Moments later, Queenie tried to ignore the pulling feeling deep in her gut as she watched the King of Brooklyn sleep in her bed. She watched as the boy sweat in the heat of the basement. Knowing that sweating the alcohol out could only cure him faster, she didn't yet reach over for the bucket of water or the rag to pat his face with it. Instead, she reached for the coffee and took a long swig, knowing the night could only get longer.
"Nothin's happenin'!" Boots stage whispered.
Several newsies fought tooth and nail to get the coveted spot at the door, so they could press their ears to it and listen. Race grabbed Boots by the scruff of his neck and yanked him away from the door, snatching up his place. He pressed his ear to the keyhole, straining his ears to hear any scrap of noise from below. But all the murmuring and vying for position that went on behind him drowned out anything he might hear.
"Dammit, will youse shut up?" he shouted, forgetting himself.
Then, a rustling from the basement. The boys scattered immediately, trying to look natural. Race stood, back turned to the door, looking at the newsies sitting on the stairs. Seconds after, the door opened.
"Race?" a sweet voice questioned from behind him.
He turned to see the face of Queenie, smiling beautifully at him.
"Alex!" he said, feigning surprise and joy at the sight of her face.
Without a word, she curled her finger, indicating that he should near her. He took a few steps toward the girl and she grabbed him by the collar, pulling him as close to her face as she could.
"Now, Race-"
He cut her off, matching her smile and her tone.
"Now, Alex-"
She ignored the urge to roll her eyes, keeping the smile locked on her face.
"I have a very irritable Spot Conlon in my bed, who will wake up with a monster hangover and, most likely, the intense urge to murder me for leaving him. So, you're going to stop yelling. Because I would like to be long gone before he wakes. And if you do not stop this ruckus right now, I will put you on Spot Conlon hangover duty. Do you understand?"
She said this all with the smile of an angel. Gulping, Racetrack nodded.
"Wonderful," she began, straightening out his jacket, "And stop listening at keyholes."
Turning on her heel, the girl tiptoed back downstairs. She sighed laborously as she heard much commotion at the door recommenced. Rolling her eyes and straightening her skirt, Queenie rushed down to the basement bedroom. As she expected, the boy from Brooklyn still slept soundly, his chest rising and falling very quietly as he drew in steady breaths. Her heavy eyelids drooped, but she took another long gulp of the now-cold coffee as she sat down into her chair at his bedside.
Unfortunately for her, her eyelids won their battle, sliding closed completely, and within moments, she fell into a deep sleep.
Spot Conlon woke in a cold sweat, bolting upright from the rough cot he was on. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around at the dark, unfamiliar room that surrounded him. His heart beat fast and he reached around for his cane, ready to strike any attacker.
But then he saw her.
She sat up in a chair next to his bed, a rag and bucket of water lay forgotten at her feet, while a coffee mug tipped haphazardly from her hand. Reaching out, he grabbed it before it fell.
"Heya, Queenie," he said, depositing the mug to the floor and reaching out for her face.
Still asleep, she turned her face from his hand, groaning as she dreamt. He breathed a breathy chuckle, though the strain pressed against the massive alcohol-induced headache that pounded through his head. He remembered back to the night before, or what he could remember. Spot smiled as he remembered imagining her at the theater, smiling and laughing. And here he was again, imagining her taking care of him. The boy refused to let himself believe she was really there. He sighed and put the mug on the floor before closing his eyes and falling back to sleep.
When Queenie awoke, she saw Spot still sleeping, completely at peace. She let a smile ghost across her lips before standing. Tying her hair back in a newspaper chord, she stretched and picked up her pack. Slipping off her shoes, trying to make as little noise as possible, she tiptoed up the stairs.
She opened the door to an empty lodging house, with the light peeping through the window. The sun only just began it's ascent over the city, the chilly wind blowing through. Nodding to Kloppman, who stood behind the counter and readied for another newsie morning, she headed for the door.
"Excuse me, Alex?" the old man croaked out.
She turned and looked at him. He waved in her direction, beckoning her toward him. Queenie did as he asked.
"Yes, Kloppman?"
Concentrating on the ledger before him, barely looking at her, Kloppman talked to the girl offhandedly.
"Where will you go?" the old man asked.
Queenie shrugged.
"I don't know. Maybe get out of New York."
Kloppman shrugged.
"You're still welcome here, you know."
A smile flitting across her face, she patted his hand gingerly.
"Thanks, Kloppy, but I can't stay."
Moving to leave, she made her way to the door. Her hand wrapped around the doorknob, ready to make her escape.
"It just seems to me that you can't always run away from your troubles."
After a moment, digesting what the man said, Queenie muttered a brief goodbye and walked out of the door.
"But what do I know?" Kloppman mumbled to himself, closing his ledger and sighing as he watched the girl walk down the street and away from the Lodging House.
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