I would like to take a moment to thank the kind soul who took the time to review. I appreciate you! I guess nobody else loves me. . . . Anyway, I love Pocket and Spot so I will keep writing anyway. But the rest of you folks need to get with it and REVIEW PLEASE! What do I have to do, bribe you? Fine. If you review I will give you a cookie.
On with the show . . .
Pocket had already forgotten about that card game by the time Manhattan hosted another one a couple of weeks later. Spot came with a few of his boys, Blue among them. Blue had not forgotten the previous game. The beefy Brooky was still smarting from his defeat and was determined to play Pocket again. Unwilling to believe he had been beaten by someone so much younger, he had since decided that Pocket cheated and swore to catch the little sneak this time.
Despite his best efforts, it wasn't until the end of the night that Blue faced Pocket across the table. It was custom at these card games for the newsies to fall into groups by age. The youngest, who had less money to bet with, usually played each other for bragging rights only. The older boys, who sold more papes and had extra cash, played each other. Spot played with the older boys, as leader that was his right. Racetrack and Pocket, among the youngest, respected the pecking order, despite the fact that they both had the money, and the skill, to play with the big boys. They bided their time at the "baby tables", warming up against kids their own age. For the better part of the evening they sat across the room from Roller, Spot, Blue and the rest; laughing, smoking, and drinking as they waited.
As usual, they ended up playing each other when none of the other youngsters would challenge them anymore. After that they amused themselves by showing off their best card tricks, fancy shuffles, and sleight of hand. Pocket loved cards almost as much as Racetrack, and the two enjoyed learning from each other.
Blue watched them out of the corner of his eye; sure he would figure out how Pocket had beaten him. But the two soon moved on to blackjack and he returned his attention to his own game.
Eventually bored with their own cards, Pocket and Racetrack pulled up chairs to watch the older boys' game. They continued to joke around, poking and teasing at each other, but only Spot noticed how much of their focus was actually on the game.
Racetrack Higgins was a born gambler, with the understanding that in poker, your cards didn't matter as much as the people you played against. He didn't miss anything, noting every smile, every frown, every tap of every finger, all the myriad tells that the others weren't aware of but that told him exactly what they held.
Pocket was savvy, but no where near Race's natural talent. What she did have was a killer poker face. She won at cards by bluffing – playing every hand as though her cards were golden; unflinchingly raising bets until her opponents folded. Never did she blink, sigh, or shift impatiently in her seat, all clues that a good opponent would use against her. No matter what she held, Pocket maintained a light hearted, carefree attitude and kept her thoughts to herself. She watched the other players too, but she wasn't looking for the same things Racetrack was. Instead, she paid attention to who bet big, who was more cautious, who took chances, and who could be counted on to fold a mediocre hand.
All these little bits and pieces of information were filed away in the mental banks of the two young cardsharps, and by the time they were allowed to join the game, they both knew how the others would play before the cards even fell.
The game ended with Spot taking a decent pot from the table, smirking at Pocket as he collected his winnings.
"Ya think ya ready?" he asked.
Pocket snorted. "Don't make me laugh, paperboy. And don't get too attached ta that dough, eitha."
Everyone laughed as they shifted around to make room for Pocket and Racetrack at the table. Blue made a fuss about the two of them sitting next to each other.
"Don't trust them two sneaks togetha," he announced with a suspicious look at Pocket.
Racetrack stiffened angrily at the comment, offended. After all, cheating was a serious accusation. Spot saw that Roller wasn't happy either, and shot his newsie a quelling look. Pocket just rolled her eyes as she laughingly shoved Skittery out of his chair and flopped into it.
"'S'alright," she shrugged dismissively. "I can reach ya money just as good from ovah here."
Blue glared at her, but she only rolled her eyes again and turned to Spot.
"Was ya plannin' on dealin tha cards, or is this a knittin circle?"
Spot smirked and tossed the deck at her. "Go ahead," he invited.
With a saucy grin she turned her attention to the game, doling out the cards with practiced ease.
The first few hands were largely uneventful, low bets as they all got into their stride. Pots were collected pretty evenly among the players, Racetrack only slightly ahead. Blue, who had been losing more than he won, and drinking more than he lost, was by this time bleary-eyed and belligerent. As the game progressed his bets grew increasingly foolish and the glares he directed at Pocket became increasingly meaner.
Pocket, meanwhile, was only giving the game half her attention; the rest she spent watching Spot. Now that they'd called a truce, they were more relaxed in each other's company. She was enjoying his dry sarcasm and lazy smiles. Spot, too, was playing rather half-heartedly, focusing only enough to avoid losing spectacularly, taking an occasional hand to maintain his reputation. He was more interested in Pocket's cheerful demeanor and spent a good portion of the game trying to make her laugh.
Most nights, the younger boys had already stumbled off to bed by the time the best players faced each other. A few of the oldest boys stayed to watch. Tonight, however, the audience was considerably bigger. Even the youngest could sense that Blue was a powder keg, and every single one of them was crowded into the common room to see how the situation played out.
Racetrack was in top form that night. He easily took the majority of the hands, clearing the table of all but Pocket, who always played to the end, Spot, who was too busy watching Pocket to care, and Blue, who was either too drunk, too stupid, or too both to take himself out of the game.
Finally, after winning an especially large pot, Racetrack opted out, shaking his head at his friends' protests.
"Sorry, fellas, don't feel right takin anymore of ya dough. 'Sides, got enough now ta take ta the track tamarra – got a hot tip, feelin real good about it."
Bowing grandly, the diminutive Italian pulled a cigar out of his vest, lit it, and relaxed in his chair.
"Glad I'se got a good seat thought," he commented airily. "Pretty sure this game's gonna be good."
Pocket and Spot both laughed, but Blue just continued to give her the evil eye. It was Pocket's turn to deal, but she offered the cards to Spot.
"Maybe ya bettah throw these around this time, Conlon. Wouldn't want anything 'sneaky' goin on," she said.
Spot hid a smile as he took the deck, not wanting to further antagonize Blue. Like most of the Brooklyn newsies, Blue had a healthy temper and was unwilling to let any offense, real or imagined, go ignored. Spot could see that his boy was close to the edge; the whiskey he'd consumed, combined with the money he'd lost and Pocket's smart comments, had him ready to explode. One more remark and Spot figured Blue would start swinging. He wished for a way to signal Pocket, get her to take it easy, but he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't draw attention and piss Blue off even more. Not that Pocket would take the warning anyway. Thought she didn't let on, Blue's earlier comment about her being a sneak had gotten to her. Pocket was not about to back down, and Spot could see that. As he dealt the cards he began forming a plan for what to do when Blue went after her. Pocket would want to fight, the other boys would expect her too, and Spot just hoped he could keep her from getting hurt too badly. Blue was, after all, almost two feet taller than her and at least three times her weight.
None of the three of them spoke as they examined their cards and made their bets. Spot took the first hand, Blue the next. When the cards went out for the third hand, the entire room could tell that it was make or break time, the hand that would end the game.
Blue started the betting high, tossing a nickel onto the table. Without batting an eye or even glancing at her cards, Pocket threw in one nickel, then added another. Spot smirked at her and threw in a dime, and they both turned expectantly to Blue.
The sound of Blue's teeth grinding was unnaturally loud as he studied his cards, glancing up periodically to glare at Pocket. Unconcerned, she leaned back in her seat and rolled a cigarette. Blue weighed his options for a moment, then grudgingly decided that whatever Pocket had beat his three nines and threw his cards face down in disgust. Pocket nodded at Spot and they turned over their cards.
Spot wore a smug grin as he laid down a pair of kings.
"Fork it ovah, kid," he told Pocket.
Pocket grumbled half heartedly and pushed the coins over to him. Then her hand snaked out and she grabbed Blue's cards, flipping them over.
"Uh oh," she chirped. "Guess ya shoulda stayed in the game. Ya coulda beaten both of us. All's I had was a coupla lousy threes."
The rest of the boys laughed and Pocket stood up, shoving the rest of her money in her pocket and stretching.
"Alright boys, I'm done for tha night. Gotta save some dough for tha papes tamarra."
Blue sat dumbly as the others all started getting up, his jaw working as he stared blankly at the cards on the table.
"You- you . . . cheated!" he finally blurted.
Pocket snorted. "Uh, no, chief, I didn't," she spoke slowly, as though he was mentally deficient. "See, if I'da cheated, I'da won."
The newsies' mocking laughter infuriated Blue and he shot up, knocking his chair over.
"I don't care, ya still cheated!" He pointed an accusing finger at Pocket. "I'se gonna soak ya, ya bum," he shouted as he came around the table.
Pocket stood her ground, all trace of humor gone.
"I said I didn't cheat," she ground out.
Roller and Spot both stepped closer but waited, not ready to interfere. Unless Pocket needed help, honor and pride demanded that the two fight it out. It went against Spot's judgment to stand back; in his mind Blue had no business fighting a girl. He knew Pocket wouldn't thank him for butting in so he waited, ready.
Pocket didn't blink as Blue advanced on her, even when they stood toe to toe and she had to tilt her head to look up at him. Her lack of fear only added to his fury. Face red, breathing heavily, he glowered down at her.
It seemed like an hour that the room watched silently, waiting for one of them to make a move.
Pocket yawned.
Finally Blue snapped. With a low growl he clamped a hand on Pocket's arm and lifted a fist. She ducked to avoid the punch and jerked her arm free. Dancing backward, she waited until Blue rushed her again, darting under his arm and landing a flurry of punches to his stomach.
Winded, Blue back away and charged again, but Pocket was half his size and not even half as drunk so she easily sidestepped him. He swung again, wildly, and again, she got away, but slower this time. She caught a glancing blow to the side of her face. Shaking her head to clear it, she wiped her bleeding lip.
Spot took a step forward, intending to put a stop to the fight, but Pocket wasn't ready to end it. She turned her head to warn him off; in that one second of distraction Blue saw his opportunity.
Pocket staggered when his meaty fist connected, catching her full in the jaw and knocking her head back. She stumbled, and Blue leapt forward with a roar, knocking her to the ground. The ringing in her ears drowned out the collective gasp of the watching newsies as her cap fell off, freeing her long black curls to spill across the floor.
Blue's face registered shock for just a moment, then with an evil grin he grabbed a handful of her hair, fist raised to strike her again. Spot and Roller jumped in at the same time, each of them grabbing an arm and dragging Blue off of her. Free of his crushing weight, Pocket slowly pulled herself to her feet.
Disoriented, she swayed a bit before finding her balance. She muttered a curse and spit a mouthful of blood on the floor, only then did she notice her cap had come off. She bent and scooped it up, jamming it back on her head. Then she slowly raised her eyes to look at the boys around her.
They all stood open-mouthed, staring. Spot looked grim; Racetrack, concerned. Blink broke the silence.
"You'se a goil!" he exclaimed, setting off a chorus of angry and confused newsies.
Shocked and angry at the deception, the Manhattan boys shouted insults at her.
Pocket said nothing. Her eyes traveled over the crowd as she shoved her curls back up under her hat. She straightened her clothes and drew a deep breath. Roller started to speak but she raised a hand, cutting off the babble of voices.
"Don't matter." She spoke clearly, her voice even.
Pocket leveled a look at Blue that promised revenge. Eyes locked on his, she spit another mouthful of blood on his shoe.
Then she walked away.
Still full of rage and resentment, Blue yanked his arms free and started after her. Before he could take to steps he was blocked by Spot's cane pressing into his neck.
Pocket turned at the door.
"I'll be back later ta get me things," she said.