Title: Never Enough

Summary: For every prohibition you create you also create an underground. SET IN 1921. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

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 that will most likely pop up throughout this work. Charli O'Rourke is the property of Betchya O'Connor. Whistler is the property of Garen Ruy Maxwell. Rae Kelly-Phillips is the property of Rae Kelly.

Author's Note: This is one of the shortest chapters I've done for this story but I have two reasons: one, I'm going on vacation in about half an hour and I really wanted to have this updated before I go. I'm only gone for the weekend (I'm trading NJ in for Washington D.C.; I'm going to the Smithsonian!) and I'll be back to update Diabo. But I haven't worked on this in a bit, so I figured this would be my parting gesture until Monday. Look at that, a whole weekend without any updates from me. How will you stand it? And two, I need to bring Johnny and Frankie together. If I did that in this chapter, I would never finish. And the chapter would be the lengths of two. So, I figure, this is as good a point as any to wait. Woot.

---

Part XIII

"I'm bored."

The two other boys looked up intently to see if the third would elaborate on his state. When all he did was sigh heavily and lean further back in his seat – while tapping (bitten) fingernails against the arm rest – they went back to their card game.

It was nothing new for them to be bored. They were part of the Brooklyn Boys gang but only just. The first boy was only seventeen years old; his companions appeared to be older than him – and they were; they were considered his bodyguards while also being his only friends – but not by much.

The boy in the chair sighed again. He was a thin boy, but just the perfect height so that he did not look too lanky or awkward. His dirty blonde hair – there was no other word to describe that particular shade; it had the appearance of a shaggy mop of hair that had not been washed in a week – was longish in the front, with one particular lock that fell forward into his crystal blue-green eyes. His facial features were almost perfectly sculpted within his tan skin; the only flaw was a slight scar, an inch wide, under his left eye.

One of his two companions – a plan looking boy, much taller and broader than the first, with short dark hair and small dark and beady eyes that almost were sunken in his face – shot him a furtive look. It was never good when the Boss' son was bored. Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored. Like sneaking around with that broad from Manhattan.

The third boy just shook his head as he threw down his hand of cards. He was a skinny boy, much like Johnny, but a few inches shorter. He had long red hair – so long he wore it in a small ponytail – and eyes that were a mix of both greens and greys. He was smiling lazily as his cards were revealed – a pair of two's and nothing more; the other boy's hand of three's and eight's beat his – and stretched his hands behind him when he lost. "I'm bored, too. Where's your brother today, Matt?"

Matthew Finn scraped up the four dollar pot; he did not answer Whistler's question until the money was safely within his reach and not the redheaded boy's. "Mickey? Don't you remember, Whis? He's been talking about his date with that blonde dame for weeks."

"Oh, yeah. What's her name? Rachel? Rita?"

"Reagan," supplied Johnny as he leaned forward in his seat. He was getting antsy in his boredom and could not sit still for long. While the other two boys continued in their conversation, he got up and walked toward the back door.

Whistler snapped his fingers. "Reagan, that's right. Skinny broad, nice set of tits. I remember her." He paused and looked at Matthew. "How did your brother get a date with someone who looked like that?"

Matthew shrugged. "Let's just say that Mickey never took 'no' for an answer."

Both boys started to laugh then, imagining just how Mickey's date was going at that moment. They had no way to know that, within a few short hours, Mickey Finn would be shot.

Johnny had opened the door and was peering outside. It was late in the afternoon; the Sun would not be up for much longer. And then, once the sun set for the evening, his father would return from his daily activities – Liam Conlon, during the day, served as a wealthy businessman; not many of his clients knew that, once night had draped over the city of Brooklyn, he became 'Boss' Spot Conlon – first stopping at the house to look in on Rae and the younger kids, then checking in with him and the boys before heading out. With Rae, he added mentally.

It is not like he did not like Rae Kelly-Phillips or her children. In fact, he thought the woman complemented his father perfectly; as for her children, Edwina (at fifteen) was a handful but Alden (ten) thought the world of Johnny – so he could not be all bad.

Rae had dated Spot steadily when they were younger and one argument had sent her over to Manhattan. (He did not find that hard to believe; he had been witness to some of the fiercest fights known to man since Rae started visiting his father, shortly after her husband died.) She remained there, married a Manhattan man, had two children – eventually became involved with the Manhattan Mob.

Spot Conlon was hit hard when Rae left him at the turn of the century. They were only kids then, not much older than Johnny is now, and his pride kept him from going after her. In time, he put her behind him and married another girl, Teresa Burke – Johnny's mother. Tess had died when Johnny was four; an infection that was not caught until it was too late.

Rae's husband, a man called 'Snitch', died too; he was shot and killed during a routine rum run. Distraught, Rae came to take out her anger and hurt on Spot. Why had one of his men shot at Snitch? She never learned that his murder was accidental, or that Spot ordered the boy who killed him, with his loose trigger finger, to be tossed in the East River. What she did learn was that there were still mutual feelings between them both.

Rae Kelly-Phillips had been living in the Conlon home ever since; she had been pregnant when she returned to Brooklyn, bringing her two children with her. When little Mackenzie was born six months after Snitch's death, Spot did the noble thing and adopted the child as his own. It was kept quiet though; the only ones who knew were Johnny (plus Whistler and the Finn brothers) and Spot's own right hand man, Scotch O'Reilly. Everyone else just called her Rae Conlon.

Johnny took another glance outside. It was not too late. He had more than enough time to take a ride over to Manhattan. And, if he was in Manhattan, he figured, he would not be bored.

He turned around to face the two boys at the poker table. There was a broad grin across his long face and, at once, Whistler and Matthew knew what he was thinking.

"Hey, Johnny, I don't think that's a good idea. I mean, Mick already took the night off. Is your Dad going to like the idea of us being gone, too?"

Johnny winced. He hated it when Whistler referred to his Dad as 'his Dad' – why can't he call him Boss Conlon like everyone else? It irked him to no end to be known only as Boss Conlon's boy; there were so many expectations he was forced to (try to) live up to. He also hated to know what would happened if his father ever found out about her. Brooklyn Boys do not date Manhattan girls.

"First off, Whis, it's only gonna be me and you that blow this joint. Matt, you're gonna stay behind and tell the Boss that me and Whistler are out, checking up on a lead."

"A lead?" repeated Matthew, a bit uncertainly.

"Yeah. Make it sound believable. Can you do that?"

He nodded. "Yeah, Johnny."

"Good." He turned to Whistler. "Ready?"

Whistler knew, deep down, this could not be a good idea. Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored. But, his desire to have fun won out over the bit of common sense he had left. "Yeah, but I wanna drive."

--

The girl took a step over and, with the light shining behind her, Reagan got a better look at Charli O'Rourke's face. She had dark hair, most likely a dark brown shade – though, due to the light, it might be darker – that was separated and tied back in a set of braids, one resting on each shoulder. Her skin was very tan, much darker than Reagan and Frankie's pale flesh.

It was her eyes, however, that caused Reagan to stare. She wasn't sure if it was a trick of the lighting, or not, but it seemed like her eyes did not match: the left one was almost an icy blue colored while the right one was deep green.

Charli knew that Reagan was staring and smirked. She waited patiently for Frankie to disentangle herself from Reagan – she was, by now, far too used to Charli's strange eyes to stare at them – before she extended her hand.

Frankie accepted it and allowed herself to be pulled into a tight embrace. Reagan remained on the floor.

When Charli finally let go of Frankie, she gestured down to the floor. "Hey, Frankie? Who's this?"

Something about the manner in which Charli spoke – she was loud and gruff – made Reagan feel like she was not really there. Almost as if this girl was talking through her rather than talking about her. While the girl's mismatched eyes were roaming over her, trying to figure out who she was, Reagan tried to climb to her feet.

Her dress, she noticed in the dim lighting, was in even worse shape than before. While she only noticed a slight tear at the hem earlier, now it was wrinkled and stained following her brush with the sticky and dirty floor. Mama's really going to kill me now. Though, at the rate I'm going tonight, she's going to have to take a number. Even this Charli O'Rourke person was looking her over with a distasteful look.

Frankie placed a protective hand on Reagan's bare arm. "This is my pal, Reagan. She's from Brooklyn."

Charli's eyes (both of them) lit up at the mention of the borough. "Ooh, do I have a forbidden friendship to help keep in tact as well as a forbidden romance?"

Frankie laughed and, after a prod from her, Reagan followed, although somewhat half-heartedly. She didn't know what was so funny.