Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters (such as Johnny Conlon and the Finn brothers) that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

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Part Two

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Les heard the footsteps as they started to head towards the very staircase where he was standing. Shit, he swore inwardly as he quickly stepped backwards up the steps and made his way out the open door. The last thing he needed was to be caught snooping around the inside of the bakery without a warrant, old friends or not.

Sherman, nearly done with his cigarette, glanced up when Les emerged from the small building; he looked annoyed. "Where've you been, kid?"

He thought it was a bit rich that this man believed that it was professional to refer to him as 'kid', especially since Les was in his thirties and Sherman was no more than twenty years older than that, but he chose to bypass that. Instead, he lied. "Me, uh, I went inside… to look for a john. Yeah."

"This is a bakery, sir. The only facilities we have inside are water closets," interrupted a feminine voice.

As one, both Sherman and Les spun around to meet the proprietor of the bakery. There, standing in the doorway of the place, arm draped casually along the threshold, was a middle-aged woman, though her face denied it, with her long light brown curls clipped delicately at the nape of her neck. She wore a beautiful salmon-colored dress that made her appear all the more innocent, though there was an unmistakable glimmer in her green eyes that revealed more of her true personality. No doubt about it, this was the woman he remembered.

Sherman ran his eyes up and down her form, a base smile curling his lips around his cigarette from underneath his graying mustache. "Mrs. Kelly, I presume?"

She did not return his grin. "Yes sir, Mrs. Kelly."

"And would that make your husband Jack Kelly, as in the head of the Manhattan Mob?" It could never be said that subtlety was one of Rick Sherman's strong points.

Though she scoffed inwardly, Jessa chose to bring a puzzled expression to her face. "Well, they do call my husband Jack, sir. But part of the Manhattan Mob? I don't think so." Saps…

Sherman sneered as he took the still smoking cigarette out from between his lips and dropped it at his feet. Deliberately taking his time he stubbed it out before looking up, his dark eyes almost dancing. "Don't play around with me, toots. Jack Kelly runs the Manhattan Mob, you know it and I know it. And we both know what sort of place you're running here, Ma Kelly. My boys are going to be back here tonight with a search warrant and such to shut your ass down. And, to make sure you don't run off and tell your husband or one of his boys, we're booking you. Now. Let's go."

Jess sighed dramatically, acting as if this was something she went through everyday. But then again, Les thought to himself, if she was married to a crime leader, perhaps it was something she went through everyday.

Les watched, almost as if he was a spectator, rather than a cop, as Sherman led Jess over to the squad car and opened the door. He guided her into the back seat before slamming the door shut.

He waited until Sherman was walking over to his side of the police car before approaching the back seat door. He knocked on her window once and stared right into her eyes when she looked up. Does she remember me? Les wondered momentarily as his right hand groped for his door handle.

When Jess stared at him for a moment longer before returned to studying her fingernails, Les felt partly relieved and somewhat disappointed at the same time. Maybe it's a good thing that she doesn't remember me… it'll make my job a heck easier, he thought to himself as he took his seat next to Sherman and waited for him to start the car. Still he could not help feeling hurt that one of his oldest friends had forgotten him.

Meanwhile, in the back seat, Jess was all but chuckling to herself. So, Les is back in town. Wait until Jack finds out, she thought gleefully to herself, staring at the brown cowboy hat that the young man had placed on his head. Yes… this will be interesting.

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Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly was sitting at his grand mahogany desk, a look of determination on his handsome face. He straightened the red tie he wore over his dark suit and grinned, his canine teeth nearly visible over his thin lips. "Okay, boys. Here's the plan for the night. Blink," he said, turning to the blond man that sat in one of the two seats across from him, "you and Race are to take the booze down to the bakery for storage. Then, when we know that we don't have any coppers on our tail, we'll head on over the bridge into Brooklyn for delivery."

Hayden 'Blink' Moore nodded his understanding. "I gotcha, Boss."

However, the short, dark-haired man that was sitting (uncharacteristically) quietly in the seat besides Blink shook his head a bit as he leaned forward. "I don't know, Cowboy. That's Conlon's territory. You know we ain't allowed over there," Anthony 'Racetrack' Higgins countered, drumming his manicured nails against Jack's desk. "Don't you remember what happened to Crutchy? The last time that we thought we could take the Brooklyn Boys head on?"

Jack, who had been sitting straight in his chair, slouched slightly. His brown eyes closed momentarily and he exhaled. Of course he remembered what had happened to Crutchy—it had been his fault, after all.

Danny 'Crutchy' Younger had been his best runner. Because of his exaggerated limp and trademark crutch, no copper ever expected him of doing anything wrong. In truth, Crutchy had made quite a few friends among the NYPD; those alliances, in turn, helped immensely in orchestrating and continuing Jack and the Mobs' many underhanded dealings.

Until one day, last year, that was. Jack had loaded up a trunk full of moonshine and sent both Crutchy, and the driver—a man called Itey Rotelle—over into Brooklyn to meet up with his contact, Joey 'No Brains' McFay. It would be the last time he would see Crutchy alive.

"So, Crutchy, you got all the stuff set up?" Jack asked as he helped Crutchy into the passenger side of the Model T. "Everything's good? You know the plan?"

Crutchy grinned his lopsided grin as he set his wooden crutch over his lap. "Sure thing, Boss. Me and Itey here," he said, pointing to the driver that accompanied him in the automobile, "we're going to drive into Brooklyn and meet 'No Brains' down at the harbor to give him this week's shipment to keep his pub opened. The transaction between me and him will take no time. Heck, I'll even be back in time to meet up with Lila's new boyfriend." He gave a little laugh.

Jack nodded as he shut the door and bent down to speak to Crutchy through the open window of the car. "How is Li doing? Is she giving you and Jo a hard time? Fifteen is a tricky age, you know. I swear, every day I think Jess is going to kill Frankie. But then I remind her what she was like back when we was kids selling papes and she leaves Frankie be."

Crutchy laughed again, heartier this time. "Oh, Lila's great, Jack. I always knew Jo would make a great mother. I mean, she's a great wife after all." The love and respect he felt for his wife was obvious in his adoring tone but Jack was too used to it to notice. Crutchy had gone after Josephine for years before she finally consented to go out on the town with him. Now, nearly twenty years later, they were happily married and neither could imagine a life without the other.

Jack slapped the side of the car and straightened up. "Well, boys, good luck tonight. Itey, make sure you keep the car running while Crutchy handles the deal. Just in case… ya know?"

"Yeah, Cowboy. I know." Itey smiled as he revved the car and, waving his farewells to Jack, began to drive off towards the bridge.

The ride to Brooklyn was a quick one, spent mostly discussing Anya, Itey's wife, and Jo. Given that their wives were quite the chums—there was almost a female chitchat club amongst the Mobs' womenfolk—the conversation kept them occupied until Itey pulled the car onto the docks. Crutchy tapped him on the arm—his signal for the driver to stop the car. "Park here, Itey. I think I see 'No Brains'."

Itey nodded and, without a word, slowed the car to a stop. However, he did not turn the key in the ignition; instead, he left it running, just like he had told Cowboy he would. "Make it quick, Crutchy. I promised Anya that I'd be home before eleven so that we could double with Mush and Gabe at the new joint Cowboy opened up."

As Crutchy hobbled out of the car, still using a crutch—though this one was much stronger, and more expensive than the one he had used during his youth—he laughed. "You mean the bakery, Itey?"

"Yeah, the bakery," Itey agreed, smiling back. "Now, go. And be careful, Crutchy."

Crutchy nodded. "Don't worry, I'll be right back."

Itey watched as Crutchy limped about forty feet from the car to meet up with a shadowed figure. Even in the dark of the night, with the moon as the only light on the docks, Itey could see that the figure was clad in a trench coat and a black derby.

Something clicked for Itey just then. Derby? 'No Brains' never wore a derby, let alone any hat. That was how he had gotten his nickname, after all. One night, he was out with one of the streetwalkers he was acquainted with when one of Conlon's boys had shot at him. His head, his hat-free head, had been grazed and he had begun to bleed. Since it wasn't a direct hit or a deep cut or anything, he was fine, but Specs, who had been the one to bandage him up, cracked that there were no brains in his head.

The only thought that ran through Itey's brain at the moment was simple: That ain't 'No Brains'… And, as quick as he could, Itey reached for his door and made to get out of the car. "Crutchy! Watch it!"

But he was too late. As he reached his head out of the vehicle he saw the shadowy figure open his trench coat, pull out a standard machine gun and, in the split second that Crutchy had turned his back to see why Itey had yelled to him, shoot Crutchy eight or ten times right in the back. There was a moment when the world seemed to freeze before the murderer turned and, still running, hopped into a nearby car that Itey had not noticed. Before Itey could even blink, the car was gone. Crutchy's assailant had fled.

When his bodily functions returned, allowing him to move, Itey stumbled over himself in order to run over to the spot where Crutchy had fallen. "Crutchy?" he whispered. "Pal?"

But it was no use. Crutchy lay dead on the docks, a dark crimson pool of blood already spreading out beneath his body.

Dead…

Itey felt a hot surge of anger as he wordlessly picked up his friend's limp body and half-carried, half-dragged him back to the car. Though it would be easy to just throw Crutchy over into the water he knew Jo would feel better if Crutchy was at least given a proper funeral. He deserved that bit of respect, at least.

He propped Crutchy's fallen body up on the passenger seat, ignoring the blood staining the interior. But, before he walked around back to his side of the car, he headed over to where Crutchy had been gunned down. "Why'd it have to be Crutchy?" he whispered to the air as he bent down and picked up the wooden crutch.

Then, as he turned to go back to the car, all thoughts of his dinner plans with Anya driven from his mind, he noticed the white piece of paper drifting in the still wind. He quickly reached over and pocketed the paper. There was no need to read it; sadly, he was sure he knew what it said.

It was a slow and somber drive home as Itey sat in the car next to the dead body of his once lively friend; luckily, though, there were no coppers on the streets to notice the awkwardness of the situation. Itey continued to stare numbly ahead as he pulled up to the penthouse apartment where Jack and his family lived. It was after ten; Jack should be home getting ready to go out.

He entered the apartment building, ignoring the questioning looks the young doorman gave him—he was well aware of the liberal amounts of blood that covered his black suit. Rather than chance using the elevator and being forced to make conversation with the operator, he chose to walk up the fifteen flights of stairs that it took to get to the Kelly's apartment door. As he stood in front of it, he took a calming breath and knocked.

Jessa answered the door. "Hel— Itey? Oh, no. What happened?" she whispered as she stepped aside and let him in the door. Itey did not say a word as he removed his hat and stepped inside the room. They had all been through this routine before. Jess was already doing her part: calling for her husband. "Jack? Jack, honey?"

"Yes, dear?" Jack responded, calling from the bedroom. When Itey had assumed that Jack was currently getting ready for the evening, he had been correct.

Jess spared one further glance at Itey before changing the tone of her voice. While it had been confused before, now she sounded urgent. "Could you come out here, please? There's someone here to see you."

The pair of them heard the sound of a closet door slamming before, "I'll be right out, Jess." There was a moment of quiet, followed by a set of footsteps that echoed throughout the hallway. Before long, the tall man had entered the foyer.

As soon as he saw what was before him, the grin on his face melted into a look of concern. "Itey? Holy shit, what happened?"

There was no easy way to say this and, unfortunately, Itey knew that the best way to handle this situation was to simply tell the truth. "Crutchy got offed down at the docks, Boss," he said slowly, his hands shaking slightly. He let the news sink in for a moment before reaching trembling fingers into his pocket and handing Jack the white piece of paper he had picked up at the docks.

Slowly Jack unfolded it and cast a simple glance over the simple block print:

Jacky Boy —

How many times have I told you? Brooklyn is mine. Stay the fuck out.

—Boss Conlon

Spot Conlon… he should have known.