.

"She musta thought no one was lookin'…"

Blink trailed off as he noticed no one was paying attention to him any longer. All eyes were focused on the front of the restaurant. He turned around to see what everyone else thought was more important and swore under his breath as he found out.

Spot Conlon had just walked through the door, along with a few of his boys. He planted his cane on the floor and stood quietly as he scanned the tables, unaffected by the attention. If it were anyone else, they might have gone unnoticed, but Spot was seldom seen outside of Brooklyn and the fact he showed up in the middle of the day only added to the abnormality of the situation.

Race slumped down in the booth before Spot looked in his direction. He didn't think for a moment Spot would actually come. Spot had called his bluff. He had no intention of apologizing and certainly not in front of his friends.

Pulling on his hat, Race climbed over Jack and out of the booth.

"Race," Jack asked warily, putting two-and-two together, "what's goin' on?"

"Just goin' for some fresh air, that's all," Race answered hurriedly as he dug into his pocket and put a few pennies on the table. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Spot was already on his way over. The only path to escape was right past Spot or throwing himself through a window. Race eyed the window.

"Go while you still gotta chance," Jack said quickly as he nodded to the back door. Race hesitated, he would still have to get past Spot, but at least he would avoid the Brooklyn boys crowded around the front.

He straightened up and hastily moved toward the back, trying to be casual about it. Race tensed as he neared Spot, not knowing what to expect. But Spot didn't slow down, he didn't even spare him a glance as they passed each other. "Don't go far" was all Spot said, though Race could tell he was smiling.

Race kept walking, silently thankful for whatever mood Spot was in. He could have dragged the whole mess out into the open, but he didn't. And even though Race had the chance to make a break for it, he wouldn't. He'd taken a risk and lost. Spot had won, called him out fair and square. Besides, the object was to get into back into Brooklyn, and the quicker they had their heart-to-heart, the sooner he'd be back in business at the tracks.

As he pushed through the door, he looked back to see Spot shaking Jack's hand and Jack doing his best to look unintimidated.

Race didn't go far. He had already pulled out a cigarette before the door closed behind him. It was already lit before he sat on a crate to wait amid the garbage and broken dishes. It was only halfway gone before he heard a familiar pair of footsteps round the side of the building. He hadn't expected to wait long. Just long enough for Spot to make it look like he hadn't come all that way for such a stupid thing. He did though. He was petty like that. Spot couldn't even let him gloat for a day.

Race stood. He wanted to be on his feet for this.

"You got somethin' to say to me?"

Race nodded as he took a final drag off his cigarette and flicked it to the side. He knew he had to say something resembling an apology without choking on the words. He reminded himself it was for the greater good and that no one would hear it, so he could always deny it later if necessary.

"What happened the other day," Race began reluctantly, "it shouldn't have happened."

"Close. Try again," Spot said. He didn't actually laugh, or even hint at a smile, but he might as well have been grinning like an idiot. Race shifted his feet against the ground and took a breath. He hoped he'd be able to live this down.

"I guess you could say I was, you know, sorry."

After a moment, Spot nodded slightly. Apology accepted.

"Yeah, I'm real sorry. I can't sleep at night 'cause I'm so sorry," Race continued, unable to keep a straight face for long. "It's like a chain around my neck, the burden's too heavy to bear. I wanna sell all I got and give it to the poor, to make up for-"

"Don't fuck around with me."

A smile flickered at the corner of Race's mouth, and he couldn't help himself. "I'm sorry," Race repeated with feigned sincerity.

"Let me make somethin' real clear to you," Spot said, careful to keep his voice low. "I don't care how they do things here. You're in Brooklyn, you do what I say. You open your mouth against me again, it's gonna be the last thing you ever do. You got me?"

"Sure thing," Race said. "I'm scared for my life, I'll sleep with one eye open." He got the message, but he wasn't going quake in his shoes.

Spot's expression turned cold, hiding any anger he may have felt at having his threats brushed off. He lifted his cane and brought the top threateningly close to the side of Race's face.

Even with the gruesome knowledge of how many heads Spot had cracked open with the end of that cane, Race didn't back away. The rounded metal brushed against his skin, catching the fading edges of the bruise Spot had so thoughtfully given him. Still, Race didn't move. It wasn't because he was particularly brave, or that he was arrogant. It was the same reason he could look Spot square in the eye when no one else would. He knew when it was safe to and when it wasn't. Consciously or not, Spot always warned him once. Whether with a look or a word, Spot clearly defined a line of what he was willing to tolerate. Crossing that line was a matter of personal risk, as Race had learned more times than he could count, but he always knew what he was in for.

"Do yourself a favor and quit while you're ahead," Spot said, tapping him lightly on the jaw as a reminder, before he lowered his cane back to the ground. Race took the advice and didn't push it.

He'd gotten what he wanted anyway. He was back in Brooklyn and didn't have to grovel for the privilege. That was a win in his book. The fact that he did end up uttering an apology was only a slight dent in his victory.

Satisfied with Race's silence, Spot turned to go. He stopped short, as if just remembering something important.

"You left your cards behind the other night," Spot said casually. Too casually.

Race felt his eyes narrow. Any interest Spot had in his cards couldn't be good.

"Where are they?" Race demanded.

"I hope you can swim," Spot said, allowing a bit of a smile.

He didn't. He wouldn't. Race gave him a rotten look, which he received with open amusement. He did. He'd tossed them in the river. They were probably being picked apart by some stupid Brooklyn fish at that very moment.

"I kept one for ya, you know, for old time's sake," Spot said as he pulled the card from his pocket and held it out for him. Race snatched it from his hand.

To his credit, Spot didn't wait around to rub it in. He didn't even watch as Race took the card and didn't look back as he strolled away. It was as if he knew he'd done a real lousy thing. If Race didn't know better, he would've dared to think Spot had thought twice before doing it. But Spot could fake caring the way the rest of them could fake a cough on a slow selling day.

Race rigidly waited for his footsteps to fade before he looked down at the card and flipped it over. It was the Joker.

That lousy bastard.