Chapter Nine: Wicked
A quilt, a locked tin can full of coins, a slingshot, and a gold-tipped cane were all the new-comer had brought besides clothes, Wicked Winter (Wick or Wicked for short) noted. Wicked was the leader of the Central Park Lodging House, and he was tough as nails. At six feet tall he towered over all the New York newsies, except for Trigger Jones, who stood at six feet two inches.
Wicked was nothing but pure muscle, and he was said to be the best fighter Manhattan had ever seen, not that Manhattan counted for anything. Queens were the bigshots now. In time long-past, Wicked had been good allies and friends with Brooklyn, who had been the big shots. Together with Jack Kelly -the true leader of the Manhattan newsies- and Spot Conlon -the strong, proud, defiant leader of Brooklyn, the Brooklyn-Manhattan alliance had been the strongest around. That was at least, until the Bronx fell to Queens, and Trigger Jones had waged open war on Spot and Brooklyn.
To this very day that the new boy had walked into the lodging house, Wicked still cursed Jack for never going to Spot's aid. Brooklyn had been out-numbered with horrible odds, that not even Spot -with all his dozens of prize fighters and his own skill- could beat. It's only a mattah a time befoah Manhattan falls ta Triggah too... he thought, not unbitterly.
Realizing he was alone with the new boy, Wicked took his chance at questioning him, and making sure he wasn't a spy in their midst. However, he didn't realized that the "boy" was exactly the opposite.
"What's yer name kid?" he asked, abruptly and with a nasty, clipped tone.
The boy look up defiantly, "I'se go by a lottah t'ings. But right now I'se goin' by Watson."
Wicked didn't like that response. For one thing, only spies changed their names a lot, or had reason to go by a bunch of different things. For another, Watson was a last name, and not a proper newsie's name.
"What's yer real name?" he challenged.
The boy sighed. "Cee-Cee-Kay-Doubleya. If yas must know. But I'se told yas dat I'se ain' goin' by dat right now."
"An' dat stands foah...?"
"A'ight, fine. Me real name's Criss-Cross. Anythin' else?" the new boy challenged, his eyes blazing and he turned to spreading the ragged old quilt over his bunk.
"Yeah. Jus' thought you'se might like ta knows. I'se da leadah 'round heah. Got dat?"
"Yeah. An' dat's fine by me, jus' as long as I'se can get done what I'se need ta get done an' get back home."
Infuriated, Wicked grabbed the boy by the front of his shirt and shoved him up against the wall, his face barely an inch away from the other boy's. "Spy..." he hissed.
"I'se ain't no spy. If dat's what you'se t'inkin'. I'se ain't foah Queens at all. I'se hate Triggah's guts if dat's what yer talkin' about. An' I figger it is. An' now you'se already answered me question. Apparen'ly Manhattan ain't fallen ta Triggah yet..." the boy replied in a calm cool tone. But then his eyes turned dangerously icey and cold. "Now let me's down befoah I'se gotsta soak yas..."
Wicked felt like a bolt of lightning had lept out of the boy's eyes and hit him. Slowly he lowered the newcomer to the ground and released his shirt.
"So you'se on ouah side den?" he asked a tad stupidly.
"No, I'se on da side a Santa Fe! Ye gads! Coise I'se on yer side! What uddah side is dere? 'Sides da one dat's gonna be dead in t'ree days if it's up ta me's. An' jus' ta make it easiah foah yer slow mind, I'se'll say dat da dead side's Triggah's, an' any a dem moiderin' traitahs 'e's wit'." The boy suddenly got emotional. "If I'se evah get me hands on da ones dat helped 'im kill...Who's helped 'im kill..." The boy gulped past a lump in his throat and finished, "Who's helped 'im kill Spot Conlon, dey'll wish dey were dead. Cuz I'se'll do woise t'ings ta dem." Upon finishing both his face and voice were deadly, and Wicked thought his eyes alone could kill.
"I'll drink ta dat!" he said in reply, agreeing ten-fold to what the newcomer had said. It was funny, but Wicked almost thought he recognized the kid from somewhere, but he shook his head as if to clear the thought away. He was just being ridiculous.
"Anyway..." Wicked said, feeling sheepish about how he'd acted at the beginning, "I'se jus' wanted ta welcome yas ta da lodgin' house. Hope you'll like it heah."
Wicked walked away, as prideful a leader as ever, and not wanting to say sorry, because he never could, and never would.
He knew Spot...Wicked thought about the newcomer as he walked out on the streets of Manhattan. He must've...Only someone who knew Spot could care dat much about 'im bein' gone. He must've been real close ta Spot too. Dat must be wheah I remember 'im from! Brooklyn! Lost in his thoughts, Wicked didn't even notice that he was being watched by a gang of Queens boys in an alley across the street, but in the building behind him, someone did...