Chapter 5

Concerning Item #4: The Slingshot

-

"You already know Racetrack," Jack said that evening, when they all reassembled in the Lodging House after a long day selling. "He'll hook youse up with all yo' gamblin' needs."

Spot slapped Race on the back as hello.

"And this here's Kid Blink. He'll hook you up with a good pack o' cigs if youse so feel the need."

Spot shook the hand of a kid in an eye patch, who seemed a little wary of Spot after his tussle with Jack that morning. In fact, a lot of the kids looked that way, he noticed. It pleased him greatly.

"So where're youse from?" Racetrack asked him.

"Nowhere," Spot replied quickly, dreading the fact of being called 'hoity-toity' like Red had when they first met all those years ago. Man, he missed Red already.

It was then he remembered where he was from. Upper class. How far he had fallen. But somehow, he felt higher than he had ever been.

Then he remembered Mr. Barrenger. And then he remembered Mr. Barrenger's gold-tipped cane. And he remembered he had to get it back.

After a few days of poor selling, Spot left the Manhattan newsies, promising them that it was only temporary.

"I got some things that need me direct attention," he explained. "Then I'll be back."

With the few coins he had in his pocket, he set off for Brooklyn. Jack led him as far as the bridge.

"Wow," Spot said.

"The bridge?"

"All of it," Spot replied. "You tellin' me that heaven over there is Brooklyn?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm tellin' youse."

Spot's eyes narrowed.

"I want it."

"What?"

Spot smiled at Jack and changed the subject.

"Hey, do me a favor while I'm gone."

Spot pulled out the handkerchief.

"Figure out who this belongs to for me, alright?"

"Youse mean, try and find the old skinny broad that took your friend?"

Spot snickered.

"Yeah."

"Will do, den."

Jack spit in his hand and held it out, something that was quickly becoming custom between the two for deal making. Spot responded by spitting into his own hand and gripping Jack's palm firmly.

"See ya soon, Jack," Spot said, tipping his hat to him and continuing on his way down the Brooklyn bridge.

"Yeah, I certainly hope so, Spot."

"An' what's that supposed to mean?" Spot said as he walked backwards down the bridge.

"It means don't get yourself killed, that's what it means!"

"You just wait, Jack Kelly. One day, I'm gonna rule this town!"

"Yeah, right."

"All hail Spot!" Spot called as he went out of earshot. "King of Brooklyn! God of Newsies!"

"Keep dreamin', Spot."

-

"I'm lookin' for a man named Haze," Spot said to a group of newsies in Brooklyn. "Ya ever heard of him?"

"He lives on the harbor, little man," one replied. "What's your business with him?"

"I'm here to overthrow him."

The boys starting laughing.

"Youse and what army?"

Spot thought for a moment.

"Well, all a' you people, to start."

They laughed some more.

"What's makes you think that?" another had to ask.

"Because I'm gonna make you a bet," Spot said without a shred of fear. "You give your biggest, scariest fighter you got among youse… and I'll soak him. If I do, you come work for me. If not, I work for you."

Still chuckling, the men discussed it amongst themselves for a moment.

"And I suppose youse need us to help youse overthrow Haze?"

Spot nodded with a smile.

"That's right."

They went back in a huddle, before they finally nodded and came back to Spot with broad smiles.

"Alright, you're on. Bruno!"

A giant of a fellow came stomping out of the pier shed.

"Go beat him."

Bruno rubbed his hands together excitedly, and stepped toward Spot. He had to be at least three times the size of him, fat on every side of his body.

"Come'on, big guy," Spot said, motioning him over. "Let's get this ovah with."

Spot back up a bit, deeper and deeper onto the pier. He hopped a bit to loosen up, wondering how he was going to do this. But yes, he had a plan.

Then Bruno charged. He ran at Spot with full speed, promising to plow him to the ground.

But Spot simply stepped aside and put his foot out.

Bruno yelled all the way down into the water.

"But--!" the first newsie complained. "But--!"

"I soaked him, didn't I?" Spot looked down into the water, where Bruno was struggling to swim. "Yup, he looks pretty soaked to me."

The others exchanged glances, and were at a loss for words.

-

Spot's new workers told him where Haze could be found, and Spot moved on to speak to him directly.

"Haze?" Spot said, walking to the alleyway where the man himself stood with many newsboys. Spot looked immediately to the gold-tipped cane he held in his hand.

"Well, lookie here, boys!" Haze said, quickly recognizing Spot. "It's the little tough guy from the saloon! Heard your little home burned down, Small Fry."

Spot gritted his teeth.

"I'm here to thank you for that proper," Spot growled.

"Oh, no need," Haze said with a smile. "These boys here don't wanna waste their energy on beatin' you blind. Just join me little group heah, and we don't hafta hurt you. It's like I said, you're good, and we can use a fist like yours."

Spot narrowed his eyes, and stood perfectly still, not responding with anything other than an icy glare.

"I'd rather be beat blind."

Haze glared back.

"That can be arranged."

Haze snapped his fingers, and his boys moved in. Spot knew even he couldn't take them all, and right now he was due for a stiff pounding, but he meant it when he said it was what he would rather.

Spot's heart pounded through his left peck, protesting to the imminent pain to ensue. But Spot's mind harbored no fears. He supposed he knew this was coming.

So Spot just stood there, fists cocked, and waited for the first blow. The first one was always toughest.

-

Spot dragged himself back to a lodging house near the Bridge, wishing dearly for that cane now. It was late at night, so the streets were deserted, with not a soul around to help him. His eyelid was bleeding so bad he could barely see, and his legs felt ready to cave under him at any given moment. All the fingers in his left hand were broken, so he used his right hand to feel his way around the brick buildings.

Then he decided to give up on finding the lodging house, and just collapsed on the pavement on the dark streets of Brooklyn.

-

For many weeks after, Spot sold newspapers and fervently planned his conquest of Haze's gang. The boys grew to like Spot fast, since they had long been without direction or leader, and refused to be lead by Haze's tyranny. And Spot grew to like the boys in return, feeling a sense of control and, dare he say it, security among them. A new family was formed.

Spot learned things about Haze too, with the help of Spots 'own men doing some crafty spying.

Haze Dickens was lazy. He hadn't sold a pape in years, only had people to do it for him. He ruled by only spreading rumors and fear, but Spot felt certain none of that could be backed up. He was like Red that way.

The fact of it all was, Spot thought Haze was a lousy leader, a disgrace to this town, and felt that if you wanted something done right you needed to do it yourself. So Spot wanted to lead, to do it how he felt it should be done.

"We gonna need more than us," Spot decided, discussing more plans with one of his good friends, Woodsy.

"We gonna need some things long range, to give a good amount of distraction while da odders move in."

"I can manage that," Woodsy's favorite thing to say. "Say, we need about a couple dozen slingshots?"

"Ya mean, like that little toy ya always carry around?"

"Little toys that give you welts and bruises the size of a grapefruit, my friend."

"That big?"

"Damn right. Try it. We'll probably have to take time to work on aim, but…"

"Give me one."

"Here," Woodsy said, handing him one from his pocket. "It's me best one."

Spot held it in his hand loosely, examining it. Woodsy handed him a marble.

"Give it a go," he pressed.

Spot looked around for something to aim at. He spotted one of his boys was drinking a beer. Spot pulled back, aimed, and let it fly. He had de ja vu for a moment, as the marble flew through the air. He had done this once before…

The crashing of the bottle woke him up from his trance.

"Wow!" Woodsy said, standing up. "That's gotta be at least thirty yards! And on your first try-- How'd ya do that?"

"Good aim," Spot replied, tucking the slingshot in his belt. Maybe he'd keep the toy around for good measure.

"I'll say!" Woodsy replied, taking a big puff of his cigarette.

-

Reviews are nice.
Signed,
--RedRogue