Everyone instantly shrank away from Jack. No one wanted anything to do with Spot Conlon. Lunch Money looked around in disbelief—were all of the boys too spineless to cross the Brooklyn Bridge? Were they really that scared of this Conlon?
"I'll go, Cowboy. I'se wanna meet this Spot Conlon they're all so afraid a'." Lunch Money told Jack, giving the other boys a scathing look. Racetrack choked on his drink. After recovering from a brief coughing fit, he glared at Lunch Money.
"You ain't goin' ta Brooklyn." He gasped, massaging his throat. Lunch Money turned to face brother, her expression as incensed as anyone had ever seen it. Who is he to tell me what I am or ain't gonna do? The other newsies shifted uncomfortably watching the Higgins siblings stare each other down. The boys sitting near the pair started to edge away. Knowing Lunch Money, a fight was sure to break out.
"I'm a big goil, Anthony Higgins, I'll do whatevah I want." Lunch Money said coolly. Racetrack went red at the use of his real name.
"Sure, Ava Higgins, but the odds of me lettin' you go to Brooklyn are slim to none." Lunch Money's complexion darkened to match her brother's. She set her jaw. Now she had to play to her audience. Lunch Money had been arguing with Racetrack since birth—by this time, she'd learned a few tricks.
"Roll ya for it." Lunch Money knew Racetrack wouldn't be able to resist a good bet.
"Double or nothing?"
"Calling hard evens."
"Got it. Hard evens gets ya ta Brooklyn. Anything but—"
"I know the rules. Roll 'em, Race." Lunch Money interrupted impatiently. Racetrack extracted a pair of dice from his vest pocket, rattled them inside his palm to build suspense and tossed the dice on to the table. Both Higgins children leaned in eagerly as the dice skittered across the wooden surface.
"Double fours!" Lunch Money crowed, "Hard eight, Racetrack. Guess I'll be goin' ta Brooklyn." Racetrack gave his sister a last infuriated look before switching his focus to Jack.
"Then put me down too, Jack. I'm comin' too."
Lunch Money shot Racetrack a nasty scowl, but let it go. Racetrack could chaperone his baby sister to Brooklyn if it let him sleep better at night. Relieved the sibling showdown was over, Jack continued to plan his meeting with Conlon.
"And Spot'll be wantin' ta talk ta the Walkin' Mouth, so Davey oughta come along too." David rolled his eyes at the other boy's jeers. The nickname "The Walkin' Mouth" (originally coined by Spot Conlon, himself) had stuck to David Jacobs like a fly to fly paper, much to his displeasure.
"Sounds like we're ready to go then." The Walkin' Mouth nodded, "Me, Jack, Race and Lunch Money will meet with Spot Conlon to see if he can help us out."
"Yeah," Jack said, rising from his chair, "'Till then, make your pennies last, Kid Blink, 'cause there ain't gonna be no papes ta sell today."
It was high noon by the time David, Jack, Racetrack and Lunch Money set off for Brooklyn. Walking through the streets of Manhattan, Lunch Money was slightly unnerved by the noticeable lack of newsies on the street and the sudden presence of newsstands. Would Pulitzer stick to this new regime? Lunch Money wondered. Would the newsies of New York really be out of a job? The four newsies pressed on, giving each newsstand in their path a distinctly menacing stare, sometimes coupled with a growled threat.
"So, this Spot Conlon. Why's everyone so a'scared of him?" Lunch Money asked in an undertone, once they started across the Brooklyn Bridge. She and Jack were trailing David and Racetrack by a couple dozen feet, thus Lunch Money this as the perfect opportunity to get some more information about this venture without her darling older brother butting in.
"You'll see when ya meet him." Jack laughed, "Just remembah ta nevah mess with Brooklyn, Lunch."
"Jack!" Racetrack hollered excitedly over his shoulder, "Jack, come on, look what we got ovah heah!"
Jack sprinted the rest of the bridge, Lunch Money hot on his trail. They skidded to a stop just behind David and Racetrack, and immediately registering the reason behind Racetrack's excitement. Newsies were everywhere. There were no newsstands on this side of the bridge, just Brooklyn newsies shouting out headlines. There was a sigh of relief in the group. The newsies hadn't been wiped out yet.
"So, problem solved," Lunch Money grinned, "We just hafta sell in Brooklyn from now on. Let's go get woid to the others." She turned to start once more across the bridge, but Jack grabbed her arm.
"We still gotta talk ta Spot. See if he'll let us sell in his territory."
Lunch Money rolled her eyes, but followed the boys down a narrowed, badly surfaced road. They wound through a series of alleys, before coming to a dock that may have once been a functional pier for sea trade; now, however, it appeared to have been converted into a sort of playground. There were boys everywhere, about half of them swimming in the river, the other half sprawled out on the dock. All of them were twice the size of the biggest Manhattan newsie, and looked none too friendly besides.
Jack took the lead, followed by Lunch Money, with Racetrack and David fighting to take up the rear. They seem to genuinely fear the Conlon kid, Lunch Money noted curiously. And so, determined to show them that she was every bit as tough as any boy in New York, Lunch Money darted ahead of Jack, striding confidently along the pier.
"We're lookin' for Spot Conlon." Jack announced to the boys. He was scanning the faces of the Brooklyn newsies, searching for a familiar face.
"Ovah heah, Jacky-boy."
The voice had come from overhead, near the end of the dock. The four Manhattan newsies looked toward the source of the voice. Lunch Money's dark eyes fell on a figure perched high up on his makeshift wooden throne, silhouetted against the now-setting sun. The boy ascended the ladder at a regal pace, supremely unconcerned by whatever news his visitors might have brought. Jack, Lunch Money, Racetrack and David approached the base of the ladder as the boy jumped the last several rungs, landing face-to-face with Jack.
Now that he was this close, Lunch Money could clearly make out his features. His eyes were astonishingly blue, but cold and calculating. He wore a grim expression, his brow furrowed and his dirty blonde hair hanging in the aforementioned striking eyes. He sported a pair of bright red suspenders, and a black walking stick topped with an ornate gold ball. But what struck Lunch Money most was his obvious lack of height. He couldn't have been any taller than Lunch Money herself! This was the feared leader of Brooklyn? This was the infamous Spot Conlon?
Jack and Spot both spit into their hands, but before they could shake, Lunch Money let out a short, involuntary laugh of disbelief. Jack, David, Racetrack and Spot turned to look at her. She smirked, ignoring the shut-your-face-now look Racetrack was giving her and addressed Jack.
"Are you'se tellin' me that this is Spot Conlon? Serious, Cowboy, this is the kid that all the fellas back at Tibby's were afraid a'—hey!" Lunch Money rubbed her ribs where Racetrack sharply elbowed her.
"Shut up, Lunch!" He hissed, a note of panic in his voice.
"Nah, let the goil tawk." Spot pushed past Jack and faced Lunch Money, head-on, "You were sayin'?" His eyes were narrowed, drilling straight through Lunch Money.
"I thought Spot Conlon was the great leader of Brooklyn." Lunch Money sneered, looking Spot up and down, "Not some scrawny little boy."
This last comment got a reaction out of Spot. His face was positively livid—like he considered Lunch Money's remark a hit way below the belt. But the expression disappeared as soon as it had come and was replaced by a ghost of a grin. He drew back, turning away from Lunch Money slightly to talk to Jack.
"Dammit, Jack, don't ya know you never hang on to goilies with mouths biggah than their knockehs."
It took the combined forces of Jack, David and Racetrack to hold Lunch Money back this time. Spot just stood back and watched her attempts to fight off the other boys, a small smirk playing around the corners of his mouth and his prominent eyes glinting with silent laughter.
"I'll murder ya!" Lunch Money yelled, enraged, "I'll kill ya wit' my bare hands, Conlon!"
"Cut it, Lunch Money!" Jack roared, picking her up off the ground, so that her feet kicked hopelessly in the air. She was red in the face, both from struggling against the other Manhattan newsies and yelling sporadic insults at Spot.
"Excuse us." Jack said shortly to Spot.
"Oh, by all means." His amused air was gone, and he now seemed ready to get back to business. Nonetheless, he took a step back, and Jack dragged a still struggling Lunch Money toward the edge of the dock, just out of Spot's earshot.
"Lunch Money. Lunch!" Jack shook her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. Lunch Money met his eyes reluctantly, breathing hard. "Lunch, for crying out loud! We need Spot's help, awight? Don't go makin' him angry. Ya don't want Spot Conlon for an enemy, so keep your mouth shut."
"We don't need help from him!" Lunch Money fumed. She couldn't believe this. That little weasel! "Why should we depend on that little rat?" Jack gave her a reproving look before turning to Racetrack.
"Try ta knock some sense inta ya sister, eh Race? Me and Dave'll meet with Brooklyn." Racetrack nodded, but waited until Jack and David had returned to their conference with Spot to start on Lunch Money.
"I. Will. Kill. You." He said through gritted teeth, "Lunch, the whole reason we're heah is to try to get a favoh from Conlon. Now you're pissin' him off and we'll be lucky if we ain't livin' on the streets by next week!"
"Awight, I got it." Lunch Money snapped. She was so sick of being constantly patronized by everyone. "I'll be a good little goil."
Racetrack snorted. "Yeah, fat chance a' that evah happenin'."
Lunch Money gave him an impish grin and her brother playfully shoved her as they returned to where Jack, David and Spot were quietly talking. The Higgins siblings rejoined the discussion in time hear the tail end of David's explanation.
"…And so, you see, we're a bunch of newsies with no papes to sell. And Jack and I were wondering, since Brooklyn doesn't have any newsstands, if we could sell in your territory."
Spot leaned on his cane, an intense look in his eyes, considering what David had said. At last he spoke. "Now, about how many newsies you got ovah there, Jack?"
Jack thought a moment, running through all the boys back at Tibby's. "Near forty, I guess."
"Forty? My deah, Jack! I'd say my gang comes to close ta seventy—that's more than a fifty percent increase. My boys would not be too pleased if Brooklyn were suddenly ovahrun wit' street rats from Manhattan."
"Spot, come on!" David pleaded, "What happened to all the newsies uniting together against Pulitzer and Hearst? We could be facing the extinction of newsies as we know it!"
"There ain't a union anymore, not this time—you're just a bunch of angry kids with no money. As for me, I gotta look out for me boys. Brooklyn still belongs to Spot Conlon." Spot frowned, and Lunch Money now fully understood what Boots had said about Spot Conlon's legendary intense glares.
"So that's it?" Lunch Money snarled, "You're just forbiddin' us from settin' foot in Brooklyn?" She sneered in great amusement that he would be so presumptuous as to bar Jack the rest of the gang from all of Brooklyn.
"Serious, Jack, does this goil evah shut up?" he didn't even bother to spare Lunch Money a glance and continued straight into his next sentence without taking a breath, "I won't, ah, 'forbid' any of you'se from sellin' in Brooklyn, per say. But my boys are pretty damn territorial about their corners. If any of you'se wander into one a' my boys' territories… well, I can't promise anything. They don't like their streets ovah crowded wit' othah newsies—and neithah do I." Spot folded his arms imperiously, "So, should you insist on sellin' in Brooklyn, ya bettah watch yerselves. I won't grant you amnesty; I won't be helpin' you out when all the newsies of Brooklyn start soakin' your hides."
Spot straightened and turned away, making it perfectly clear that the meeting was over.
"Spot…" Jack began, but the king of Brooklyn cut him off.
"Me mind's made up Jacky-boy. I'm sorry, and good luck."
Racetrack, David and Jack exchanged disappointed looks, but Lunch Money just shrugged. "C'mon, fellas, we don't need that lousy woirm." She was still steamed at Conlon. Lunch Money doubted she'd ever met anyone she hated with such a passion—and that included the Delancey brothers. Everything about Spot Conlon made Lunch Money want to knock him off his stupid dock. From his red suspenders, to his stupid walking stick; from his slingshot, to his crooked smirk. Ugh, she wanted to kill him.
"I still don't understand why you're all so a'scared of him." Lunch Money continued as they started back toward the riverbank, "Come on, I could take him."
"Lunch Money," Racetrack said sharply, "Drop it."
"Listen ta your brudder, little goil," Spot's voice came from the end of the pier, "The woirld can be a dangerous place when ya don't got Brooklyn on your side."