He Had it Coming
It was a murder, but not a crime.
I met Spot Conlon only once before, well, before everything—him, me, us—started, and I remember it well.
It was about eight months ago or so, back in July, back during the infamous newsboys' strike of 1899. When it was happening, those whirlwind quick days in the middle of July, I didn't know that much about the strike, the details about it or the reasons behind it. David was never home then and where he went, so did Les. And, without Les to chatter on and on while I did my piecework, I was left with reading the scraps of unsold newspapers if I wanted any news. When the strike was cut out of the papers, I was cut out of the strike.
When it started, when David first met Jack Kelly and Joseph Pulitzer had yet to raise his prices, the only contact I had outside of my family's apartment came during my afternoon strolls, when Mama allowed me to go out and try to peddle my sewing and lacework. If she had it her way, though, I would've been kept inside, but after Papa's accident… you see, we needed all the money we could earn. So David and Les went off to sell papers, I tended to my lace until my fingers were raw and Mama tried to thin the soup out as best she could.
To be honest, though, I can't say I minded it when Mama sent me out to peddle. All my life I had been treated special, because I was the eldest, because I was the only girl. They treated me like a china doll ready to break—was it no surprise then that I shattered at last? They tried to keep my away from the truth of the streets, only for me to get sucked into an existence so different from mine that I couldn't—and didn't want to, at first—escape.
Maybe if I hadn't been sheltered for so long, being the good Jewish girl I was trained to be… maybe I wouldn't have fallen prey to Spot Conlon's charms. But would I have met Jack Kelly? Was one boy worth another?
If I'm still being honest, I haven't yet figured that out.
Our first meeting, Spot's and mine, I remember that the best. It was at the rally, the grand newsies rally that Jack and David organized, and I was surprisingly allowed to attend. It took place in a flashy vaudeville theatre called Irving Hall, not too far from the corners where David sold his newspapers. Jack—I sigh… Jack—knew the headliner, a garish redheaded performer called Medda Larkson, but known as the Swedish Meadowlark. She invited the newsboys in for their rally, newsies from all over the city: Brooklyn, Queens, Harlem, Little Italy, Five Points, the Bowery… everywhere. They all came to hear what my brother and my—Jack had to say.
I must've been the only girl there, except for Medda. But at least she was a seasoned performer, used to the staring, hungry eyes of hungry boys and lusting men. I wasn't. Jack had invited me along, and I fixed my hair up for the evening, all curls and a proper white hat on top. I wore my best dress, too. The evening was special, important to Jack and to David, and I wanted to look my best. Jack invited me—he wanted me there. I had to go.
But the eyes… the stares made me uncomfortable and I tried to stay as close to my brother or Jack when I could. I wasn't deaf. I heard the comments, I pretended to ignore the whistles, and it was only when Jack cuffed one smart-mouthed kid for calling out to me that they seemed to give me my space. I held my breath, in awe and in worry, when Jack stood up on the stage with David and… and him.
Jack was smart, smarter than he ever gave himself credit for (if not smart enough to see what was going on under his nose). He noticed how strange their ogling made me react and made it his purpose to keep me in his sight at all times. And when he couldn't, a Manhattan newsie would pop up at my elbow and keep me company. I met Racetrack Higgins that night, and the one-eyed boy, Kid Blink.
And I met Spot Conlon.
Jack had reluctantly gone off, talking to Medda or someone else, leaving me at a table. For once that evening, I wasn't worried because David was sitting nearby, only one seat away. And I trusted David more than anyone else in this world—I still do. He knows exactly what had happened between Spot and me and has never said a word to anyone. He's never judged me. The bonds of blood are thick and David Jacobs has proven that time and time again.
There was only one other person sitting between my brother and me. I didn't pay that much attention to him then, though I recognized that he was the third boy on stage. I remember that I thought he was a cocky boy, and that it wasn't possible that anyone could have eyes that blue. I remember he was short, much shorter than Jack, but he seemed bigger somehow. I remember that he was handsome and the he knew it, and when I glanced his way, I knew it, but I didn't care. I only had eyes for Jack then—
—I remember when that changed.
But I don't remember how I knew his name. Spot Conlon, he wore it like a banner. We weren't properly introduced, but I knew his name anyway. Maybe it was the murmuring of the crowd, or maybe I was in more trouble than I knew then, but when I looked at Spot, I looked straight into those piercing eyes. He was watching me. Now, I'm not vain, but I'm not stupid, either. I'm a pretty girl, I know that. I'm clean, my dress wasn't torn, I smelled good, my hair was styled… and, besides, I was the only young girl there. He was watching me, and I knew it.
Except the Brooklyn boy watched me in such a way that only I knew he was. He was smart—maybe not as smart as he liked to think, but I knew he was darn smart. He was at the rally, an ally of Jack Kelly and David Jacobs, an ally of Manhattan. He couldn't afford to be caught making eyes at the girl of one and the sister of the other.
But that didn't mean he didn't watch me.
I remember the way his eyes weighed me down, and I remember how his stare made me more uncomfortable than the rest. I tried not to pay attention to him but it was difficult. With a smirk on his face and one eye trained on me, he lifted his glass and, with a mock toast lifted high but aimed at me, he drank the amber-colored liquid inside.
Down in three gulps, just like the arsenic.
The attention was certainly flattering and I blushed like a young girl, all the while wondering: Where was Jack?
And that's when David jumped up and Spot was forgotten. My brother had seen the warden of the Refuge, that terrible man Snyder, and his lackeys, the corrupt policemen who did his bidding. They'd rushed their way into the rally, and everything happened so fast after that. As quickly as they rushed in, someone grabbed my arm and I rushed out. By the time it was all over, Jack was arrested, David was arrested, most of the boys—including Spot—were arrested. David's reporter friend, a man called Denton, he paid their bail and all of the boys were set free.
All of them, except Jack, who was sent back to the House of Refuge, a former prisoner known as Francis Sullivan. Because, the first time I met Spot Conlon, that's when I found out that Jack Kelly wasn't exactly who he said he was.
Did that justify what happened later on between Spot and me?
No. Of course not.
But I liked to think it did.
disclaimer: The characters used in this story are the property of Disney. They are used with the intent to create entertainment, not profit.
end note: Well, I said I wanted to leave the old thoughts up but then I lost them. Instead, I'm going to try to rewrite the story the way I think it should've been told years ago and try to actually finish it this time. Maybe. I hope so.
