"Higgins. Higgins! Wake up!"
Lunch Money cracked an eye open, unwillingly. She was stiff and cold and her regained consciousness only alerted her to the redoubled pain in her foot. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still clouded and dark. Rubbing her eyes blearily, Lunch Money sat up. Spot was already up, waiting for her to get moving.
"C'mon, Higgins. We'se still got a ways ta go." He was all business this morning, Lunch Money noticed as he seized her upper arm and hoisted her back to her feet. Or rather, onto her foot, given that she could only properly stand on one. Spot said nothing else, just began the long walk back to 86th street.
It was with gritted teeth that they made their way across Brooklyn. Lunch Money's teeth were gritted in pain, Spot's in annoyance that he had gotten himself mixed up in all of this to begin with. Whatever he had felt (or imagined he'd felt) last night had been effectively stifled and he was now angry that Lunch Money could have instilled any sort of doubt in him to begin with. While Spot determinedly avoided thinking about the previous night, and Lunch Money determinedly focused on moving forward, one pitiful hop at a time, the inhabitants of Brooklyn slowly reawakened and flooded the streets. With the arrival of businessmen on their way to the office, and housewives running their morning errands, the newsies appeared too. They made a point to keep well out of Spot's way, and their voices dropped to whispers as they passed.
"Hey, Roundhouse." Spot called to the boy closest to them. A small, energetic-looking boy with white-blonde hair scurried to Spot side.
"How can I help ya, Mista Conlon?" he squeaked nervously.
"Find a kid named Racetrack Higgins. About seventeen, Italian, not too much tallah than me. Tell him his sistah's al'ight, got it? She'll be on 86th street befoah noon."
"Yessir, I'm on it, Mista Conlon. Find Racetrack Higgins." The boy called Roundhouse nodded to show his understanding of his task and ran off again, stopping each passing newsboy to pass down the message or inquire as to Racetrack Higgins's whereabouts. Soon word had spread that Spot Conlon had a message for Racetrack Higgins; almost every newsie in Brooklyn had been passed the message and then carried it on in turn, so that eventually, it would reach Racetrack's ears.
Spot and Lunch Money heard none of it, though and they soldiered on toward 86th street. They did indeed reach the alley before noon, as Spot had told Roundhouse, and for that Lunch Money was thankful; in the last few blocks, she had been sure she was going to pass out from the pain in her foot. Just as they were struggling through the entrance of the alley, Lunch Money looked up at the sound of her name.
"Lunch!" It was Mush. He, Boots, and Crutchy were both waiting in the alley, looking extremely worried and sleep-deprived. Mush hurried forward, ready to knock Lunch Money over in an enthusiastic hug, but he stopped short when he saw her bloodied foot.
"Lunch Money, where've ya been? We'se been waitin' all night—What da hell happened to ya? Did he do this ta ya?" Mush demanded, pointing a finger at Spot.
"Yes, Mush, I cripple the goil and bring her back meself jus' so you boys can try ta kick my ass." Spot said coolly, at last detangling himself from Lunch Money as he and Mush carefully helped her into a sitting position on the pavement.
"Are ya alwight, Lunch?" Crutchy asked, anxiously eyeing her injury.
"It's not as bad as it looks." Lunch Money told him imploringly, "I'm fine."
"She been sayin' that all night. She ain't fine." Spot said, rolling his eyes.
"Everyone'll be so relieved," Crutchy said brightly, "Racetrack an' Blink an' Jack, they'se all up in an uproar ovah ya. They went out searchin' everywheah fa' ya… Racetrack's gonna kill ya, ya know."
Lunch Money thought Crutchy could have future career in prophecy, because no sooner had the words left his mouth than they heard Racetrack from the end of the alley.
"Lunch Money! Thank God! Where the hell have you been? You'se okay?" he shoved his way through Mush, Crutchy and Spot to his sister's side. "I'll kill ya. What's a'mattah wit'you, goil? Wanderin' 'round Brooklyn at all houhs—you coulda been killed!"
"Race, I'm fine."
"Spot said you'se ain't fine." Boots shrugged. Lunch Money glared at him.
"Spot said…?" Racetrack looked around, registering for the first time that Spot was in the alley with them. "You! You did this ta me sistah, didn't ya?!" Racetrack leapt to his feet, looking furious.
"What is with all da accusations?" Spot exclaimed, taking a couple steps back, annoyed by Racetrack's paranoia, "I swear to God, next time I see a goil gettin' raped in an alley, I'se just walking past. It's too much trouble."
"What?!"
"You'se was raped?"
"I was not!" Lunch snapped defensively, "I got away."
"Yeah, thanks ta me." Spot sneered, folding his arms across his chest in an arrogant fashion. "And now that you'se all shown the proper gratitude, I'll be off. See ya fellas around." He started off, but Jack caught him by the arm, pulling him to one side so that he could have a private word with the leader of Brooklyn.
"I'se got places ta be, Jacky-boy. Whaddya want?"
"I wanna know if you've stopped bein' an idiot yet." Jack asked seriously, his brow furrowed.
"Beg pardon, Jacky? When have I evah been an idiot?"
"Come on Spot, we ain't gonna suhvive this winter. It's gettin' coldah al'eady; we'se dyin' out heah. You'se was right, okay? We'll die out heah. We can't handle the constant soakin's and sleepin' in the alley. And now we gotta worry about Lunch Money gettin' raped too?" Jack glanced back at the others, who were now concernedly conversing the course of treatment they should take for Lunch Money's foot. Jack continued in a tone that refused to be reduced to begging, but remained low and casual. "Our crips can't hack it out heah. Crutchy can barely walk nowadays, with all ya boys beatin' on him everyday, and Brooklyn's gonna kill Lunch Money—the damn goil refuses to be careful about anything. Ya saw what happened last night. Da least ya could do is let us sell heah wit'out ya boys beatin' on us, let us stay in the lodgin' house. Have a heart Conlon." Jack gave Spot a charming grin, hoping against hope Spot would cave. Jack hated this; Jack Kelly of all people, despised having someone lord over him, telling him what he could do and where he could go. But this was Brooklyn, and in Brooklyn you do what Spot Conlon says.
"Have a heart?" Spot mocked, a smirk twisting over his mouth, "I don't think I got one a' those." With those parting words Spot turned and strode out of the alley, his cold, unfeeling façade intact.
"Mush, you think about love a lot, don'tcha?" Jack asked earnestly.
This query was met with a chorus of snickers and chuckles from the rest of the group. It was later that day, just after sunset, all the newsies enjoying a meager dinner. Lunch Money's foot was now propped up on an old soapbox, the shard of glass having been neatly removed by Crutchy several hours ago. It had been an excruciating procedure, but her foot could now relax in its new dressing—a makeshift bandage out of Kid Blink's extra shirt.
"What?" Mush asked, both the question and the resulting laughter flying completely over his head, due to his fixation with keeping his soup inside that bowl, rather than in his lap.
"I said: 'Mush, you think a lot about love, don'tcha?'" Jack reiterated, rolling his eyes.
"Ya don't call me 'Mush' fa nothin', Jack. 'Course I do."
"Well, how'd'ya know if you'se in love?" Jack wanted to know.
"I dunno. I've never been in love." Mush admitted, "But they say there ain't a feelin' like it in da woirld. When ya foirst start out, you'se is both happieh than you'se evah been in ya life. And if you'se is really in love, you'se neveh fall out a' it, 'cause they say love is foreveh."
Racetrack made a face of distaste. "Why ya askin' Jack? Ya goil gotcha down?" he laughed at the image of Sarah keepin' Jack whipped like a carriage horse—a suspicion many newsies had of their leader.
"I dunno. It ain't too good if she refuses ta talk ta ya, is it?" Jack seemed absolutely serious.
"No, that ain't good at all Jacky—what didja do ta her?" Mush's voice cracked in his emphatic incredulity.
"Nothin'! Well, Sarah don't like me woikin' in Brooklyn—says it's too far away or too dangerous. And me an' Davey aren't really speakin' eithah. We had kinda a fight ovah this whole newsstand thing. So Sarah might be mad about that too."
"Sounds like you'se is ovah, Jack." Mush told him, "Unless you'se two is in love?"
"Ain't I just say I didn't know if I was in love? Anyway, does it really matteh if I'se in love as long as I can get her in bed?" Jack said defensively.
"Ah, Jacky got laid!" Racetrack laughed, exchanging a knowing look with Blink.
"Jack, I think you may have ta find a new goil ta seduce, if Sarah ain't talkin' ta ya." Mush advised sagely, "But have hope, Brooklyn's probably full a' sluts— I hear Spot Conlon keeps hisself pretty busy at night anyway. You'se could probably find a coupla goils to amuse yourself wit'."
"Ain't you charming." Lunch Money spat, disgusted with the boys, "Is that all ya ever use goils fa'?"
"Of course not!" Mush protested, "When ya fall in love fa' real, it's different... I think."
"Don't worry about it though, Lunch," Racetrack told her reassuringly, "We ain't evah gonna let you fall in love anyway. We know what boys are after—we are boys. Boys are no good."
"I can believe that." Lunch Money responded wryly.
"Nah, Lunch is probably already head ovah heels fa' some guy." Blink teased, shoving Lunch Money lightly on the shoulder. "Ya might as well tell us who it is now so we'se can soak 'em."
"It's Oscar Delancey, ain't it?" Boots laughed, joining in on the joke. Lunch Money told him to shut it, glaring at her friends irritably.
"No, no, I know who it is," Mush cried eagerly, "It's gotta be her hero, the mysterious Spot Conlon!" The boys exchanged broad smirks, knowing how much Spot and Lunch Money hated each other. Lunch Money pretended to gag, rolling her eyes back into her head.
"Ugh, don't make me sick. I think I'd take a Delancey ovah him!"
"Aw, come on," Mush grinned, "Spot Conlon's got it all—the power, the respect—those eyes!"
"Are you trying ta convince me that I have a thing for Conlon, or that you have thing for Conlon?" Lunch Money made a face. Mush frowned.
"Well, Lunch, Mush, good luck ta both a' ya, winning ovah Spot Conlon." Jack sighed, "I've nevah known him ta keep a goil more than one night, and I don't even know if he's capable of fallin' in love."
"If anyone can soften Spot's heart, I'm sure it'll be our Mush." Racetrack added one last crack before the newsies silently agreed that it was time to drop the joke and get to sleep.